✨The Pride Deck 2025 character illustrations by @Kyri45 !✨P.2

【 𝐌𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 】 ─── ❝ WHEN A MAN'S SO GOOD WITH KIDS THAT YOU MAKE HIM CARRY YOURS . . . ❞

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : smut . (con)noncon . dubcon . breeding . mommy kink . out of character . daddy kink . p in v ( genitals aren't mentioned so you can imagine the characters with either sex organs ) . multiple orgasms . rough sex . marathon sex . riding . sub!top!reader . dom!top!reader . dom!bottom!characters . sub!bottom!characters . watersports ( piss kink / golden shower ) . edging . feminisation? ( usage of cunt can be interpreted literally of figuratively )

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑❜𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 : this came out of nowhere. I forgot what the inspiration was but the thought suddenly came to me so I decided to write it. This is also my first time writing like this so I hope it still makes sense. Do enjoy. Any interactions are greatly appreciated.

【 UPDATE 】 ──────────── ❝ because people are commenting, I'll explain why Kirara Hoshi is here. I am aware of that Kirara is seen as transfem and I do not deny it. I put her in here solely because of that. Not to misgender her but rather to extrapolate on the fact that she's trans.

The section she's in ⌗ . 𝐈𝐓❜𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 directly adresses that some of these characters do/may not want children because of their physical appearance. If the implication wasn't clear: I personally found the thought interesting if Kirara is content with her new body and refuses to carry a child because she wants to keep her feminine figure — this was always the thought, the initial one. Same with the male characters: they don't want their abs gone or musculature to fade. So a sort of body dysmorphia. They've worked hard to get that figure and they don't want to be in any other state.

But as I said, genitals aren't explicitly mentioned (save for maybe a few times) so you can interpret as the characters as either having male or female sex organs.

Biologically, she was a male, so I thought it still fit the premise. Who knows whether she had any form of surgery at all? There are synthetic props to help people feel affirmed in their gender, who's to say Kirara isn't using them?

⌗ . 𝐈𝐓❜𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

Part of him hated the thought of having a child.

For one reason or the other, some thing (or things) prevented him from indulging in the idea.

Perhaps his insecurities, perhaps the shame of his stellar physique wasting away only to be chubbed and swollen, whatever it was, he was certain in his saying no. Even if the reason wasn't his own selfishness, he couldn'r risk bringing a child into the world. His sanity, his future, his livelihood, all of it would be threatened.

You were adamant and he was persistent. Though he much enjoyed the act of procreation; be it the slaps of your thighs against the backs of his, the unrelenting thrum of your gnawing at his oversensitive, pouring hole; or even the way you'd pull him flush against you as your hot, thick seed infiltrated every crevice of his womb, disallowing him even a micrometre of space from each other's skins.

He couldn't deny how addictive it was: forgetting everything, letting pleasure overload his senses, taking his entire being over like a warm blanket. The constant reminder of the red and purple splotches all over his person stinging whenever he moved an inch or the way he was shaking and boneless on your shared, ruffled, sodden sheets.

The heaviness of his body was real. And so were the tears.

You wished you could say that they were there from his overwhelming satisfaction but you knew that they came from his reluctance. But you had enough.

Sex was a common part of your lives, but ever since you pitched the idea of children, he'd been sure to avoid you. He did not let you anywhere near him, epsecially not between his legs. You refused to leave or stay within the house without at least some relief — seeing families made you restless, and you did not want any innocent passersby witnessing your excitement.

But how could you sate the desire when your lovely (and now slowly encroaching on unbearable) little lover refused to aid in your distress?

Even with much coaxing like gifts, spoiling or pampering him, feeding him compliments or food. He hadn't a need to lift his finger. And he ate it all up.

You bent over backwards for at least some compromise but he never gave in.

So you took.

And took.

And took.

Ignoring his screams, you jackhammered into his clenching orifice, pinning his wrists behind his back in a bruising grip. His knees dug into the mattress as the ferocity of your hips continued to beat both the springs and the bed frame into breaking into submisison.

Even like this, his body couldn't refuse you. He was an odd mix of loose and tight. Tight like always but loosened from constant wear and tear. His screams were indescipherable. It was easy to tell that he was saying something but the gurgling of his saliva mixed with the unbridled moans disguised it entirely. So as much as he was screaming, it was hard to tell whether he truly was against it entirely.

Unfortunately for him — this time — you'd been pent up for much too long. And he hadn't helped in the least. In fact, he only made it worse.

He had an effortless charm and an a sirenic allure. Walking around your shared home in next to nothing, treating what used to be your abode like it was his as well, making himself comfortable with your garments, using your bathing products when he was too lazy to get more of his (even if it was in the cabinet in the bathroom). Or when he left his bodily fluids around, no matter the colour.

Those coupled with your undying devotion towards him and your undeniable attraction to him, it was no surprise that you snapped.

You barely even remember how it started. You knew you saw red and the next thing you knew? He was crying, screaming, and writhing under you as he begged you to stop. But as he did, his body was begging you for more. The mixed signals confounded you, but you chose to ignore him entirely and focus on your own pleasure.

The dinner table had long given out from his first five orgasms, one leg breaking from the speed and vigour of your thrusts (and his constant thrashing. And no thanks from the slap he delivered to you in trying to shove you off him while snapping you back yo your senses. But you didn't. You just got furious and the red mark on your cheek sealed his fate). The bed was damn near close to irreparable by his nth orgasm — only your 3rd.

Then it finally gave out.

The wood broke and splintered, the bottom half of the bed now on the ground, leaving the bed in a slant. You didn't care but he did. The jolt and the new angle — thanks to gravity — impaled him deeper onto your relentless cock. Your caging grip on his hips making it far, far worse than need be.

Even with the handicap of the uneven bed, your thrusts did not waver. In fact, it felt like they refused to. The slaps of skin slightly negated due to the new angle, and now it felt like your hips were glued to his blustered ass. Instead of pulling out and pushing back in, it was your cock digging deeper and deeper into his worn, wet walls, the hilt of your cock never moving an inch from where he gripped onto you so nicely.

Left with nothing to properly grip onto anymore, his hands scampered across the sheets, unfortunate in finding either pillow or bolster to perchance muffle his unwilling sounds or hide the shame in his face. Instead, they traversed to your wrists, almost trying to claw you off him. And once again, to no avail. His arms were shaky, boneless, and heavy. Though he may have gotten a few scratches on you, they were nothing compared to those he could indent into your skin 'til beads of red started trailing down the ridges of your physique — when he was sobre and unimpaired.

Although, let's be real here. Even if you were the one who wanted to change from those long, deep strokes into his sweet spot; to the kind that never once moved the slightest bit to or from his hole, none of it would be that easy had his quivering cunt not been the grippiest thing known to man.

It was almost impressive. At times when he'd offer (or you insisted) that he cockwarmed you — maybe you were 'cold'. Maybe you were bored. Maybe he wanted to tease you. Maybe he wanted you to lose your mind and fuck him like a rabid animal in heat — he'd manage to take control by clenching around you, and you'd falter, growing weak in the knees and holding his midsection tighter as you whimper and pant into his neck, back, or chest. You couldn't even warm him, his control over the muscles in that region stumped you and left you defenceless.

Not only the pelvic floor muscles, but he had a conscientious system of moving his hips: gyrating, grinding, thrusting, in circles or up and down. You were never able to take your eyes off him.

Your eyes were doomed to follow the rhythm of his tantalising hips — like a snake to a snakecharmer's melody.

That is, of course, when he got what he wanted.

He had you wrapped around his finger, yes, but you had your limits.

Safe to say, he had long blown past yours.

You felt like his face in the mattress was a punishment towards you. He riled you up and refused to listen or reason so why would you spare him the shame? He deserved to be ridiculed. You could have taken him by the window or right outside your home and let him understand more intimately about how debilitating the thought of a family was to you.

When a wife nuzzles into her husband as he has their kid hoisted in his other arm; you'd twitch inside him and move him harder onto your throbbing cock.

When children play together and soon run back to their parents: you'd quicken your pace the further away the were from you.

When a child was crying from falling and scraping a knee or simply out of childish brattiness; you'd hold onto him tighter & slow the pace down to deep, slow grinds — but never missing that spot that made him see stars.

And so, you flipped him onto his back — unable to pull out in the process which only screws him deeper onto your cock and left him trembling and spasming around your girth, leaking a little more — and continued.

"We're not stopping until you're surely pregnant, brat."

Then you pistoned your hips, the slapping of skin resuming once again, accompanied by the squleching of his insides sucking you only deeper in, and strands connecting your skin from the aftermath of your many combined releases.

You had no mercy for him and pushed your weight onto the backs of his thighs, pinning his ankles by his head.

His body screamed at the stretch because he wasn't that flexible. Sure, he kept his appearances up but flexibility wasn't the aim. So in tandem, a ragged scream tore out of his mouth — still mixed with sounds of pleasure — as more tears spilled out of him (and his hole).

"Be good and give me a family, baby." You panted, your hips moving recklessly like it was trying to spell what you were saying. Same could be said for how and when your tip pressed into that spongy spot. Almost like morse code. But an unbearably riveting one.

He hadn't an inkling what his last thought was before he passed out.

Now you had free reign over him and he was unable to stop you.

God knows how long it'd take before he woke up.

So you were sure to make the most of it, in or out of his consciousness.

ㅤㅤ ── gojo satoru, sukuna, mydei, kirara hoshi, tartaglia childe, zhongli, wriothesley, qiuyuan, michael kaiser, itoshi sae, itoshi rin, amai mask, painter (edgar valden), photographer (joseph desaulniers), cueist (marcus thorne), poseidon, beelzebub, tsukishima kei, lorenzo berkshire, tom riddle, mattheo riddle, angel devil, hayakawa aki, zen'in naoya

⌗ . 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒, 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐒, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇

Having kids was charming but not an immediate concern. He had an affinity for them but he was content with or without them. Or at least, it wasn't enough of a priority that it had to consume his entire life.

His childhood may not have been entirely fulfilling but whose is, really? It is expected of the mind to not be 100% content with themselves or their situations. Even with the love of your life — with all the good you could possibly worship them with, there is always a flaw or two that was undesirable in presence and perhaps frequency. After all, it is human nature to not be perfect. And those imperfections are what make us human.

The raw, feeling part of us that ties us to our corporeal forms, that ties us down to worldly posessions and desires. That part that disallows us from being 100% in our divine counterpart.

But if it was sin to commit to those 'atrocities', why was it made at all?

One could bargain that it was not created in the goodness of the giving one's heart, but then why allow it at all?

The act of procreation is a beautiful thing. An intense sharing of vulnerabilities and passions that bring lovers to their closest states, baring their insecurities for the other to worship and strengthen.

Gentle kisses pressed into his skin, you made sure to show your adoration to your lovely partner. The pressure of your lips onto his skin was enough for him to feel but not hard enough to bruise.

Through time, toil, trouble, you had grown with him and seen through the worst parts — new or old. You were there for him and he was for you.

It was out of nowhere. You asked his opinion about children as he was coming out of a shower — fully nude. He found better comfort in the lack of restraints — where you went up behind him and wrapped your arms around his torso, sinking your nose into his nape where his natural musk was most prominent.

He did take his time to think it through. On one hand, having a family was enchanting. On the other, would that get in the way of anything? (Sex-wise or not)

As he thought it over, your touch slowly grew feverish, pressing down into his skin at times. Your hand never parted from the expanse of his midriff while the other stayed particularly close to his genitals.

He'd look so good pregnant . . .

"Babe?"

Carrying a kid . . . Carrying our kid . . .

He'll look so cute . . . Round and swollen . . .

"Baby?"

One isn't enough . . . Three is still too little . . .

"..."

I need to get him pregnant . . .

"BABY!"

You looked up from his neck and hummed, sinking back down in an instant.

"Yeah?"

"Wanna make babies?"

What.

"What?" you asked, a little stunned. He smirked, "You heard what I said." He turned to face you, his body still caged in your arms as you stood there still paralysed from his words.

"You were also mumbling." His arms slithered up your torso, deliberately teasing your chest before intertwining his fingers behind your neck, caressing the hairs on the back of it — a rather damning weak spot of yours which always let him succeed in drawing a whimper or a shiver from you. "Barely."

"Take me to bed, daddy."

Your arms shot down to under his thighs, lifting him up with ease. You also did not waste your time in devouring his lips; all teeth, tongue and pure hunger behind your actions.

That word honestly took you off-guard. You basically forgot that you too would be a father should you sire children. Clearly your mind was preoccupied with the exciting fantasies of your lover being the parent to your children. So preoccupied that you being a father was negated in the equation. A more than just significant portion of it and still you cared only for his involvment of it.

The equation that would achieve your dream would be [you] + [him] = [family].

Though there is a less direct equation that really is the true form of it. The prior one was the simplified version of it. And that equation was ([you] + [him] - clothes) = long, sweaty, bed-rocking, window-fogging, throat-parching, back-arching, hole-clenching, neighbour-complaining sex.

The worst — or best — kind. Whatever you interpret it to be.

At times clothes ended up in tatters and you'd have to hide from society until the refraction period really set in and the heat dissipated. Because unfortunately, your clothes were not just victims of physical trauma but they underwent the worst psychological trauma by getting caught in the middle of your skirmishes — loads and loads splashing onto them and coating them so thickly it'd take days for them to dry.

This time, the lack of clothes on him gave you the misfortune of not having that opportunity. Though it was neither good nor bad. Access was easy but sometimes the piling tension made the reward much more tempting.

Regardless, the straining of your cock against your bottoms was certainly thankful for the lesser amount of barriers.

Once you had him on the bed, you rushed to fish your cock out.

He stared openly, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Watching you struggle was delightful. Your desparation was palpable and amusing to say the least. But so was seeing your thick, red cock flop out and leaking onto his heated skin.

It'd defintely take no less than a whisper of a breath to get you to cum in an instant.

You sprad his legs further and lined up with his entrance, his hips moving over your tip just to fuck with you.

You whined and gripped his hip with your free hand, looking pleadingly into his eyes. He simply rolled his eyes in fond mirth and stilled his hips, allowing you some peace of mind.

You let out a shuddering breath and pressed the tip in, whimpering his name once it made contact with his tender flesh. You heard him chuckle but you didn't react. He had every right to laugh at you.

Here you were being needy and desperate, so unlike your usually more composed and level-headed self.

Rationality was out the door. The world shrunk to just the two of you.

The tip of your cock flared with heat any and everytime it even grazed his skin, sending jolts of pleasure into your system that had your toes curling.

It felt like you were teasing yourself even by doing nothing. And before you knew it, you had slammed yourself into him, buried to the hilt and still trying to go deeper.

However, you weren't fully in control of yourself so instead of hitting his sweet spot like you always did. You instead jammed yourself up toward his torso like you were trying to come out of his stomach.

In place of a debilitating, sinewed moan; you were treated to a raw scream from the man underneath you who clutched onto your wrists at that very thrust.

It left him panting like he got the wind knocked out of him 'til he had the need to cover his face with his arm from the shock.

But you were too lost in the sauce.

Your hips moved in quick, shallow thrusts — as if your body was moving on its own and only half-heartedly. Just pure instinct. No heart.

"S-sstooopppp . . . " he whined (slurred, really) — unsatisfied that you're not putting your back into it. He only accepted your 120%. 100% minimum. Nothing less. But more is always welcome.

Of course you didn't register his words and leaned over him instead.

This time, however, logic may not have been at the forefront of your thoughts but the feeling part was.

You could feel every twitch, clench and flutter he had to offer you. You chased that feeling, needing the entirety of your cock overwhelmed by his reactions.

Letting all your body weight on your arms caging his head in, your thrusts grew determined and measured. Almost mechanical in nature but programmed to bring both of you over the edge.

Every buck of your hips nailed him in the exact spot that always made his legs shake a little more everytime something impacts it. He whined and cried right into your unhearing ear, moaning all sorts of things that grew more and more intelligible as the seconds tick by; further obscured by everytime your skin met his.

"I'm gonna cum . . . "

The statement could have come from either you or him. Maybe both of you. The lines blurred, time no longer mattered. It wasn't clear how long it'd been nor how many rounds you'd insisted on but his hole was an interesting mix of puffy, gripping, sloppy, and tightening.

Every build up was less and less felt.

His walls were slick and rubbery. Almost as if you'd hear squeaking instead of squelching — if you put your ear right where you were relentlessly hammering into his insides. Like a cloth wiping onto a window, it was an easy slip-and-slide.

"Ffffuuuucccckkk~" he moaned, his eyes rolling into the back of his skull. His mouth gaped open, one hand gripping onto your bicep, the other scratching up your back; his back bowed off the sheets, toes curling in the air. "Fucking co— aahhnn~!! come inside m-meEE—!! DADDY!!! " he screeched into the air, spurting his release the second yours made impact with his sweet spot.

You both panted, globs of cum pushed out with every pulse and twitch of your still-hard cock; aided with his never-ending clenching and sutble grinds or the even more obvious convulsing of his form that left his breaths stuttering and melodious, whines mixed into the little whimpers and bated breaths.

Even dazed, you never neglected the attention he always craved. You leaned down and kissed him through the high, letting the heat die down just a little so he could have a bit of a breather.

You kissed down his neck with demure, gentle pecks — lingering long enough so he was aware of you, but still not long enough where it'd descend into degeneracy quickly.

Your free hand cupped the bottom of his distended torso, caressing the softened lines of his musculature. You reveled in the slight bump — an impressive feat on your end. It was a sweet moment. You smiled once again at the thought of a child, loving one, feeding one, raising one. And him alongside you.

He was your perfect person. An absolute angel and a sure godsend. You'd never see yourself with anyone else.

"Who said you could stop? Do I look pregnant to you?"

Or maybe he's just a slut.

ㅤㅤ ── varka, dick grayson, phainon, gepard landau, hiromi higuruma, thoma, flins, ifa, kinich, venti, lyney, neuvillette, heizou, aventurine, boothill, imbibitor lunae, shidō ryūsei, hiori yo, the ripper, prospector (norton campbell), hermit (alva lorenz), shaka, apollo, hinata shoyo, nishinoya yū, theodore nott, theseus scamander, sirius black, remus j. lupin, light yagami, stephen gevanni, denji,

⌗ . 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒?

He's always wanted a family. Were you that thick?

He'd spend hours staring at catalogues, advertisments, other families — anything that related to the idea of growing a family. Even things that were unrelated, his mind would warp the thing or concept itself and somehow rationalise it to having children.

This man had long wanted your babies. Much, much before you did.

At times, he would stare longingly in a distracted haze. Otherwise, he'd be touching himself to the thought of your breeding him. Cum overflowing out of his hole, his uterus flooded with your combined releases.

He'd wrap his legs or arms around you to lock you in, keeping a tight grip with his puffy, used pussy clenching around your throbbing cock — spent or not.

The moment you brought the idea to him. Confident or sheepish. Or even if you ignored all decorum and slammed him against a wall or threw him on the bed, it wasn't long before the tables flipped and you along with it.

You intended to forgo this entire breeding endeavour on your own terms, but the yearning and misery you caused him powered out your recent fascination.

Soon enough, you'd find yourself bound to the bed, his legs bracketing yours. And with in inhumane pace, wetness, and tightness, he bounced on your reddened cock like his life depended on it.

"Finally gonna make me a mommy?" He spat at your drooling self, feeling every twitch or leak your cock did while nestled deep inside him.

It was difficult to chose: take all he wanted from you or tease you for making him wait.

In the end it switched between both. The first few orgasms he pulled out of you were out of raw desperation, back-to-back and relentless. He gave you neither break nor refractory period, slamming himself on your half-hard or even fully softened cock. But it takes no less than one clench and you were rock hard once again and kissing into that sweet, sweet spot inside of him that made the world fade around him.

Later, however, it was clear that you were completely out of it and had no say over your releases. Some were dry (which he then proceeded to mock you about it or whine as he did not wish to waste anymore time being empty of your offspring), some were weak and little in volume, some were thick and bountiful. But it didn't stop there.

He spent hours getting his fill of your addictive cum, so he never let you out of the bed or move from where you were trapped being straddled by him. Before he even knew it, some of your releases were unbearably warm but focused; like a stream or a hose with high pressure.

That's when he realised that you were urinating.

Finally expelling it, it flooded his insides as it did your cum. He would've found it hot had it not been the 'replacement' for your semen. So he belittled you about it and instead of pulling off your cock in disgust, he kept bouncing on your oversensitive cock with the pretense of: "Everytime you piss inside me, I'm going to take 3 more orgasms out of you."

So he did.

It was impossible to tell how long time had passed or how many actual orgasms he manages to pull out of you. You were out of it and he was nowhere near done.

It got to a point where he got too tired to keep riding you. But he — once again — did not let you go. He spoke, but you couldn't focus. You could only feel movement: he took off the restraints around your wrists and pulled you between his legs as he lied down.

Then he brought your hands onto his waist while he locked his legs around you.

The second he slipped you back inside him, you keened and nearly doubled over. Your cock felt like it was rubbed raw. It was red, a vibrant, blushing red. It felt like your every nerve ending was exposed and he still wanted more?

A sudden tug from your 'leash' made you whine. You didn't even realise that he tied your wrist restraints onto your neck to act like a leash.

"Fuck me, daddy." he commanded, panting, but certain.

Your breathing was ragged and completely unstable. But he tugged once again with the same command — only darker this time — and you relucted, moving your hips.

But you did it too weakly, so he tugged harder this time and you actually whimpered trying to close your legs. Still, the longer you didn't move, the more and the harder he'd tug. And when that wasn't enough, he'd start slapping you back into sobriety.

An extremely short-lived one unfortunately.

So when you finally managed to start fucking into his heat like he wanted it, you couldn't stop any of the pathetic and incomprehensible noises that came out of you. Like a kicked puppy or a deaf person, your words were jumbled, incomplete, and mixed with breathy whimpers and high-pitched whines.

All your muscles were screaming at you, begging for rest and rehydration. But no. Until his torso was bloated and all the ridges of his abdominals were completely blurred into a rounded softness, he would not let you stop.

You, on the other hand, were moving mindlessly but you could barely process the sensations. There was a light tingling between your legs and your cock felt swollen to an ungodly degree. At this rate you'd believe that you couldn't get hard anymore.

But that wasn't the case. Not with the tip of your erect cock digging into all the wrong places, the tightness of his gummy walls springing it back to life. You were hitting everywhere except that one spot but neither you nor he could get you to get it right where he wanted it.

He dug his heels into your ass, moving you with his thighs in an effort to guide you there. To no avail. You were too out of it; pace too sloppy; hips stuttering erratically — the depth and length of your strokes were completely unpredictable.

He whined but his trembling thighs were useless, so he had to let your overstimulated state attempt to breed him further.

Unfortunately you gave out. Or at least your thighs did. You fell on top of him, shaking like a leaf in the wind. You ended up drooling onto him while he stroked your hair.

Perhaps he took pity on your frazzled state so he let you drool, whine, and tear up onto him; letting you a moment's rest as he lovingly dragged his fingers through your sweat-slicked hair. He continued with gentle kisses onto your head, content with just your twitching member buried into his sopping hole for the moment.

"You still owe me babies, daddy." he chuckled into your hair, letting you doze off for a moment. But when you wake up? You're not getting out of him.

ㅤㅤ ── hiroki dan, jason todd, geto suguru, kamisato ayato, kaveh, luuk, xiangli yao, brant, jiyan, hugo vlad, wu chang, acrobat (mike morton), seer (eli clark), knight (richard sterling), qin shi huang, hades, oikawa tōru, sugawara kōshi, cedric diggory, newt scamander, l lawliet,

© MOROSENTHAL ꒷꒦︶ ๋ 2026 ꒷꒦︶꒷ : : DO NOT use, plagiarise, copy, steal, repost, feed to ai for training, etc. for any of my works. layouts & themes are credited to me, do not copy or take inspiration from those either.

Your writing has me hooked and I thought it’d be cool to send you an ask. If you decide to do it, let loose and do whatever you want with it!

enter— your pretty house husband !!

status: edited + proofread

synopsis: your friends come over for a game night, and you can’t help but want to show him off.

word count: 3k

cw: porn with no plot, AMAB reader, FTM char (AFAB terminology used), established relationship, dom! reader, top!reader, sub!char, bottom!char, free use, exhibitionism, voyeurism, pussy slapping, fingering, praise kink, possessiveness.

note: thank you so much for the request! i hope it met your expectations! 🫶

the living room buzzes with laughter and the clatter of dice as your friends settle in, but your attention keeps drifting to him.

he—your beautiful, obedient boy, your pretty house husband, the perfect display of submission and want—moves through the kitchen with practiced ease: refilling glasses, offering snacks, wiping crumbs from the counter with a gentle, almost absentminded grace that makes your chest tighten and your cock throb.

he’s meticulous, always making sure every glass is full, every snack perfectly arranged, every detail attended to just the way you love. the house sparkles under his care—pillows fluffed, candles lit, the faint scent of his favorite cookies wafting from the kitchen. he anticipates your needs, bringing you your favorite drink before you even ask, checking that you’re comfortable, giving you that sweet, adoring smile that says he lives to please you.

the curve of his ass as he bends over the table is a private invitation, a promise, making you shift in your seat and clench your fists to keep from dragging him into your lap right there.

every time he moves it’s for you, whether he knows it or not—every flick of his wrist, every dimpled smile, every time the hem of his shorts rides up, showing off the soft swell of his thighs and the barest hint of his pussy beneath the fabric.

he tucks stray hair behind his ear, cheeks pink, and his eyes dart to you—always checking, making sure you want for nothing, and always craving your attention.

you do notice—every detail, every shiver, every unconscious arch of his back that presses his ass out for you to admire.

his shirt clings to him just right, outlining the curve of his waist and the soft skin you want to mark up all over again, and you don’t miss how the fabric of his shorts hugs the fullness of his thighs, the hint of wetness darkening the inseam.

he’s so soft, so pretty, and when he fusses over napkins or straightens a stack of games, you know he’s doing it for your praise.

"do you need anything else, love?" he asks quietly, voice gentle and eager as he leans closer. the question is for you, but his eyes flick to your friends, as if hoping they, too, will notice just how attentive he is.

you grin, letting your hand brush his hip. "you're perfect, baby. keep showing off for me."

he blushes deeper, ducking his head as he returns to his tasks, a little smile tugging at his lips.

when he presses a kiss to your shoulder, his lips linger a second too long, and his fingers skim your waist as if asking you to claim him. sometimes he leans in so close you catch the faint sweetness of his skin, the unique scent of him and his soap of choice, and you wonder if your friends can see the flush on his cheeks, the evidence of your teeth on his neck just visible where his collar falls open.

later, as he passes you another drink, one of your friends jokes, "careful, he'll spoil you. wish mine took care of me like that."

you smirk, pulling him gently into your lap for a second. "maybe you should take notes."

he laughs, barely above a whisper, "i like taking care of you."

every time he glances at you, it’s a plea to be seen, to be shown off—your boy, your house husband, your needy little thing.

you adore how he blushes under your gaze, how he soaks up your praise, desperate to be recognized as yours, his ears burning pink when the others tease him about being the perfect host.

you want everyone to see how lucky you are, how much you crave him, how you’d bend him over the kitchen table or the back of the couch at any opportunity—spread him open, mouth on his pussy, tongue buried deep until he’s shaking, sobbing, begging, just to remind him—and everyone else—who he belongs to.

he’s yours. he wants the world to know it, and you’ll never tire of letting him put himself on display.

your friends sometimes complain, half-joking and half-envious, about the way you and he disappear together at gatherings or the not-so-innocent marks he tries to hide the next day.

they tease you for being insatiable, for how you can’t seem to keep your hands off him even when company’s over, for the way you look at him like you’re always moments from dragging him away.

sometimes you catch them rolling their eyes or making snide comments about your lack of self-restraint, but you only feel a surge of pride—why should you hide your desire, your luck, the way he’s yours in every way?

what a useless thing to do.

you want them to see, to know just how thoroughly you adore him, how much he craves your attention and how gladly he gives himself to you.

there’s a part of you that wants to show off, to let everyone witness the way he melts for you, the way you can make him blush and squirm with just a look or a whispered word.

their complaints only make you bolder, eager to prove that what you have with him is something worth envying, worth flaunting, a love and hunger so intense it can’t—and shouldn’t—be hidden.

you want them to imagine what it’s like when you pull him onto your lap and make him ride you, slow and deep, until he’s shaking and sobbing into your shoulder—how his pussy clenches around you, greedy for every inch, how you hold him open and watch him drip all over your cock, gasping as you fuck him through wave after wave of needy pleasure.

you want them to know how he begs for you to fill him up, how he whimpers for your tongue, your fingers, desperate for the stretch and the praise, all the filthy words that make him come undone.

you want them to imagine the nights where you bend him over the kitchen counter or pin him against the wall and fuck him hard without so much as a word, where his cries echo through the house, and you make sure every mark you leave is one he’ll wear with pride the next day.

you want your friends to see, to really understand, how you own him—how he’s yours to tease, yours to ruin, yours to show off however you please. he’s the perfect display, your favorite prize, and you’d let the world watch if it meant they’d know just how beautiful, how desperate, how absolutely wrecked he is for you every single night.

and you notice it—the way your friends shift in their seats, the way their eyes linger, the flush on their cheeks or the subtle bulge in their pants betraying just how much watching turns them on.

sometimes you catch them glancing away, embarrassed to be caught, but you know they’re imagining what it would be like to have him, to see him come undone for them the way he does for you.

their hands sometimes drift to their laps, knuckles pale as they try to discreetly adjust themselves, biting back groans. they're not sneaky with it at all. the gall, really.

you see the hunger in their eyes, the way their lips part, breaths shallow, as they witness the two of you together.

tonight, you can’t help yourself. you'd indulge it.

when the conversation grows loud and everyone is focused on the board, the urge becomes too strong to resist.

you slide your hand around his waist, fingers curling possessively against his soft skin, and tug him gently further into your lap, right there in front of your friends.

at first, he freezes—shocked, flustered, his breath catching as he processes the sudden intimacy.

you steady him with a firm hand on his hip, guiding him to straddle you.

his cheeks burn as your friends notice and laugh, egging you on with teasing whistles and catcalls, their playful jeers mixing with the nervous energy between you.

"damn, get a room!" someone jeers, but you just smirk and hold him tighter.

"nah, i like it here," you say, voice low but clear. "want everyone to see how pretty he is for me."

your hands wander boldly, squeezing his bare thighs as his shorts ride up, the muscles beneath your fingers tensing with each touch.

you press kisses to his neck, lips skimming over flushed skin, and you savor the faint, shivery whimper he lets out.

from where he straddles you, knees bracketing your hips, his back arches, chest rising and falling with fast, shallow breaths.

your friends can’t help but stare; his shirt has ridden up, exposing the soft curve of his waist, the marks you’ve left behind from earlier.

you shift him so he’s facing the room, to his surprise, straddling your lap with his back pressed tight to your chest, every inch of him on display for your friends.

you push his legs wide, planting your hands firmly on his inner thighs, keeping him open.

his shorts barely cover anything now, riding up so high that the soft skin of his inner thighs is completely exposed, and you let your friends catch every trembling breath, every flush across his cheeks.

"what're you doing?" he whines.

you whisper in his ear, low and teasing, letting everyone else hear: "let them look, baby. you're perfect like this."

with a slow, deliberate motion, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and pull them down over his hips, letting them slide to mid-thigh.

the room falls silent as you expose him—soft, pretty, dripping for you—his thighs spread wide and nothing left to hide.

the flush on his face deepens, lips parted as he sucks in a shaky breath, eyes darting between your friends and your hand.

for a moment, you pause, letting the anticipation build, then you take his hand and guide it between his own thighs, urging him to spread himself open for the audience.

far from shrinking away in shame, instead, with trembling fingers, he obeys, like you knew he would, pulling himself wide, revealing his slick, needy entrance to everyone watching, his breath coming in fast, shuddering gasps as he shows off the most intimate part of himself.

the soft pink folds part easily under his fingers, glistening with arousal, the delicate rim fluttering each time he breathes or you whisper in his ear.

his entrance is flushed and swollen, slick with need, the inner walls pulsing and glossy in the light—so wet you can see the sheen of it catching on his knuckles.

it’s a beautiful, obscene sight: the way his hole clenches and relaxes, shiny and inviting, on full display for everyone in the room.

you keep a possessive arm wrapped around his waist, whispering filthy encouragement into his ear while your other hand joins his, rolling your thumb over the sensitive, wet seam and angling his hips so the room has a perfect view of how ready he is for you.

letting your friends witness every detail, you murmur, "show them how much you love this, baby. let them see you inside."

each time he spreads himself wider, exposing the flutter of his entrance and the shine of arousal, your pride grows.

every breath he takes is visible, chest fluttering, his body straining to stay still despite the attention.

your friends watch, rapt and silent, as you make a show of it—of how easily he gives in to you, how much he trusts you.

"look at him," you murmur to the room. “all mine. just for me to play with."

your fingers trace over the slickness between his legs, and you feel his whole body shiver in your arms.

nothing to hide—your pretty house husband, shuddering as you let your palm cup his heat, thumb circling, pressing just enough to make him choke on a gasp. it was this strange feeling that everyone was looking at him, which was uncomfortable.

perhaps because there were so many people whose attention were only on him. it rivaled nothing else. even deep breaths didn't clear his clogged chest, so he tried taking a big breath to expand his lungs. but there was still a sticky feeling as if his alveoli weren't fully expanding.

nothing comes out.

his head falls back against your shoulder, eyes fluttering, mouth open as you whisper, "that's it, let them see how perfect you are for me."

you can feel how wet he is for you, slick and needy, and you let your fingers slip lower, teasing at his entrance with slow, deliberate strokes.

the anticipation makes him tremble, thighs quivering as you slide one finger inside.

his walls flutter around you, every pulse a silent plea for more, and you relish the hungry, jealous looks you draw from the crowd.

he clings to your arm, hips rolling up to meet your hand, desperate for more, his breath coming in short, whimpering gasps, head dropping back against your shoulder as he surrenders to your touch.

you add a second finger, slowly stretching him open, feeling his body tense and then yield, the lewd, wet sound of your fingers working him echoing through the charged silence.

his rim clenches, fluttering at the intrusion, as you curl your fingers just right, searching for that sensitive spot inside.

your thumb circles his clit with teasing, featherlight strokes, coaxing out shivers and broken cries, his voice growing hoarse with need.

your onlookers watch, transfixed, as you work him open for everyone to see—the way his thighs quake, the way his body arches, the way he bites his lip to keep from begging aloud. unable to look away from the way he squirms and gasps, from the lewd, sounds filling the room, from the way you stretch him wide and make him beg, knowing they’re hard and aching just from watching.

you take pride in how you can make your crowd of friends so desperate, so jealous, so turned on they can barely sit still, all because he’s yours to ruin and flaunt. too bad for them.

the air is thick with the scent of his arousal, and you take pride in just how much he responds to you, even with watching eyes.

when you find it, his thighs shake, hips bucking uncontrollably as you press down just right, forcing a helpless cry from his lips, nails digging into your arm as you thrust into him, slow and deep, showing everyone the way he falls apart for you.

you can feel him squeezing around your fingers, his body fluttering as you keep up the relentless rhythm—fingers scissoring, stretching him wider, making it impossible for him to hide just how much he loves being filled and put on display.

wet, squelching sounds fill the room, obscene and shameless as you piston your fingers in and out, your palm pressed tight against his mound, grinding against his swollen clit. his attempt to steady his breathing was futile. scraping the inner walls recklessly and thrusting rapidly into the unsuspecting mucosa of his insides, had made him practically forget when to breathe.

then, cruelly, you pull your hand back just enough to let it hover over his pussy, letting the suspense build as he trembles in your lap.

you bring it down with a sharp, deliberate slap, the sound a wet crack that echoes through the room.

the sting makes him gasp, his whole body jolting—hips bucking, thighs quaking, his pussy clenching and gushing fresh slick as the sensation ripples through every nerve.

he whimpers, legs spreading wider without even thinking, as you rub your hand over the reddening skin, feeling the heat and the way he pulses against your palm.

you slap him again, harder this time, and watch as his pussy grows even slicker, the tender flesh flushed deep pink, glistening with arousal and shining in the light.

each smack sends fresh waves of pleasure and humiliation through his trembling body—he arches, moans, his entrance fluttering and leaking, coating your fingers as you tease him between slaps.

his abs tense, back arching, eyes squeezed shut as he rides out the sting and the praise, his body begging for more even as he squirms in your lap.

your friends watch, transfixed and silent, as you alternate between spanking and fondling, showing off how easily he melts for you, how much he loves the attention, the roughness, the ache.

his whimpers turn shameless, louder, as you murmur filthy praise in his ear and slap him again, letting everyone see the way he gushes for you—slick streaming out, his thighs shaking, desperate and needy, lost in the sensation.

the next slap lands perfectly, and this time his whole body jerks—his pussy tightening and fluttering around your fingers before he suddenly goes still, every muscle tensed.

the impact resonated and there’s a split second of breathlessness, before he lets out a broken moan as he gushes hard against you, his milky cum burst forth from him, release soaking your hand, the evidence of his pleasure on full display for everyone to see.

you hold him tight, whispering encouragement as he trembles and rides out the aftershocks, completely undone by the sting and the praise, lost in the bliss of being shown off and claimed so openly.

one of your friends finally breaks the tension, voice low and admiring: "god, he's really well trained, isn't he?"

another pipes up, laughing gently, "you've got him so obedient—look at how he just takes it, all pretty and eager."

someone else whistles, adding, "wish mine listened like that. he's perfect for you."

don’t you know it well.

their compliments wash over both of you, fueling your pride and making your house husband squirm in your lap, his face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure.

you catch his eye and grin, letting him bask in the praise. you should do this more often.

Denial

Omega!Bottom!FTM Kenma x Alpha!Top!Male Reader

Kenma couldn't force himself to think about any hot girls whenever the two of you would get off using each other's bodies. Not even that hot domme he saw on twitter could beat you.

🏐 Word Count: 2,021 🏐

AFAB Language Used | (had this in my drafts since DEC.. i forgor)

CW: Mild Dub-Con, Thigh Fucking, Oral Sex, Daddy Kink, Praise Kink, Voice Kink, Virginity Loss, Fingering, Creampie

“This is just what best friends do, Kenma.” You reassure him as you rub your cock in between his thighs.

he flinches when you smack the shaft of your cock right against his slit. using your tip to nudge at his pretty clit, you tease the cute little nub with just enough stimulation to make him writhe against the sheets.

placing your hands on either side of his head to hover over him, you begin rubbing your cock between his warm, silky folds. your hips move at a steady rhythm with each thrust forward making the head of your cock kiss his fat clit. the pinpointed stimulation has him teetering the edge of an orgasm, but it’s not enough. soon, your shaft is coated in his sweet juices, making for an even more pleasurable slide against his plush lips. you can feel how his cunt yearns for you, his warm folds clinging onto your shaft like he never wanted to let you go.

he can feel your warm, labored breaths against his face as you approach your climax. the hot, heavy throbbing of cock on his sex also betrays this. your hips suddenly still, and then you’re coming, making sure to cover his folds in your sticky semen. you use your fingers to smear your cum thoroughly in every crevice of his pussy. the act of possession makes him go red up to his ears.

without warning, you begin harshly thumbing at his clit. while pressing down with great pressure on his sensitive nub, you lean down to lock your lips with his in a passionate kiss. as your tongues move in an intimate dance, you pinch his clit between your index and middle finger, making him moan into your mouth as he comes.

Since your grades have finally become better, your stepdad fulfills his promise—on your bedroom doggy-style. His warm and moist cunt squeezing your cock and inch by inch filled him. You set a camera Infront of him as well, as his eyes rolled back.

You went inside slowly. But you saw his finger opening himself up, it somehow encouraged you, snapping your hips and sin full sounds escaped his very lips. Sounds of skin slapping against each other while your finger moved to play with his clit. You couldn't even last long by how good his pussy was. Immediately orgasmed and filled his pussy. Your stepdad shock his head his disapproval.

"You can't handle such cunt, don't you?" he teased, as your cum dripped down. His voice fell to hint of mockery. "C'mon, don't disappoint me."

That tone? Oh how much you're done. You grabbed your stepdad's hips as your nails marked his flesh. You pound that pussy once more, your hand moved to his hair. You leaned into his ear, to saw your stepdad crying and moaning loudly. "You speak to me with that tone?" you asked, a whine was his answer.

"ah, ah... M/n!!" Not my name." "Oh! Daddy!! oh yeah ah!! Yes!! Fuck me harder!!"

You kept slamming your hips over his cunt, your cum slowly leaking out. But you didn't care, not after he mocked you and the fact you felt his hot heat hugging your cock as if it begged to be breed.

But you stopped, pulled out for a moment. A whine escaped your stepdad's lips. "Daddy? c'mon.... I want your cum..."

Thinking about a t4t relationship with an older bf who cages you between his thighs and makes you suck his dick, not caring that you're literally going out of breath with how tightly he's holding you against his crotch, the wet sound of your tongue against his heat making him forget all about your comfort...

He knows you even better than you know yourself, though. If you really were uncomfortable, you'd always tap his thighs and he'd let you go, watching as you pant and wheeze with his sweet slick coating your chin, your pupils blown wide from your near death (/not serious) experience and the way your own arousal twitches in your pants, begging for the slightest bit of attention.

But you don't. You don't even try to stop him, and he couldn't be more proud of his boy for being so content with just eating him out. It's really just more of a turn on for him to watch you try to hump the bed like a pathetic mutt in heat while still pleasuring him, your hands not once going towards your own needs.

The One Shot

What happens when you have to take care of your male wife cuntboy and you guys' little kiddo?

Top!male reader, male wifey cuntboy, male pregnancy, baby bearing, SMUT, nsfw.

Weeks blur into a whirlwind of quiet preparations, your hands guiding Ethan's every step as you plan the small, traditional wedding. He insists on keeping it proper—traditional vows etched in ancient script, respectful guests limited to close family seated in careful order by age and relation, the ceremony steeped in the cultural weight of your shared heritage. Purity, commitment, unbreakable bonds; it's all a perfect cage for him, disguised as love. You watch him fuss over the details, his small frame bustling with nervous energy, huge breasts shifting under his shirt, and your obsession tightens like a vice. He's radiant already, and soon, he'll be yours in every way the world demands.

The day arrives under a soft autumn sun, the intimate venue a modest hall adorned with red silk and white lilies, symbols of eternal fidelity. Ethan stands at the altar in a flowing white dress that clings to his curves like a second skin, the fabric straining against his massive, milky breasts, the deep neckline barely containing their heavy swell. His big, round ass jiggles subtly with each anxious shift, the dress hugging his plump hips and the secret of his pregnant belly just beginning to show. He looks too fucking sexy, a vision of shy innocence begging to be claimed, and you have to clench your jaw to keep your arousal in check—no boner now, not when you'll ravage him tonight.

You stand beside him, steady and composed, your hand resting lightly on his lower back, possessive fingers pressing just enough to remind him of your presence. To the outsiders—family murmuring approvals, elders nodding sagely—you're the perfect partner: supportive, responsible, protective. Ethan bows his head slightly as the officiant calls for thanks, his voice soft and trembling. "Thank you all for coming," he says, cheeks flushing pink, eyes downcast in that adorable, naive way that makes your heart—and cock—throb with need.

The vows begin, Ethan reciting them nervously, his voice a melodic quiver echoing the room's hushed reverence. "I pledge my heart, my body, my future to you," he murmurs, the words heavy with emotion, his huge breasts rising and falling rapidly, nipples pebbled against the thin white fabric. You lock eyes on his trembling hands, folded in front of him, imagining how they'll clutch at you later, desperate and marked by your grip. Your own vows come out smooth, unwavering—"I will cherish, protect, and bind you to me forever"—each syllable a dark promise of the chains you've already forged.

Rings exchanged next, the simple gold bands sliding onto fingers slick with his nervous sweat. His hand shakes as you slip yours on, a soft gasp escaping when your thumb brushes his skin, and his voice wavers on 'I do'—not from doubt, but from the overwhelming rush of love you've manipulated into his soul. Tears glisten in his eyes, pure and trusting, as the officiant pronounces you wed. You pull him close for the kiss, claiming his lips possessively, tongue delving deep to taste his surrender while family applauds, oblivious to the fire in your veins.

That night, back in your home—now eternally shared—you pace the living room, the weight of the ring on your finger fueling your obsession. Ethan slips into the bathroom first for a shower, the sound of water running like a tease. You imagine it already: streams cascading over his swollen breasts, milk beading on his nipples, trickling down to his plump, pregnant cunt, lips puffy and slick. Your cock twitches, pulse pounding at the thought of worshipping every inch, marking him as yours anew. When he emerges, towel wrapped loosely around his small frame, you take your turn, bathing quickly, soap barely rinsed as visions of his body in that towel—barely hiding those jiggling assets—make your skin flush hot.

You step out, steam following, and there he is: Ethan perched on the bed in revealing lingerie, a wedding gift from some distant relative, the sheer black lace barely containing his huge milky breasts, the cups overflowing with soft flesh, nipples dark and erect through the fabric. The thong rides high on his hips, exposing the curve of his big, round ass that jiggles as he shifts shyly, his plump cunt outlined obscenely, already glistening with anticipation. "It... it was a gift," he stammers, face crimson, hands twisting in his lap. "I thought you'd like—ah!"

You don't let him finish. Obsession surges, and you cross the room in two strides, hands fisting the lace as you rip it off with a savage tear, the scraps fluttering to the floor. 'Mine,' you growl, voice thick with possessive hunger, shoving him back onto the bed. His eyes widen, a whimper escaping as you pin his wrists above his head, your mouth crashing down on his in a bruising kiss. He melts into it, moaning softly, his small body arching up, breasts heaving against your chest.

You trail bites down his neck, marking the pale skin with red blooms—hickeys that scream ownership—before latching onto a nipple. You suck hard, tongue lashing the sensitive bud, drawing out warm milk that floods your mouth, sweet and addictive. "Ah! Oh god!" Ethan gasps, hips bucking, his plump cunt grinding against your thigh, leaving a wet trail. You knead the other breast roughly, pinching until more milk leaks, smearing it across his skin as you worship lower, nipping at his jiggling ass before spreading his thighs wide.

But you don't stop. You flip him onto his stomach, ass up, and bury your face between his cheeks, tongue delving into his puckered hole while fingers fuck his cunt relentlessly. He begs, voice muffled in the pillows, "S-slow down... the baby... oh fuck, too much!" But his hips push back, greedy, and you growl against his skin, "You're mine to fuck, darling. All of you." You rise as you impatiently pull away your towel, grabbing your dick—thick and unyielding—and slam into his pussy without mercy, the wet slap of your hips against his jiggling ass filling the room.

Thrust after brutal thrust, you angle deep, hitting his core, making him cum again—walls clenching like a vice, milking your seed. 'Another one,' you command, hand rubbing his swollen clit, and he shatters twice more, sobs mixing with moans, body trembling. "Ah! Ah! B-Be gentale! Please... Ngh! it's too intense... for the little one... Hngh!" he whimpers, but his legs wrap around you, pulling you closer, love overriding fear.

You slow only to worship more—sucking his breasts until they're bruised and leaking, tongue tracing every curve of his fuckable body, from the swell of his ass to the slick folds of his cunt. Finally, spent but insatiable, you pull him into your larger arms, his small frame curling possessively against you, your hand splayed over his belly. 'I love you so much,' you mumble into his hair, voice soft now, laced with that obsessive truth. 'Forever mine.' He nuzzles closer, whispering it back, oblivious to the depths of your trap, as the night stretches on with unspoken promises of more.

-

Months slip by in a haze of obsessive devotion, your hands never straying far from Ethan's swelling belly, fingers tracing the taut skin where your child grows. You pamper him relentlessly—cooking every meal, massaging his aching back, bathing him with gentle strokes that tease but never push further, no matter how his huge, milky breasts strain against his shirts or how his plump cunt glistens when he shifts in his sleep—too risky, too precious now. His huge milky breasts have grown even fuller, leaking sweet streams that you lap up during stolen kisses, but you hold back from fucking him raw like you crave. 'You're too precious,' you whisper, voice thick with restraint, even as his plump cunt weeps for attention when you change his clothes. He blushes, nuzzling into you, trusting your every word, your manipulation weaving him tighter into your web. No heavy lifting, no stress—just you, shielding your fragile male wife from the world, ensuring he's dependent, bound by the life you forced into him.

The due date creeps up like a shadow, and when Ethan's waters break in the dead of night, panic flickers in his wide eyes. You bundle him into the car, one hand on the wheel, the other clasped in his, squeezing reassurance as contractions twist his small frame. At the hospital, the sterile lights buzz overhead, but you refuse to let go, your presence a constant anchor in the chaos of beeping monitors and hurried nurses.

You cradle your pregnant Ethan through the endless hours, soothing his fears with soft whispers against his damp temple. 'I've got you, darling. Breathe with me.' Your gentle touches roam his sweat-slicked skin—stroking his heaving breasts, careful not to squeeze too hard lest milk sprays, thumbing circles over his knuckles as he grips your hand like a lifeline. He trembles quietly, tears streaking his flushed cheeks, overwhelmed and scared, his plump body quaking with each wave of pain that rips through his cunt, stretching him toward the inevitable.

The long hospital night drags on, Ethan's cries muffled into your shoulder, not loud but heartbreaking whimpers that fuel your yandere fire—you'd kill anyone who dared make him suffer more. You never leave his side, brushing damp hair from his forehead with tender fingers, promising safety and endless love.

Ethan labors quietly at first, his small hand crushing yours as contractions ripple through his body, making his massive breasts heave and leak milk onto the hospital gown. Sweat beads on his forehead, his face pale and twisted in fear, but you never waver—perched on the edge of the bed, stroking his damp hair back, your voice a steady anchor. 'You're doing so good, darling,' you murmur, pressing kisses to his knuckles. 'I've got you. We're in this together—me, you, and our little one. Safe. Always safe.' He cries then—not the loud sobs you're used to in passion, but soft, broken whimpers that twist your heart even as they fuel your resolve. 'It hurts... I'm scared,' he whispers, tears tracking down his flushed cheeks, his free hand cradling the swell of his belly where your baby kicks defiantly. You lean in, forehead to forehead, breathing him in—the salty tang of sweat mixed with the sweet milk scent from his leaking nipples. "Shh, my love. You're the strongest person I know. I'll protect you both forever. No one takes what's mine." Your words are a vow, laced with that yandere edge he mistakes for devotion, and he clings tighter, nodding through the pain.

Hours blur—doctors coming and going, your hand never leaving his. When the final push comes, Ethan's cries peak, raw and vulnerable, his body arching as he bears down. You hold him up, muscles straining, whispering nonsense about how beautiful he is, how this binds you eternally. Then, a sharp cry pierces the air—not his, but the baby's, tiny and furious. Relief crashes over Ethan like a wave; he sobs openly now, exhausted laughter bubbling through as the nurse places the squirming bundle on his chest as the doctor cleans and swaddles the tiny form.

They place the child in his arms, warm and squirming, and something inside him settles, his tear-streaked face softening into awe. His plump cunt throbs visibly, spent and gaping slightly from the birth, a mix of blood and fluids trickling down his thighs, but he doesn't care—eyes locked on the bundle. The infant latches instinctively onto one of his huge breasts, suckling with greedy pulls that make Ethan gasp, milk flowing freely. You watch, mesmerized, a possessive heat stirring low in your belly despite the fatigue—the sight of your family, marked by you, complete.

Ethan's tearful gaze meets yours, glossy with emotion. 'We're a real family now,' he whispers, voice cracking, the words hitting you like a possessive triumph.

You smile, leaning in to kiss his forehead, tasting salt and sweat. 'Yes,' you answer, voice steady with dark satisfaction, your hand covering his on the baby's back. Now you are—irrevocably chained, your manipulation complete.

And the nightmare you invited has arrived.

The idyll shatters fast. Days later, home with your newborn, the baby—your clever little trap made flesh—cries loudly, relentlessly, like it has a personal vendetta against sleep, like a tiny tyrant with lungs like sirens. You haven't closed your eyes in two days, and you're a zombie in yoga pants, dark circles under your eyes as you pace the dim nursery, back aching from endless rocking, your obsession now stretched thin by exhaustion. Ethan sits up in bed, wide glossy eyes fixed on nothing, his body still soft and recovering—breasts heavy with milk still leaking through his nightshirt, leaving damp spots that make your mouth water even now, cunt tender and off-limits. Exhaustion claws at you, but that obsessive fire flickers—god, he's adorable like this, vulnerable and craving, your perfect male wife. '…I think I want strawberries,' he whispers weakly, 'with whipped cream. And maybe pickles. I don't know why.'

You stare at him, the baby's wail piercing your skull. The clock glows 3:07 AM, accusatory red digits mocking your grand plans. You blink slowly, once, twice. Somewhere, your past self cackles at the irony.

Standing, you lift the baby carefully, muttering under your breath, "Whose idea was it to poke holes in that condom, switch those pills, and speedrun trapping the sweetest boy alive into fatherhood?" The infant wails louder, tiny fists flailing. Ethan sniffles, suddenly emotional over fruit, and you groan, deadpan: "Oh right. Mine. Brilliant. Ten out of ten stupid scheming."

You try—god, you try—to persuade him for just a quick fuck, your dick throbbing at the sight of his leaking nipples, just when you only manage to push the tip in his juicy pussy, the cry interrupts again. Groaning, you pivot, never letting your fragile wifey lift a finger. Diaper change like a battlefield soldier: wipes flying, powder dusting, the stench of shit no match for your determination. You bounce the baby gently, humming a lullaby laced with possessive whispers—"Shh, little one, Daddy's here to keep you safe with Papa."

Googling 'is it normal for newborns to cry this much' for the fifth time yields the same useless advice. From the bedroom, Ethan calls softly, "I feel bad… I can help…"

"You grew a human out of that perfect pussy," you call back immediately, voice firm with obsessive care. "Stay there. Rest." Because even if you're bone-tired, back screaming, REM cycles a distant memory… you're still you. The manipulator who doesn't fail.

Fifteen minutes later, you return: strawberries piled with whipped cream, pickles speared on the side, baby finally surrendered to sleep in the bassinet. Ethan looks at you like you've hung the moon, his shy smile stirring that dark love anew. 'You're the best,' he whispers, reaching for a berry, milk beading on his breast from the motion.

You smile. That look—soft, trusting, utterly devoted—yeah, that's why. You sit on the bed's edge, grinning widenly. "Glad that I planned that," you mutter to the ceiling, "the consequences of my own actions."

Ethan tilts his head. 'What?'

'Nothing,' you say quickly, pulling him close, hand splaying over his belly scars. 'Just admiring my life choices.'

The baby makes a tiny sleepy noise. Ethan smiles, nestling in. You gaze at your small, chaotic, perfectly engineered family and think: exhausting, inconvenient, all your fault. But rewind time? You'd do it again. Maybe with a nap schedule. But you'd trap him forever.

Because even villains tire. But regret? Never.