#rough love

[fawwnedover]

[lilithmidnight]

🖤🔪🕯️🖤

[reallyitsmebro]

Platonic Yandere! Viltrumite Parents + Reader

Imagine being born a Viltrumite...and failing the one thing that proves you deserve to live.

————

● It was never meant to be a test you could fail.

Viltrumite trials weren’t designed with failure in mind.

They were designed to prove something already there.

Strength. Resolve. Worth.

You were expected to stand your ground.

You didn’t.

--

It always would have.

The first strike came from your mother.

Vaedra.

She didn’t hesitate never did. Her hand struck with precision, calculated and clean, sending you crashing into the stone beneath your feet. The ground split slightly on impact, cracks spidering outward from where your body landed.

“Get up.”

Her voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be.

You tried.

Your arms trembled beneath you, unsteady, your body slow to respond in the way it should have. That alone was enough to earn a look of quiet displeasure.

Then Kaelor moved.

Faster. Heavier.

Your father's blow didn’t just knock you down it kept you there.

● You were supposed to fight back.

That was the point.

Even children knew that.

Even you knew that.

But knowing didn’t mean your body would listen.

Every attempt to stand was met with another strike. Not reckless—never reckless. Each hit was measured, deliberate, meant to push you further. Meant to force something out of you.

It never came.

● “Again.”

Vaedra’s command cut through the space like a blade.

You didn’t move fast enough.

You didn’t move right.

And when you finally did manage to stand—barely balanced, barely conscious—it was already too late.

Kaelor’s next hit sent you back down harder than before.

This time, you didn’t get up.

● Silence followed.

Not relief.

Not mercy.

Assessment.

Vaedra stepped closer, looking down at you with something colder than anger.

Disappointment.

“Weak,” she said flatly.

The word settled heavier than any strike.

Kaelor didn’t respond immediately.

But you could feel it—the shift in him. The expectation. The conclusion they had both been raised to reach.

Weakness was not corrected.

It was erased.

● Vaedra turned slightly, already preparing to finish it.

Clean. Efficient. Necessary.

Kaelor stepped forward.

He raised his hand.

And stopped.

It wasn’t obvious.

Not at first.

Viltrumites didn’t falter—not in ways that could be seen.

But there was a pause.

A fraction too long.

His hand hovered where it shouldn’t have.

And in that moment—

Vaedra noticed.

Her gaze snapped to him, sharp, questioning.

Dangerous.

Not because of you.

Because of him.

---

His jaw tightened.

His hand lowered—just slightly.

“…Wait.”

The word was quiet.

Too quiet.

Vaedra’s eyes narrowed. “There is nothing to wait for.”

She stepped forward again.

Kaelor moved before she could finish it.

Not to strike—

But to block.

● That was when it changed.

Not because of what they said.

But because of what they didn’t.

Kaelor’s gaze shifted brief, precise as he scanned the horizon.

Once.

Twice.

Ensuring.

No witnesses.

No patrols.

No one to question why a defective Viltrumite child still breathed.

Vaedra followed his line of sight.

She understood immediately.

And for the first time

She hesitated too.

--

It wasn’t mercy.

It wasn’t softness.

It was calculation.

Risk.

And something far more dangerous beneath it.

Something neither of them named.

--

Kaelor moved first.

Not gently. Never gently.

But when he lifted you from the fractured ground, his grip adjusted—subtle, deliberate—so your head wouldn’t fall back the way it had before.

So your breathing however weak wouldn’t be obstructed.

Vaedra said nothing.

But she didn’t stop him.

They didn’t take you somewhere official.

Didn’t call for aid.

Didn’t report the outcome.

Because that would require answers.

And Viltrumites did not ask questions they didn’t already know the answer to.

So instead—

They left.

The flight was fast.

It had to be.

You drifted in and out of awareness, the rush of air sharp against broken skin, the pressure unbearable.

At some point—

It lessened.

Just slightly.

Not enough to be obvious.

Enough to matter.

--

Their home wasn’t meant for weakness.

It was built like everything else—cold, structured, efficient.

But after that day—

It changed.

Not in appearance.

In function.

You weren’t allowed outside.

Not anymore.

Movement was restricted.

Watched.

Measured.

Every action observed with the same scrutiny as the trial you failed.

Training attempts came first.

Of course they did.

Vaedra refused to accept the outcome.

“If it can be corrected it will be,” she stated.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until it became clear

It wouldn’t.

--

That was when the cage settled into place.

Not visible.

Not named.

But absolute.

Kaelor stopped initiating the training.

Vaedra didn’t.

But even she…

Reduced it.

Not out of pity.

Out of… practicality.

A broken thing couldn’t be reforged if it shattered completely.

---

They never said they spared you.

Never acknowledged it.

To do so would mean admitting the truth.

That they had chosen wrong.

That they had hesitated.

But sometimes

When you were still.

When your breathing evened out enough to mimic sleep

There were moments.

Brief.

Unspoken.

----

A pause in Vaedra’s steps as she passed your resting place.

A glance that lingered a second longer than necessary.

Her hand adjusting something—fabric, positioning—without comment.

Precise.

Controlled.

Gone just as quickly.

--

Kaelor was worse.

Or better.

It depended on how you looked at it.

He stayed.

Not close enough to be seen as concern.

Not far enough to be absence.

Always within reach.

Always watching.

--

They never called it love.

They wouldn’t know how.

But they kept you.

And on Viltrum—

That meant more than it ever should have.

(Sorry if i haven't been posting. School has gotten pretty intense lately and I'm trying my best to keep up and get all my work done before the year finishes. I'll try to post on weekends and during whatever free time I have

[deanshb]

us

[punisherslittlegirl]

Frank would literally be afraid of your touch the moment he realises he fell in love with you. But when he feels it doesn’t hurt, he leans into you like a wounded dog.

♡ He would get on top of you and you consensually wouldn’t be able to get him off. ♡

Super afraid he’d hurt you in any way because he isn’t that kind of man, but still loves to manhandle you and treat you a bit rough when he has your word.

an: I absolutely LOVE bearded Frank he looks like such a bear.

[little-rose-big-writing]

The Only Way to Shut You Up

***GIF IS NOT MINE***


Rating: Explicit


Pairing: Dean Winchester/Female Reader


Summary: Constant bickering over hunts ignites something darker, hotter between you and Dean—until furious words give way to bruising kisses, torn clothes, and the creaking protest of a motel bed. Sometimes fighting is just foreplay.


Warnings: Explicit sexual content, rough kissing, consensual aggression, biting, light marking, unprotected sex, post-hunt grime and sweat, mild property damage (poor motel furniture), emotional tension, arguing as foreplay.

Also any mistakes are my own, please do not repost my work anywhere however reblogs are fine and welcome :) 

If you love it, please comment and/or reblog. Let me know your thoughts! :)

**IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT DON’T READ IT**

The stale motel air crackled with tension thicker than the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon sunlight. You’d been arguing for twenty minutes straight, circling the same damn point about a vengeful spirit case in Des Moines like vultures over carrion. Dean paced the worn carpet, boots scuffing aggressively, his shoulders a rigid line beneath his worn Henley. Every frustrated sweep of his hand through his hair sent a fresh wave of irritation through you.

"No, Dean! That's not how we handle it!" You threw your hands up, exasperation boiling over. "Charging in guns blazing? Again? After what happened in Toledo?"

He whirled on you, eyes dark as storm clouds, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. "And what?" His voice was a low, dangerous growl, vibrating with barely leashed fury. It shouldn’t have made your stomach flip, shouldn’t have sent a treacherous heat pooling low in your belly. But it did. "You think I don't know that? Think I forgot Toledo? I know what I'm doing!" The sharpness of his tone was a physical thing, scraping against your nerves.

"Well, maybe you should listen for once!" You stepped forward, invading his space, your own anger trembling in your voice, fueled by the unwanted flutter his proximity caused. "Instead of just doing whatever reckless, stupid thing pops into your head! We're supposed to be a team, Dean! Partners!"

"I am listening!" He roared back, fists clenched white-knuckled at his sides. He took a step closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his furious gaze. The air between you crackled, thick with ozone and unresolved everything. "But you're overthinking everything! Paralysis by analysis! Like always!" He punctuated the last word with a sharp kick to the leg of the rickety motel table, sending a half-empty bottle of whiskey wobbling precariously.

The accusation stung, sharp and unfair. "Overthinking?" You spat, grabbing the nearest harmless object – a packet of rock salt – and hurling it at his chest. It bounced off harmlessly. "I'm trying to keep us alive, you idiot! Unlike you, who seems determined to get himself killed!"

His eyes flashed, something primal igniting in their depths. Before you could draw breath for another retort, before your brain could fully register the shift, Dean lunged.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't hesitant. It was pure, pent-up fury and frustration channeled into a single, devastating action. His hands shot out, one tangling roughly in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and his lips crashed down onto yours.

The impact stole your breath. You staggered back a step, but he was relentless, an immovable force. His kiss was hot, heavy, urgent – a desperate attempt to shut you up. A groan ripped from your throat, swallowed instantly by his mouth. Your hands flew up, not to push him away, but to clutch desperately at his shoulders, fingers digging into the solid muscle beneath the worn cotton.

"Dean—" you gasped against his lips, but he wasn't stopping. His hands slid down your sides, strong and demanding, lifting you effortlessly until your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, locking you flush against him. Every hard plane of his body pressed against yours – the buckle of his belt digging into your stomach, the heat radiating from his chest, the undeniable hardness straining against his jeans, pressed intimately against your core. The friction was electric, sending jolts of pure, molten need straight through you.

The anger was still there, a tangled knot in your chest, but it was rapidly being consumed, overwritten by a tidal wave of desire. Every frantic kiss, every possessive slide of his tongue against yours, every desperate shove of his hips against yours only fanned the flames higher, blurring the lines between fury and lust until they were indistinguishable.

"You think I don't feel it too, baby?" he hissed against your lips, his voice a low, guttural rasp that vibrated through your entire body. His teeth nipped sharply at your bottom lip, sending a shockwave of pleasure-pain down your spine. "You think this constant fighting, this goddamn arguing… you think it isn't killing me?"

He kissed you again, deep and consuming, one hand sliding under your shirt, his rough palm scraping against your bare skin, sending shivers cascading over you.

"Knowing… knowing I want you like this." He punctuated the word with another hard grind of his hips, drawing a choked whimper from you.

You couldn't speak. Words were impossible. Your mind was white noise, consumed by the feel of him, the taste of whiskey and Dean, the sheer overwhelming need. Your fingers scrabbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards, desperate for skin.

"Dean…" It was barely a breath, ragged and pleading. "Don't stop."

A low, predatory chuckle rumbled in his chest. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark pools of hunger, a smirk playing on his kiss-swollen lips. "Good," he murmured, his thumb brushing roughly over your peaked nipple through the fabric of your bra. "Because I wasn't planning to." He shifted his grip, carrying you the few steps to the nearest motel bed. "Let me make you feel it, sweetheart. All of it."

He lowered you onto the scratchy comforter, following you down, his body covering yours completely. There was no more talking.

Arguments dissolved into gasps and moans. Frustration melted into desperate touches. Clothes became obstacles ripped away with impatient hands – buttons flying, fabric tearing. His mouth was everywhere: hot and demanding on your neck, sucking bruises onto your collarbone, tracing the curve of your breast before closing hungrily over a nipple, drawing a sharp cry from you.

His hands mapped your body with possessive urgency, calloused fingers tracing your ribs, dipping into the hollow of your navel, sliding down to grip your thigh and hike it higher over his hip. The first touch of his fingers against your slick heat drew a ragged sob from your throat. He teased you relentlessly, circling your clit with agonizing slowness before plunging two fingers deep inside, curling them expertly.

"Dean! Please!" You arched against him, your nails scoring down his back.

"Tell me," he growled, adding a third finger, stretching you deliciously, his thumb pressing hard against your clit. "Tell me what you want."

"You!" you gasped, writhing beneath him. "Just you! Now!"

He didn't need telling twice. With a groan that sounded ripped from his soul, Dean positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing insistently against your entrance. He held your gaze, his own eyes wild with need, the last vestiges of anger completely consumed by raw desire. Then, with one powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside you.

The sensation was overwhelming – a perfect, stretching fullness that bordered on pain before dissolving into pure, blinding pleasure. You cried out, wrapping your legs tighter around him, pulling him impossibly deeper. He began to move, setting a punishing rhythm from the start, each powerful thrust driving the breath from your lungs. The bedframe slammed against the wall in a frantic, rhythmic protest.

It was fierce, primal. Every unresolved argument, every moment of tension, every spark of frustration fueled the fire. He fucked you like he fought – relentlessly, passionately, giving no quarter. You met him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to meet his, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down for bruising kisses. The sounds filling the room were raw: the slap of skin on skin, Dean’s guttural groans, your own keening cries, the creak of the protesting bed.

He shifted, hooking your leg over his shoulder, changing the angle. The new depth drew a scream from you as he hit that spot inside you with devastating precision. Stars exploded behind your eyelids. "That's it, sweetheart," he rasped, his pace faltering slightly as he watched you unravel. "Come for me. Let me feel it."

The command, coupled with the relentless pressure, shattered you. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your body clamped down around him, milking him as you cried out his name, trembling uncontrollably.

Feeling you convulse around him was Dean’s undoing. With a final, deep thrust and a roar that echoed off the cheap motel walls, he followed you over the edge. His hips jerked erratically as he emptied himself deep inside you, his body collapsing onto yours, his forehead pressed against your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your sweat-slicked skin.

Silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of two hearts slowing gradually, and the soft drip of the leaky faucet in the bathroom. The motel room smelled of sex, sweat, gunpowder, and Dean.

Slowly, carefully, Dean shifted his weight off you, pulling you with him until you were both lying tangled on the rumpled sheets. Your limbs were heavy, pleasantly numb. He gathered you against his side, your head finding its familiar place on his chest, his arm draped possessively over your waist.

Skin slid against skin, cooling in the stale air. You traced idle patterns on the sweat-damp hair scattered across his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

The silence stretched, comfortable now, charged with a different kind of energy – the aftershocks of shared intensity. You felt him press a kiss into the top of your hair, surprisingly soft.

"Still think I don't listen?" His voice was a low rumble, rough-edged but lacking its earlier bite. There was a hint of smugness, but underneath it, something softer, almost… tender.

You tilted your head back to look at him. His eyes were half-lidded, a satisfied, lazy smirk playing on his lips. The familiar teasing glint was back, but tempered now. You felt a smile tug at your own lips, a mix of sass and the bone-deep contentment humming through your veins.

"Oh, I heard you loud and clear, Winchester," you murmured, your voice husky. You reached up, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with a fingertip. "But next time? Maybe try using your words before you decide to shut me up like that." Your smile widened, pure sweetness laced with challenge. "Though… I’m not exactly complaining about your methods."

Dean chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. He tightened his arm around you, pulling you impossibly closer. "Noted," he murmured, his lips brushing your forehead again. "But no promises, sweetheart. Sometimes…" He trailed off, his fingers tracing idle circles on your bare hip. "...sometimes shutting you up is just too damn satisfying."

You snorted softly, nestling back against him, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. The argument felt miles away, dissolved in the heat and sweat and shared release. Outside, the world kept turning, monsters lurked, and cases waited. But here, tangled naked in Dean Winchester’s arms, smelling of sex and cheap motel soap, listening to his steady heartbeat, you felt perfectly, dangerously, content. For now, the only sound that mattered was the quiet rhythm of two people who fought hard and loved harder, finally finding peace in the aftermath.

[angstandyearning]

I want to bite you so badly, hear you whimper, feel you tense up as my teeth bare down into your skin, watch the bruises grow in size and number as I move to more and more sensitive areas.

It’s not cuteness aggression induced biting, it’s just aggression, you make me feral, you make control a foreign idea to me.

[sukuhands]

Bar owner!Sukuna

First one-enjoy!~

{smut}

—————————————————————————

//AU somewhat modern world//

You’re invited to a pool date at the local pub by some guy you ran in, only for it to get ~happily~ interrupted.

The pub is loud in that comfortable way—low music, clinking glasses, laughter spilling over the edges of booths. The pool table sits under a hanging lamp, green felt scuffed from a hundred careless shots.

You lean over the table, lining up your cue while the guy you're playing with hovers awkwardly nearby, offering unhelpful commentary and zero actual guidance.

"Just... if you hold it more at an angle it'll hit this one, just like... just try it" he says.

You sigh softly and take the shot anyway. The ball veers off, missing by a humiliating inch.

"Tch.”

The sound isn't from your companion. You straighten slowly, turning toward the source just in time to see him step closer—tall, broad-shouldered, pink hair pulled back loosely, eyes etched with lazy mocking interest. He looks like he owns the room simply by standing in it, one hand with nails painted a dark greyish purple wrapped around a glass he hasn't bothered to drink from yet.

He looks at the table. Then at the cue in your hands.

Then at the guy beside you.

"You're teaching her?" Sukuna asks, tone flat.

The guy laughs nervously. "Uh—yeah?"

Sukuna clicks his tongue, disappointed. "Pathetic." And before either of you can respond, he steps in. He reaches out and plucks the cue from your hands without asking.

"You don't stand like that," he says, already moving behind you. "And you don't let someone this useless pretend he knows what he's doing."

"Hey—" the guy starts.

Sukuna doesn't even look at him. "Leave." The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be.

There's something in his voice, unyielding—that makes the guy hesitate... then mutter something and step back, surrendering his spot without another word.

You swallow.

Sukuna's attention finally settles fully on you, eyes dragging over your expression, you're suddenly very aware of how close he is.

"You don't mind," Sukuna says, not a question but more of a statement.

Your pulse picks up. "I—no."

"Good."

He's close enough that you feel him before he touches you. His presence presses into your back, warm and heavy, and you suddenly become painfully aware of how small the space is between you.

"Pool is about patience," he hums near your ear. "And precision. You had neither just now."

You swallow. "Harsh."

A low chuckle. "Accurate."

He reaches around you, placing the cue back into your hands, his fingers wrapping over yours to correct your grip. His thumb presses against your knuckles, adjusting pressure, slow and deliberate, as if he wants you to feel exactly how much control he has.

"Loosen here," he says, tapping your fingers lightly. "You're choking it."

His other hand settles at your hip to shift your stance. He doesn't ask. He guides, firmly and confidently. His palm lingers there longer than necessary, thumb pressing just slightly into your side.

"Feet apart," he continues. "Lean forward. Trust your balance."

His chest brushes your back as he leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts your neck. The contact is subtle but constant—affecting your thinking greatly.

"Now," he says quietly, "don't look at the ball you want to hit. Look at where you want it to go."

His hand slides from your hip to your lower back, fingers spreading as if to anchor you there. The touch is grounding. Possessive.

"You feel that?" he asks.

Your voice comes out softer than you expect. "Yeah."

"Good," he murmurs. "Focus."

He guides your arm forward, his hand still over yours, the movement slow—almost teasing. When the cue pulls back, he pauses, holding you there.

Your breath catches.

"Now," Sukuna whispers.

You strike.

The ball glides smoothly into the pocket. The sound is clean. Satisfying.

"Not bad." His hands let go entirely of you, the skin where they layed suddenly feeling uncomfortably empty. You cleared your throat, shaking off the feeling as to concentrate on the game once more.

You chalk the cue again, trying to steady yourself, moving around the table.

Sukuna doesn't follow.

Instead, he stays at the opposite side of the pool table, resting his hands on the edge, leaning himself into them. He looks infuriatingly relaxed, arms flexing lightly as to hold his own weight, hips pushed backwards— the confidence and dominance in his stance not making you realize he's already won something you haven't realized you're playing.

"Go on," he says. "Show me."

You bend over the table, lining up the shot. Immediately, you feel it—his gaze, heavy and unblinking, crawling over you like a hand. You glance up despite yourself.

He's already staring straight at you, eyes sharp, mouth curved in a knowing smirk.

"Eyes on the table," he drawls, grin growing slightly. "Or are you distracted already?"

Heat rushes to your face. "I'm focused."

"Mm." He tilts his head slightly, gaze never breaking. "That's not what your hands are saying."

You adjust your grip, jaw tightening.

Sukuna chuckles under his breath. "Careful. You hesitate like that and the shot goes wide, confidence is important." His eyes flick deliberately down your body, then back up to your face. "So does posture."

You inhale, trying to ignore him. Trying—and failing.

"Still watching me?" you mutter.

"Of course," he replies smoothly.

You narrow your eyes at him. "You're enjoying this way too much." His grin sharpens, crimson eyes flashing lightly under the dim pool light.

You take the shot.

The ball clips the edge of the pocket and bounces out.

Silence.

Sukuna clicks his tongue, pushing off the table with a sigh and slowly circling toward you again.

He steps past you, reclaiming his place behind you once more, hands settling over yours with infuriating ease. You didn't even have time to react, the smell of his cologne hitting you once more.

"Now I guess I wasn't clear the first time," Sukuna comments near your ear, voice low and teasing, "try again."

He leans into you, bodies flush against each other once more.

He chuckles, "You're already tense," he whispers, voice low, meant for your ears alone. "Anticipating mistakes you haven't made yet?"

This time, he doesn't immediately correct you. He simply holds your hands in place, thumbs resting over your knuckles, warm and unmoving.

"Breathe," he says softly.

You do—slowly.

"mhm, just like that." He hums

It's barely praise. Still, your pulse jumps.

He shifts your grip with deliberate care, fingertips gliding instead of pressing now. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, lingering where your pulse beats fast and obvious.

His hand drifts—unhurried—from your wrist to your forearm, following the line of muscle as he adjusts your angle. The touch isn't necessary anymore. That's clear. He knows it. You know it.

Yet he keeps his hand there.

"Eyes forward," he whispers, leaning in closer, the tip of his nose brushing the top edge of your ear, "Not on me."

He pauses. "Unless I tell you to." Your cheeks couldn’t get any darker at this point.

His other hand settles at your hip again, firmer this time, fingers splayed, digging in as he pulls you a fraction closer into him. The contact is unmistakable now—possessive, grounding.

Not correcting anymore—just tracing.

His fingers move along your forearm as you line up the next shot, the pad of his thumb gliding over your skin with unhurried intent, as if he's mapping you rather than teaching. The contact is light, but deliberate enough that every nerve seems to lean into it.

"You're thinking again," Sukuna murmurs, close—too close. "I told you not to."

His hand doesn't leave when you steady. It stays, resting there, warm and grounding. When you bend forward, he adjusts with you.

"Concentrate." He instructs, you nod slowly.

"Good."

He hums, low and approving, and you swear the sound vibrates straight through you. His grip tightens just slightly at your hip, like he's anchoring you to the moment.

"That's it," Sukuna murmurs. "Right there."

You hold.

Your muscles tremble—but not from effort, but from how hard you tried to concentrateon the ball and not him.

"Now," he whispers.

You take the shot.

Another clean sink.

For a second, he doesn't move. Then his thumb brushes once over your hip, slow, deliberate—almost thoughtful.

"Hm," he says. "Seems you're not hopeless after all."

You turn your head slightly, catching his gaze from the corner of your eye. "That's all I get?" A smirk curves his mouth as he finally lets go of the cue—though his hand lingers at your waist a moment longer than needed.

"You want encouragement," he says quietly, amused. "Earn it." He straightens, giving you just enough space to breathe again, eyes still locked on you—assessing, entertained, already planning how close he'll get next.

"Again," Sukuna says, tone easy. "Let's see if it wasn't a fluke."

He's not teaching you pool anymore.

He's testing how long you can stay composed under his touch.

——

The pub noise begins to thin without you really noticing—chairs scraping back, laughter drifting toward the door. Someone calls out last orders. The lights dim slightly, warmer, softer.

You glance up. "Are they closing?" Sukuna hums, unbothered by it. "They are."

He straightens at last, hand leaving your hip from the last shot—but only to step around you. He leans over the table now, palms flat against the felt, eyes on you, expression unreadable.

One of the staff members passes by. "You want me to lock up after you, boss?"

You blink.

Boss?

Sukuna doesn't look away from you as he replies, "Yeah. I'll handle the rest."

"You own this place?" you ask.

A corner of his mouth lifts. "Surprised?" You laugh softly, something forming in the pit of your stomach.

The last few patrons filter out. The door locks with a solid click. The pub is suddenly quieter—no longer public, no longer crowded. Just low music, warm light, and the two of you standing far too close to a pool table neither of you is paying attention to anymore.

"So," He doesn't look away from you, his tongue poking at the inside of his cheek, "we got a whole bar to ourselves now...anything you wanna do first?"

You couldn't help but stare at the dark marks circling his face, the lines connecting to his arms and hands.

His hands slid off the edge of the table, only bringing one of his painted nail to tap on the wooden surface, slowly making his way towards you.

His eyes lingering slowly to every corner of your body.

He chuckles at the expression displayed on your face, his body now caging you completely between the table and him, your back pressed against the cool shiny wood of the table.

Your heart fluttered at the close contact, this time different from the other times.

"I have an idea of something we could do," One of his hands starts playing with the hem of your shirt, "what do you think?"

You could feel his fingers lightly touching the skin of your stomach now, sliding up to the area right over your ribs, the hot of his palm making contact with your skin.

"Right here?—"

"Right here." He interrupts you, voice low but dominant and assertive.

Before you could utter another word his lips brushed against yours ever so slightly, his grin never leaving them, loving the way you trembled under the slightest touch.

His hand reached your hardened nipple, his thumb fumbling small circles around it. Your back arched, your breath hitching in your throat. A light pink shade covering your cheeks, your eyes drifting to his lips.

"Stop teasing." You breathed, your right hand reaching the back of his head, fingers locking through his hair, pulling him in to finally close the distance between you two.

There was no fight, his lips dominating your fully from the bat. His teeth biting at your lower lip, hard enough to make a low moan come out of you, which only seemed to make him go deeper and harder into the kiss.

His hand left your breast, a low disappointed sound leaving you, only for it to be replaced by a high pitched yelp as he grabbed the back of both your thighs, making you sit right on top of the pool table now.

He pressed himself between your legs, five fingers digging into the flesh of your still covered thighs while the other found its way to the back of your neck—forcing you back into another heavy, sloppy makeout.

You snaked your hands to the hem of his shirt, tugging at it in a lazy attempt to remove it.

He chuckled, focusing his hands now to the buttons of your jeans "You too."

You let him, your skin now touching the cold wood under you. His bare chest also fully exposed now, heat rushing down to you stomach, feeling the cool air of the fan on the wetness that had formed on your panties.

You tried to close your thighs back together, trying to get some sort of friction.

His eyes flashed darkly, a mocking grin forming on his lips. "Look at you," his hand creeped to your heat, thumb pressing down on your sensitive knob, earning a low moan to come out of you. "already so hot for me."

He pushed your panties aside, now rubbing small circles over your clit as he pushed a single digit into your heat.

You gasped, eyes shutting tight as your rolled your head back, low moans leaving your throat once he added a second digit, savouring how nice just his finger felt inside of you.

"Nuh huh." The hand which held your head steady pulled you back up, making your eyes shoot open, his dark crimson eyes boring into yours. "Look at me." He demanded, his fingers now going faster.

"Look away, and I stop." You nodded at his words, grabbing onto him in any way you could.

The tightness in your core building as he ravishly hit that same spot inside you over and over again. Drinking in every sound that came out of you, imitating the faces your were making in almost a mocking way— which for some reason made you lose it even more.

"P-please, I'm so close-" you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Are you now?" He hums, your heat suddenly feeling empty as he pulled his digits out.

You gasped from the lack of touch, your brows knitting together.

"I want you to cum around my me." He gave you a quick peck on the lips, the sound of his zipper filling the room.

Then as swiftly quick as he was you were back on your feet, turned away from him, his chest flush against your back.

He pushed you down forward on the table, full palm pressed between your shoulder blades. Then he lowered himself slightly towards you, his breath sending shivers down your spine as it hit your ear.

"That's all I could think about," you could feel the tip of his length lightly tease your entrance, "you, bending over the table for me all night whenever I asked." He slowly inched inside, his chest leaving your back, only his hand pressed on your spine kept you down.

The stretch was slow, but god did it feel good. You hadn't noticed your breathing stopping, brows closely knit together.

He let out a low groan his other free hand grabbing the flesh on your hips. He looked down at his length, slowly entering and leaving your cunt as you adjust.

"Swallowing me right up huh," his pace started to pick up slowly, "you're so good at this" He whispered to you, the praise making you tighten around him.

He sighs at the feeling, "You love when I tell you how good you're doing hm," his naila dragging over your back, "such a slut for praise."

You were desperately trying to grab onto anything, but the only thing you could come in contact with was the green velvety finish of the table. Lewd moans leaving your lips with restraint, encouraging him to keep going.

"Come'er" He growled, lacing his fingers around your neck, pulling you back up so you were standing flush against his chest.

He applied light pressure, enough to make you light headed as he kept ravaging your poor hole.

"Do you think that that guy you came in would've done better?" He squeezed a little more, his other and pulling up your shirt so your could be fully exposed, his hand grabbing your breast, squeezing it harshly.

You shook your head, holding onto his arms, steadying yourself from the lightheaded-ness.

"N-no not a chance- ah!" His painted fingers pinched your nipple, making you arch further into the touch.

He hummed in approval, lips finding their way to your left shoulder, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses, leaving small harsh bites on the way, surely they would leave a mark.

You couldn't hold it any longer, the intensity in your gut just about to break. The way he groaned into your ear alone could bring you over to the edge. His fingers skillfully twisting and pinching your sensitive nipple, not forgetting to give attention to the other.

"Shit-" you cursed, you reach to give attention to your poor clit which was throbbing, only to be beaten to it, using his three fingers to draw harsh circles on it.

"That's my job-" He growled, a grin plastered on his face watching you break apart in his hold.

Stars started to form in your vision, "Yes-yes I'm s-so close-" you whined, but he only kept slamming into you, bruising your poor cervix over and over again. His fingers not leaving your cunt until you fully fell apart.

He hissed as you clenched around him, your release coming in waves, his own coming soon after from the tightness, his movements coming to a slow stop.

"Just like that," he made sure you rode off your high, sliding out of you, cum sliding down your inner thigh.

You turned to look at him, his eyes half lidded as you looked at you from head to toe.

"You're a mess right now," he mocked, grabbing your jaw to pull you into another slow makeout.

"Who's fault is that?" you say in between breath.

"Don't get all bratty now-" he hissed with a side of amusement, a taunting look ghosting over his eyes.

"If I have to I'll keep that bar closed t'ill I fuck it all out of you."

“That can’t be good for business.” You retorted pushing further, trying to keep yourself up, legs already trembling. A low “tsk.” left his lips right before he scooped you, placing you back up onto the pool table. Your back flat against it.

“Fuck business,” he lowered himself to your entrance, breath hot against it, his eyes burning into your own, his intentions very clear. “I’gotta brat to tame.”

———

2026©sukuhands, all rights reserved for the scenario/story except for the JJK character.