It’s finally here! my first kinktober posting on tumblr!! soso excited to write these shorts and oneshots for you all °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
this is the list- at the start of November, I’ll open requests to extend these oneshots into fully fledged fics!
NOTE: due to some of the links just.. never working (and the tag for my kinktober not working either) I lowkey give up and I can only advise you to scroll through my profile, I’m sorry!!!
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
day 1-joint overstimulation | Keigo Takami
day 2-dacryphillia | Dabi
day 3-mutual masturbation | Hanta Sero
day 4-finger sucking | Shoto Todoroki
day 5-omegaverse | Katsuki Bakugo
day 6-dumbification | Hitoshi Shinso
day 7-marking | Dabi
day 8-accidental vouyerism | Shouta Aizawa
day 9-teacher x student (roleplay) | Tenya Iida
day 10-blowjobs | Atsuhiro Sako
day 11-handcuffs | Denki Kaminari
day 12-service top | Toshinori Yagi
day 13-power bottom | Katsuki Bakugo
day 14-choking | Tomura Shigaraki
day 15-sex pollen | Naomasa Tsukauchi
day 16-creampie | Tamaki Amajiki
day 17-messy sex | Denki Kaminari
day 18-mirror sex | Keigo Takami
day 19-underwear gags | Tamaki Amajiki
day 20-biting | Eijiro Kirishima
day 21-praise | Izuku Midoriya
day 22-degradation | Neito Monoma
day 23-lingerie | Shoto Todoroki
day 24-hair pulling | Hizashi Yamada
day 25-spit | Hitoshi Shinso
day 26-spanking | Shouta Aizawa
day 27-breeding | Tomura Shigaraki
day 28-hot tub sex | Tenya Iida
day 29-wall sex | Eijiro Kirishima
day 30- claustrophilia | Izuku Midoriya
day 31-threesome | Dabi + Keigo Takami
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
tag requests are now closed- due to the amount of people who wanted to be tagged, I randomly chose 50 people as to not be unfair and keep within tumblr’s limit; if you didn’t make it on, im sorry!!
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; Father Michael is sure confession is supposed to cleanse the soul, not ignite it. mutual ruin may be the only path to true repentance...
𝐰𝐜 ━━ ׂ༯ 13k
̩͙ ⠳⠀⠀ .⠀⏜ pairing: priest!michael x nun! fem reader ̩͙
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 ━━ ׂ༯ smut, religious setting, priest!michael being a bad misled boy, you are having to confess your sins, but things go really wrong, or very right?, religious guilt, friends to lovers, power dynamic, inappropriate use of the confession box, hair pulling, cunnilingus, facial cumshot, virginity, im going to hell for writing this but fleabag made me
𝐚/𝐧 ━━ ׂ༯ i decided i'd explore priest mike. one thing i am gonna do is im gonna write an absolutely pointless ooc au because im horny and listened to george michael's 'father figure' too many times. hey ho, maybe some will enjoy this or it shall be a flop! also a big ty to @michaeljacksonbutheadcanons & @phia-writes for their everlasting support and help.
fanart of priest!Michael here
18+ mdni.
♱ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫 in St. Agnes of the Sorrowful Heart was always cold; a damp, marrow-deep chill that seeped from the old Indiana limestone and settled in the bones.
It was late, past Compline prayer; the convent silent, save for the groan of ancient pipes and the distant, lonely whistle of a freight train cutting through the Gary night.
You had chosen this hour deliberately, slipping from the shared dormitory while the other Sisters slept, their soft breaths a chorus of innocence you could no longer claim you belonged to.
You needed confession. Things had gotten worse; past the petty gossip or moments of impatience with the children of the church that darkened your spirit and thoughts.
You needed to expel the fever that had taken root in your soul, a corruption so vivid and seditious. You’d assumed Father Callaghan, one of your trusted Priests, old and half-deaf, would be taking the late penitent’s slot.
His absolutions were swift, a mumbled passage, as if he could not be bothered. He wouldn’t hear the tremor in your voice, wouldn’t parse the specifics of what you relayed to him. He’d just see a nun, a troubled and corrupt one in need of help, and dispense grace like a tired medic. A nun like the rest of them - but only, you were not…
The confessional was a dark oak box, smelling of beeswax, stale incense, and something else— starched cotton and sweat.
You slid into the penitent’s side, the worn velvet kneeler biting into your shins through the rough wool of your habit. The grate between you and the priest’s side was a black lattice, a barrier meant to anonymize and to spiritualise the conversation. You could see only a deeper shadow within the wooded patterns.
You crossed yourself, the gesture automatic, hollow in effort.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been… two weeks since my last confession.”
Your heart thrashed against your ribs. The silence on the other end was deafening; embarrassing to say the least.
This was a disaster. A divine trap you’d set for yourself. The reaction wouldn’t be a welcome one, and there may just be a kick back; perhaps you’d be stripped of your status and kicked from the convent.
And yet, you felt you had to break the silence, come clean, for the pressure of the secret, compounded, was a geyser demanding its sudden release.
If you did not seek help - you’d act lewdly. This could not be.
To flee the confession would also be an admission of something far worse. Facing this alone was not wise; you had to prove to your parents that you could follow through on their wishes for you.
So, you began to fill the void Father Callaghan left between you; the words tumbling out in a desperate, whispered rush, directed at the shadow behind the grate.
“My sins… they are of impurity. Of thought. And… maybe action, should I not confess..” You swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet. “I have… entertained lustful thoughts. Repeatedly. Vividly. I have… touched myself, Father. To the point of… completion. While picturing… someone.”
Another silence. This one was different. Thick. Charged. You could hear, or perhaps imagine, the soft shift of fabric from the other side.
“These are grave matters,” Father Callaghan said, his voice carefully neutral, but the neutrality itself felt like a strained wire, it was not like him to be this strained.
“To whom do these thoughts pertain?” The words seemed muffled behind the grate.
You closed your eyes. Here was the precipice. “A man of God, Father.”
A sharp, almost missable intake of breath. “A man… of this parish?”
“Yes.” The word was a breath, a surrender.
“You must name the nature of this… fixation. To understand the sin, one must confront it in its entirety, to understand the root of its evil.” His instruction was clerical, but the cadence was off, a beat too fast. It was so unlike Father Callaghan to give this advice.
And so, under the guise of contrition, you painted the portrait of your damnation, but you started not with the lust, but with the light.
You described him—the subject, the man of God, as a force of nature within the grey walls of St. Agnes.
His laugh, which was far from a polite chuckle but instead a full-bodied, echoing thing that made the dusty vestments in the sacristy stir; it was enough to set your heart alight.
His way with the parish children, patient, invested and more so like a peer to them, than any other priest you had witnessed. He didn’t just supervise games; he invented them, his eyes large and innocent.
You confessed to watching him…last Tuesday, trying to explain the physics of a seesaw to a group of wide-eyed six year olds by dramatically acting out the parts of the lever and the fulcrum, his cassock hitched up as he crouched, his hands animated, until he tumbled backwards into the woodchips, laughing uproariously while the children shrieked with delight.
Despite your heart swelling with magic and pride for his work; your eyes were drawn to the way his cassock would tighten around his arms, or his shoulders as he lifted and played with the kids.
“He has… a childlike joy, unabridged, unlike people I have met around the convent," you whispered to the shadow.
“But it’s married to a sharpness. He’s a quick mind. He’ll quote Scripture one minute and then, in the next breath, be speaking with the kids about the latest magazines and the superstar’s gossip that lay within them. All with the same intense passion. It’s… dizzying. It makes everyone else seem half-asleep, his dedication knows no bounds.”
You spoke of the music, too.
A month ago, you’d been dusting the seldom-used parlor for visiting priests, looking wilted and tired after study, prayer and then watching over 30 odd children.
He’d paused in the doorway, his head tilted. “You look like you could use some company,” he’d said, and then vanished. You’d assumed he was playing a trick, but then he returned ten minutes later with a small, portable record player—where he’d found it, God only knew—and a vinyl LP in a plain white sleeve.
“Gospel,” he’d announced, as if presenting a relic. “What I find myself gravitating to when I am losing motivation."
He’d put it on “Lord Let Your Spirit Fall on Me" –, and the room had filled with the scratchy, aching sound and the soulful singing of Shirley Caesar.
He hadn’t stayed very long with you; he helped clean in silence with a small smile on his face, but somehow it felt intimate. He had come to seek you out clearly, to find you and spend an extra minute or two.
A week later, a cassette tape appeared in your assigned mailbox in the convent. On the label, in his precise script: For the Long Nights: A Mixtape. It was 8 different gospel songs; your heart had melted.
Your mind in the confessional didn’t just recall the gifts; it flooded with the man himself. The corrective penance your parents had prescribed was actually the beginnings of your downfall - they’d sealed you tight in the coffin that was sinking down into the dark, damp soil.
You’d expected another dour, disapproving elder confronting you when you had first arrived at the convent, whipping you into shape, but instead, you found Father Michael in a sun-dappled office that looked like a scholar’s study crossed with a college dorm.
Books were piled not just on shelves but on the floor, the windowsill, the second chair. Theological texts jostled with well-thumbed Disney picture books, and other contemporary authors.
A small, cheap record player sat on a filing cabinet, a stack of LPs beside it; The Clash next to Mozart. Strange, beautiful trinkets—a fossil, crystals, a tiny, intricate metal bird -were scattered like offerings around his space. His desk was sprawled with miscellaneous papers, each scribbled on in thick sharpie.
He’d been leaning against his desk, a mug of tea steaming in his hand.
What shocked you most about meeting him, is that he wasn’t in his cassock; just dressed in black trousers, a black shirt and a grey sweater over the top, the collar a stark white line at his throat. It sat tight there, showing off the veiny chords of his neck; the dusting of hair he’d missed shaving, stark and dark against his skin.
His skin was a gorgeous dark brown, his features sharp, yet slightly feminine. High cheekbones and full lips; his hair neatly gelled, holding back his thick hair.
He’d looked up as you entered, and his face had broken into a warm, open smile that held no trace of judgment.
“Ah, our infamous new novice Sister,” he’d said, his voice that same cello-string tenor.
“Sit, please. And don’t look so terrified. I’m not here merely to correct you or scare you into becoming closer with God and your calling. My job, as I see it, is to inspire. To help things—and people—flourish, even in unlikely soil.”
You had grimaced at him; not able to marry the image of older Priests you’d met with this strapping young one. He was in charge of the whole convent and didn’t seem a day older than thirty. He was despicably hot; as if placed by Satan himself there in your life to tempt you, to lead you down the stray path that your parents so desperately hoped you wouldn’t wander down.
That was it. The realisation that he wasn’t going to be like the rest of them; that was the hook.
In a world of grey rules and whispered penances, he spoke of flourishing. He asked you about the books you missed from childhood, the music you liked.
When you’d haltingly admitted you felt like a caged bird in this life that had been chosen for you, he’d nodded, without so much as pity, but in understanding.
“If we liken this place to a cage, then you must know there is always an open door,” he’d said softly, moving himself to sit at his desk. “Sometimes we just forget how to open it.”
He had grinned at you then, putting his mug on the desk and then folding his hands on his desk in front of him. “My door is always open for you Sister, seek me out when you are in need.”
And by the power of christ; you would seek him out. In your dreams, in your minds eye when you prayed, on the cold hard floor of the church. He would become your rebellion.
Every stolen glance at him during Mass felt like a tiny act of defiance against the life of a nun. It made each day livable; passable, even.
Sister Alessanda would ask what had got you all giddy afterward, and you’d have to say it was due to Father Michael’s preaching. And really - you could lie to them and say it was his sweet rhetoric, the way he spoke of God. It was colorful and less boring than how other Scripture was read. It made the old and new testament seem new and current.
However, if you were in the front row, you were usually just ogling at him. His eyes would often flutter to yours and he’d supply a soft smile.
It was all so exciting - it made this punishment feel less abrasive and lonely.
The memories continued to bubble to the peak of your mind, and well… you confessed it all.
The Thursday evening music class for the parish kids was another weird interaction that left you feeling guilt.
You, as a novice, were assisting. He was at the old upright wooden piano, effortlessly playing snippets of Disney’s ‘Jungle Book’; its most famous song, “I Wa’na Be Like You,” making the kids laugh. His voice was incredible, even if he was half joking.
Then he’d segued into the opening of The Beatles’ “Something.” He’d sung the first line, and his voice had wrapped around the words with a tenderness that stole the air from the room.
He’d caught your eye over the heads of the children as you were miming along. “Sister,” he grinned. All of the children and your other Sisters stared at you, as well as him.
“You know this one,” he’d said, a statement that felt like a shared secret. He’d shifted on the bench. “Come on over here with me. Let’s show the class harmony.”
You’d sat beside him, your hip a hair’s breadth from his.
Up close, you could see the details that haunted you: the faint, uneven dusting of what you assumed to be vitiligo along his jawline, pale patches against his skin that disappeared into his hairline, a unique flaw that made him heartbreakingly real.
The shadow of a beard, ruthlessly shaved but still suggesting the normalcy of man beneath the perfect priest. And… a bit of make-up on his collar - clearly to cover what he perceived as an imperfection. It was not.
His lips, as he concentrated on the keys, were surprisingly full and dark pink, slightly parted and wet. His fingers, long and slim, moved with a dexterous grace that was utterly mesmerising.
He was unbelievably tantalizing; like the apple dangling from the tree in the garden of Eden. You wanted to take a bite so badly, but alas, it was forbidden.
Your eyes shifted from his lips back to the keys, where you were playing the dainty high notes of the song, adding in very little to his expert playing on the main melody.
You sang, your voice trembling with nerves, and he leaned into the harmony, his shoulder pressing against yours.
The warmth of him was welcome in the cold of the convent building, despite the blazing summer of Gary. You were squirming on the bench, a slow, unconscious shift born of a building, unbearable tension low in your belly.
The song ended beautifully and the children clapped loudly.
There was no sign of him moving away at that point, until he spoke;
“Your voice is magic,” he’d murmured, his eyes on your profile. He looked at you like he was seeing through all the pretense of your garments. The power of his gaze made you want to hide behind something, it was so… all consuming.
“I’ve known it since I first heard you in the choir. Sister, you must hone your gift and allow God to fully bestow this talent to you.” He cleared his throat, looking around to ensure the babble from the class was enough to cover what he said next.
“I will help you hone this gift, so we can get you performing solo hymnals for the congregation. We will work together on this.”
He gave you a breathtaking smile, one that showed his very white, straight teeth, and from this angle; you could see a small extra tooth on his bottom row of teeth. It was so intensely endearing, he was just… different from anyone you’d met before.
“Your playing on the piano, however, is a mess. Here.” He’d reached over, his right hand enveloping your left on the keys. You’d almost forgot at this point that he was your senior… older, wiser and a man of God.
His palm was warm, his touch firm. “This is your anchor.” He guided your finger to middle C, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of your inner wrist.
The reaction was instantaneous and visceral. A sharp, electric jolt shot up your arm, straight to your core, and a tiny, choked gasp escaped you. You flinched. It was the first time you had been touched in what felt like years.
He froze. You felt his hand tense, his breath hitch.
In his eyes, you saw a mirror of your own shocked, guilty recognition—a current far stronger than any of you could believe.
It was as if you’d both touched a live wire of mutual wanting or gotten some electric shock. Then, as if the contact had burned him, he wrenched his hand back and stood up so abruptly the piano bench shrieked against the linoleum.
“I—forgive me,” he stammered, his face draining of color as he turned toward the class.
He couldn’t meet their eyes, shy all of a sudden. “I… I’m needed elsewhere. Excuse me.” And he’d practically fled the hall, leaving a roomful of confused children and a few raised eyebrows from the other sisters.
You’d sat there, your wrist still tingling, humiliated and exhilarated. You were sure, then, that your corruption was contagious.
You told the shadow of Father Callaghan about the team outing to celebrate Moira’s promotion and well, all the wine consumed that evening.
He’d cornered you by the forgotten pietà in a dim alcove, a glass of cheap red in his hand. His eyes were bright, his movements looser. He smelled of spices and the faint, clean scent of the convent’s detergent, clearly coming from his fluffy sweater.
“Tell me,” he’d slurred, just a little, his gaze intense.
“What were you running from? Before this? I can always tell. The ones running to God have a peace about them. The ones running from something… they have a fire in them. You seem like you are at war with yourself.” He’d leaned closer, his voice dropping.
“Read Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling. Or… or Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory. They’re about the mess of faith. The human cost. It might… help. It’s what I read when I lost my way a bit at the start of all of this” he gestured to himself, and to his tight collar.
“Or it might make it worse.” He’d given a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m being a terrible priest tonight.”
Later, when everyone was leaving, he stood in front of you at the coat room. He’d blocked your exit with his tall, lean body. He was so close that you had to crane your neck to peer up at him, your heart thumping in your ears.
His eyes were dark, liquid. “You don’t understand the power you have, Sister,” he’d said, his words slightly slurred but his intent piercingly clear, “what you do to people, its–.” Before you could process it or hear the rest, Sister Bernadette had bustled between you, breaking the spell.
“He… notices things,” you confessed, your voice growing thready, returning to the present narrative for the shadow.
“Small things. Sister Agnes gets migraines; he always has a cold cloth and a quiet word for her when she’s choir-mistressing, he even covers for her from time to time. But with me…” You swallowed.
“With me, it’s different. It’s not pastoral care. It’s… attention. He’s seeking me out to make contact. If I’m struggling with a heavy tray in the refectory, his hand is there on my back and shoulder, to steady me before I’ve even registered the strain. If I’m translating a particularly dense passage of Latin for the bulletin, he’ll ‘happen’ to walk by and offer an alternative phrasing, his finger tapping the page, his shoulder brushing mine. He brings me books from his own shelves, leaving them on the narrow shelf by my bed in the dormitory. It isn’t even theological texts. It’s poetry. Novels. ‘For the soul behind the habit,’ the note on the first one said. He treats the other sisters with kindness. He treats me… like I’m a person he’s desperately trying to get to know.”
Then, you let Father Callaghan into the heat of your transgression. The memory of the lake picnic. The water fight with the children out in the gardens.
“I saw him, Father… this moment is when I damned myself to Hell,” you whispered, the shame molten in your throat.
“His shirt… it was plastered to him. I could see every line, every contour. The collar was soaked through, tight against his throat.I imagined what it would feel like to unbutton and peel it away from his hot skin. To put my mouth there, on his pulse.” you let out a choked sound, the silence on the other end suffocating you.
“I went back to my dormitory that night and I… – well I, - I touched myself.” You forced the words out, explicit, laying them bare. No resolution would come if you held back the disgusting truth.
“I lay on my bed and I put my hand under my nightgown. I was already wet, just from the memory. I pictured his hands, those large, capable hands that hold the host… I pictured them on me. Hungry. I imagined him pushing my gown up, his calloused palms scraping over my thighs, his fingers digging into my hips. I thought of him seeing me, all of me, exposed and wanting him, and I wondered if that bright joy in his eyes would turn into something darker, possessive. I imagined him saying, ‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be looked at? To be known?’ And then I imagined him… punishing me. For my thoughts. his breath hot in my ear as he asked me to describe, in detail, every single fantasy I’d ever had about him.
And I would. I would tell him everything, and he would listen, and then he would… he would take me. As his consequence. As my absolution. I came, Father, thinking of that. Thinking of him claiming me, ruining me, because I felt so far from God that only a fall this profound felt like a tether to the bible.”
You were crying now, silent tears tracking through the dust on your cheeks. “The worst part is… in these thoughts, he’s not angry. He’s sad. Disappointed. And that makes it worse. Because I want to please him, even in my sin. Especially in my sin.”
You continued, your voice breaking.
You told him about the ice in the cloister garden. You’d been rushing fresh produce to the kitchens, your mind a whirl of him the day before teaching you how to sing, and your foot had shot out from under you. The crack of your head against the frozen flagstone was a bright, shocking pain. You saw stars, and felt warm blood instantly matting your hair as you lay there.
He was there in mere seconds, having seen your fall from his office window.
“Foolish girl,” he’d muttered, but his voice was thick with alarm, not scorn. He knelt in the slush, his cassock be damned, his hands cradling your head.
“Let me see.” His fingers, trembling slightly, pushed back the heavy wool of your wimple, fumbled with the pins of your coif. They came loose. Your long, soft hair, perpetually bound, spilled out over his hands and onto the dirty ice.
He froze.
For a long second, he didn’t move. He just stared, his breath pluming in the air between you, his fingers tangled in the dark strands. His expression shifted from professional concern to something utterly stunned, raw.
A muscle feathered in his jaw. He looked… overcome. As if he’d uncovered something sacred and forbidden. “Your…hair, its–” he started, his voice a rough whisper. He didn’t finish.
He simply swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the tight collar, and his touch changed. The frightened assessment changed; a slow, almost delirious smoothing of your hair back from the wound, his thumb brushing your temple, softly, almost… lovingly. His gaze held yours, and in that grey Indiana light, you saw him stripped bare from his duty; a man utterly arrested by the sight of you.
Then, as if catching himself, he blinked, and the mask slammed down. “You’ve cut it, pretty badly. We shall have to get you to the infirmary” he said briskly, his hands returning to a practical pressure on the wound. “Can you stand?”
But the moment hung in the air, more intimate than any touch that followed in the infirmary.
The word vomit continued.
“I feel… disconnected,” you whispered finally, your forehead now pressed against the cool wood of the grate.
“From God, from my vows. This… lust. It feels more real to me than grace has in months. It pulls at me like a tide. I am adrift, Father. And I am so… so terribly sorry for burdening you.”
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the silence of a held breath, filled to the brim with the utmost tension.
You could feel it radiating through the grate, a heat that contradicted the convent’s chill.
Then, a sound. The soft click of the latch on his side of the confessional.
Your head jerked up. The shadow behind the grate moved, resolved. The door on his side creaked open, a slice of dim amber light from a vigil candle slicing into the dark booth.
Footsteps, slow and deliberate, on the stone flags. They came around the front of the confessional. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drum of panic and a weird thrill.
The heavy velvet curtain of your booth was wrenched aside.
Father Michael stood there, framed by the gothic arch of the confessional doorway. It had been him the whole time. Your face drained of all life very suddenly and you began to shake violently.
The faint light from the sanctuary behind him cast him in silhouette, a tall, broad-shouldered cutout against the gloom.
He was out of his cassock, wearing only his black trousers and a black shirt with his collar. It was clinging to the lean muscle of his chest and arms; his hair was wild as if he’d put his hand through it stressed.
His face was in shadow, but you could see the tight line of his jaw, the faint gleam of his eyes in the candlelight. The archway behind, framed him like a figure from Scripture, the irony of it carving itself into your mind.
He looked down at you, where you knelt, frozen, a supplicant at an altar you hadn’t intended. Your gaze then dropped, catching on the unbuckled belt of his trousers.
For a long moment, he just stared. The church was a cavern of shadows around you, the statues of saints watching with blank stone eyes. The only sounds were the distant wind and the ragged, too-loud sound of your own breathing.
“You…” he began, his usually animated tenor was raw, scraped thin. “You thought you were speaking to Father Callahan.”
You couldn’t speak, and only managed a faint, trembling nod.
A harsh, humorless sound escaped him. He took a step closer, and you had to crane your neck further to look up at him. The power dynamic had violently, irrevocably shifted. You were on your knees. He was standing over you. Sick, twisted and ever so primal.
“Every word,” he breathed, the words laced with a kind of furious wonder. “Every detail. My God.” He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated, utterly unlike his usual composure. His blasphemy was deserved.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done–?” His voice broke. “To me?” He supplied again, exasperated.
You flinched. “Father, I—”
“Don’t,” he snarled, the word a low whip-crack. He dropped into a crouch suddenly, bringing his face level with yours.
Up close, you could see the storm in his eyes— dark brown deep set eyes, flecked with gold and now dark with dilated pupils.
You could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the pulse pounding in the very throat you’d fantasized about.
The scent of him—starch, faint sweat, and that underlying warmth—enveloped you, intoxicating.
“Don’t call me that. I fear that even just the use of that word will create more lustful delirium. Not after what you just poured into my head. My head, which is supposed to be filled with Scripture, with prayer. Not… not filth.”
He was close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him. His breath fanned your cheek.
“You’ve ripped the floodgates open,” he whispered, the anger mingling with a desperate, aching confession.
“For months I have fought these thoughts. I knelt on this very stone until my knees bruised. I have fasted. I have scourged myself with discipline. I have looked at you across the refectory, across the moments our paths have intertwined and I have begged God to take the feeling from me. To make me a better vessel. A pure one.”
He leaned even closer, his voice dropping to a tortured rasp.
“And now… you come here. In the dark. And you give me… images. Vivid, sinful, exquisite images. Of you watching me. Of you touching yourself, thinking of me...” His gaze dropped to your lips, then dragged slowly, burning, back up to your eyes.
“How am I supposed to pray now? To run this convent honestly? How can I deny what I want when you have just painted it in the most lurid colors imaginable? You’ve made it real. Reciprocated.”
He stood up abruptly, turning away, his back tense. He fumbled carelessly with his belt buckle, his trousers straining around his groin.
“I am not built for this,” he said, more to the vaulted ceiling than to you.
“I thought I was. I wanted to be devout. I wanted the clarity, the purpose.” He raked another hand through his hair.
“B-but I’m sick. Sick with the thought of you. Your skin, which I’ve only ever glimpsed. Your hair—God, when I saw it down, after your fall, it was like seeing a different person, a woman… I haven’t slept properly since. I lie awake and imagine how you’d look spread out on my bed in the rectory, the grey convent sheets against your skin, your hair fanned out, your eyes…”
He choked off the sentence, spinning back to face you. The defensive anger was back, a shield against the vulnerability.
“This is your fault. Your confession. You brought the devil into this booth, and now he’s in me.”
The accusation was unfair, blasphemous, and it ignited a spark in you. You found your voice, small but steady. “I came for absolution, Father–”
“Absolution?” He barked the word.
“There is no absolution for what you’ve made me feel! You think a few Hail Marys will scrub this from my mind? I will see you, on your knees on the floor of the convent, far from being in prayer. Every time I close my eyes... you'll be kneeling in front of me with my–” he clears his throat, in a moment of hesitation “dick in your mouth instead… I will hear your voice describing your own wetness, and I will feel my own—” He cut himself off again, rageful, his fists clenched at his sides.
“You need to go. Now. Get out of my sight.”
He said it with force, but his eyes betrayed him. They were pleading, frantic.
“Go,” he growled again, when you didn’t move, still rooted to the kneeler by shock and a terrifying, magnetic pull.
“Before I do something… something we’ll both regret. Something I will regret.”
The second warning held a different timbre. A promise. A threat. A hunger.
Slowly, muscles protesting, you began to rise. Your legs were weak, trembling. You kept your eyes on him, this young, beautiful, tormented man who was your priest, your downfall, your sin incarnate.
You took a shaky step backward, toward the aisle, the vast, dark nave behind you.
You turned to leave.
A hand shot out, iron-strong, and wrapped around your upper arm, spinning you back. A gasp was torn from your lips, lost as his other hand cupped the back of your head, fingers tangling in the hair at your nape beneath your wimple. And then his mouth crashed down onto yours.
Devoid of tenderness, or even of passion, instead it was a collision of two supernovas in space, creating a black hole event. The feeling, all consuming. An outlet for all the pent-up fury, desire, and spiritual agony he had just spilled.
His lips were hard, desperate, moving over yours with a frantic need, reciprocating all of the pain, sorrow and want you had just explained to him.
The taste of him; wine, the faint bitterness of coffee, flooded your senses, overwhelming you. You made a sound, a muffled whimper against his mouth, a useless protest to keep both of your virtues, but it was no use. Your hands, of their own volition, came up to clutch at the front of his shirt, feeling the solid wall of his chest beneath.
He groaned, the vibration passing from his lips to yours, and the kiss deepened, turned hotter, wetter. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you met it with your own, the sin becoming tangible, a slick, heated dance. In his agony, he bit your lip, and now you tasted the bitter tang of metallic blood.
The hand on your arm slid down to your lower back, pressing you tightly against him. You could feel the hard, insistent ridge of his erection against your belly, even through the layers of your habit and his trousers. The evidence of his desire, so blunt and physical, sent a fresh, scalding wave of lust through you.
This was the transgression you’d fantasized about, but the reality was a thousand times more potent. It was the forbidden fruit, bitten, juice running down your chin. It was the fall from grace, and you were clutching him as you tumbled.
He broke the kiss as suddenly as he’d initiated it, tearing his mouth from yours with a ragged gasp. Both of you were breathing heavily, the sounds echoing loudly in the sacred space. Your lips felt swollen, bruised, already missing the pressure of his. His eyes were wild, horrified, and blazing with undiminished hunger. Your blood was smeared across his plump dark lips. He looked like a wild animal, caught in the headlights of your shared disaster. The sin.
He stared at you, at your kiss-reddened mouth, your wide eyes, your heaving chest. A profound shame seemed to crash over him, mingling with the unspent desire. He released you as if your skin had burned him, taking two stumbling steps back.
“Get out,” he said again, but the growl was gone. It was a hollow, broken command. He didn’t look at you again. He turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing sharply before being swallowed by the darkness near the sacristy door.
You were left alone in the nave, the taste of him on your lips, the ghost of his hands on your body, the cold of the church seeping back in to replace the heat he’d left behind. You touched your fingers to your mouth, trembling. There would be no sleep tonight. Only the replay of his words, his anger, and the devastating pressure of his kiss.
—
The summons came after Lauds. The note was plain, slipped into your hand by a postulant whose eyes held a knowing glint you didn’t care to decipher. Three words, in a script that was all sharp angles and repressed energy: My office. Now.
The walk to the rectory was a death march. The sky was the color of old slate, pressing down on the grim brick building, and the air smelled of impending rain and damp earth.
You knew what this was. The reckoning.
He had spent the night in horrified prayer and had emerged resolved. He would remove you. Send you to another convent, or worse, sever you from the parish entirely. You were a danger—to him, to his vocation, to the fragile order of things. Your confession hadn’t just damned you; it had been a lit match tossed into his own restraint.
He would cut the fuse. You would be cast out, your vows in tatters, branded not just a lustful nun, but the ruin of a priest.
Your knock was as light as a feather.
“Enter.”
His voice was cold, stripped of all its usual warmth and animation. You pushed the heavy oak door open.
He sat behind the wide, polished desk, a fortress of dark wood. He was in full cassock and collar, every button fastened, every line severe. He looked exhausted, shadows like smudges of ash beneath his eyes, but his expression was closed, impassive as a church wall. He did not look up from the dense theological text open before him.
“Close the door.”
You did. The latch clicked with the finality of a coffin lid. You stood before the desk, hands folded, eyes downcast, awaiting sentence.
The silence was thick and choking. It was broken only by the slow, merciless tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner, measuring out the last moments of your life here.
Finally, with a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, he closed the book. He stared at his hands, steepled on the desktop.
“What you did last night,” he began, his voice low and carefully even, “in the confessional… it was inappropriate.”
Your head jerked up. That wasn’t the word you expected.
He finally lifted his gaze. It was like being struck by a bolt of cold lightning.
“A confession is for contrition. For the outline of a sin, so that absolution can be shaped around it. It is not….” He paused, his jaw working.
“It is not a narrative. It is not meant to be graphic. Do you understand the difference?”
You could only stare, mute.
“You painted a picture,” he continued, his voice dropping, growing tighter. “With such… vivid detail. You didn’t just confess an impure thought. You described everything. the physical sensations.” A muscle feathered in his jaw.
“You described your own… self-violation… with a precision that was not necessary for repentance. It was evocative. It was descriptive.” He said the word like it was a curse.
“That is not the purpose of the sacrament. You forced me, as your confessor, to… to visualise your sin. To participate in it, second-hand. That is a burden you should not have placed on me.”
The accusation was so unfair, so brilliantly twisted, that it stole the air from your lungs. He was blaming you for the content of your confession. A spark of defiance, hot and sudden, flared in your chest.
“I was confessing the truth, father.” you heard yourself say, your voice quieter than you intended, but steady. “The whole truth. Isn’t that what’s required? Or are we only to confess the parts of our sins that are… convenient?”
His eyes widened a fraction. He hadn’t expected you to speak so abruptly. The cold mask slipped, revealing a flash of something raw—anger, shock, admiration. He leaned back in his chair, as if physically pushed by your words.
“The whole truth,” he repeated slowly, “is a dangerous thing when it involves… imagery. When it becomes a shared experience between penitent and priest.” His hand, which had been steepled, drifted down to the desktop. His fingers tapped once, twice, a nervous rhythm.
“What you shared wasn’t just a sin. It was a… a temptation. Delivered directly.”
“I didn’t know it was you,” you whispered, the defense weak even to your own ears.
“It doesn’t matter!” he snapped, the control breaking for a second.
He stood up abruptly, turning his back to you, one hand raking through his hair. You saw his other hand—the one at his side—drift to the front of his cassock. He pressed the heel of his palm low against himself, a hard, frustrated press through the heavy wool, holding it there for a beat too long before snatching it away and clenching it into a fist at his side.
The gesture was unconscious; a physical confession more honest than any of his words. He was still clearly turned on by you.
When he turned back, his face was flushed. “Don’t you see? The content… it was a violation in itself. You painted a scene so real I can’t scrub it from my mind. It’s there. On a loop.”
He was breathing heavily now. He came around the desk, to lean back against its edge, putting a smaller distance between.He crossed his arms, a defensive posture, but his eyes were pinned on you, dark and stormy.
“My failure,” he said, the words ground out, “was in not stopping you. In listening and… picturing it. And then, of course, my subsequent… lapse… was a separate, profound sin. A betrayal of my office. For that, you have my apology.”
The apology was ash in the air. Meaningless. You both knew it.
“The appropriate course,” he continued, his voice attempting that flat control again and failing, “is distance. Permanent reassignment. For the well-being of both our souls.”
There it was. The sentence. But you also saw the pulse hammering in his throat, the faint tremor in his crossed arms.
“That is what I should do,” he said, staring at a point over your head. “What any sane man in my position must do.”
The silence this time was different. It was full of the things he wasn’t saying. The tick-tock of the clock was like a countdown.
“But.” He pushed off the desk, taking a single step toward you. You were still sitting, and he loomed, but the power wasn’t in his height now; it was in the desperate vulnerability cracking his voice.
“You spoke of disconnection. From God. From grace.” He crouched suddenly, bringing his face level with yours. His eyes searched yours, pleading. “Do you know what that feels like? To hear a mirror of your own deepest hunger spoken aloud in the dark? To have your own secret corruption given a voice, and for that voice to be… beautiful?”
You were shaking. You couldn’t look away.
“We are already damned in the wanting,” he whispered, the words a hot, agonized confession. “The thought is the sin. The desire is the transgression. We carry it with us, and it poisons everything. It makes a mockery of our prayers.” He reached out, his hand hovering near your face, not touching, but you could feel the heat of it.
“What if… what if we surrendered to it? Just once. Not in secret fantasy, but in truth. Let the fire burn itself out on the fuel of our bodies, until there is nothing left but ash and the clear, unambiguous memory of the sin.”
“Father, I must confess I never wanted this life… but wanting you… its the first real thing I’ve felt here. In my loneliness.”
He regarded you up through his eyelashes, still crouched down. “And I, share the same sentiment. I just became good at pretending, Sister. It was easier to run from intimacy that I struggled with; to vow it out entirely.” He looked away for a moment, deep in thought about his past life.
“Y-you’ve had… relations before, Father?” you asked, shock in your hushed voice.
“Yes. Once. It was a mistake that cost me dearly. I vowed it would be the last time I was taken advantage of in such a way.” he turned back to you and gently placed a palm on your covered thigh.
“I swore to never let… intimacy hurt me ever again, so I sought out this line of work. However it was foolish; my desire and lust cannot be pushed down. I feel too deeply.” He was looking at you so closely now, his eyebrows furrowed.
“I feel for you Sister, and I fear that if I do not… act now, I shall never see you again; if you do decide to leave the parish.”
“Father Michael, I have been longing for you ever since we met.”
His logic from before, about acting on this situation was a twisted theology, but it found fertile ground in your own desperate heart. The idea was horrifying. And it made a perfect, devastating sense.
“One time,” he breathed, his eyes holding yours captive. “To know it. To have no more ghosts of ‘what if’ haunting us. And then, when it’s done… when the curiosity is dead, because it has been answered… then we could seek true forgiveness. We could go to our separate altars with hearts that are no longer curious, but informed. Perhaps… perhaps then we could finally understand the depth of the grace we’d need. Perhaps the sin itself could be the path to a clearer repentance.”
He was offering a pact. A mutual, deliberate fall as a precursor to a purer ascent. It was the most corrupt, and the most heartbreakingly logical, thing you had ever heard.
He stood up, turning away, his shoulders tense. “It’s a corruption of every vow,” he said to the bookshelves. “But is it a greater corruption than a lifetime of this… this festering? This slow poison that makes us hypocrites in our own skin?”
He turned back, and the last vestige of the stern priest was gone. He was just a man, terrified and hopeful, standing on the edge of an abyss. He held out his hand to you. It shook violently.
“I called you here to send you away initially,” he said, his voice raw. “That was the right path. The safe path. But I can’t.” The admission seemed to cost him everything. “God help me, I look at you and I don’t see a problem to be solved. I see the only honest answer to a question that’s been burning a hole in my soul for months.”
You looked from his trembling hand to his face, to the torment and the desperate hope warring in his eyes. The spark of defiance in you hadn’t died; it had changed, melding with a profound, terrifying understanding.
He was right. The wanting was the sin. It was already inside you, a constant, a presence that coloured every Hail Mary, every moment of supposed peace. It was a shadow on your soul. Could you ever truly seek absolution for this? Was it best to just leave after it?
Your own voice, when it came, was quiet but clear in the silent office.
“You’re right,” you said. The words felt like a key turning. “The thoughts… they’re a constant sin. They’re already there. We’re already carrying the weight of it.” You took a shaky breath, your eyes locked on his. “Maybe… maybe you have to experience the sin so you can truly let it go.”
A profound, shuddering relief washed over his features, followed immediately by a deeper, more profound terror. You had agreed. You had mirrored his corrupted logic. You were both reaching for it.
“We are so similar Sister, in our affinities. We are bound to find solace and maybe find resolution in each other. In our fantasy.” He got up from the desk and smoothed his long cassock.
He held out his hand, and it shook. "Not here, though" he said quietly. "Not with the door of my office standing between us and the rest of the convent.” He nodded toward the hall beyond, toward the private wing of the rectory that no Sister had cause to enter.
"My rooms are through there. If we’re going to damn ourselves for this, I won't have it happen somewhere so easily interrupted."
He pulled you up slowly, his hand warm and big in yours. His eyes were like a does, innocent, yet corrupt all the same.
You let yourself follow him down the hall. He walked like he expected, at any moment, for you to change your mind, glancing back once at the threshold of the hallway as if giving you the chance. You weren’t going to. However your mind did drift to think about his seeking out Preisthood… why a soul so tortured by a woman would be driven to this… this place.
The door clicked shut. The sound echoed in the small, spare room, a final period on the sentence you’d begun in the confessional.
You stood frozen just inside, the worn wooden floorboards cool under your stockinged feet. The reality of where you were—in his private room, the bed, the crucifix on the wall—crashed down with a weight that stole your breath.
He didn’t move from the door. He leaned against it, his head bowed, his shoulders tense under the fabric of his cassock.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You could hear the distant, mournful cry of a train whistle from the tracks beyond the convent walls. A sound from the real world, a reminder.
Finally, he pushed off the door and turned to you. In the grey afternoon light filtering through the single window, he looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes like bruises. The charming, animated young priest was gone. In his place was a man, weary and wired, standing on the edge of a cliff.
“You can still leave,” he said, his voice quiet, stripped bare. “If you walk out that door right now, we never speak of this again. I’ll find a way to… to handle my own failing. You can keep your vows intact.”
It was an out. A last chance at redemption offered by the very agent of your temptation. The kindness in it, the sheer, devastating responsibility of it, made your chest hurt.
You looked at him; the sharp line of his jaw, the mouth you’d dreamed of, the hands that had touched you so innocently before, and you knew you were already damned. The wanting was a root, grown too deep to tear out.
You shook your head, a tiny, helpless movement.
He closed his eyes for a second, a flicker of pain crossing his features. When he opened them, they were dark, resigned, and frighteningly tender. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay. C’mere.”
You took the few steps to the center of the room. He met you there, but didn’t touch you immediately. He just looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your face, your habit, as if memorizing the last moment before the fall.
“We go slow,” he said, his voice a low, steady murmur meant to calm the frantic beating of your own heart. “This is your first time. It should be… it should be good. It should feel good. That’s all I want. To show you that.”
His assumption that you were a virgin was… not shocking. Any young girl who walked through these hallowed halls had to be.
He reached up then, his hands going to your wimple. His fingers, so unfamiliar with ritual, found the pins slowly. He was hesitant, almost shy, the opposite of what you had fantasised about.
Each pin was removed with a soft snick, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet. He set them carefully on the dresser, lining them up in a neat row, as if maintaining order somewhere mattered.
The stiff linen came away, then the coif. He placed them on the chair, smoothing the fabric with an absent touch.
Then it was just your hair, bound in its tight, daily knot. He reached for it, his hands surrounding the bun completely. For a long moment, he just held it, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed. You could see the pulse beating in his throat. This was it. The first real unveiling.
He found the pins. One, two, three… they joined the others. His movements were methodical, painfully slow. Then, with a soft, deliberate pull, he loosened the knot.
Your hair didn’t cascade dramatically. It unfurled slowly, a heavy, dark wave slipping over his wrists and down your back. It was longer than you remembered, a lifetime of growth kept secret. The release of the constant, familiar pressure of the tight pins was a profound, physical relief.
He made a sound—a soft, choked inhale, as if he’d been punched in the gut. He was utterly still, his hands suspended in the air, now empty of the bun but full of the memory of its shape.
Then, slowly, he brought his hands down, letting the strands slide through his fingers. He watched, mesmerised, as they fell, catching the dull light. He reached out and touched it again, combing his fingers from your scalp all the way to the ends.
“Goodness,” he whispered, the word full of awe, not piety.
He gathered a thick handful, brought it to his face, and pressed it against his cheek, his eyes closing. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling. “I knew,” he murmured into the dark strands. “I knew it would be like this. I dreamed it was like this.” He opened his eyes, looking at the hair fisted in his hand, then at your face. His expression was one of pure, unguarded wonder, mixed with a deep, aching sorrow.
“It’s beautiful and I so wish you didn’t have to tuck it away.”
He spent what felt like an eternity just touching your hair. Wrapping it around his hands, weighing its heaviness, brushing it over your shoulders. He was worshiping it. And you let him, a strange, powerful feeling blooming in your chest. You had done this. You had reduced Father Michael to this state of trembling awe.
He undressed you with the same deliberate, slow care. The rough wool tunic was unbuttoned, and he helped you shrug it off, folding it with a distracted neatness. The scapular, the long underskirt. Each layer was removed with a solemn, heartbreaking tenderness. He was revealing you, and in doing so, revealing his own vulnerability. When you stood in just your simple, knee-length cotton shift, he paused.
His gaze traveled over you, the thin fabric clinging to the curves of your body. He looked at the shape of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips. His expression was one of deep, almost painful appreciation, like a man looking at a masterpiece he knows he must destroy.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick. “It’s a crime, what we hide under all that wool.”
He hooked his fingers in the hem of the shift. “Lift your arms for me.”
A fresh wave of hesitation washed over you. This was the final barrier. The last vestige of the Sister, the postulant. You hesitated, your arms trembling at your sides.
He saw it. He didn’t rush you. He just waited, his eyes soft, patient. “It’s just me,” he whispered. “Michael. And ‘m not gonna hurt you.”
The use of his own name, not his title, broke the spell. You lifted your arms. He drew the shift up and over your head, and let it fall to the floor.
You were naked before him. The air was cool, raising goosebumps on your skin. A violent shiver of self-consciousness seized you, and you instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, hunched slightly.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice firm but impossibly gentle. He reached out and gently pried your arms apart, holding your wrists, lowering them to your sides.
“Don’t hide from me. Not after everything.” His hands slid up your arms to your shoulders, then down your sides, a warm, steadying touch. “Look at you. You’re… magnificent. Every part of you.”
He knelt then, right on the wooden floor in front of you. He was eye-level with your navel.
His hands came to rest on your hips, his thumbs making slow, soothing circles on the skin. His gaze dropped, and he stared, openly, at the thatch of dark, neat curls between your thighs.
He didn’t touch at first. He just looked, his breath coming a little faster. Then he reached out, his fingertips trembling slightly, and just brushed through the soft hair. A soft sigh escaped him.
“So pretty,” he breathed, full of wonder. He combed his fingers through it more firmly, a gentle, petting motion. “So real. So you.” He looked up at you, his eyes serious. “This is a gift, you understand? This… all of this… is a gift. And I’m…” He shook his head, dropping his gaze again, a muscle working in his jaw. “I’m so selfish for taking it.”
He leaned in then, and pressed his lips to the soft skin just above your pubic bone. A kiss of gratitude, of farewell knowing that this was likely the only intimate moment you’d both share.
He lingered there, his forehead resting against your lower belly, his warm breath washing over you. You could feel the fine tremors running through his body.
After a long moment, he rose. “My turn,” he said, and the shyness was back, mixed with a new tension.
He turned slightly away as he began to undress, a self-conscious gesture that made your heart twist. He removed his cassock, folding it with automatic habit. Then his clerical shirt. He pulled it over his head, his back to you.
When he turned around, you saw him fully. The vitiligo was even more striking up close. The large, beautiful patch of stark white skin swept from under his right arm, across his ribs, over his hip, and down his thigh, the border sharp and clean against his warmer and darker skin tone. It was a part of him, undeniable and beautiful.
He saw you looking. A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips, and he glanced away.
“Not what you pictured when you thought of your sexy priest, huh?” he said quietly, a defensive edge in his voice.
You stepped closer without thinking. You reached out and laid your palm flat on the border where dark met light on his side. His skin was warm, the texture no different. He flinched, a tiny intake of breath, but didn’t pull away.
“No,” you whispered, your eyes meeting his. “You’re better. You’re real.”
The words seemed to disarm him completely. His eyes glistened for a second before he blinked rapidly. He captured your hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed your palm, a long, tender press. Then he pulled you against him, skin to skin, and kissed you. It was a deep, slow kiss, full of a gratitude and a yearning that stole the last of your hesitation.
He led you to the bed, laying you back on the grey blanket. He didn’t cover you immediately. He lay beside you, propped on an elbow, and just looked at you, his free hand tracing idle patterns on your stomach.
“We have all the time in the world,” he murmured. “My world stops here. Just for this. Let everything else melt away.”
He began to touch you in earnest. He started at your temples, massaging them gently. “You hold so much tension here,” he whispered. He then kissed your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, the corners of your mouth. He mapped your face with devotion.
He moved down your throat, sucking gently at the pulse point until you moaned. “You have no idea the power you have,” he said against your skin, his voice rough. “Just the sight of you, walking into a room. It undoes me.”
His mouth moved to your breasts. He took his time, worshiping each one. He licked and sucked and nibbled until you were arching off the bed, your fingers tangling in the sheets. His hand cupped the weight of your breast, his thumb brushing your peaked nipple. “So perfect,” he groaned. “So responsive. You were made for this. For pleasure,” he pressed his mouth down again on your nipple and suckled. “Isn’t it cruel that God created all these areas on the body that are so sensitive to tough; and then denies you of that, if your calling is to the congregation?” He looked up at you and tutted.
“I’m beginning to think God is the corrupt one and not us,”
He kissed down your sternum, over the quivering plane of your stomach. He nuzzled into the short hair on your pubic bone, inhaling deeply. “And this,” he whispered, his breath hot. “This drives me out of my mind. Knowing it’s under all that wool. And now knowing it’s only mine to see, in this moment.”
He settled between your legs. He kissed the inside of each thigh, his stubble a delicious scrape. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and warm. “This might feel like a lot. Just breathe. My only job today is to make you feel good.”
His first touch was the soft, flat press of his tongue, a slow, sweeping stroke that made you jolt and gasp. He soothed you with a hand on your belly. “Easy. I’ve got you.”
It was better than anything you’d ever imagined, or ANY feeling your own hand could give ou.
He began to eat you out with a dedicated intensity that was more intimate than anything you could have imagined.
His tongue explored every fold, every hidden contour, before finding your clit. He licked around it, circled it, then flicked over it with the very tip, his eyes closed in concentration.
One of his hands slid under your ass, tilting your hips up. The other hand came up, and his thumb found your entrance, rubbing gently, then pressing inside, just to the first knuckle.
The stretch of his thumb, combined with the relentless, perfect rhythm of his tongue, sent pleasure shooting tight in your core. You were trembling, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The anticipation of him taking you in such a forbidden way.
The power dynamic was intoxicating. Here you were, naked and spread open, and Father Michael was naked, on his stomach, on this small bed; his mouth between your legs, serving your pleasure with a desperate, devoted focus. The thought alone was enough to make your pleasure climb higher.
“That’s it,” he murmured against you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine. “Let it happen. Come for me. I want to taste it. I want to know I did this for you.”
His words, the raw, gentle command from his lips, broke you. Your climax rolled through you, a deep, shuddering wave that had you crying out, genuinely almost moved to tears by how much better it felt than whatever pleasure you could have given yourself.
He gentled you through it, his mouth soft and persistent, until you were limp and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.
“Please, Father, oh my–” you picked your head up to look at him between your legs, to store the memory in your head forever. He was perfect, cheeks tinged pink, his stubble, swollen lips and his hair, now messy and showing off the height of his afro that he hid constantly with gel.
He kissed his way up your body, his own breathing ragged. He gathered you into his arms, holding you close. You could feel his heart hammering against your cheek, feel the hard, thick length of him pressed against your hip. He was still fully dressed from the waist down, a last bastion of… something.
After long minutes of quiet, just his hands stroking your hair, your back, he shifted.
“Are you ready for me?” he asked, his voice thick with restraint.
You nodded against his chest, dazed.
He moved over you, bracing himself on his arms. The difference in his size, the weight of him hovering above you, was suddenly very real. He was all lean muscle and warm, contrast-painted skin. His face was serious, his eyes searching yours, full of a concern that made your throat tighten.
“This will hurt,” he said softly, a final, gentle warning. “Just at first. I’ll go so slow. You tell me to stop, and I stop. Promise me.”
“I promise,” you whispered.
He reached between you, his hand fumbling with the fastening of his trousers. He pushed them and his briefs down just enough to free himself. He was thick, fully erect, the skin flushed and smooth. The vitiligo has dropped below his waistband it seemed, splattering over his hip bone and stopping there.
A drop of moisture gleamed at the tip of his dick, your eyes fixated on it. He took himself in hand, his grip firm, and started moving it up and down. He made his own hands look small as he did it, his hips bucking whenever his hand made it back down to the base.
“I was doing this in the confession booth, y’know?” he said, his eyes lazy with lust.
“Y-you were?”
“Mhmmm, thinking of all the things you were saying made me delirious, I had to touch myself”
His eyes left yours once more and he glanced down at himself and then the angle at which you were laying. He pulled your legs, to bring your sopping wet cunt closer and then guided his dark pink head to your entrance. You were so slick with your arousal and his saliva that when he tried to push in, it slipped up, nudging your clit. It was so sensitive that you jolted.
He pressed forward, just an inch. “Sshit” he hissed.
There was a sharp, burning pressure as he finally pressed into you, a tearing sensation that was profoundly alien.
You gasped, a sharp cry escaping you, your eyes squeezing shut against the sudden sting.
He froze immediately. “Breathe,” he whispered, his own breath coming in a controlled, shaky stream. He was trembling with the effort of holding still. “Just breathe through it. Look at me. Look at me, m’love.”
You forced your eyes open and the endearing name. His face was inches from yours at this new angle now, his brow furrowed in concern and pain—his own, from the strain of holding back from you. “M’not gonna hurt you,” he murmured. “It’s going to feel good. Breathe.”
You took a ragged breath and nodded. The burning was intense. He pushed forward another slow, inexorable inch. A tear escaped, tracking down your temple into your hair. The pain was bright, shocking but it felt like every nerve in your body was alive and on fire. It felt so good, so wrong, so right and so painful all at once.
“I know,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He leaned down and kissed the tear away, his lips soft on your skin. “I know it hurts. Just a little more. Then I’ll make it better. I swear to you.”
With a final, careful push, he sank the rest of the way home, burying himself to the hilt inside you.
The feeling of fullness was immense, overwhelming. The sharp pain was there, but beneath it was the shockingly hot sensation of being filled. He was inside you. Father Michael was inside you. The thought, blasphemous and thrilling, cut through the pain.
He let out a long, shaky groan, dropping his forehead to yours. His whole body was trembling. “Christ,” he breathed, the word a pained prayer.
“You’re so… tight. So perfect. Just… give yourself a minute. Just get used to me.”
He didn’t move. He just stayed there, joined with you, letting your body stretch and accommodate him. He kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue soothing, distracting. Slowly, the sharpest edge of the pain began to blur, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache and that strange, full sensation.
Tentatively, he began to move. A slow, gentle rocking of his hips, a subtle retreat and advance. The way his dick curved up inside you was maddening, filling you up and hitting every good nerve.
It still hurt, but the hurt was now mingled with sparks of extreme pleasure.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice a rough whisper against your lips. “Just like that. It’ll start to feel good. I’ll make it feel good. I’ll take care of you.”
He kept the pace agonizingly slow, each shallow thrust going a little deeper, a little smoother as your body yielded to him. He watched your face intently, his own a mask of concentrated empathy.
After what felt like an eternity, the pain receded like a tide, leaving behind a raw, open sensitivity that began to glow with a low, gathering warmth.
A soft, surprised moan escaped you on one particularly deep rock of his hips.
He smiled then, a real, relieved smile that lit up his tired face. “There she is,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder. “There’s the pleasure.”
He began to move with more purpose, establishing a slow, deep, rolling rhythm. The bed began to creak softly beneath you. His thrusts were measured, each one aimed at fanning that new warmth into a flame. One of his hands slid under your lower back, arching you up to meet him. The next thrust hit a spot so deep and startlingly good that you cried out, a sound of pure shock.
“Yeah,” he grunted, his own control starting to slip. “Right there. I’ve got you.”
He fucked you like that for long, slow minutes, building the pleasure back from its ashes. You were climbing again, the tightening tension returning, deeper now, rooted in the very core of you where he moved.
You were beneath him, being taken by him, being taught by him and it was better than any schoolgirl silly fantasy you’d had before. He was gentle and reassuring and everything this situation called for.
The man whose homilies you’d listened to, whose guidance you’d sought, was now the source of this devastating, intimate friction.
“Father Michael,” you moaned, the title slipping out unbidden, wrapped in pleasure.
He stilled above you for a second, his eyes flying open to meet yours. A dark, hungry understanding flashed in them. A slow, wicked smile touched his swollen lips. “Say that again,” he breathed, his voice dropping an octave.
“Father Michael,” you whispered, the words a sin and a caress.
He groaned, a deep, ragged sound, and began to move again, his thrusts gaining a new, possessive force.
“It turns you on, doesn’t it?” he panted, his breath hot on your ear. “Even just to say it. The title. The power. I should have seen you from a mile away. The first day you walked in, with those quiet eyes… I should have known you’d be trouble. The deepest kind of trouble.”
His words, acknowledging the very dynamic that was fueling your fire, sent a fresh, scalding wave of lust through you. You were wet for him, for your priest, in a way that felt like its own damnation.
“You’re just like me,” he thrusted again, exhaling, “So shy but so dirty.”
Suddenly, he caught both your wrists in one of his large hands. He pulled them up, above your head, and pinned them there to the mattress. The surrender was absolute.
You were completely at his mercy, held down by his weight and his grip. He looked down at you, pinned and helpless beneath him, and the look in his eyes was fiercely possessive.
“Keep them there,” he ordered, his voice guttural. He used his new leverage to drive into you harder, deeper. The pace was still controlled, but it was relentless now. Each thrust was getting you closer.
You were pinned, filled by your confessor, and utterly helpless.
He looked down at where your bodies joined, watching himself disappear into you, then back up at your face, your wrists trapped in his hand. “Mine,” he growled. “You’re mine, Sister. My good girl. Got you all to myself.”
The combination of his words, his dominance, and the perfect, grinding angle pushed you over another edge. This climax was sharper, more intense, a crashing wave that made you sob his name—his title, his name, a tangled litany—as your body clenched around his.
It was better than every single bleary orgasm you’d given yourself in the past. You understood wholeheartedly now why this was so sought after by other non practicing women, and why their lives were led around this act. It was a shattering that your own fingers had only ever mimicked in lonely imitation.
He groaned, his rhythm faltering as he rode out the pulses of your orgasm, his own release clearly nearing.
When it subsided, he released your wrists, his hand coming down to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. He was breathing hard, sweat beading on his temples and upper lip.
His hair was a glorious mess. The neat gel had completely surrendered. A short, dense, wiry Afro crowned his head, the tight, dark coils springing free with a life of their own. It made him look younger, wilder, utterly undone.
You reached up, sinking your fingers into it. The texture was incredible—dense, soft yet wiry, the coils wrapping around your fingers. He groaned at the touch, a sound of pure pleasure, and pressed his head into your hand.
“Your hair,” you breathed, twisting a curl around your finger.
He gave a shaky, breathless laugh. “It’s a mess,” But he nuzzled into your palm, even as he began to move inside you again, his thrusts regaining their deep, purposeful rhythm.
After a few more strokes, he pulled out, his body glistening. “On your side,” he rasped, his voice raw. He helped you turn, his movements gentle again. He curled behind you, pulling your top leg up toward your chest. He entered you again from this new angle, his arm hooking under your knee to hold it open.
It was deep, incredibly intimate, his chest against your back, his mouth on your shoulder. He fucked you like this for a while, slow and deep, his free hand roaming over your breast, your stomach, down to where your bodies joined, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, firm circles.
“You can come again,” he murmured into your skin. To get to your ear, he yanked away your long hair and by the way he pulled it tight, so much so that it hurt but gave you pleasure. He noticed then and grabbed more of it in his hand and pulled.
“I know you can. One more for me. Let me feel you.”
And you did; hard. The feeling came in more sudden shocking waves, your pussy pulsating like it hadn’t before. It was unbelievable, how sensitive your body was to his touch. He was still plowing into you, both hands on either sides of your hips now, pushing himself into you over and over again. All you could hear was a string of “Yes, yes yes.”
He was close. You could feel it in the tension in his body as he pressed into your back, and in the ragged, open-mouthed breaths against your shoulder. He pulled out once more.
“Get on all fours,” he said, the command leaving no room for hesitation.
You obeyed, your body moving pliantly, sore and used. He moved behind you. One hand gripped the swell of your hip, his fingers digging in. The other hand plunged into the hair at the crown of your head, fisting a thick, unyielding handful. He didn’t pull to hurt you, but to possess you, to control the arch of your back. He pushed into you from behind in one deep, powerful stroke that punched the air from your lungs.
He panted, setting a hard, driving pace that had the bed slamming against the wall in a steady, brutal rhythm. He used the grip in your hair to pull you back onto every thrust. His other hand slid around your hip, his fingers finding your oversensitive clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Gonna come,” he gritted out, the words strained. “Need to see your face when I do.”
He pulled out abruptly. “Get on the floor. Kneel.”
You got out of bed, turned all shaky, and then knelt on the ground before him. He stood there, his body a breathtaking vision of sweat-sheened muscle and stark, beautiful skin.
His trousers were around his thighs. His Afro was a wild and glorious sight, the curls damp with sweat.
He fisted himself in his hand, his strokes fast and tight, his eyes burning into yours with a desperate, final intensity.
“Look up at me, Sister,” he demanded, his voice a hoarse scrape.
You looked up at him from your knees. The power dynamic had never been clearer. You were on your knees before your priest. Before Michael.
He was standing over you, pleasuring himself, about to mark you. The thought was filthy, degrading, and it made a fresh, hot rush of desire pool in your spent core.
“This is what I will always see… when I close my eyes at the altar.” he said, the words a final undeniable benediction.
You stayed there. His fist moved faster. A low, guttural groan was torn from him, a sound of utter surrender and profound anguish.
He came.
It was a hot, pulsing rush that hit your chin, your lips, your cheeks. The first thick, pearlescent spurt landed directly on your parted lips. You flinched, the taste salty and bitter, but you held his gaze, refusing to look away.
He kept stroking himself through it, his release painting your face in hot, wet stripes, dripping onto your neck, your collarbones, your trembling breasts. He watched it happen, his eyes wide and horrified and ecstatic, his face a mask of ruined bliss.
When it was over, he stood there, his body slack, his breath coming in great, heaving gasps that shook his frame.
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, he sank to his knees on the floor, bringing himself to your level. He was trembling violently. He reached out, his hand coming under your chin. His thumb, gentle now, brushed through a streak of his come on your cheek, smearing it. He looked at you, at the vivid, degrading evidence of his loss of control painted across your face, at your eyes, wide and trusting and ruined, looking back at him from your knelt position.
All the fierce passion, the possessive heat, drained away, leaving a hollowed-out devastation that seemed to age him ten years in an instant. It all just looked like the aftermath of a personal catastrophe,
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully. His thumb stroked your chin once more, a tender, agonized gesture.
“Oh, Sister,” he whispered, his voice broken and terribly, terribly soft. “How am I ever going to forget this transgression?”
let me know if u liked it otherwise i fear i may never post again hahaha
You are Joel's younger neighbour, and fortunately for him, your bedroom window faced his across a narrow strip of lawn. Giving him an excellent view, front row and all, to your nightly routine.
Warnings
+18 – mdni; shameless smut, voyeurism, masturbation, oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v sex, breeding kink, sleazy!Joel, undefined age gap, daddy kink
a/n
tysm for all the likes, reblog & follows from Pour Decisions, this is something entirely different. plot, what plot style, if you get my drift. anyway, I hope y'all enjoy this one as much as Joel does his front row seat!
word count – ~2k
as seen on – archiveofourown
Like fucking clockwork.
Every night somewhere between midnight and three you ventured into your bedroom. Lights turned on, no fucking curtain and blissfully unaware of him watching. Sitting in the dark of his own bedroom, in a chair facing the window enjoying his front row seat to your nightly routine.
First, went your pants — short’s tonight, the Texas summer was hot. You left them on the floor right where they slipped off your legs.
He was rock hard in an instant. Because he knew that pair of panties. Black, simple, with a lace trim. He’d sat here a couple nights ago with them wrapped around his cock. Stroking himself until he’d cum all over them.
It was nasty work, and wrong on so many fucking levels and he knew that but at the same time, he couldn’t fucking care less. Messing with your AC unit was easy enough, and the way you asked him every time if he could take a look. “Damn thing isn’t working again,” while twirling your hair around your finger. Who’d deny you when you asked so sweetly?
Neighbourly duties, ’s all. And who wouldn’t help you? Clocked pipes, loose porch step, the busted AC unit or helping you carry your groceries inside. Any reason he got to get into your house, to spend time with you. He’d pocket a pair from your hamper. Keep them for a bit. Like a trophy. Nose pressed into the gusset while he jerked off to you every night. Once he’d cum all over them he’d find an excuse to get back into your house. To return them. Slipped back into the laundry hamper. Always expecting you to find out this time around. But so far he’d gotten away with it.
“Fuck,” he grunt, fist working his length steadily. Across the yard, you’d disappeared into the bathroom, to wash your face and brush your teeth and hair. By now you’d stripped down to just the black lace trimmed panties and a matching black crop-top he just knew you didn’t wear a bra under.
But he would need to wait until you lost the top too, once you stepped out of the bathroom, to know for sure.
God the amount of times he had fantasised about watching you get ready from up close. Laying in your bed and waiting for you to crawl into bed beside him—-
His hand moved faster, twisting on the upwards motion when you walked back into your bedroom. His cock twitched when you reached for the hem of the top that rested barely a hand width below your glorious tits.
Yeah. Just like he thought. You’d been bare under. Fucking tease.
His breathing grew laboured, a string of quiet moans slipping past his lips. “Fuck babygirl,” he watched how you got the body lotion from your nightstand like you did every night. What a sight you were. Right there on display for him. Massaging the lotion into your arms, your shoulders, your chest. And you don’t even turn away from the window, no doubt convinced that since his home was the one facing your bedroom across a narrow strip of grass, no one could see you. Except here he sat, like every night, fingers around his cock, watching how your hands moved down, down, down until your fingers dipped past the waistband of your lace trimmed panties to ease them along your thighs and lower after that until they too dropped to the ground before your bed.
Because of course, you slept naked.
His balls drew tight, the sight of your body on display like that for him enough to sent him over the edge with a quiet moan. His hot release coating his fingers instead of your smooth skin. Fuck the thought of painting your skin with his cum or better yet flood your womb was enough to make his cock twitch again.
Oh what he wouldn’t give for making you his. For making sure no one else ever got to see you like this.
Joel could still make out your shape, barely covered by a thin sheet when he settled into bed too. Turned towards the window. Always turned towards the window now.
“Night babygirl.” He breathed into the darkness, already having decided he’d need to pay you and your laundry hamper another visit.
──────────
He couldn’t hear you. Which was a true fucking shame. God what wouldn’t he give for hearing the quiet breathy moans slipping past your lips, or be the cause for them—- but alas. Joel could do nothing else but watch. Mesmerised, his cock in his hand, fist pumping steadily, while you wound yourself on bed and through the sheets.
You must be ovulating. He counted three so far and there was no saying what he missed before coming up here to shower… who was to say how often you’d cum before that?
At first he’d only watched. Legs falling open, fingers moving, teasing your own breast and the way you’d bowed off the mattress when you’d cum. Back arched, mouth open before laying in bed, catching your breath. But then you’d pulled a vibrator from the nightstand, and he’d gotten his cock out.
Working himself while you’d quickly cum again. A responsive one, weren’t you?
“God babygirl,” he groaned, his fist moving harder, faster. He’d wanted to draw it out, to time it and cum with you, but his balls draw impossibly tight when you shift onto your belly, hips rolling steadily against the toy. With a grunt he spilled his cum over his fingers for you, like he so often had since you moved in.
And you’re still going. Hips rolling, bucking against the toy.
It’s an impromptu decision, and not at all thought through. Fingers wiped, pants pulled up again, he’s at your front door not even three minutes later.
“Just a moment, ‘m coming,” your voice run through the house, breathy and needy and god why the fuck did his spent cock twitch? He wasn’t some fucking teenager anymore.
“Sure you are,” he huffed when it took another minute before he could hear you coming downstairs. Wearing one of your crop tops and shorts you’d no doubt thrown on quickly and with nothing under.
“Joel, hi,” you greeted him, opening the door hair mused, voice still a little breathy and if he looked closer — which was what he always did, he could see that you were on unsteady feet.
“Hey,” he greeted you and fuck he could swear he smelled it on you. The faint traces of sex and an orgasm, or two or three. He’d bet your thighs were still slick. “Finally got time to look at the shower,” you’d complained about a lack of pressure a while ago. “Unless’s a bad time?”
“N-no,” your cheeks flushed while you stepped aside. “Not at all, come in.”
“Won’t be long babygirl,” he offered, voice low as he stepped past.
The shower was upstairs. In your ensuite, leading him right through your bedroom and yeah. The room smelled fucking glorious. Giving him an idea of what he would find if he buried his head between your thighs.
“Sorry ‘bout the mess,” you apologised, “Just–just got up.”
“’s fine.” Unmade bed, yesterday’s clothes — the red panties you’d worn yesterday, still on the ground in front of it. Joel had half a mind of waiting for you to turn around and pocket them. But his attention was drawn to the toy that just laid out in the open, on top of the sheets, for him to see. A rose shaped thing, red and obvious. Like you had wanted him to see.
His brain short-circuited, and without another thought he’d abandoned his way into the bathroom and stepped towards the bed. Reaching for the damn thing. So that’s what had you arching and withering in bed.
When it should be him.
“Joel?” your head popped around the corner, eyes widening when you spot him examine the toy. “What are you… –-fuck, forgot to put it away, I—”
“Got somethin’ better,” he remarked.
“What?” You tried to snatch it from him, mortified, but he pulled his hand away.
“Said, got somethin’ better.”
You scoffed, for a moment your fingers itched to harshly connect with his fingers but then, then… You were still horny. Unable to take the edge off. Too so because he’d interrupted you. “Fine,” your arms crossed, “Prove it!”
The grin that settled onto his lips when he placed the toy onto the nightstand, you could tell that he’d been waiting for an opportunity like that.
Before you could even comprehend, he was on you. Hands on your waist, lips crashing against yours and in an instant you melt, fingers finding his hair, lips parting to his tongue, pupils dilated and panting when you part.
“Gonna take real good care of you now babygirl.”
──────────
He’d dreamed of this, of his face buried between your thighs, your fingers in his hair and a composition of moans filling the room. “You taste divine, babygirl,” he moaned, one of your thighs hooked over his shoulder and all you can do was whimper when his tongue sunk back into you again. Before dragging up all the way to your clit to circle around it just to drag down again.
You’d cum once already, he’d rubbed you over your shorts. The lack of panties pressing the seam just right against your clit that you’d been moaning and bucking into his touch while his tongue had laved attention to your nipples. Crying out his name before he’d fully undressed you.
When he’d finally pulled your shorts down your legs the cotton had been soaked. “See how much better Daddy’s touch is over the toy?” Under any other circumstances and if this wouldn’t be Joel, you’d be instantly turned off. But instead you’d clenched around nothing, desperate for his touch.
He made you see stars again, with his lips around your clit and two of his fingers inside of you. Fingertips dragging again and again over that sweet, sweet spot even after you’d clamped down hard around them.
“Think y’re ready f’me,” his voice was rough, had turned to gravel.
“Mhm,” you nodded eagerly, his fingers still lazy moving inside of you.
“S’you agree now,” he chuckled. “‘m better than that thing?”
“Jury’s still—-” the out disappeared into a moan when he bit your nipple.
“Gon’ get you hooked on this fat cock,” he promised, shedding his clothes and fuck, he was thick, veiny and leaking pre-cum. You’d always assumed, from how he’d carried himself, that he definitely a big dick but there was a huge difference between assuming and actually seeing it with your own eyes. “Gonna want nothin’ else but me ’n my cock.” A promise, you know he’d keep when he sunk into you in one hard thrust.
The stretch, despite your previous orgasms bordering on painful for a moment before pleasure follows it hot on its heels.
“’s like you’re made for me,” he moaned into the crook of your neck. “Fuck,” he groaned, beginning to move. “Squeezin’ me like the good girl you are.”
You can’t even form a coherent thought let alone form a reply. Reduced to a string of moans and Daddy’s that fell from your lips while your approached your third orgasm and he was chasing his. You fall apart before he does, overstimulated and with a cry. But Joel’s right there behind you, spilling deep inside of you with a grunt before you could tell him he needed to pull out.
He didn’t immediately pull out after either, drawing you into his arms.
“Fine,” you sighed, once you were sure you’d manage a conversation. Your walls still clenching around him “You win.”
“I win?”
“You win. Your got something better.”
A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. “Told ya,” he teased, lazily kissing you. “Gonna remind ya every time ya forget.”
“Of course you will,” you chuckled, “Does that mean you gonna continue to pocket my panties or, is that over now?”
synopsis: going to the beach won’t stop you and your needy boyfriend from having some summer fun.. warnings: 18+ mdni, size difference, pwp, clit/nipple play, semi public sex, ‘good girl’, unprotected sex (don’t), nsfw, soft dom!jjk (no rough sex/ daddy kink!)
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‘Be quiet baby or someone is going to hear us’ Jungkook murmurs as you whimper his name when you fully sink down on his cock. Although you highly doubt if the small tent will hide all your noises you bite your lip trying to mute your moans.
Jungkook’s hands find your hips as you begin to ride him, whimpering as it hurts since you’re not fully used to his size yet. ‘Are you okay love?’ He murmurs as he notices you struggling to fully take his length, he pressed soft kisses along your jaw while rubbing soothing circles on your back.
‘Mhm I can take it’ you manage to say as you take a deep breath lifting your hips and sinking back down slowly making your eyes roll back in pleasure, causing Jungkook to loudly groan as he lays back letting you ride him.
‘Ah kook.. you’re so big..’ you whimper as you find yourself bouncing up and down his girthy cock. ‘Mhm you can take it, just be a good girl and bounce up and down for me can you do that?’ He murmurs as his lips find your right nipple, his tongue lapping circles around your areola as he fully takes the peak of your breast into his mouth. Biting it softly and then soothing it with his wet tongue causing you to sigh in pleasure. His other hand finds your left tit, he lightly squeezes it as he rolls the hard peak between his fingers. Giving both your tits attention he switches to sucking your left boob, also lightly biting it causing you too whimper his name uncontrollably.
‘Kook.. I’m close-‘ you whimper as the double stimulation is making you go insane, you feel a familiar coil in your stomach as he keeps on hitting your g-spot with each of his deep thrusts. your body running out of energy. Jungkook immediately notices as he rolls you onto your back, he hovers on top of you as he sucks hickeys on your neck, leaving a mark to make sure you remember him the next day.
He now thrusts into you from a deeper angle causing you too moan loudly. He slowly sucks a hickey right under your pulse point causing you too cry out in pleasure, the teasing being too much. He quickly stuffs two fingers into your mouth muffling your sounds, wanting to avoid getting heard by other visitors on the beach. ‘Mhm be a good girl and suck on my fingers’ he groans as you eagerly suck on his pointer and middle finger. Your orgasm building up as you clench around his hard cock.
He then soothingly presses wet sloppy kisses over his hickeys knowing they sting from the soft biting. You dig your nails in his back leaving red marks as you are on the verge of cumming.
‘Are you close baby’ he asks noticing how you continuously clench your gummy walls around his cock, your only answer being a weak whimper. He releases his fingers from your mouth capturing your lips in a deep kiss as he speeds up his pace, also chasing his own release.
He starts circling your puffy and neglected bundle of nerves in quick circles as your orgasm crashes over you like a truck, your vision turning black for a second as he burries his face in your neck painting your walls white with his hot seed. You squirt on his cock, your mixture of arousal and his cum leaking onto your towel as you breathe heavily.
‘Mhm good girl take all my cum’ he groans as he falls limp onto your body pressing soft kisses all over your face. ‘You did so good baby, squirting all over my cock’ he praises as he pulls his cock out of your leaking hole with a small plop, causing you to pout as your hole is left empty. He rolls onto his back pulling you on top of him, making sure to not touch your oversensitive clit or pussy. ‘Thank you baby’ he coos as you relax against his toned chest tracing his tattoos with your finger.
‘Mhm love you koo’ you whisper as you press a soft kiss to the mole under his lips.
‘I love you more pretty’ he murmurs as you close your eyes and melt into his touch.
He is yours, forever.
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.𖥔 ݁ ˖ authors note: tysm for reading! Hope yall enjoyed don’t forget to leave a like and reblog <3
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ! important note: please do not copy or spam interact my posts. I appreciate your support but it will sadly shadow ban me and I will have to block u :(
Older!Simon finally taking your virginity
Smut 18+, 2.3k words, squirting, a lot of filth
Previous Part
Simon knew you'd bring it up again, soon, with an impatience he couldn't even complain about because he wanted the same exact thing. He had woken up under you the morning after, the smell that still stuck to his face making him hard on the spot. It was only a question of time until he gave in and if he actually felt bad, he would have stopped it a long time ago. The latter realisation wasn't one of guilt, unlike he thought it'd be, but of determination. It gave him ground to continue and he'd make sure you loved it, loved him, too deep to pull out.
He sends you a text on a Saturday noon. Sleep over today? You react with a pink heart, grab your essentials before running down the street to his pretty house. It feels different than usual when he lets you in and takes your bag from your hands. A lot more romantic than usually, a lot more intentional with your favourite flowers on the table, a nice lunch on the stove and the sqeaky clean living room.
"Oh you cleaned up really nice, Mister Riley! Wow..."
Not that he was dirty, usually. But it just felt fancy.
"Yeah, thought it'd be nicer. 'nything to drink, doll? Tea, coffee, soda."
"I can just get it myself."
You're basically living with him at this point.
"Alright, settle where you want."
You watch him from the kitchen table as he brews some coffee for himself. As always his thick arms move in a mesmerizing manner, the sleeve on his left arm absolutely gorgeous. It'd be a lie if you said you don't want it wrapped around your neck as he finally fucked you properly. Quickly biting your lip to at least try and not ruin your panties, you look away.
"How's the day been 'til now?"
He sits down, opposite from you, his broad frame taking up much more space than you did.
"...slept quite well. Had some breakfast and just scrolled on my phone. Nothing special."
"Yeah? Y'dream anything?"
You shake your head. It was not the right time to bring up the wet dream you had of him taking you apart on his tongue.
"Really?"
Sometimes it feels like he saw right through you, like your body was telling him things without you knowing. Ears hot, you quickly nod.
"Come, sit on my lap."
You jump up like you've been waiting for him to say that all day, settling on his thik thighs, your skirt hiking up a bit as you do. His brown eyes follow your movement, his arm coming around you, resting on your thigh.
"Good girl."
There was a heat coming from between your legs. Not just your own cunt drooling, begging for attention like you hadn't been rubbing your clit all morning trying to relieve some of the tension but failing miserably. No, there was something under you, something pressing into your ass. Curiously you raise your gaze, but Simon just ignores it, sipping on his drink as his hand gently squeezed at your leg.
Minutes pass and you rest your face into the crook of his neck, reveling in his body heat, eyes closed.
"'ve been thinking 'bout your wishes recently, love. I did promise, didn't I?"
His words send an anticipating tingle down your spine. There was no second-guessing what he meant.
"So...you wanna do this?"
"R-right now?"
"If you want to, love."
That was a surprise. You thought he'd put up more of a fight after last time.
"Yes, please."
It's a meek whine that held all the restless nights.
Mister Riley's tongue was rubbing against yours, both arms tightly wound around your soft body as he made out with you until everything felt sticky and warm and you're shivering for air. Even then, he just moves down to your neck, biting into the sensitive skin.
"Ngh-...o-ouch..."
God you were adorable and there was nothing between him and your body.
"You ever play with yourself, doll?"
One hand wanders down, cupping your clad panties, two fingers pressing into the wet spot.
"S-somtimes."
"What do you do?"
"P-put a finger in. And rub my clit."
"And no one's ever been down there?"
Might as well make you even more flustered.
"O-only you."
What a honest, pretty thing.
His lips finds yours again, easily guiding you to open your lips so he could tongue-fuck your mouth until your brain leaked out and your heartbeat raced. You moan into him, little hands desperately clawing into his shirt.
Your face is hot when he pulls away, eyes dazed as you collpase into him. there was blood rushing everyhwere, his touch alone making you want to rub against his leg until you made a creamy mess all over his jeans.
"Feelin' worked up, doll? Your cunt's burning a hole 'nto my pants."
You whine pathetically, emphasizing it with a desperate grind into him.
"Lemme help you undress."
He unbuttons your shirt for you, slides it off and neatly puts it to the side. Some kind of shyness washes over you, now that it's finally happening. A turmoil in your tummy and you suddenly feel so naked. A Hand snakes to your back, unclasping your bra and your soft chest bounces out of their restraints. Perfect squishy and soft, sensitive skin he could play with.
His hands cup your boobs, gently pushing them apart to let them bounce back, your nipples hard and pebbled, perfect against his calloused palms.
"Fuckin' hell, you're gorgeous."
The whimper you let out when he flicks your nipple is music to his ears.
Pressing his face into your chest, he takes a whiff to your utter embrarassment, his tongue starting to trace along every edge and curve.
"W-what are you doing, M-mister Riley?"
Sqeaky, a bit ashamed. Little girl doesn't even know what foreplay is.
"Just appreciating your pretty tits, love. Feel bad?"
"N-no."
There was just something about the way you looked like you could cry any moment whenever he did didrty things with you that turned him on immensely. The way he knew he could make you cry and still you'd always crawl back because you needed his loving.
"Alright then."
He dives back in, now sucking on a nipple, makig obscenely loud sounds as he detaches with a pop, letting his saliva dry all over you. You bite your lip, let the nervousness in your stomach mix with the nice, warm feeling of having him close to you.
When he pulls away there are soon-to-be bruises on your chest, little red splotches and a few bite marks. Mr. Riley looks very happy, staring at you and that was good enough for you.
"Skirt off, sweetheart."
You shuffle down, pulling it from your legs and push it far away. Fishnets and panties the only thing seperating him from your needy cunt.
He leans over, rips a small hole into your crotch, suffocating any remarks you could have thrown at him by slobbering into your underwear, mouth connecting to your drooling mound. Your legs open wider, your clit throbbing, strained into a little bump under the cotton.
The sensation is muted, not as intense as when he had you sitting on his face. You can only keep grinding, hoping he'd quickly take off your panties, too.
"M-mister R-riley."
An impatient whine earns you a soft smack to your pussy and you flinch.
"You need to be ready, silly girl. Otherwise I'd split you in half."
You gulp, relaxing again. He wasn't wrong, but you needed more.
When he finally rips your panties in half and slurps at your bare hole, it's like heaven. Hot tongue against your clit, both hands holding you by your hips. All his teasing had you drenched, your cunt dribbling copious amounts of slick from your hole. Sweet, sweet slick he lapped up and swallowed. Your first orgasm builds slowly, washing over you when he prods a finger into your tightness and it's far too much. It hurts but you finally feel full, his middlefinger reaching deeper than you ever managed.
"God, you're tight. We're gonna be here a long time, love."
He wasn't joking when he said that. Your virgin cunt somehow refused to take more than two of his thick fingers, burning far too much despite all preparation. Of course Mr. Riley was prepared, though, now working in a smaller dildo in and out of your pussy, your ass raised in the air so he'd have an easier time fucking the silicone into you, squirting some cold lube directly into you every now and then to make sure it was slippery enough.
Slow, dreadfilled minutes stretch, the dildos getting thicker as he worked you open with them, your legs trembling every now and then when you felt too full. You don't process any thoughts anymore, taking everything he gave you with low moans, your clit swollen and hot, earning a few soft strokes when you managed to work up a size.
Four fingers finally managed to slip into your walls, a little gape whenever he pulled out to admire your stretched out cunt. You were so good, let him ruin your body just so he could fuck you. His perfect girl, working so hard just to take a cock so much older than her.
"You did so well, love."
A sweet kiss to your cheek and you mumble something incoherent as answer. Whatever, he was going to fuck your brains out anyways.
He was so, so thick. His fingers were nothing against his monsterous cock now attempting to slip into you, tip already nudged in an inch or two. You feel your legs quivering, trying to adjust to something so massive inside you, laying flat on yoru stomach with no option to move. His weight was pressing his cock into you, all 240-something pounds put into making you cunt open up.
Simon knows he'll be obsessed with fucking you in prone the moment you look so helpless, smaller body trapped under his with no way to run away. And you want it so badly, arms comign back, trying to get him to go faster.
"Y'feel perfect, love. You're perfect."
A low groan in your ear that pulled a droopy smile onto your lips. All the sweet praise he gave you for taking the burning stretch like a champ made it bearable.
"Here we go."
The rest goes in with one smooth motion. Your eyes widen, the throaty groan you wanted to let out dying in your throat. You could feel him in up to your chest, nudging into all the right places, kissing your cervix.
A few minutes of slowly rocking your body until you adjusted is all you got until he couldn't hold back anymore. Every thrust had him pull out most of his hard length, slamming back down so his tip would scrape into the underside of your clit, bumping into the entrance of your womb. Your nails were digging itno the mattress, every stroke pleasureably intense and addictive, your whole body trembling.
With your clit pushed into the rough material, which was soaked through by your juices, he easily makes you cum again, the drag of his cock pushing you so wide it felt strange, unnatural.
He feels you clamping down, switches to slower thrusts to gently fuck you through it. The moment you relax again, cunt slackening, he pulls you up until you were back against his chest, now bouncing you in his lap. All the times you had sit on his thighs, this was what you dreamt off; fucked open on his cock, two fingers on your clit, tapping it gently as if he wanted to coax another orgasm out of you immediately.
You don't do anything, don't need to, as he lets your bodyweight fall onto his girth, going deep. His other hand snakes around your stomach, suddenly pressing down onto your abdomen. You whimper out some cut up moans, eyes rolling back aggressively and you start squirting on the spot. Hot, gushing liquid splashes into the sheets, your clit convulsing in little trembles, cunt walls fluttering. You let out a scream, your legs slowly losing feeling in a way that you didn't want him to stop.
His own orgasm follows quickly, a long, hot spurt of cream seed shooting into your walls. Finally, you have him inside you, finally he came inside you.
He was you dressed in nothing but one of his shirts when he carries you back to the kitchen after you were less dizzy, feeds you some food and water, kissing you sweetly before bending you over the kitchen counter, looking at his cum dripping out of your cunt. The tight thing was looser, unable to hold his spend without it flowing out. Might as well eat your cunt as dessert.
So with your feet barely reaching the ground, he digs in, scooping out the mix of you and him with two fingers to empty you out for another round. You whine and complain weakly, but when he threatens you stop you become all pliant again, a second slap to your swollen folds enough to keep you obedient.
Your back against the couch, legs folded up against your chest in mating press, he sinks his cock back in. It disappears into you like you were made for him, taking every last inch, so sensitive that it's easy to make you squirt around his cock, again. Only now he can see your face, the tears in the corners of your eyes, the way they roll back and your pretty mouth falls open to let out the adorable noises.
His second load is buried deep, your hips raised with a pillow so it couldn't drip out. He wants to put you into more positions, make sure that you'd remeber every ridge of his cock but our lashes start to flutter and you look so tired. He'll wake you in an hour and have more fun. Right now he'll change the sheets and put you on the bed so you both could ruin it again later.
❝Sunghoon love being a first-time dad! You just didn’t know yet that it was because he could fuck you like it was the first time.❞
WARNING⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ mdni, nsfw, pwp, sunghoon!husband, papais de primeira viagem, he is such a green flag, he is so in love here, oral!fem, overstimulation, dumbification, dirty talk, no penetration, lactation (yup, that's it), praising kink. 4K
The afternoon solstice settled softly over the backyard garden, bathing everything in a warm, lazy golden light. The rose bushes you and Sunghoon had planted together bloomed in vibrant shades of pink and red. The air was thick with the good smell of damp earth, flowers, and that sweet, milky baby scent that had become part of the house and your daily routine.
Your husband sat carelessly on the grass with his legs crossed, little Jiwoo nestled in his lap. At almost one year old, she was pure chubby joy, with round cheeks and dark eyes identical to her doting father’s. He held her tiny hands, gently swinging them while making high-pitched, silly voices, all to catch the little girl’s attention.
— Look at the birdie over there, princess… “Tweet tweet!” — he imitated the bird, exaggerating the sound without even realizing it. Jiwoo gurgled loudly, kicking her little legs excitedly, as if she were truly talking back to her dad. — That’s right! You already know more than daddy, huh? Your mom keeps saying you’re a genius, and I think she’s completely right.
From the wooden swing under the pergola, you watched the two of them with your heart squeezed tight from so much love. The exhaustion had piled up — interrupted nights, constant feedings, worries that never ended — but it all seemed irrelevant when you saw scenes like this. Sunghoon was everything you had ever dreamed of in a husband one day: present, patient, and absurdly in love with his daughter.
— Hoon… you’re going to spoil her too much! — you commented, unable to hold back the huge smile, feeling your chest warm at the sight.
He lifted his gaze, giving you that crooked, charming smile that still stirred your heart even after all this time.
— Spoiling? Me? Never. — he answered, shaking his head and pretending innocence. — I’m just teaching her how incredible her mom is. — He kissed the top of Jiwoo’s fragrant little head, sighing deeply in delight at the moment. — Right, little love? Tell mommy she’s the most beautiful, strongest, and most perfect woman in the world.
The little Jiwoo let out an excited “ba-ba-ba”, stretching her arms toward you as if asking to be held. Sunghoon laughed softly, that deep, warm sound that always seemed to warm the entire house.
— See? — His eyes blinked innocently in your direction, his posture screaming pure conviction. — Even she agrees.
He stood carefully, settling his daughter against his broad chest, and walked over to you. Then he knelt in front of you without saying a word, resting his warm chin on your knee while his dark irises searched yours with that deep attention that always disarmed you so easily.
— Hey… how are you really doing today, my love? — he asked quietly, studying you with a hint of concern in his eyes. — I know it’s heavy. Being a first-time mom, breastfeeding, sleeping so little… I see it, love. — You felt your chest suddenly warm at the admission, unable to hold back a lovesick smile. — And I’m right here, okay?
— It’s okay, Hoon. — you reassured him, though he still didn’t look away from your face. When he didn’t get a convincing answer about anything involving you or your daughter, Sunghoon never stayed still. — Really, babe.
You ran your fingers through his hair, feeling the soft, cool strands. You weren’t caught off guard by your husband’s worried question, he was like that by nature. Sunghoon always made a point of checking on your well-being and little Jiwoo’s as well.
— It’s been real — you admitted with a melancholic sigh. — Sometimes I feel like I can barely breathe, but when I see you two like this… everything is worth it. Because I love you, Hoon, and you’re the best father she could ever have.
He turned his face toward you and kissed the palm of your hand lingeringly, eyes closed as if saying a prayer.
— And you’re the best mother, the best wife I could ever have. — He smiled, making those pointed little canines even more adorable. — And my best friend, too. Sometimes I look at you and wonder how I managed this, you know? A family… with you.
Ah, Sunghoon…
And that was how the rest of the afternoon passed slowly, made of small precious moments that stayed locked in your mind. After lunch, your husband bathed Jiwoo alone after a lot of insistence on his part, filling the bathroom with steam and laughter. He sang softly an old song the two of you loved while your daughter splashed in the warm water, clapping her little hands and letting out happy little shrieks at the mess.
— Easy, princess, the shampoo can’t go in your eyes, okay? Daddy’s learning along with you. — he murmured, focused, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he did all the work.
And it didn’t stop there. Later, while you tried to organize the messy kitchen after preparing the little one’s snack, he appeared behind you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist. He didn’t seem to notice, but the simple fact that it blocked part of your vision and stopped you from continuing your chores awoke the worst that lust could cause in a thirsty woman. Well… like you.
— Leave that to me, my love. — he murmured against your ear, softer than ever. — Today you don’t lift a finger.
— But Hoon… — you protested, almost purring from the circumstances. Your belly wouldn’t stop bubbling with not-so-small, restless expectation. — I can do this!
— No buts. And your postpartum, huh? — he interrupted seriously, kissing your neck right on the spot that always made you shiver, leaving you soft against his weight, sighing at the caress. — I know you’re not breastfeeding the baby directly anymore, but you still take care of her bottles. — He reminded you effortlessly, lighting up a part of your awareness. It hadn’t been easy replacing the little one’s habit with a bottle. — I’ll take care of our dinner, and then of you. In the meantime, sit down, drink some tea and tell me about your day, okay? I want to hear everything, even the boring parts you always hide.
— You’ve always known that, haven’t you? — you smiled weakly, a little embarrassed by the discovery, curling even more into the delicious hold he had you in against the counter.
— But i can pretend i don’t. — You felt him smile too, leaving one last wet little kiss on the curve of your neck, sighing with regret before slowly pulling away, almost breathless. — So… — He turned you gently by the waist, his large fingers wrapping around your skin with unrestrained desire, pulling you close enough to press his soft mouth to yours without restraint. — For the first time… in your life — He kissed your little mouth unhurriedly between affectionate pecks, interrupting himself as he proved to himself that he wasn’t satisfied with just that. — Obey your poor husband?
And all you could do was melt more and more into his arms, letting yourself be carried away by the brunette’s sweet talk. You smiled, keeping both hands down in surrender, leaving two last little kisses on his lips, which smiled again at the act. So beautiful, so yours.
— Okay, but just this once. — You convinced yourself, barely finishing the sentence when you felt him hug you again, wrapping your entire body against his with extreme ease. Because, fuck, there was no point using a euphemism there — Sunghoon was huge, and that had always messed with your dirty little mind. You didn’t deny or hide it, and even without knowing, the man had a certain awareness of it. He liked it and, with all the innocence in the world, did all of this on purpose.
And Sunghoon made that clear. Maybe in the way his chin rested on top of your head while your face stayed buried in his firm chest, or in the way his naturally pointed nails discreetly grazed under the cut your dress offered on your back, accompanied by the not-at-all-secret pressure he gave with his hips toward you. A light, discreet advance that he restrained while biting his own lip. All of it sounded millimeter-precise, but it wasn’t your mind taken over by absurd desire for your husband that distinguished that.
Without giving you a chance to protest, he pulled away after saying something you didn’t even understand. You even tried to say something, but quickly gave up when you felt him touch your cheek affectionately, his bold gaze sliding from your mouth down to the light cleavage your little dress offered.
— Sit. — he requested, and you blinked in confusion, and without thinking much you just looked down his masculine body, opening your little mouth with great effort when you noticed the bulge in his pants that always seemed to be there. With one eyebrow raised, Sunghoon smiled amusedly when he noticed the blush on your face, satisfied. Perfect, it only proved that you wanted him as much as he wanted you. — In the chair, love. Stay sitting there while I cook.
And as incredible as it seemed, there were no more games. He simply prepared dinner with the calm and dedication he had been showing all day. Fluffy rice, sautéed vegetables with a perfect purée, and grilled chicken with the seasoning you loved so much. And while he cooked, he talked to Jiwoo in her high chair as if they were best friends, in addition to casually asking you about everything in your day, interested in every little detail.
— Oh, is that so? — he cooed to the little one while calmly adjusting her bib. — Mommy gave you two baths today? What an exaggerator, huh? But she does everything with so much love… — he said, looking at you with a conspiratorial smile, giving you a little wink. It shouldn’t affect you so much, right? But it still did.
You didn’t know if it was Sunghoon’s self-control or the way fatherhood had changed him, but any minimal action or touch from him set you on fire, and it didn’t seem reciprocal. A need so great that it didn’t let you look at your own husband for too long, or otherwise you’d end your nights like any other lately — sleeping frustrated and needy.
Or maybe you just weren’t playing it right.
After dinner, Jiwoo’s bedtime ritual was long and affectionate as always. Complete with a story, lullaby, night light, and baby monitor. When the door to the little room finally closed, the silence of the house felt more intimate, almost sacred between you.
Already in the living room, Sunghoon pulled you to the sofa with the same delicacy with which he always held Jiwoo, and that made you tremble. He sat first and guided you until your head rested in his lap, and the hair tied in a dense bun spread over his firm thigh the moment he undid it himself. His long, warm fingers began massaging your scalp in slow, circular movements, undoing the tension that had been building there for weeks. Then, with enviable precision, they moved down to your shoulders and pressed the knots you didn’t even know existed.
— I… love. — he started a little uncertainly after a while. — I miss us. — he confessed quietly, so close that there were no more restrictions on what your body did or didn’t feel from the weight of every word spoken against your skin, beyond the silly suspicions. — Not that I don’t love every second with Jiwoo. I do. God, how I love her. But… I miss touching you, making you mine. — His deep voice trembled for a second, almost restrained, matching the urgency that seemed to adorn your core with every second his voice reverberated through the closed space. — Hearing you moan my name. Making you feel like a desired and loved woman again, not just a mother.
Cornered, you turned your face against his stomach, feeling the heat of his skin and the naturally refreshing, subtly strong scent. “Hoon…” you murmured weakly, your poor belly contracting what felt like the thousandth time trying to remind you how much you wanted him, how much you desired him. You felt your little pussy pulse, contract, throb, and yet your head couldn’t stop, self-sabotaging with a repulsion that didn’t even make sense. “I’m… different.”
But Sunghoon didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just slid his hands down your arms until he intertwined his fingers with yours, squeezing hard enough for you to feel how present he was. Then he pulled you up effortlessly, placing you in the center of his lap the way he always loved, using his own body as a temple in what felt like a test for your new insecurity. His husband’s warm palms landed aggressively on the flesh of your ass, forcing the soft meat down without much ceremony and drawing a startled, high-pitched grunt from you.
In the same path, he forced your wet center against his own hard cock, closing his eyes at the desired friction. “Fuck.” He moaned low, leaving you with little choice but to start moving with difficulty, almost shyly, in an obvious attempt at contact, sinking into a bubble of pleasure that only seemed to grow the more you held back.
— See? You’re perfect. — he said firmly, as much or more than when he said “yes” at the altar. — And every change in your body makes me more in love, love. What are you so afraid of, hm?
You sobbed softly, scattered after so long without those different caresses. With a clouded mind, all you could do was nestle more into the brunette’s lap, hiding your face in the curve of his warm neck. “Of you not liking me, Hoonie.” That’s what you murmured, so sweet and fragile that it seemed to hit the weakest point inside Sunghoon. You squeezed him tighter when you felt he was about to answer you, letting out a soft complaint when the act made you press your full, sore breasts, feeling a warm liquid trickle weakly in the process.
— S-Sorry. — was all you managed to say, quietly, receiving an affectionate caress in response along with the most tender “it’s okay, love, your Hoon understands” in the world. — I don’t know what’s happening to me… this. — You referred to yourself, your little eyes almost pleading to find his, even though deep down you knew none of it was your fault. — Hoon…
— Shh. — He silenced your plea with a chaste kiss at the corner of your mouth, not pulling away from you even once, as if he knew that would calm you. — This? What are you talking about, love? — He lifted your chin, urging you to give an answer. But you couldn’t, at least not when Sunghoon pulled you far enough to take your sensitive little breasts fully in his hands, growling in pure lust. — Babe… these are the breasts that feed our daughter. And lately they’ve been giving me a horniness I don’t even know how to explain without embarrassing myself, just from how much I think about them, about what I could do and… fuck. — He laughed to himself, enchanted by being able to touch you there, circling his thumbs over the little nipples marked against the slightly tight, already damp fabric from the accumulated milk, causing you a new kind of pleasure. — You have no idea how much I think about touching you, tasting you, reminding you that you’re still the woman who makes me lose any composure.
— Me too, love. — you said coyly, detaching from him just enough to see him better, the strange feeling of shyness growing with every second of silence. — I want you… a lot.
— You do, huh? — Undeniably, that seemed to excite him. That’s why you nodded slowly in response, biting your lip with so much expectation that it didn’t go unnoticed by your husband, who wasn’t any different. — Then let me show you how much I want it too. — He carefully measured your expression, using the lowest tone he could manage in a silly attempt to persuade you even more. — May I?
You agreed vehemently, desperately, almost drawing another laugh from the older man. You were in such an uncompromising state that you weren’t processing information clearly — not that you actually needed to.
He helped you sit, then stand, and led you down the hallway with his warm hand open on the low curve of your back, while his free thumb created perfect circles around your sensitive areola, as if guiding you and at the same time calming you for what was coming. In the bedroom, he closed the door carefully, the soft click echoing in the silence of the quiet room that only projected both of your anxious breathing.
Sunghoon stopped in front of you and looked at you for a long time, his dark eyes traveling over your face, your neck, the path of your heavy breasts and soft belly, as if he were recording every detail again.
And when he finally touched you, it was only with the tips of his index fingers on your shoulder, sliding the strap of the dress down with almost deliberate slowness, kissing every piece of revealed skin with his warm mouth, repeating the process with the other strap, letting the fabric slide down your body until it fell to the floor with a dull sound. He knelt in front of you without hurry, knee by knee, his large hands rising up your thighs until they held the curve of your belly, and kissed the warm skin there, his tongue coming out to trace one of the barely visible stretch marks with the tip, slowly, feeling the different texture. Soon after he repeated with others, the warm air of his breath making your skin prickle while he murmured something nonsensical but full of excitement.
— Hoonie… — you called him without much patience, your little face scrunched in delicious want, not knowing where to put your hands. The view Sunghoon had from below was perfect, and there couldn’t be a better combination than your bare breasts and sulky expression in one look. That’s why he ran his hands up your abdomen, bringing them to your breasts and down again, all while rubbing his entire face along the way. — D-Don’t tease!
— You’re still the same woman I’ve loved for years, love. We fuck, we have sex, we make love… and nothing has ever changed. — He deflected, closing his eyes for a brief moment when he discovered the exact path between your legs, completely soaked and fragrant. He smiled at that, something that caused you a blush that wasn’t only external. — It’s just that now there are these lines here… beautiful. And I fucking love them, and the reason they’re here. — He admitted, stealing all the air you seemed to be holding, feeling your entire skin burn. — And that makes you even hotter. Fuck, and how…
He rose slowly, kissing the path up to the base of your breasts, his large hands already squeezing the heavy flesh from underneath with a firm, possessive pressure. When his fingers gently pinched your left nipple, a thick stream of milk immediately escaped and ran down the lower curve, making you gasp. Sunghoon let out a low, rough sound, almost pouty, and stretched out his warm tongue to lick, using it to clean the bittersweet liquid before sucking the little nipple hard enough to draw more, swallowing and returning, alternating between the two while you arched your back and buried your fingers in his soft hair, beyond any control you might have had, one of your moans escaping louder than planned.
— Hoon… — you protested softly, even knowing it wouldn’t help.
— Let me. — His voice came muffled against the spit-slick breast, the voice fucking velvety and urgent while he kept sucking, the pressure increasing and decreasing in a rhythm that made the liquid come out more easily. — I want it. Fuck, i’ve wanted this so much.
With a frustrated growl, he stopped for a moment, worried about your posture. Trembling, he practically dragged you toward the bed, laying you down on it with infinite care and adjusting the pillow under your head, positioning himself between your legs. Hungry, he kissed the insides of your thighs with surprising patience, rising centimeter by centimeter and perfectly feeling the tremor that was already starting to spread across your skin.
When his mouth finally found your wet center, it was with a affectionate purr that he took your abused little pussy with the tip of his contracted muscle, savoring again the strong taste he loved so much, moaning against the wet flesh while his fingers opened you more. His technique consisted of using his nose on your little button while spreading your lips so his tongue could enter and exit, before rising to your clit and sucking with constant pressure. He liked to alternate between rhythmic suctions and circular licks, always watching your reaction with his eyes lifted from time to time.
— You taste so good… — he murmured right there, without detaching, the vibration of his voice making you involuntarily arch your back. Sunghoon cursed softly at the effect caused, dragging his own hard cock across the mattress, seeking a little relief, refusing to take one of his hands off you. — I could spend the whole night here just eating you, life.
With your core boiling, a sharp moan escaped your little mouth when, noticing your restlessness, Sunghoon dove even deeper into your soaked pussy. Without caring about the mess, the brunette spat on the abused entrance, using two fingers to tease the pulsing little hole while his stubborn tongue kept sucking the bundle of nerves.
— You’re going to cum, aren’t you? — he provoked as he released your clit with a little pop, not waiting for an answer as he pushed his fingers between the rim, circling carefully but not truly inserting them. — Tsk, you’ve gone so long without putting anything in here… i think you can take a little more, pretty.
You whimpered at the act but didn’t complain. Your little body was already starting to give the first signs of the strong orgasm well before, and when it hit, it was violent. Your entire body arched in waves that he followed with his tongue without stopping, prolonging every tremor until he left you breathless and too soft to support your own weight, even lying down. Only then did he climb up, kissing the entire path to your mouth and sharing your own taste in a messy, hungry kiss, completely uncontrolled and needy, his tongue going deep into your little mouth while his hard, hot cock pressed against the entrance, completely slick.
— I love you — he said, looking into your eyes as he aligned himself toward the tight little channel, undoing his own sweatpants. His low voice was firm, unlike his entire body tense from the enormous restraint. Too pouty, Sunghoon began rubbing his entire cock against your little heat, every centimeter, moaning roughly as he felt the warmth completely envelop him. — So warm… fuck, i missed this.
— Babe, i don’t know if i can… — you babbled with difficulty, the entrance tightening against nothing as his cock threatened to enter the small hole. Your lust was great, but the sensitivity forming there seemed even greater now.
— Do you want me to stop? — Sunghoon immediately paused everything he was doing, worried, drawing a frustrated little complaint from you. Every part of him pulsed with lust, but even so he remained alert — something that both irritated and filled you with love at the same time. — Does it hurt? Love…
— No! — you almost shouted, far too needy. — D-Don’t stop, keep going! — You got all tangled up with the words, your hips shaking to maintain the filthy friction between the needy sexes that were a hair away from becoming one. It was so filthy that you felt like cumming just from the idea of the view, let alone the sensation. — Just don’t put it in…
Like a lightbulb, an idea seemed to light up in Sunghoon’s mind, who with his left hand pumped his hard cock with extreme disregard in a tight fist. “Then Hoonie can fuck you another way, what do you think? Want to?” he asked with a pouty little mouth, moaning so slutty that it was impossible not to moan along.
Satisfied, he showed his little fangs, pulling you by the hips without much calm this time. “Turn for me?” He asked sweetly, his spit-slick cock poking your thigh every time a kiss was planted on your skin. And so you did, turning onto your stomach comfortably, not even noticing when Sunghoon aligned a pillow under your hips. “Now stick that delicious ass up. Uh-huh, just like that… fuck, what a turn-on, love.”
In your little head, you didn’t care even a little about being used by your husband for relief. Especially when it was about the big cock well stuffed between your squeezed thighs, which almost perfectly simulated the tightness of your little cunt around him. The sensation of rubbing his own cock there, for Sunghoon, was so good that it seemed to satisfy the urge to bury himself inside you and fuck you like a maniac, and it got even better when the head “escaped” toward your wet little middle, almost invading your pussy.
The movements started slow and deep, his hips rolling in lazy circles that made you feel every vein, every centimeter, and every pulse. One of his hands was intertwined tightly with yours, while the other caressed your ass, spanking the skin and giving a few little taps whenever he heard you moan a little too loudly. Each of his “thrusts” was rough, and so good that it was impossible not to moan like the little slut you were, hiding your scrunched face in the sheets and moaning uncontrollably there. And you had missed it so much that it was hard to hide how uncontrolled you became when you got just a little bit of cock.
— How did you manage to get even hotter, huh? — He braced himself better on the mattress, trying to get as close as possible to your reach. The spit from your pussy ran easily, mixing perfectly with the cum and pre-cum that dribbled from the large head, forming the perfect mess between you. — Ah… this way it’s hard not to put a few more babies in you, goddamn it.
You dug your nails into his broad back, pulling him closer, feeling the sweat start to form between your bodies, every puff of air coming out in short, simultaneous moans. You tilted, arched, and contracted your own entrance with relish, aiming to get what you so wanted from your little husband.
— Harder, Hoon… — you asked in a thin thread of voice, your body yielding to the stimulations you could barely handle properly. — I want t-to feel you cum!
And he obeyed. The thrusts became firmer, the rhythm growing naturally, guided by your moans and the way your legs closed more tightly when he rubbed against the sensitive little button, the room filling with the filthy sound that only seemed to grow. Sunghoon buried his face in your neck, muffling any pouty sound caused by the sensitivity he himself hadn’t expected, while his deliciously large weight seemed to envelop you in an immense bubble of pleasure.
When the pleasure invaded you again, it was more intense, deeper, your entire body contracting around him. Sunghoon followed you, cumming hard with a long, more pouty moan than he predicted, his large body trembling over yours. His hands squeezed yours tightly, while his contracted hips moved slowly, all while he finished spilling there.
The warmth left between your thighs and part of the entrance was the trigger for your internal fire, completely collapsing after feeling the exhaustion you so desired.
— You know, babe… — he let out after pulling out of your middle and cleaning the little mess he made, lying partially over you, completely disheveled and breathless. — I think… now we’re even.
— Yeah? — you asked quietly after smiling, almost completely taken by sleep. — Why?
— Because you gave me milk, and i gave you milk too. — He laughed, and laughed even more when you slapped him, making a pout while trying to contain the sudden crisis. — Ah, but that’s not fair, you wasted the one from my source. And what if there’s none left to make another baby?
— Sunghoon, lie down and sleep for the love of God?
— Okay, but next time, make sure you drink mine too. What if the source dries up, huh? — He winked at you, and you rolled your eyes at the exact same moment, breaking into laughter. — My dulce de leche isn’t infinite, babe.
summary: thinking about clingy, possessive and cuteness aggression enthusiast reader who can’t keep her hands—or rather teeth— to herself when Seungcheol is preparing for his cxm activities.
wc: ~4.5k
pairing: idol!seungcheol x nonidol!reader (afab) [ w/ special appearance, bff mingyu ]
tw/tags: mostly pwp, established relationship, biting, marking, manhandling (he loves it), aggressive loving, oral (m.rec), jealousy, piv, choking, breath play (if u squint really hard), pet names, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, veryyy brief dry humping
< A/N: hello! this is a quick drabble i wrote out in between some WIPs i have yet to finish up. I couldn’t get this picture out of my head of domestic cheol and his clingy reader gf whose love language is presented through biting and marking him up… sighs dreamily… anyways, I hope you enjoy it and please be sure to leave a comment, reblog and/or ask! I’m eager to hear any and all feedback as it encourages me to continue my writing journey :]
At any given chance, you’re instantly sinking your teeth into his biceps, playfully tightening your grip around his throat, or simply pressing a rough kiss to his lips in passing.
There isn't a single time he doesn't accept it willingly. He knows you love him to a level he himself struggles to understand at times. The biting throws him for a loop every once in a while, sending his mind scrambling for a reason besides cannibalism.
But he finds it endearing all the same, enjoying it, even.
He loves it even more when you start doing it more often in public. He’s able to see the hunger in your eyes from a mile away and it sends a chill down his spine each and every time he catches you.
He’s posing with nonchalance for their concept photos when you first arrive, eyes darting over his form and caging your bottom lip between your teeth. He had acknowledged you with a curt smile and a nod of his head before continuing with the shoot, his own body wanting nothing more than to greet you fully in a warm embrace and kiss to your already swollen lips.
Though, as soon as the opportunity reveals itself, you’re beating him to it. You cross the set with a few quick strides in his direction before melting against him, ducking your head beneath his chin to press an innocent peck to his jaw.
He welcomes you with a tight squeeze around the hips and continues to rock you back and forth while you breathe in his scent.
“Missed you so much,” you admit with a pathetic whine. You weren't normally this needy, much less in public, but today felt different. It felt.. wrong, for once, waking up to an empty bed and a phone full of updates from his weverse, yet not a single message from him directly to you.
You knew he was busy. Hell, your relationship had been built off of his grueling schedule, back when he was promoting his second album with his group and you becoming a staff member of a sister company. He was beyond unavailable and yet you found it difficult to keep your eyes off of him. Unbeknownst to you, he was equally as desperate when it came to your attention. The few instances where your schedules would align left the both of you scrambling against the clock to further familiarize yourselves with one another, and eventually build a connection from a few fleeting glances and brief conversations.
Fast forward to now, things had only progressed in both of your careers, your lives busier than ever. You’ve been officially dating for three years and whilst primarily kept under wraps, your heart longed more and more for the opportunity to remind him of your devotion to him.
Much to your embarrassment, your loyalty presented itself with an unexplainable urge to swallow him whole and take every inch of his skin between your teeth without an ounce of shame.
Hence your current predicament; Seuncheol had his arms thrown lazily around your frame as you swayed, ever so blind to the scheming smile gracing your features. You leaned back, arching yourself against him as he questioned you with pinched brows.
To his surprise, you’d managed all the strength you had and utilized his obliviousness to your advantage, yanking him by the back of his neck and crashing your lips together with haste.
His hitched breath encourages you to move impossibly closer, your chests beating against one another with every jolt of your racing hearts.
The sheer intensity of the kiss is short lived when you detach from him with one last smack of your lips. Drunk on the high you’ve fed him, Seungcheol attempts to chase your lips, urging you to continue.
His silent pleas amuse you, enticing you to lean in towards his ear and whisper,
“Be good for me, Cheol. Go do your job and make me proud.”
You send him off with a playful nip to his cheek, your canines grazing the skin gently, cautious of the hours worth of effort his makeup artists have put in. His eyes follow your retreating form as you find your place behind the cameras.
He’s an hour and a half into taking naturally candid photos around the rented estate, and it’s driving you nuts.
The setting does little to ease your eagerness to claim him right then and there, offering a much more domestic and personal light to his preexisting bachelor aura.
He’s a fucking housewife, your mind offers you to no particular request. Your grip on your jacket’s strings falters when a deep, raspy voice presents itself near the cusp of your ear.
“Did he mention the next shoot to you?”
“Hm?” You respond, sparing Mingyu a passive glance before settling back on your deity of a man leaning over the terrace.
“We’re going swimming, if you wanted to join afterwards.”
“Why would I join?” You reply coolly.
“Well considering how much you’re drooling right now from him just standing there, I figured you’d want to indulge in having him in less layers for a few hours once we wrap up.” He grins.
Your skin burns from where he perches his chin on your shoulder, striking your body in flames as you try your best to shove your thoughts away. You can’t just indulge in your boyfriend’s near nudity just for a few hours. You know you don’t have that kind of self restraint when it comes to seeing him topless and unblemished.
“Mingyu, respectfully,” you turn to him slowly. “Get lost.”
His laugh reverberates against your arm as he tosses his top half against you, bracing himself as he catches his breath. Your sneer recoils into a smile as you catch Seungcheol’s curious glance from across the room.
His posture tenses while raking his eyes over you and mingyu, taking a moment to readjust before continuing his scene. The photographer calls for a break just a few moments later, satisfied with the outcome.
Your body is moving before you register it, slipping out of Mingyu’s reach with one last glare before you’re crashing into Seungcheol’s rigid chest.
“Baby,” he says softly, taking your arms and wrapping them around his waist before placing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. “Are you staying for the whole shoot?”
“Do you want me to?” You ask coyly, having preemptively cleared your own schedule in favor of following his.
“I always love having you here, you know that.” He smiles.
“Then I’ll stay.” You say and rise on your tip toes to plant a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Aren’t you two tired of being this clingy?” Mingyu invades your bubble in just a few seconds, separating your bodies with a sudden jut of his hip to yours.
You scowl at him as you’re rudely tossed to the side. His shit eating grin grazes his stupidly handsome features while returning your attention to him.
You two had always been at each other’s throats, both playfully and unwittingly at times. He was your best friend, nonetheless, but it sent Seungcheol’s mind reeling with how kittenish you became when he was around.
Something in his chest twinged with envy and had jealousy rearing its ugly head every once in a while when you two stood too close together, shared a meal during his turns to film or pose for photos, or even as you bantered and bickered in front of him.
He knew it was nothing. Knew you loved him too much to replace him so easily, nevertheless with his own friend and group mate.
“You’re just jealous, Gyu.” You huffed while snaking your arms around Seungcheol’s middle again.
“Me? Jealous?” He gasped, feigning an appalled expression while placing a hand to his chest.
“Yah,” Seungcheol growled. “Get lost before I call Heejoo and tell her you’re moping around on set.”
Mingyu’s eyes wander to the ground at that, rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck as he begins backing away solemnly. The mention of his current situation-ship seems to strike him a lot harder than you’d both expected, and you smirk at his crumbling confidence.
“You’re a dick for that.” He grumbles toward your boyfriend, unable to hide the sudden flush peeking out from under the collar of his shirt.
Seungcheol grunts at him once more, sending the younger man away with another dismissive threat before finally turning his attention to you.
“Will you help me put some sunscreen on before the next set?”
The following hour of camerawork concludes with a brief discussion about tomorrow’s expected schedule, all the more exhausting and seemingly endless as the last. You can see the fatigue draped over Seungcheol's features from where you stand, plummeting your heart into your stomach as you continue to watch him, mingyu and the team wearily deliberate future activities and propositions for upcoming promotions.
With a supportive clap to their backs, the team dissipates around them to end their workdays.
You take the remaining opportunity after the last staff member's departure to approach your boyfriend, your hands instinctually attached to his neck and puling him toward you. He moves pliantly, allowing his head to fall into the crook of your shoulder and neck as he exhales tiredly.
"Long day, bunny?" you remark quietly, raking your nails across the nape of his neck.
"Too long," he grumbles, ignoring the nickname you know normally grinds his gears any other day. You feel his muscles returning to their tense state as he removes himself from you begrudgingly.
"Can you stay the night?" The light in his eyes flicker with something akin to hope before clouding with uncertainty at the sound of your defeated sigh.
"I have a meeting early in the morning. Have to meet with the company to discuss some upcoming solo works." Your words fall on deaf ears as he's already groaning and pouting, choosing to disregard your excuse in favor of throwing a short-lived fit.
"I can have someone drive you early in the morning?" His offer hangs heavily in the space between you, an offer you really want to take him up on.
To your misfortune, calling out for today was enough of a reason for your company to dismiss you of your duties permanently should you choose to do it again.
The short notice had thrown your team for a whirlwind, a mini crisis plaguing the workplace and blowing up your phone for the entirety of your time spent watching Seungcheol. You were ashamed to admit it out loud, but you'd give anything to quit and replace your priorities with becoming a stay at home simp for your boyfriend. You'd give anything to watch him all day long, cling to him at every beck and call, and devote yourself to being the best version of yourself you could be for him.
Were you insane for thinking that far? yes.
Were you that serious about him? also yes.
You couldn't help the pained complaint that escaped your throat upon seeing his face fall. It shredded every single piece of you to know you couldn't stay, and even more so when he began to beg for you to.
"Please? at least for a few hours? 'Till I fall asleep?" His eyes drift between yours, searching for any bit of redemption, consideration, confirmation.
Removing your hands, you smooth over your features to look at your watch, noting the late hour and the dread pestering your mind. Your notifications peer back at your for a second, reminding you of the dedication you had to your work for the following morning.
It would only be a few hours, you consider.
A beat of silence passes by before you inevitably agree with a nod of your head. "Okay."
To say he's elated would be an understatement. He's over the moon at your response, immediately linking your fingers and dragging you inside the airbnb, shifting his direction towards the bedroom as you enter.
"I'll take a shower and then we can watch a movie!" He suggests after leading you to the bed where you sit patiently, smiling as he trips over his own two feet while dashing toward the bathroom.
God, you can't believe he's yours.
"Did you know you had a mole here?"
Seungcheol meets your eyes through the reflection of the mirror, watching you trail your nails down his spine as he finishes his skin routine at the bathroom sink. You've since changed into a spare set of his clothes, a simple t-shirt that drapes over your dips and curves and ends just past the apex of your thighs.
His gaze lingers for a moment longer than it normally does, mouth subconsciously watering at the sight of you.
"I don't think so." He chuckles softly while returning to his process of unfolding a face mask and spreading it across his features carefully.
"Your back is so..." your voice drawls with a pensive hum, considering your words intently before continuing. "boring."
"Huh?" He turns in your grasp, catching the faint smirk pulling at the corner of your lips.
"It's just missing something." You utter.
"Like what?" he murmurs, his lips pursed in effort to keep his mask from slipping.
Your grin spreads along your face, head cocking to the side as you maneuver your hands over the expanse of his bare chest, raising goosebumps in their wake.
"Could use a little more me on it."
You spot the shift in his demeanor, shoulders tensing slowly, eyes sharpening, and the veins in his neck straining as he swallows dryly. You don't give him a chance to act on his desire, gracefully pinning his wrists against the counter and slipping your tongue out to lap at the flushed skin of his neck.
His groan rumbles from between your pressed chests, audibly forfeiting all control as you continue to press open mouthed kisses to his throat. His hips buck desperately when he feels your teeth graze just past his jugular, sinking deeper into his flesh with every breath he gasps.
"Baby," he whimpers against your persistence. You pull back, relishing in the subtle chase of his lips toward yours, halting just out of his reach with an arched brow.
"Bunny?" you counter, urging him to proceed with what he needs to say.
"Can't." He whines, overwhelming mortified with displeasure for having to restrain himself.
"Can't what?" You probe innocently, inching closer once more, guiding him back to you by the draw strings of his shorts. He lulls forward without resistance, drawn to your lips with nothing except a mere inch between them.
"Can't be marked. Not now." He says petulantly, eyes downcast as he drops his head, dejected.
Your heart thuds against your rib cage at that, growing restless as fondness ebbs away at your brain, turning it into mush. He knows you so well, knows that you need to mark him up, leave your presence on his skin for everyone to see how taken he is.
Love smothers your senses, your head cloudy and full of him. Your everything. Your person.
You reach to curl your fingers through his blonde, wet strands, tugging with enough force to lift his head once more. He moans quietly at that, his own hands finding purchase on your hips as he stares at you through his dark lashes.
You smile and tap his bicep with your free hand. You notice his eyes trailing your features hungrily before placing a gentle kiss to his muscle, right below his shoulder.
"'S okay, Bunny." You coo.
His arm flexes under the warmth of your fanning breath, fidgeting at every peck of your lips you lead up his arm and toward his chest.
You freeze once you've reached his collar bone, slowing your breathing and blowing a long, heavy exhale that mists over his already clammy skin. You smirk triumphantly at his muted mewl, watching his chest rise and fall erratically.
"I won't mark your pretty skin just yet," you reassure calmly, your hand still twisted in his hair as you pull it experimentally once more, lavishing his skin in praises when he moans.
"Stay still for me, m'kay?"
You don't wait for his response before sinking your teeth near his clavicle with pressure, not enough to break skin but plenty to stimulate both him and you when he ruts against you.
"Gentle," He reminds you through brief, measured breaths.
"I know, I know." you chide and release your grip on his hair briefly to instead hold his throat between your hands.
His eyes peer down at you for a short moment before flashing you a playful grin. You mirror it with your own before squeezing lightly at his neck, reveling in the meek sound he coughs out.
"So pretty," you murmur lovingly. "All mine to play with however I want. Whenever I want."
To his dismay, his nod is restrained and dismissed by you when you apply just a bit more pressure, your gaze darkening as he wraps a hand around one of your wrists, wordlessly pleading for more. You oblige and wedge your knee between his thighs, now aware of how engrossed he truly was upon feeling his pulsing erection against your bare skin.
"Is this why you wanted me to stay so bad? So you could be manhandled by your pretty girlfriend? Hm?"
Your hands release him, dropping to your sides as he heaves a few labored breaths, his eyes never once leaving your retreating form as you saunter toward the bed, patting the space beside you once you're perched at the edge.
He carries himself on wobbly legs to where you sit, landing ungracefully onto the bed with a soft "oof" before reaching a hand out toward you. You link your hands together momentarily, allowing yourself to soak in the appearance of his current state; dazed, spent, and utterly beautiful with every inch of his skin painted a bright red by an angry flush.
"Roll onto your belly for me, Cheolie." you direct.
He does so without complaint, damningly compliant to your every command. You absentmindedly trace shapes into his spine, your lips curling into a smile each time he flinches against the brush of your nails.
He rests his head against his folded arms, unintentionally flexing his muscles at the broadness of his shoulder blades. You chuckle, quietly shifting your attention to the taut skin, lowering yourself to place lingering kisses.
A sigh creeps out of his deflating body, audibly enjoying your attention. You proceed to kiss your way up, pausing to nip at the fat of his arms playfully and releasing a giggle of your own when he claims he's ticklish with a laugh.
You bite back the quip on your tongue, choosing to focus more on his twitching hips by running your hand over the smooth skin of his arched lower back. He hums, satisfied, and groans when your begin to pull his shorts down his thighs, allowing them to fall aimlessly to the ground.
He jolts upright when your hand collides with a loud smack against his ass, immediately coiling into himself with a yelp.
"What, you can do it by I can't?" You joke when he replies with a harmless glare.
"I'm not letting you peg me, if that's what you're leading up to." He chastises with narrowed eyes.
You feign a look of betrayal, simultaneously guiding him onto his back once more as you move to straddle his hips.
"Tough, I really wanted to see your cute little ass all perked up for me." You can't hold back the devious giggle that threatens to escape you, fully leaning against his chest to stabilize yourself.
"You're insane." He huffs with an eye roll.
"Yeah, but it's kind of cute." Your smile lingers a moment longer as he presses his lips to your forehead, soft and everlasting.
It's then that you lift your head and laugh once more, your fingers reaching to remove his face mask he'd long forgotten.
"I was really trying to keep a straight face!" You giggled. He levels you with a bashful scowl, turning away from your gaze as you settle down with a quiet sigh.
In the blink of an eye, your playful character is gone, replaced by your previous deviant nature.
"You're gonna be the death of me." He murmurs against your skin when you begin grinding your clothed pussy onto his exposed cock.
"I better act quick then," You retort while reaching down and clutching onto your panties to pull them side, angling your sopping folds to trail over the head of his cock.
"Fuck, Bunny. You're so fucking perfect." You groan into the dip of his shoulder, pressing yourself harder against him. His grip on your waist returns, clambering against your ministrations.
"Just— just take me already." He grits out through a particularly sharp inhale. "And don't call me bunny— shit —while we're fucking, jesus."
"You got it, Bunny." Your voice cracks ever so slightly as you begin your descent down his length, abdomen flexing with every ragged breath you take as he breaches your entrance. The stretch is painful, tearing you apart no matter how many times you've taken it. Tears spring to your eyes, threatening to spill before you finally settle, flush to his groin with a shaky breath.
"Oh fucking hell," He moans deeply. He recovers with a sudden shift of his hips, stripping you of all power you previously obtained.
You lurch forward with a startled mewl, your face falling between the crevice of his jaw and throat. Your mouth latches on helplessly, teeth grazing the stubble of his chin and biting down impishly.
He returns the favor, pausing to rip your (his) shirt off and tossing it aside hurriedly, attaching his mouth to the mound of your breast, nibbling at the supple flesh and grinding up into you when you elicit a borderline pornographic moan.
"Please, Cheol, please." You moan against his ear, grinding against him feverishly. Your begging fuels him further, ripping every ounce of self restraint out of him, replaced with an insatiable appetite only you can satisfy.
"You're so beautiful, baby. I'm gonna let you mark me as soon as all of this is over. Soon, my love. So soon." His attempts to soothe your desires warm your insides, your knees near gelatinous as he rams into your pulsating heat without a second regard or worry.
You feel his pace quickening with every plunge, your own movements futile in contrast with his. Your back hits the mattress in a flash, your legs forcefully pinned to your sides as he impales you over and over.
Your moans melt into short, wispish screams when you feel his mouth latch onto your breasts again, leaving deep, bruising indents from his teeth.
The mere idea of him biting you, the same way you've done with every given opportunity in the past, has your legs clenching against his waist, your teeth clamping around your lips as you feel yourself release into the euphoria of your climax.
"More, Cheol, please more—I want—I need more." Your cries fill his chest with pleasure and vanity, thrusting him head-first into the deep end of your satisfaction. He comes with a choked out cry, muffling the sound into your chest as he curls inwards, pumping himself dry into your tightening core.
"Baby," his hand leaves your waist to settle on your sweaty cheek, caressing the crimson skin as he adores your spent features. "You did so good, my love. so good for me."
You groan softly in reply, motioning for him to lay beside you with a limp wrist. He chuckles softly and gently pries himself free of your tight cunt with a groan.
“One more round?” You mumble into the pillows, peeking an eye in his direction to catch the faint grin on his dewy face.
“Give me ten minutes.”
“Shit,” he hisses. “Slow down.”
Your tongue slips between the slit of his cock, catching every last drop of his seed from his second release.
If there’s anything you’ve learned about your boyfriend in the past three years of dating him, it’s that he’s prone to over sensitivity after his second high. While you can recover relatively quickly after an orgasm, his stamina is overmatched by the mere pain of reaching another climax so short apart.
It’s something you both teetered the line with, not knowing whether it was right or even possible to milk him for as many rounds as he could. But, much like the rest of your ideas and suggestions, he couldn’t say no to you.
So you pumped his cock even faster, watching his jaw slack and chin quiver with a cry as he came down from his third match.
“You’re doing great, bunny.” You encourage, slowing your pace down to run a stripe along the side of his length with your tongue.
His brows dip and another moan escapes him. “You’re— you’re killing me.”
“Mh,” you hum. With a final tug to his half hard cock, you trail your lips over the smooth surface of his inner thigh, relishing in his breathy exhales.
“You’re always so good for me.” You say.
The tip of your tongue traces the faint stretch marks of his upper thigh, nearing the edge of his hip where you still.
The pads of your fingers skim over the flesh before you’re leaning forward and clamping your mouth down full force, undoubtedly leaving a mark this time.
You hear his choked shriek of pleasure and pain, the sudden grip on your hair paired with it.
“Fuck! ‘M gonna come again.” His voice lilts, pitched higher than usual.
You continue to pepper kisses along his waistline before meeting his opposite thigh with another skin-breaking bite. Your moan pulsates against the irritated skin, soothing the burn and easing the mark against the fat of his thigh to an eventual bruise with the flat of your tongue.
“Can’t take anymore.” He cries desperately, loosening his fingers wrapped around your disheveled locks as he comes down from his final release.
You give in to his whining after another brief moment of caressing the enflamed skin. You carefully ascend up his hiccuping body, tiny pecks littering his bareness before you connect your mouth with his with the upmost tenderness you could possibly muster.
“I love you so much.” You speak quietly against his lips.
His eyes remain shut, fluttering in and out of consciousness as he nods his head in response.
“Love you too.” He murmurs.
Laying your head on his chest, your entire being laxes against him, fully satiated and enraptured in his presence. A hand creeps up your waist, squeezing your side carefully as his body deflates beneath you with a deep exhale.
You could never truly thank him enough for indulging in your antics. You’re aware your love languages are drastically different; yours being entirely unhinged and bordering aggressive, where as his is prevalent in his gentle mannerisms, gift giving and pure compliance when it comes to you.
Nevertheless, the love you both have for one another surpasses all expectations and continues to surprise you day after day, year after year.
Even if you have to hide your love bites from the public eye.
< A/N: fin! this took a lot less time to write than i anticipated, despite the fact that smut tends to discourage my creativity. but! after getting all of my thoughts out and returning to the storyline with fresh ideas and inspiration, i was able to pump out a pretty decent chunk of raunch to satisfy my expectations for my first time writing smut.
that being said, i hope this flows well and encourages you to leave a comment or repost! feedback and suggestions are always appreciated. :) thanks!!!
my mouth says no, but my neck says please ♡ (teacher deku x reader 18+)
warnings: 18+ explicit.. pwp..mainly smut (F/M) post timeskip izuku midoriya (pro hero/ teacher) x reader (F)
words: 11,221 (sigh)
tags: teacher/ student (but in a safe and ethical way.. you'll see) smut, pwp, safe sane and consensual, crying, teasing, light dom/sub, multiple orgasms, rough sex, overstimulation, begging, orgasm denial, edging, dacryphilia, degradation, no use of Y/N duhh, safewords, light bondage, spanking, post-canon, manhandling, penetrative sex, vaginal fingering, no protection what even is a condom bro, mean midoriya izuku, crying during sex, light BDSM, bratty reader lol, oh deku the brat tamer you are
summary: Rage baiting your *former* teacher (because we are ethical), Mr Midoriya, until he fucks you to near death. You completely overestimated yourself and unfortunately cannot match his freak.
notes: originally posted on ao3 here, as you can probably tell by my tagging methods, decided to share the love and crosspost cuz i'm so very gracious. title taken from tongue by ethel cain, there is a part 2 here
It’s that specific, hollow ache you get when you constantly hope to see someone. Every interaction, no matter how small, is a fresh wave of embarrassment and shame because you realize just how violently excitement blooms in you from the smallest acknowledgement.
You remember, distinctly, seeing him in the hallways at UA. You remember your dumb self wishing to catch just a glimpse of him walking in and out of classrooms. He was always so down to earth, completely unaware of just how much the next generation admired him.
And fuck, that just made him more attractive than anything.
Izuku Midoriya, the literal saviour of the world that you would never forget seeing on screen as a teenager, happens to also be a teacher at your school. He had just started that year and wasn’t even your teacher, he was assigned the first years while you were in your last.
During your time at UA you had only crossed paths with him once. He made a guest appearance in your class during hero history and oh how your cheeks burned when you saw him pull his sweater off in the middle of the lecture, his shirt underneath slightly caught between the bottom of it and for a brief moment lifting up both fabrics to expose the most perfect set of abs you've ever seen, straight out of a commercial.
The admiration from afar had ended one day. Every time that memory resurfaces your whole body heats up and thus, you never want to think of it. And the fact that it was such an innocent and brief interaction added to the embarrassing aspect of it all.
You were just training, routinely sparring with a classmate after lessons, when none other than Mr Midoriya walked past the training grounds. The moment you felt his gaze in your direction, all focus was lost. You felt nothing but that shameful burn coursing through your entire body. You were so incredibly riled up that you tackled your opponent in a fit of rage, forgetting about your quirk and exerting pure, brute force.
“Hey, no fair! I thought we were training our quirks, you can’t just…” your classmate rambled on, but you heard nothing, your senses focused entirely on Mr Midoriya, who was now in range.
He didn’t even say anything, just flashed a small smile at you as he passed on his way to the exit, but that split second of direct eye contact made you burn. You looked away immediately, fearing what your degenerate mind would do if you held that gaze for even a single second longer. You hoped to god that you weren't visibly blushing, despite feeling near drunk from the heat spreading in your cheeks.
You would replay that memory, spinning that sliver of an interaction to hell and back. Luckily, but also unluckily for you, he never taught your class again in your final year. Soon enough your cohort had graduated, meaning you wouldn’t have to face your stupid schoolgirl crush again.
At least that’s what you had thought back then. Even years after graduating, after making a name for yourself and achieving all those heroic aspirations you had as a little girl, you could never let go of that longing you had for that fuckass green-haired professor in your senior year.
The truth is, when you put all morals aside, you couldn’t live with yourself if you didn’t at least try with him. Even just once, anything would suffice to smother that flame that had been lit since high school.
And you had gotten that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity this evening. You and pretty much the rest of your class and the whole of hero society were gathered one night for some charity event, something about raising donations for quirk awareness.
Fuck if you actually cared, you were there with one goal and one goal only.
You moved through the whole event on autopilot, a practiced smile plastered on your face. Your brain was completely off as you went through all those firm handshakes, polite laughs and promises to 'catch up soon' with your former classmates who were now doing all kinds of hero work across the country. It was all on schedule and unfortunately a necessary part of the job you’d chosen. But your real mission wasn't on the schedule.
You spotted him near one of the open balconies, a quiet island of green hair in a sea of sequins and dark suits.
Izuku Midoriya. He was nursing a drink, looking unfairly handsome in a tailored dark suit that did little to hide the powerful physique beneath. He was slender in frame but the moment he shifted his weight, you could see it all— the hardness and muscle underneath. Your breath slightly hitched as you watched him adjust his tie, the motion pulling the fabric taut across his chest and forearms.
Throughout the night, your brain was a factory of dumb excuses. Every time you mustered the courage to move, a new obstacle appeared. He’s too busy, you’d think, watching him get pulled into a conversation with a stern-faced head of a major agency. He’s with them now, I can’t just interrupt. Then, a group of his former classmates would swarm him and you’d shrink back, turning to another conversation to distract yourself. He’s catching up with old friends, it would be rude. He was the number four hero after all, a living legend. Of course, he was a magnet for people, there was hardly a moment where he wasn't surrounded by a constant stream of admirers, colleagues and officials vying for his attention.
You watched him laugh at something an older hero said, his head thrown back, the line of his throat exposed making your heart skip a beat. You saw him patiently explain a technical point to a young sidekick, his hands moving with an earnest energy that was so uniquely him. Each observation was a fresh wave of longing.
After a few drinks for confidence and a flurry of praise from your various interactions throughout the night, you felt bold. You’d felt his glance in your direction a couple of times, quick, curious looks that you pretended not to notice, but each one sent a tingle through your stomach. You were practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect that your stupid teenage crush, the one who seemed so unbearably out of reach, might actually think you were desirable.
Surely it couldn't be that hard. You were a flirt when it came to all the other men and women in your life. This was just… more difficult. That embarrassing crush was such a liability.
Pull yourself together, you thought, a wave of annoyance washing over you. You were a pro hero in your own right, climbing up decently high on the ranks yourself. You were no longer that silly schoolgirl back at UA. You got this, you tried to soothe yourself as you finally caught a glimpse of him alone. Nows your chance. You downed the rest of your champagne in one go.
You walked over, heels clicking confidently on the marble floor. "Hey, Midoriya," you started, your voice smooth and casual.
He looked up and it took him a second to place you. His eyes, a startlingly vibrant green, scanned your face. A polite, professional smile immediately settled on his lips. "Oh, hey!"
You waved a dismissive hand, leaning slightly against the railing next to him, letting the cool night air brush your skin. "I saw your latest quarterly report, by the way. The takedown of that smuggling ring was impressive. The way you utilized your environment to contain the villain's quirk was textbook."
His eyes lit up, that dorky, earnest passion instantly surfacing. "Oh! You read that? Thanks! It was a tough one. His viscosity quirk was a nightmare to contain without causing structural damage. I was worried the whole building would come down. We ended up having to coordinate with the local fire department to dilute it."
"Absolutely," you purred, letting your gaze linger on his lips for a moment before meeting his eyes again. "Though I think you downplay your own analysis. Your quirk-factor breakdowns are still required reading. They're incredible."
A faint blush dusted his cheeks. "Ah, well, I just write what I think about. It's nothing special." He took a sip of his drink, his eyes darting away for a second.
"I disagree," you said, your voice dropping a little lower. "It's very special. So, rankings are out tomorrow, right? Any bets on where you'll land? I have twenty bucks on you cracking the top three."
He choked on his drink slightly, coughing into his hand. "T-top three? No way, that's— I'm just happy to be doing my part. Mirio's been having an amazing year and Nejire is always a contender. I think I'll probably stay around the same."
"How humble," you teased, stepping just a little closer.
You let your fingers 'accidentally' brush against his. He flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible jolt, but he didn't pull away. You held your fingers there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, a silent test, before slowly retracting them.
You saw his throat bob as he swallowed, his gaze fixed on the spot where your hand had been. You decided to push, just a little.
"You know," you began, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made him lean in ever so slightly to hear you over the distant music, "for all the talk about stats and strategies tonight, no one's mentioned how different you look out of uniform."
It was a compliment wrapped in a layer of plausible deniability, but the heat in your eyes made your meaning crystal clear.
He let out a breathy, awkward laugh, the sound breaking the tension as he immediately reverted to the gesture you knew so well: rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh, I don't really have a choice for these things. My agent picked out the suit."
"Well, your agent has excellent taste," you said, your voice dropping even further. You let your eyes drift appreciatively over the sharp lines of his fitted jacket, down the knot of his tie and back up to meet his gaze. "But it's not just the suit, Midoriya." You were eyeing him shamelessly now, letting him see exactly what you were thinking.
The tension was so thick you could taste it. He was flustered, the blush on his cheeks deepening to a lovely crimson, but he wasn't running. His body angled towards yours and you could see a flicker of something else in his eyes, a spark of interest.
He cleared his throat. "You can call me Izuku, by the way." He paused, his eyes searching yours.
"Izuku," you tested the name on your tongue, "I like that."
The two of you spent a decent amount of time talking after that, the initial tension melting into an easy, engaging rhythm. The ballroom, with its suffocating crowds, faded into the background. Feeling clammy from the heat wafting out the venue, from the crowds and all the sweating bodies pooled inside, you decided to get some air. You stepped out onto the back terrace. It was quieter here and, thank god, a much more comfortable temperature for the both of you.
Just as you were about to suggest going somewhere more private, a voice cut through your bubble. "Hey! I was looking everywhere for you. Just wanted to say bye before I go."
You turned to see a former classmate, who gave you a quick hug. Her eyes, sharp and analytical, darted between you and Izuku before a look of pleased surprise crossed her face. "Oh! Mr Midoriya! I didn't expect to see you over here," she said, her emphasis and a pointed look making it clear she knew exactly what she was interrupting.
It wasn't exactly a secret that you had this blithering crush on your teacher, especially among your friend group, who were split between either fawning over the pro hero with you or mercilessly teasing you for your silly infatuation.
You knew in that moment exactly what she was thinking, the heat and thrumming in your chest from earlier, before you had made your move, returned once again.
Izuku's polite smile was firmly back in place, though it looked a little strained. "It's good to see you. Congrats on going independent."
"Haha, thanks, teach," she said with a bright smile. "Best decision I ever made. And you?" She turned her gaze back to you, her tone turning teasing. "Still trying to get the scoop on all the top heroes? Some things never change."
You forced a laugh, trying to steer the conversation. "Just networking. You know how it is."
"Well, don't let me keep you," she said, completely missing the tense undercurrent. She gave Izuku a respectful nod. "It was great to see you, sir. Tell Mr Aizawa I said hi next time you're at UA." Then she looked at you, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Don't stay out too late."
With a final, friendly wave, she disappeared back into the crowd.
You tried to play it cool, forcing a nonchalant shrug and looking back out at the city lights. "Haha, yeah. It's been a while."
Izuku was no longer looking at the view. He was looking at you, his friendly expression completely gone. It was replaced by a sharp, calculating focus. He was replaying her words, putting them together with your familiarity, the mention of UA and the way you seemed to know him.
Realization dawned in his eyes. "You were my student.”
“Barely” you shot back, defensively “We had one class together and trust me, I would remember. It doesn't even count, honestly.”
“That’s not the point,” he shakes his head, features hardening in disapproval. “I was a teacher and you were my student, even if it was just for a single class. It just doesn’t feel right. I can’t do this—”
“Oh come on,” you roll your eyes dramatically, “Whatever. You were eye-fucking me all night from across the room, you thought I didn’t notice? You’re only acting like this now with all your morals and bullshit after you found out. You didn’t even recognize me before.”
Izuku opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He stares at you contemplating and all flustered, you close in on the space between the two of you. His whole body went rigid.
“I can’t do this to you” he repeated.
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You can't? Or you won't?" You leaned in even closer. "I'm not a student anymore, haven't been for years. And I'm standing here right now telling you I want you. Are you really going to say no to that?"
Izuku squeezes his eyes shut as if your presence is causing him great physical pain. “Shit—” he gasps, clamping a scarred hand over his mouth.
“Stop pretending like you don’t want this.” you breathe against the shell of his ear. “Where is that energy from earlier, huh?” you taunt, so close to him now your voice a low, mocking whisper. You’re so close now that you’re standing between his legs. “You actually thought you were being slick? I could literally feel your eyes all over me. Oh but don’t worry, I liked it.”
You laugh a little at the way his eyes widened at that last admission. You were so close now, you feel his heavy, constrained breaths against your cheek. That slight flush on his freckled face and hardly contained desire in his eyes egged you on.
His hand was trembling. You watched, fascinated, as a war played out across his face. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking furiously. For a thrilling second, his eyes flashed, raw power. He looked like he was about to lunge, to finally give in. His gaze dropped to your lips, and for a heartbeat, you thought he was going to kiss you, to devour you right there against the wall. But then he squeezed his eyes shut, took a shuddering breath and when he opened them again, the hero was back, albeit a fractured, desperate version.
"Please," he whispered, the word raw and broken. "You don’t know what you’re doing"
“Oh I do. You have no idea how badly I want you, wanted you all the time. You have no clue how much I actually wanted you, even back at UA.” you grew bolder now, arms wrapping around his neck. Your hips finally touch his and oh, you could feel the hardness pressing against your thigh now, just another thing to fuel your fire.
The friction was electric, and you felt him twitch against you, a thick, hard pulse that answered your question more clearly than words ever could. A strangled sound escaped his throat, half-groan, half-protest. His hands, which had been gripping the wall behind him, flew to your hips. For a moment, you thought he was going to pull you closer, but instead, his grip was firm, holding you still, stopping your motion. It was a losing battle and you both knew it.
“Maybe even back then, I would daydream about seeing you after classes, for whatever silly reason. Then you, in the most cliche, pornographic way, spreading me out on some desk in a random classroom and having your way with me.” You continued. His pupils were blown wide, black practically swallowing up the beautiful green rings of his iris.
“Maybe I knew you were going to be here tonight,” you smirk. “And maybe I plotted this entire interaction because I wanted to rile you up and because I wanted you that badly. And you can get off your moral high horse, because I know you reciprocate.” you pointedly grind your hips forward, right at the evidence of his arousal.
“In fact, I bet in reality...” you giggle, maybe flying too close to the sun now. “The fact that I was your student is turning you on, you’re just feeling too guilty about it because you want to be all righteous. In reality, you’re just as bad. Great old hero, saviour of the whole world Deku, really just wants to bend his student over and—”
"Enough," he ground out, strained, "You need to... you can't..."
You ignored his fractured plea, your voice saccharine "Or what, sir? What are you going to do to me?" The title was the final twist of the knife.
"Are you going to put me in detention? Are you going to teach me a lesson?" You pulled back just enough to look him dead in the eye.
That was it. The last thread of his composure snapped.
That somehow flipped a switch. There was always that switch in Izuku, the one that flipped between the regular, slightly awkward man and the hero Deku. That rare, terrifying version of him, full of deathly determination and raw power, only reserved for the most sinister of villains. That look caused a strange stir in your chest and for some reason and started bleeding into his expression just now.
“Seriously? Seriously?”
He’s glaring down at you, fury mixed with lust.
“Struck a nerve, huh?” You really never knew when to stop.
The next thing you knew, you were flipped around, back against the wall where you had previously, pridefully cornered Izuku. He slammed arms beside your head, completely caging you and leaned down, biting at the junction between your ear and bare neck.
His teeth work their way torturously down to your collarbone, leaving a trail of burgundy and faint violet as his knee pushes up between your legs. You gasp at the contact. His sudden assault on you left you completely breathless and unable to continue your thoughts, your body only being able to grind back against the knee lodged between your legs to relieve the burning desire in your chest.
“Do you even think about what you’re saying?” he hisses as he leaves a particularly harsh suck right below your pulse point that makes you throw your head back in a breathy moan. The motion left him a wider opening to attack your throat, leaving more wet, sharp bites against the open expanse of skin.
“You seriously came here like this just to provoke me?” he continues as his one hand now slips under your dress to slide down your waist, the other pinning your one wrist tight against the wall as you writhe against him. The multitude of sensations and your inability to escape them had you reeling.
Despite the brain fog his ministrations had caused, you muster out, “Are you gonna keep talking?” you glare up at him defiantly, though your voice has lost some of its previous confidence “or actually fuck me?”
For a brief, heart-stopping moment, you see him consider it. His eyes flicker from your lips to the darkened alley behind you. But then he snaps back into reality, straightening up, the raw hunger in his eyes blanked. You were still somewhat in public. Sure, no one was around, but it was still risky. He seemed to sober up immediately at the realization.
The goading had worked, but not in the way you'd expected. He didn't lose his cool, not completely. He looked like he wanted to ravage you, but somehow he had the restraint of a god. The anger and annoyance in him were palpable, and frankly, he looked terrifying to you with how he was holding back. You realized you had completely misjudged the situation, you wanted him to break but this terrifying control was something else entirely.
You stared at him, breathless.
"We’re done here."
Your heart sank.
"What? No, I—"
"We're leaving," he cut you off, his tone leaving no room for argument. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair, a gesture that seemed more analytical than stressed. "Too risky here. Sure there’s no one around but we’re in the back alley of one of the biggest hero events this year, someone will come out eventually." He was thinking out loud, assessing the situation like a mission plan. He looked back at you, his gaze sharp and decisive. "We're going to my place. Now."
The command was so simple, so direct, it sent a shiver down your spine. You could only manage a dumb nod. "Okay."
Before you could process the thought, he was grabbing your hand, his grip firm and unyielding. He pulls you from the alley, back through the throng of people, his long strides forcing you to practically run to keep up. He doesn't say another word. He leads you out of the ballroom, into the cool night air and to a sleek, black car parked at the curb. He opens the passenger door for you, a gesture that feels so jarringly polite after what just happened that you’re momentarily speechless.
You slide into the leather seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. The ride to his place is a special kind of torment. You’re practically in heat, your eyes glued to the way his suit jacket stretches across his broad shoulders, the way his forearms flex as he grips the steering wheel, the veins on his hands standing out. You’re eye-fucking him shamelessly, but he doesn't seem to notice or care, eyes focused on the road dutifully like the law-abiding hero he is.
He’s all normal again and it drives you crazy. He went from the verge of snapping to this in a flash. He is scarily silent, his eyes fixed on the road. You’re melting next to him. He usually rambles like crazy, you’ve seen enough interviews to know that. But him being deadly quiet the whole ride home sent chills down your spine.
For some insane reason, your dumb confidence reappeared the second you were in the comfort of his apartment.
You had all your past escapades completely wrapped around your fingers and you thought it would be no different this time. You loved letting the controlling side of you bleed into the bedroom.
The second he closes the door behind him, the click of the lock echoing like a starting pistol, you were all over him. You crashed your mouth against his, kissing hard, all teeth and tongue and impatience. Whatever happened back there in the alley was nothing, you were in control again. You ravaged him, pouring all the hunger for your former teacher that had been building up for years into this one moment. You were going to destroy him, you wanted to see him wither under you, gasping and panting and completely undone.
Somehow, you managed to both land on his couch, a tangle of limbs and desperate hands. You straddled him, all confident and cocky, certain you were about to get exactly what you wanted. He’s gasping for air when you finally disconnect from the bruising kisses, his lips swollen and red.
Oh, how beautifully disheveled he looked. His suit, an upscale version of the casual clothes he’d wear back at UA, was rumpled beyond repair. His green hair was a mess, a few strands plastered to his sweat-slicked forehead. You let your fantasies run wild. You had him right there, your teacherunderneath you.
"Look at you," you purred, grinding your hips down against that hard ridge, straining against his slacks. "Did you think this was how your night was going to go, Mr Midoriya?"
You didn't wait for an answer. You shifted, your hands moving to his belt, your movements sure and practiced. You peeled his slacks back, and finally, there it was. No more imagining. The sheer, thick weight of him in your palm made your own breath hitch. You stumbled off the couch, sinking between his knees on the floor. He attempted to pull the straps of your dress down, his hands clumsy with desire, but you batted his hand away.
"Ah-ah," you tsked, shaking your head. "Not yet."
You took him in one swift motion, taking him as deep as you could. You were diligent, your head bobbing, making a show of it, your tongue tracing the thick vein on the underside as you hollowed your cheeks.
See? you thought to yourself, a smug sense of satisfaction washing over you. None of that schoolgirl bullshit. I'm grown. You were trying to prove it to him, to yourself, that you could be here, on your knees, taking his dick down your throat and still be the one in complete control. You looked up at him through your lashes, expecting to see him lost, undone. But he wasn't.
His head was tilted back against the couch, his jaw tight, but his eyes… his eyes were open. They were fixed on you. There was no desperation in them, no mindless pleasure. He was watching you, studying you almost analytically. He was cataloging your every action and the smug confidence you felt just moments ago began to curdle into something else.
He brought a hand up, not to touch you, but to rest his scarred fingers against his own lips, as if in thought. The sight was more unnerving than any aggressive move he could have made.
Fuck this, you concentrated harder, hollowing your cheeks and giving him your best doe eyes, moaning around him. The reverberations caused him to gasp, a sharp, broken sound that was music to your ears. You did it again, a longer, deeper moan and felt his thigh muscles tense under your hands.
Ah ha. You're not so immune after all.
You continued, alternating between deep, punishing sucks and smooth, twisting motions of your hand. He faltered, his hips giving a small, involuntary thrust upwards. You were slowly fraying away at his composure, he was panting, his scarred chest rising and falling in ragged bursts.
"Ah— shit," he gasped, his voice strained. "The… the angle. When you do that… it's…"
His words trailed off into another sharp hiss of breath as you swirled your tongue just under the head. His hand left his lips, his fingers digging into the leather of the couch beside him.
"You're… surprisingly methodical about this," he panted out, words strained and his eyes struggling to stay focused on yours.
And then he spoke again, his voice a low, steady murmur that sent a chill down your spine. "Your technique is good," he said, his tone borderline conversational, as if he were critiquing a training exercise. "A little too much wrist action on the upstroke, but your gag reflex is impressive."
Your movements faltered. The heat in your belly turned to ice. You pulled back, your lips swollen, a string of saliva connecting you to him before you broke it. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
This has quite literally never happened to you before.
He just kept smiling that unnerving smile. "I'm just making observations," he continued, his green eyes glinting in the low light. "Now if you’re done messing around…"
He reached for the straps of your dress, his calloused fingers sliding them down your shoulders. The light brush of his hand against your bare skin made you visibly shudder, a betraying tremor that had nothing to do with cold.
Now you were pissed off. This wasn't how you had planned this.
"Hey! We're doing what I want," you snapped, the words sounding silly and petulant even to your own ears. You swatted his hand away as he worked on the other strap. You went to jump back on his lap to assert yourself, but this time, he wasn't letting you.
He caught you easily, his hands firm on your waist, stopping you mid-motion. You were strong, of course, as any hero would have to be. You didn't really think you could overpower number four, but the thought of trying had made you triumphant when you first pounced on him. But now… he was not holding back anymore.
"Hah," he let out a short, amused breath, unimpressed by your feeble attempts and you pathetically squirming against him. Then his expression went serious. In one fluid, terrifyingly easy motion, he flipped you over, throwing you onto your back on the couch and caging you beneath him.
You struggled against his grip now. You were seriously putting all your strength into it, your muscles straining, but you genuinely could not overpower him. His grip was unyielding. You could not even budge.
“Fuck”, you panted. That thought sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust through you. He was this strong even without a quirk. The sheer, raw physical power he was exerting without a hint of effort was intoxicating.
He seemed to sense the shift in your struggle, the way your frantic pushing turned into something else. He scooped you up as if you weighed nothing, lifting you from the couch. You flailed in his arms, not to escape, but to test his limits. He just held you, his expression thoroughly entertained by all this.
He carried you effortlessly towards the bedroom, tossing you onto his bed unceremoniously, like you were a stack of papers for him to grade. Fuck, fuck, fuck, your head was spinning wildly. You bounced on the mattress, a gasp torn from your throat as he was immediately over you, caging you. The switch happened again. All that playful, terrifying restraint was gone, replaced by a raw, consuming hunger.
He was biting you all over, eating you alive. You’re gasping, overwhelmed under him and he hasn't even touched you between your legs yet. He's just holding you down, his hands pinning your wrists to the mattress above your head as his mouth attacks every sensitive spot he can find. The crook of your neck, the hollow of your throat, the delicate skin just below your collarbone. He wasn't kissing you, he was marking you, leaving a trail of sharp, stinging bites that bloomed into purple bruises.
You’re so confused. You’d never been with anyone this meticulous, this borderline sadistic. He looked like he was practically getting high off of this, his pupils blown wide and his expression crazed as he watched you writhe and suffer, unable to escape his mouth.
He took his sweet, sweet time.
You’d had your fair share of hookups, most of them saw foreplay as a chore, something to be rushed through to get to the main event. Izuku looked like he could happily do this, just devouring you with his teeth, for the rest of the night.
And you were starting to get so restless.
"Please," you whimpered, trying to grind your hips up to meet his, to get some friction, anything. "Izuku, please."
He chuckled against your ear, a low, amused sound that vibrated through you. "Please what?" he mumbled, his teeth nipping at your earlobe.
"Touch me," you demanded, your voice strained. "Stop teasing."
"Teasing?" He lifted his head, a faux-innocent look on his face that was utterly infuriating.
"I'm not teasing. I’m testing you out. This spot, for example.” He leaned down and sucked a hard mark right over your pulse point, you cry out “Makes your whole body tense up."
"Fuck you!" you squirmed, pulling uselessly against his grip. "Just fuck me already!"
He laughed again, a real, genuine laugh this time and the sound made you want to scream.
"You're so demanding. You really thought you could just waltz in here and have your way with me?" He shifted his weight, pressing his knee firmly between your legs, right against your clothed, aching cunt. The pressure was a torturous relief.
He went back to his assault, his mouth moving lower, tracing the line of your ribs through the thin fabric of your dress. Every touch was a calculated torment. He was mapping your body, learning your responses and using them against you with a precision that was terrifying.
He toyed with the straps of your dress again, peeling the fabric down your shoulders. You learned not to protest anymore after your last attempt, so you let him, breathless and pliant beneath his gaze. He stared down at your exposed breasts, his gaze so intense it made you blush like a virgin.
He didn't look away, shamelessly staring down at you. You were exposed, vulnerable and he was doing whatever he wanted to you while still fully covered.
“Jeez, you perv,” you squealed, your hands flying up to cover yourself like a shy maiden. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Oh, you’re impossible,” he rolls his eyes “I’m the perv? After everything you were doing earlier?” He ripped your arms away from your chest.
His head practically crashed into you and you were met with the surprising softness of his curls on your bare chest. His mouth latched right onto your nipple, a hand coming up to tweak and roll the other between his calloused fingers.
You wailed, the pleasure so sharp. He went from light touches and teasing licks to harsh, sucking pulls, making dark, possessive marks all around your breasts.
“Fuck, fuck, please-” you babbled, your mind going blank.
He was toying with you. He'd squeeze the soft flesh of one breast hard enough to leave faint red marks while his teeth grazed the other, his tongue swirling and flicking until you were a mess. Every touch sent shivers right down your spine and you could feel yourself pulsing.
No one had ever touched you like this before.
He pulled back, staring down at you reverently, at the marks he'd left on your skin. "Look at you," he breathed.
Then he slapped them.
Holy shit. You were going to die. This was heaven. You died and this was heaven.
You tried again, your voice a wrecked whisper. "Are you gonna fuck me or not?"
“You already tried that one. It doesn’t work,” his breath tickled against a certain spot just below your ear and you shook all over from the sensation, causing him to tighten his grip on your waist, pushing you further into the mattress and delivering a punishing bite right over the same spot on your neck, his finger twisting a nipple, hard. You nearly screamed.
“You need to calm yourself,” he has the gall to laugh, he’s laughing at how desperate you are. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”
Out of all the ways you had imagined Izuku to act, all the dirty fantasies you had about your teacher, this was not even close. The pure, picture-of-innocence Deku portrayed all over hero media was so far from the truth. Even you knew he had an edge to him, but this was another level. He was getting off on your desperation, a sadistic glee in his eyes as he watched you fall apart.
You try grinding against him now, attempting to give him your best fuck-me eyes. "I need you, Izuku," you whine, your voice thin and reedy.
"Please." You try again, staring up at him through thick lashes with a pleading look you know would have sent any of your previous lovers into a frenzy.
He is entirely unfazed. He ignores your request completely and proceeds to lick your nipples, only lightly, the wet tip of his tongue tracing slow, agonizing circles. He would do so over and over, not stopping even when you thrashed like you were being electrocuted, only holding you down harder.
"Shhh, just be still for a second," he murmured, wet against your skin "Let me see."
"See what?" you gasped, your back arching off the bed as he switched to the other nipple, giving it the same maddeningly light treatment.
"How sensitive you are," he said, as if explaining a simple scientific principle.
He suddenly switched from the light, teasing licks to a harsh, sucking pull, his teeth grazing the peak. The sudden shift in sensation was a shock, a bolt of pure pleasure-pain that made you cry out. He alternated between the two extremes.
You couldn't think.
You tried to get him to touch you, to put his fingers where you actually wanted him, to finally put his dick in you. But he would smack every one of attempts away dismissively.
You couldn't believe it.
As much as you loved foreplay, being caressed and worshipped all over, this was far too much, too overwhelming. He seemed to enjoy the fact that you couldn't handle his light touches all over and the way your body betrayed you.
"Look at you," he said, his voice laced with a wonder as he watched you struggle. "So sensitive." He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "Cute."
You could cry.
You grind against his clear, hard length, trying a new tactic, trying to maybe rile him up. You had no idea how he was so patient, how he hadn't even shown signs of breaking yet while you were close to tears.
He shrinks away from your motion. "No, I don't think so," he mutters, his voice a low warning. "We're not done yet."
He continues to suck bruises now across your chest, placing a particularly harsh suck right against your nipple. You scream.
You start losing it genuinely, all pride and dignity out the window. You start begging, tearing up as he continues to overwhelm your senses.
"Please, Izuku. Plea- please ah- plea-"
He shuts you up with a hungry kiss, all bite, muffling your desperate attempt. "You don't even know what you are even asking for," he teases as he disconnects from your bruised, parted lips. "Can you not speak properly? What happened to that talk from earlier?"
How long had he been playing with you? An hour? Two? Time had dissolved completely. You could practically feel yourself pulsing between your legs, a desperate, empty ache. In a moment of pure instinct, you attempted to squeeze your legs together for some stimulation, but Izuku's knee came down hard, parting them mercilessly and not granting you the reprieve you so desperately needed.
"Please fuck me. Please. I want you in me so bad. So bad," you babbled, the words tumbling out of you. "I will do anything please. I will suck you off— I’ll let you do anything please just— ah—" you choked out, the desperation fogging up all your thoughts until you were incoherent, a mess of pleas and whimpers.
"Ahh, you should've said earlier," he mocks, a smirk twisting his lips. He finally, finally grinds down against you, the rough fabric of his trousers a glorious, agonizing friction. "See what being nice gets you?"
He nearly rips your panties, throwing them to the side, fingers immediately finding your swollen clit, rubbing torturous circles that were just barely enough.
"Hah— ah— fuck—" you could hardly believe how drenched you were. You could feel the way your own slick smeared and stuck to your inner thighs when he dragged your panties off you.
"Fuck, Izuku—"
"So much swearing," he chastises, his tone that of a disappointed teacher. "You know, you were so beautiful when you were asking nicely. Now you're ruining all that progress again."
"Shut— ah— Shut up," you moan, your eyes losing their focus as he continues toying with your clit. His fingers were just barely there, the light but intent rubs making you completely lose focus.
“Fuck— fuck— you,” you snarled, annoyed at how he was dragging this out, at how he was enjoying your unraveling.
"Such a dirty mouth for a pretty face," he tutted, and without warning, plunges a finger into you. You jolt, your back bowing off the bed as if you’ve been electrocuted. His finger sets a punishing pace, slamming into that spot inside you, hard and unrelenting.
“Don't care— stupid, don't care—” you argue, your words broken by the force of his thrusts.
"I guess I'm not doing enough if you have the energy to talk back," he muses. The pleasure was searing through you, that feeling building up all too quick, way too quickly than you were familiar or comfortable with. "You can keep acting all high and mighty, but I can feel you." He leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "You're so wet. Can you even feel anything?"
To emphasize his point, he slaps your cunt. The sound is so lewd, so wet, it echoes in the room. The sharp, stinging pleasure makes you gasp.
His finger suddenly slows down, pushing deep, nestling right there where you're most sensitive. He stops thrusting and starts rubbing, pressing hard against that spot, abusing it, rubbing it raw.
You nearly shriek.
“Can you feel it, there?” he was taunting, his voice a low, cruel whisper. "Can you?”
He emphasizes his point, finger pressing deep, massaging that spongy, sensitive patch with impossible focus.
You start crying, tears spilling down your cheeks, not being able to hold back anymore.
"Asshole," you sob, still trying to be defiant. "Fuck you."
You are so close, the coil in your stomach wound so tight you can feel it vibrating through your entire body.
And then he draws his fingers out.
"No! Fuck, close, close, I was so close—" You thrash against the bed, tears leaving wet patches on the sheets crumpled under you.
"I know," he says, sweetly. "I could feel you." He looks down at you, at the tear tracks on your face and the utter desperation in your eyes, admiring.
To your overwhelming relief, he plunges his fingers back into you, but slowly, so slow it’s a new kind of torment. The observant fuck he is, he knows just how to touch you, just where to rub at what pace. He knew your body better than you did at this point, it was terrifying.
You beg him dumbly, desperate for release, barely forming words. "Please, please, please, Izuku, I need—"
"Look at you, you can't even form a sentence. So dumb just from a couple of fingers." His voice is so sickeningly sweet.
"I'm not dumb," you muster out, a flash of defiance cutting through the blur. "I was top of my cla— ah—"
"Well really," he interrupts, his tone patronizing.
You nod, sloppily, way too far gone to form any reply.
"Then, miss valedictorian, how about a little test? Since you're so. Very. Bright." He punctuates each word with a harsh, deep thrust of his fingers, his knuckles slapping against your flesh, making you gasp.
“Huh? wha-“ you uttered, delirious
"So, let's start off easy," he begins, his fingers slowing to a maddeningly deliberate pace inside you. "Name the hero who pioneered the use of capture weapons in modern urban combat."
"Ah-ah, it's—" Your mind is a complete blank, a soupy mess of pleasure. "It's... Present Mic?" you guess.
"Wrong," he says flatly. "Try again."
"Uh... Midnight?" Another stupid guess.
"None of the above," he drawls. He flips you around harshly and you yelp as your face hits the mattress.
He fucking spanks you, the sudden, sharp hit causing you to squeeze around his rough fingers impossibly tighter.
"Huh? You liked that." he observes, sounding way too satisfied with himself, and smacks you again, the other cheek this time. You cry out.
He leans back down, his chest pressing against your bare, sensitive back. It's so hot, so hot, so hot. He continues, breath a hot brand against your ear. "What was the civilian casualty percentage during the villain siege of Hosu City three years ago?"
"Ah- ah—" You can't lie. Even under normal circumstances, you were terrible with numbers. Despite being such a nerd back at school, the moment you left, you hadn't touched a single book.
"Ooh, disappointing," he says, and another spank lands, right next to the last one. The pain is sharp, thrilling. "What is the primary weakness of Water Hosing quirks?"
You were so close again, the coil in your stomach tightening with every punishing thrust of his fingers. "Ha— ha," you pant, so close, only focused on trying to cum, not wanting to alert him. You attempt to not squeeze around him, to betray yourself with your body's reaction.
"Ooh, too slow," he says, and he pulls his fingers out. He did notice. Fuck.
He uses that teacher voice again, scolding you. "You should be more decisive with your answers." He has the audacity to sound disappointed. "Are you sure you were top of your class? My first graders know better, those were the questions from their last midterm."
He's just messing with you now, but you had no strength to bite back.
"Another question," he continues, his fingers back at your entrance, but this time they're rubbing you lightly, feather-light touches that are somehow worse than the rough fingering from before. "Who was the first hero to successfully integrate support tech into their hero costume without a personal support engineer?"
You were going blank. His fingers are back, but the light, teasing touches are making you sob, crying in pure frustration. "No answer? Disappointing," he says, and another smack lands right by the last one, the pain blooming across your skin.
At some point, you completely stop responding to him, just moaning wantonly at every touch and the overwhelming feeling of his breath against your bare, sensitive back.
You were about to come again for the umpteenth time. Just from his fingers. The pleasure built to an impossible peak, before he pulled away completely.
"What makes you think you get to finish?" he asks, his voice cold.
"Plea-please-"
“That was zero out of four.” he remarks wryly, "You couldn't even get a single question right. So much for being UA's darling pride and joy. I'm disappointed."
You felt like your soul was leaving your body at this point, utterly wrecked, splayed out on his bed. Defeated. Aching. And still so, so empty.
"Please..." you pleaded, the word a broken, pathetic whisper. You knew now that was his weakness, you had to try. He wanted to see you all debauched and begging, you even cried for him.
But he hadn't even put his dick in you and you were completely distraught, jaggedly breathing and staring up at him, entirely submissive.
Never in your wildest, wet dreams did you think Deku would turn out to be like this. The hero magazines painted him as a symbol of unwavering hope, a slightly awkward but determined boy-next-door who just happened to be the fourth strongest person in the country. This was a side of him you never could have imagined, the way he'd dissected your body with the same terrifying precision he used to analyze a villain's quirk and used every weakness against you.
"What do you want?" he queries, feigning confusion. You feebly attempt to grind your hips back against him, trying to convey your desperation with whimpers and squirms, your body doing all the talking your pride won't allow.
"Speak properly," he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I want to hear you say it."
"Please, you-," you choke out, the words so raw and needy you could hardly believe they came from you. What the hell has he done to you?
"What?" he pushes, relentlessly.
"I want you, please."
"Where?"
"Here, please, please," you sob, trying to reach back and guide him in. He shoves your shaky hands away.
"Nuh uh. I want to hear you say it."
"Please put it inside—"
Fuck. You were not about to say this shit out loud like you’re in some corny porn film. You knew you were probably blushing all over, a humiliating heat creeping up your neck and face. Is he seriously getting off on humiliating you? Having begged and shrieked like an animal in heat wasn't enough already?
"Please just—" you bury your flaming face into the crook of your arms, not being able to stare back at his challenging, predatory gaze.
"You can stop acting so shy," he sounds amused. "I just had my fingers in you."
You let out a breath of indignation. You can’t believe the words coming out of your mouth. "Fuck— Izuku— please fuck me— please put your fucking dick in— please I nee—"
He cuts you off, slamming into you in one brutal, deep stroke.
“See? It wasn’t that hard now, was it?”
The force of his thrusts shake the whole bed against the wall. You gasp, your eyes widening in shock as he finally, finally fills you up, the stretch so intense and deep.
"Listen," he's breathing into your ear in between thrusts, each word punctuated by the slap of his hips against your ass. "You don't know what you've gotten yourself into."
Then, as suddenly as it started, his movements ceased. He's still inside you, a heavy, throbbing, but his tone shifts, becoming gentle, a caring, genuine tone that feels completely alien right now.
“If you want me to actually stop, say 'All Might.' Loud. I won't touch you, we'll end this."
You huff, a disbelieving sound. "Huh? You think I can't handle this?" How you could even muster up that sentence was a mystery, especially after how he had defiled you for the past god knows how long.
He pulls back slightly to look into your eyes, his expression now genuinely serious, all traces of mockery gone.
"Listen," he warns. "I'm serious. If you want to stop, use your word. Otherwise, I won't let you go. Okay?"
“Keep going.” you whined, you had no idea what possessed you. You wriggled your hips back, wanting him to continue, he ignored you, insisting.
"Seriously? Say okay."
You give in, nod, "Okay."
Despite it all, you really appreciated this. You had never thought of needing a safe word in the past, but the gesture made you slightly warm and comforted inside, a slightly out of place feeling in your current predicament.
The switch flips again. His pace is punishing, deep, so deep it felt like he was bruising you from the inside out. How was he reaching in so impossibly deep? He was molded to you, the shape of him grinding against every fiber of you that needed it most.
"You feel incredible," he moans, his voice raw. "How are you so wet?"
You feel his hands grip your hips tightly, the pressure grounding. You clench around him, meeting his thrusts, arching your back and pressing your breasts into the mattress. The feeling of the rough sheets scraping against your sensitive, bruised nipples far too much.
"Relax," he notices you arching into him, trying to thrust back. "Just relax." He puts a hand on the small of your back, pressing you firmly into the mattress, forcing you to take exactly what he's giving. Your breathing is labored, dizzy, and you come up gasping, needing to breathe. Your head snaps to the side, panting like a bitch in heat. You stare up at him.
Holy fuck. He's so tall up there, a powerful silhouette against the dim light of the room. His shoulders are broad and sculpted, his chest heaving. His green hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes—his eyes are locked on you. He had taken his clothes off somehow, you have no idea when that happened, but the sight of all that toned, scarred muscle working above you is obscene.
You probably looked so fucked out right now from his view, a mess of tears and sweat and need. All your snarky, witty remarks were being fucked out of you with every hard, punishing thrust.
You were so close, the coil in your stomach wound so tight you could feel it vibrating in your core. Despite how desperately you needed release, a small, stupid part of you wanted to hold out, just a bit, for him, for your ego, not wanting to cum before him.
You try to get him to slow down for just a second to catch your breath, your hand feebly pressing against the hard, sweat-slick plane of his abs. He just grunts, irritated that you're trying to push back and swats your hand away.
"I told you to relax." he slows his pace, pulling all the way, dragging against your walls. "Just take it." He slams back in, your screams muffled by his sheets.
You try again, your other hand pushing against him. "Izuku, wait, I can't—"
He grabs both your wrists, his grip like iron and wrestles them behind your back. "No, you don't," he snarls. He swats at your already sore ass a couple times, the sharp smacks making you clench around him.
"Why do you have to be so difficult?" He's talking down to you, filthy "Look at you. Can't even keep your hands to yourself."
Suddenly, you feel yourself being flipped over onto your back. He pins your hands above your head and in a movement so swift and skillful it makes your head spin, he fishes his discarded tie from the floor.
He snaps the silk around your wrists, binding them together with a practiced knot.
"Can't you just keep your fucking hands to yourself?" he snaps, and oh, he was really getting annoyed, letting swears slip out. He was usually so clean and family friendly, even throughout the whole night, all those filthy moments not slipping up once. Hearing him talk like this was a whole new kind of thrill.
You test out the binds, shifting your wrists around curiously and immediately tensing at the realization at just how tight he made them. You couldn’t get out of there even if you tried. You let out a distressed, high whine, staring at him like a caged animal.
He rolls his damn eyes and slips out of you, cleanly. As he pushes back, he deliberately misses you. You feel the him, hot and heavy, tracing around your sloppy, weeping entrance. He attempts to thrust in again, then pulls back.
"Oops," he fucking giggles, his voice dripping with false sympathy. He lines himself up, nudging against you and you brace yourself.
But he shifts at the last second, sliding smoothly, right past where you need him most. "Oh no, not again."
You sob again, a broken, desperate sound. Not more of this. You don't know how much more you could handle.
"Fuck, I guess you're just too wet," his voice filled with that mocking tone of his "Can't get a good grip." He tries again, this time using his hand to guide himself. You feel the blunt pressure against you, your body clenching in anticipation, and then—nothing.
He drags the head slowly upwards, tracing circles around your throbbing clit. "Here? You keep squirming so much, I can't tell."
Your hips buck wildly, trying to force him inside, but he just laughs and pulls back. "Ah-ah. Patience."
He lines up for a third time. You're whimpering now, tears of pure frustration leaking from the corners of your eyes. You feel him press against you, a slow, deliberate pressure that feels like it might actually work this time. Your body surrenders. He starts to push in, just the tip and a ragged gasp escapes your lips.
Then he stops.
"Wait a second," he says, his voice suddenly thoughtful. He pulls out completely, leaving you gaping and empty. You cry out in protest, but he just shushes you.
"I'm just thinking. What was that third question? The one you couldn't answer?" He taps his chin mockingly. "Something about support tech... right. You know, for someone who claims to be so smart, your memory is terrible. Maybe I should stop until you can give me an answer. It might help you focus."
"No, please, I don't know, I don't care!" you shriek, your voice ragged head shaking wildly.
"Wrong answer," he says, and with one, brutal snap of his hips, he finally slams into you, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden, unrelenting fullness after all that is your undoing. The change in angle, the sheer force of it, makes you cum right there, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your entire body convulses.
“Ah— ah— fuck— shit—” It's a wave of pleasure so intense it wipes every thought from your head. Your vision whites out and all you can feel is the relentless, pounding pleasure as he continues to fuck you through it.
“God fuck— that was— ah—” you’re voice hoarse, torn from pleasure. “Fuck— Izuku— god.”
You blinked slowly, coming back to your senses, coming down from that high, but he wasn't stopping. He showed no signs of stopping, let alone slowing down. In fact, you felt him somehow grow harder inside you, his pounding becoming more deliberate, more targeted. Oh.
Oh, you were actually fucking terrified now.
You looked up at him through wet lashes, sniffling. What met you were hungry, bright eyes, like he was hunting you down. Your arms flexed against his makeshift restraints, squirming at being bound like this.
Oh shit. Oh shit.
You realized, terrified that he was not joking earlier. You should have taken that warning you dismissed and laughed off, too arrogant and too turned on.
Your pleasure slowly tipped into overdrive, borderline painful, thrusting up into that spot that once felt like heaven. You shrieked, a raw, ragged sound that was half pleasure, half agony. The tie on your wrists dug in. Every instinct screamed at you to push him away, but you were completely immobilized.
He fucked you like a man possessed. The way he was holding you now, hands squeezing around your waist, bouncing your helpless body back and forth, made you feel like a goddamn sex doll he was using to get himself off. Your bound wrists were useless above your head, your legs spread wide for his convenience. He was just using you, chasing his own pleasure. For some reason, it sent another unwanted jolt of pleasure through your ravaged body.
"Look at you," he panted, his voice a harsh, guttural sound you barely recognized. "What about all that talk from earlier? Look at you now." He punctuated his words with a particularly vicious thrust. “What was that you said earlier? You think I can’t handle it? Something like that, right?”
The overstimulation was like a fire, consuming you from the inside out. It was too much, too intense, a pleasure so sharp it felt like it would split you open. You were sobbing openly now, begging incoherently, your body wracked with tremors. You had never felt so used, so utterly annihilated.
“Quiet,” he cooed, his hot breath fanning against your ear as he leaned down. “Someone’s gonna think I’m torturing you.” You shivered, unable to back away from the light contact that made you seize up all over. You were completely caged.
You attempt to shift, skirting your ass up the bed in small, slow increments, trying to angle him so he at least wouldn’t be hitting you right there, just a bit of relief.
Just like that, yes. You thought, shifting back just a little more.
"Where do you think you're going?"
His voice was utterly devoid of the teasing warmth from before. Your escape plan had completely failed, a rough grip on your hips drags you back down, right back where you were, impaling you even deeper.
"Fuck— please— please—" you sob “No more please—”
"Too much?" he taunts "No? No more? Stop?"
He leans down, his face inches from yours. "You know what to say if you actually wanted me to stop."
He pauses, his hips stilling for a fraction of a second and a genuine worry flickers in his eyes. His face is so close to yours, a wordless check-in. Hey. Are you okay? Do you actually want to stop?
You don't reply, panting, staring back at him through tears.
He huffs, a short, sharp sound of disbelief. "Oh, so you're just messing with me," he concludes, his voice hardening again. "Needy, pretending you don't want this just as much."
His hand came down now, palm laying flat on your stomach, pressing and rubbing right where he was nestled deepest, an almost sadistic look in his eyes as he watched you struggle and choke on a sob to no avail. The pressure right on top of where he had you impaled.
"You were the one who wanted this. You begged for this. Now you're going to take every second of it. Okay?"
His other hand moves between your legs, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in tight, harsh circles. The added stimulation is unbearable.
"Crying as if you're not the one who had been provoking me all night." He delivers another and another hard thrust, sending you closer and closer to the edge of the bed with each one. "You. Wanted. This."
"Fuck! I... fuck, I can't," you sob, "I can't—"
"No. You can," he states, matter-of-fact.
Right as you're about to fall off the edge of the mattress, he hooks an arm around your waist, dragging you back right onto him. The angle is devastating, causing you to scream, your voice breaking.
And by some cruel miracle, you came again. It all happened so fast, the back-to-back pleasure shortening the intervals between your orgasms until there was no beginning or end. Through your daze, you noticed his thrusts getting sloppier, halting and stuttering more.
"Shit. You're so tight," he groans, squeezing his eyes shut. His continued thrusts were genuine torture now after your second time in a row. He was insatiable, every drag of his cock against your oversensitive walls a fresh agony.
"Izuku, please—" you try, blinking through tear-stained cheeks. "Please, I'll suck you off, use my mouth, my thighs, please, I can't anymore— fuck—"
"Shhh, just a bit, I'm close, I promise," he breathes, voice ragged. He places a gentle kiss on your forehead, a stark, tender contrast to the brutal way he's been fucking you. "So good for me."
You keened at the praise, squeezing dutifully around his thrusts.
With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself as deep as he could and finally spilled into you. He stayed there, trembling and finally collapsing on you, his weight pinning you down.
For the first time all night, there was silence.
After a while, you started regaining your senses. You nudged him off you. He unties your wrists. You roll over to stare at the ceiling in complete disbelief.
"Holy fucking shit," you gasped, still shocked, your body going numb now. "In the nicest way possible, what the fuck is wrong with you?"
He laughs now, light and airy, no more of that teasing condescension. It was just the Deku you knew and saw before tonight, slipping back into his normal self.
"I warned you." more laughs.
You stare at the digital clock at the bedside table. Holy hell. It had been what, six? Seven hours since the night began, since the event that felt like ages ago. You were in bed for probably three or four hours. His stamina was genuinely terrifying.
"Four hours?" you manage to croak, turning your head to look at him. He was propped up on his elbow, a lazy, satisfied grin on his face, his green hair a mess. "Are you part rabbit or something? That's not human."
He just shrugged, a gesture that was so infuriatingly casual. "Hero training. Lots of stamina and endurance exercises. And from wielding One For All... might have to do with that. I picked up a few things from then."
"A few things?" you scoffed, trying to sit up and immediately collapsing back down when your muscles screamed in protest. "You call that 'a few things'? I think you just broke my vagina. I'm gonna need a wheelchair."
He winced slightly, a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes. "Ah, sorry. Was I too rough?" He reached out to gently brush a stray hair from your forehead, his touch now impossibly soft.
You smacked his hand away playfully.
"Don't you dare act all caring now, you demon. You were a literal animal five minutes ago. You tied me up with your own tie!"
A faint blush dusted his cheeks. "Well, you kept trying to move. It was a necessary countermeasure."
He paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "Besides, you didn't say the word."
You grin now. "I know." You shift, wincing slightly.
"Are you always this... insane in bed?"
He groaned, flopping onto his back and rubbing a hand over his face. "Ugh, no. Not usually. It's... yeah, teaching and all that hero work," he sighed, "as much as I love it, it's been so much lately. Had no time to even think about sex. It was... that pent-up energy."
He turned his head to look at you now, a sheepish grin on his face. "Guess I had a lot saved up, glad you came along"
You narrowed your eyes at him, a suspicious look on your face. "Didn't seem like you were that pent up," you shot back. "What even was that? You were teasing me for so fucking long." You smother your face in your hands, blushing just at the thought. "Who even does that? Do you just have a really, really dark side I should know about?"
