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Content: smut, p in v, fingering, squirting, alcohol consumption, hookup culture lol
Masterlist❤︎
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There is nothing better than being fucked completely senseless.
Arguably the best remedy for a chronically overactive mind.
After five straight days of managing passive-aggressive emails and smiling through situations that tested the absolute limits of human sanity, you decided the only cure for this impending mental breakdown was a stiff drink and zero inhibitions on this lovely weekend.
Two shots of whatever was closest, and the company of a man who looked just as desperately in need of a distraction as you, if not more so.
Beautiful was what you initially pegged him as, eyes sweeping along the striking lines of an exhausted face and the stubborn swoop of hair spilling carelessly over his brow. Then you decided he was just prematurely aged. The silver threads catching at his temples and the aggressive shadow of a stubble made him look worn down by a decade of exceptionally bad sleep and even worse stress.
He looked like a man who could fuck good. Looked like he approached sex the exact same way he approached the rest of his miserable life, with unrelenting stamina and a terrifyingly methodical focus designed to dismantle whatever stood before him.
He also looked like an easy target, staring into the amber depths of his glass with a level of sad depression that practically radiated off his shoulders. All it took was you stepping directly into his line of sight, ordering another shot with a dramatic sigh, and offering him a painfully cynical comment about the state of the world (while deliberately showing off your cleavage).
The guarded set of his jaw twitched into the faintest ghost of a smirk.
You offered your name, he offered his (Leon—was it short for Leonard? Leonel?), and he leaned in when you laughed at his terrible attempt at a joke. A genuine chortled laugh because you hadn't expected a dad joke from a man who looked as brooding as he did.
You licked your lips, he followed your tongue.
Hook, line, sinker.
Which explains how you now find yourself trapped in a mating press on a mattress that probably costs more per night than your rent. A dingy, cheap motel would have been your practical choice, but you had noted the expensive gleam of the watch on his wrist within five minutes of sitting next to him. Freaking Hamilton that looked distinctly like a limited edition, judging by the brushed steel and intricate dial.
Frankly, you shouldn't be surprised he carried that much net worth. He’s handsome, weathered beautifully into his age (Late forties? Early fifties?), and clearly paid an exorbitant amount of money to survive whatever horrors are actively ruining his mental health.
What does surprise you is how you’ve underestimated the scope of his physical abilities.
Over the past blurry hour, this complete stranger has effortlessly folded you into positions that defy your understanding of your own flexibility. Knees pressed so securely beside your own ears you start to believe the fee you pay for your weekly reformer pilates class might be a scam.
Apparently what you needed to achieve this level of advanced mobility was the unrelenting dead weight of a very, very capable man. So fucking capable that you’ve genuinely lost count of how many times he’s wrung you out on these expensive sheets.
Four orgasms? Maybe five? Whatever the number is, another one is dangerously crawling up the base of your spine.
Your sanity might be beyond saving at this point. You’re sweating profusely, and the backs of your thighs are screaming in dull protest from being pinned back for god knows how long. Leon pulls out and snaps his hips again with a jarring impact that seems to grow more ruthlessly aggressive with every single grind.
He does it again and again and again until you’re basically screaming from the unavoidable crash of yet another orgasm, toes curling frantically in the suspended air while your nails bite into the heavy muscle of his arms.
This man is something else, obviously nothing akin to the standard parade of disappointing men who talked big but possessed absolutely zero game. They were a flimsy attempt to scratch the very surface of your boredom. Leon, by comparison, is clawing straight down to the bone.
There’s a slowness in his thrusts now, and you blink to find an actual smile breaking through the sweat and exhaustion on his face. The warm puff of a chuckle against your cheek tells you he isn't simply amused. He’s actually entertained.
You huff, making a valiant but entirely useless attempt to mock him, "Stop laughing."
The sweat beading along his heavy brow does absolutely nothing to detract from how devastatingly smug he looks right now. “You’re shaking so much. It’s cute.”
So much for playing the femme fatale act at the bar. He swipes a thumb across your blotchy cheek, courtesy of his rough afternoon shadow.
“You okay?”
You sigh out a harsh breath, blowing a damp strand of hair out of your eyes. “Have you," you manage to wheeze, "even cum yet?”
He shakes his head, blue eyes glinting with unapologetic amusement.
"Are you ever going to?"
His low laughter rumbles warmly in your ears. “Why, you want me to stop already?" he presses a kiss against your jaw. "Thought you were having a good time."
“I’m having a great time.”
“Then what’s with the rush?”
“Maybe we should take a break,” you whine, gasping sharply when the weight of his pelvis rocks aggressively against your lower belly. “I-I need to pee.”
He seems unfazed. Moves like you didn't utter a word to begin with. Instead, what he does is press you even further into the mattress. “Is that right?”
“Fuck—Leon—” You arch your back as he maliciously tilts his hips. “You’re not helping.”
“I actually am,” he argues.
“What—”
“Let's test a theory," he drawls, hot breath ghosting over your pulse. "Do you really think you just need to pee, or are you about to squirt?”
You go completely still for a moment. Considering your track record of thoroughly uninspired hookups and non-lasting relationships, there is absolutely no palpable evidence to suggest you are capable of doing what he’s asking.
“I’m pretty sure I need to pee,” you reason quietly. “I’m not a squirter.”
He pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “You’re telling me you’ve never done that before?”
“I have no prior experience to suggest it's even an option.”
He looks genuinely offended by your answer. “Do you want to try?”
Your head falls back to fully take him in. He really is pretty. Never mind the faint, tired wrinkles bracketing his pale blue eyes, or the harsh features of a man who has clearly seen too much and slept too little. He’s simply too devastatingly gorgeous for his own good.
Even with the fragments of scars you’ve spent the last hour subconsciously counting on his neck, his shoulder, his chest. Scars that make you wonder what kind of terrifying life he leads when he isn't in a hotel room with a stranger, fucking their brains out.
And you’re very much aware you’re one of the few he’s taken to bed.
But is he always this attentive? This generous?
Does he fuck everyone else this hard yet still find the gentle grace to cradle their face and brush the hair out of their eyes?
You instantly hate how territorial you sound. It's wildly hypocritical for someone who values the cheap thrill of a purely physical transaction just as much as he clearly does. He’s just a good lover, you decide. And if tonight is the only night you get to have this man all to yourself, then so be it.
If he thinks he can make you squirt, then who are you to deny?
“You really think I’m about to squirt?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
You frown. “What if it’s just pee?”
He kisses the wrinkled line between your brows. “Make a mess then, I don’t mind.”
Yeah, you’re going to let him absolutely ruin you tonight.
“Then make me squirt, Leon.”
He dips his head, breathing the hot air of his lungs directly into your open mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
Your pussy tightens reflexively at that, which he obviously catches. He catches on to every desperate tell your body gives him, actually. Probably the sole reason why you've already come an embarrassing number of times.
Not enough, apparently, because he’s already moving his hips in rapid rhythms—not too fast or too slow, but enough to have your eyes sliding shut, focusing on the stretch of his cock driving deep in and out of your cunt.
“Fucking beautiful,” he hums, binding your wrists together above your head. “Just lying there looking all pretty."
“H-harder,” you whine, weakly pushing your hips up to meet him.
“Yeah?” He squeezes your wrists together, leaning even more of his massive frame over you. “You like it when I go hard on you?”
Like it? You thrive on it, nodding frantically as your trembling thighs try to lock around his waist. Try is definitely the word when he’s practically flattened you beneath his crushing weight, effortlessly trapping your body. You can feel your limbs turn gooey and powerless, your stomach contrastingly hard.
“I know, baby, I know,” he rasps, ramming his hips harshly against yours. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Ngh—h—”
“That’s it, give it to me. Make a mess on me.”
The panic hits you first, quickly swallowed by an absolute wave of pure heat. Starts as a buzzing ache in your core before violently spiking into an unbearable sensation. Your belly burns, coils, rattles—and you blink your eyes open, brimming with tears. “Leon—”
He instantly reads the panicked clench of your muscles.
“Don't fight it.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
Your groan is feral. “I can’t—”
“Come on, baby, you’ve got to trust me,” he croons softly. “Do you trust me?”
Surprisingly, you do, even if your only judgment on this man comes from the three hours that have passed since you sat down next to him at the bar. “Yes.”
“Good. Then let it happen.”
Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.
“Breathe through your nose.”
He plunges in with a particularly harsh thrust and you gasp. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Oh, fuck—”
“That’s it.” He closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads touching. “Let it go.”
You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding.
It’s like a switch. One moment your muscles are tensed, then a passage of whines pitches upward as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Strong and gut-wrenching. Body hot in bliss and shame—only for two seconds. Quick as it hits, he abruptly pulls out, instantly replacing his cock with two calloused fingers.
Your mouth gapes in a silent scream. Even more so when his offhand curls around your neck. Fingers pressing against the sides of your throat, palm flat against your windpipe, but exercising barely any pressure all the while his fingers fucks your swollen, dripping cunt.
You’ve seen yourself getting wet, you’ve felt yourself getting drenched, but you’ve never experienced anything as wild as this.
Speckles of liquid spatter across the sheets the more he drags his hand in an up-and-down motion, its squelching sound rising above the fight of your labored breathing.
He pushes his palm against your clit.
“Oh fuck! fuckfuckfuck—”
A sudden rush spills over him. Soaks the sheets beneath you in dark patches and streams down the inside of his wrist, seeping hot onto his thighs. He continues to pump his fingers while you lie there—crying openly, violently shuddering. It goes on for what feels like forever until he smoothes out his pressure around your throat, kissing the drool glistening on your lips with a disbelief chuckle.
“Should’ve met you sooner,” he laughs into your mouth, easily slipping his cock back in.
Maybe it’s the bliss completely corrupting your nervous system, or perhaps it’s the overwhelming stretch of his thick cock driving back into your overstimulated cunt. Whatever it is, you completely lose your grip on the casual nature of a one night stand, eager words spilling past your wet lips before you can even screen them.
“Can we meet again?” You pant. “Like—after tonight?”
You’re somewhere right on the edge of a pathetic whimper and a helpless laugh, entirely too pleasured to think straight, dangerously too giddy at the possibility of actually getting to know him. To uncover those scars in daylight, to figure out what kind of hell he had to survive to inherit those devastatingly sad yet kind eyes.
To learn his last name. To unearth his middle.
You gasp when he effortlessly flips you over, twisting his fingers in your hair and pulling it back.
Yeah, you’re going to let him absolutely ruin you tonight—and all the days that follow.
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owner!izuku and his pretty puppy hybrid that has an insatiable appetite for sex even when she’s not in heat. he loves her, he’ll always give her what she wants — fingers in her slick cunt and stroking her tail while she cums as he grades, toys shaped like his thick cock he can control from his class room while she rides it from home, hours and hours of missionary on the weekends because she wants to be breed until she can’t walk. but sometimes, izuku can’t keep up with her demand on top of parent teacher conferences and hero work … as much as it pains him.
owner!izuku who lets you pick from his friends, the ones you like who give you extra pets and treats when they think he’s not looking. kirishima who’s fun to go on walks with, katsuki who tries to be mean but spoils you anyway … sometimes kaminari who’s dumb enough to forget all the strict instructions izuku leaves for you while he’s out. he lets you pick because you’re too energetic to be left untouched, you need to be fucked out and subdued by the time he gets home on weeks where being a teacher clashes with being a hero.
owner!izuku who gives his friends a key and a schedule. swing by, play with the puppy, let him know how it goes. its more than permission to baby sit — its permission for kirishima to slip his cock down your throat and suck the slick from your folds at the same time, yanking that fluffy tail until you’re teary and trembling. ifs permission for katsuki to fold your knees into his chest, tripping and stumbling over his words in an attempt to remind you that good dogs use their manners when they’re begging for cock all while pumping his load into you, hot and sticky, fucking you until it clings to the walls of your puppycunt just like you’d wailed for. it’s permission for kaminari to tease you sensitive slit for hours on end, rubbing your clit until its heartbeat is raw, smacking that sopping mount until its swollen and the wag of your furry tail is weighed down by your own runny wetness.
it’s permission to take turns ruining you while owner!izuku is away. tire you out until you’re a pliant mess that still somehow needs her owner’s cock to settle down — despite the stretch and burn to your holes, the cum that dries against your skin like a signature. you’re easier to handle like this, izuku thinks, tasting the others on your cunt and against your flesh.
but as long as you’re happy and satisfied, he doesn’t mind who wrecks his puppy at all.
do you guys think fire lord zuko gets all red-faced when you show him how good he came inside you?
like you’re still on your knees, leaning on your elbows, hips swaying lazily as you push back just enough for his cum to start dripping out of your pretty pussy. thick white streaks sliding down your thighs while you look over your shoulder at him with a little smirk.
his amber eyes go wide, ears burning scarlet, that famous scar standing out even more against the flush creeping up his neck. he tries so hard to keep his composure—he’s the fire lord, after all—but the way his cock twitches and his breath stutters gives him away completely.
yeah… he definitely gets red. and he definitely wants to fuck it right back inside you.
its so fucked that people will be like "yeah i stopped smoking weed because it made me feel like everything was fine, which made me do less" like ok so your primary motivator was fear.
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do you guys think yuuji ever gets so into fucking you that the slam of his hips between your thighs forces you up the bed? and he’s so far gone, crazed, so unlike his usual sweet self that he growls and sneers down at you like it’s your fault that you’ve gone too far. one minute he’s cupping your face and kissing away streaks of pearlescent tears the next yuuji’s dragging you harshly by the hips back onto his cock, all teeth and tongue as he snarls.
“where d’ya think you’re goin’?”
the words come out frothy, gritty, punctuating the lewd plap, plap, plap of your sexes meeting wetly. his hips have a mind of their own, crashing into yours like harsh waves against a shoreline when stormy weather picks up. they don’t waver, not even when yuuji physically yanks you back down to the edge of the bed, forcing your thighs apart until you’re spread eagle and gushing into the sheets. he doesn’t stop even as you yelp in surprise or push at his chest to get the man to just let up. yuuji just meanly bullies the slick head of his cock deep into your creaming cunt, relishing in the way you lock and unlock around him as if you can’t decide how much of him to keep inside.
“don’t run from it, not when it’s yours.” yuuji pants into the linens beside your head because if he looks at you too soon, he’ll burst and flood your womb with claggy milky white… but then he gets lost in it again, the way you warmly wrap around him and despite the way your hips try to shy away from his rampant force, fuelled by adrenaline, your ankles link at the divot on his back — pulling him in, all alluring and intoxicating with your high pitched wails and sloppy cunt that streams a fresh wave of arousal, trickles into another high that yuuji might not even notice since his pace has you flying away from him again.
or maybe he does, he just can’t bring himself to stop making a home for you on his cock.
─── dad’s best friend LEON KENNEDY whose lips press in a kiss right on your soft ankle— you legs, spread wide open, rest on both of his shoulders, where they sit so nicely against his burning sweaty skin. your pussy walls squeeze him tightly and squirt all over his cock, fucked rough and messy into the older man’s hotel mattress for the third time this week.
as if it’s been in dire need to be stretched out again by his greedy cock in the span of three days and it’s barely wednesday— you walk straight into his room, dizzy and drunk on his cock, plump ass still tender and tight pussy sore and hurting from the nonstop, borderline animalistic sex and fingers drenched in squirt.
leon’s guilt is eating him up from the inside; the more guilt he feels for secretly fucking his best friend’s daughter and the more it consumes his thoughts, the harder his veins pulse right down the length of his cock while he’s buried inside you. his balls brim with sticky cum, plapping against your bare ass, “ah, fuck— you take it so well, sweet girl. open your mouth for me.”
what a sick nasty pervert. he shouldn’t feel so good having you sprawled in his hotel room with his fingers pushed down your throat. but leon watches your manicured fingers shake and drawing circles, trying so hard to abstain from waking the entire building up.
he pushes them to the side, dripping spit from his mouth down your swollen clit and dragging his fingers in circles while slowing down the pace of his thrusts to help you and placing another kiss on your ankle, “there you go. feels good, angel?”
you can feel the smell of sex all around you. in between your voiceless moans and leon’s grunts, it drips sticky and heavy down the walls and oozing out of your every pore. it smells like leon, masculine, like a man who’s been busy: shamelessly filling up his best friend’s daughter with cum all day long. his cologne is faint, leathery, long gone.
you can feel it radiate slightly right under his jaw, each time his abs press on your tummy and his cock slides with ease right back inside you, tip bruising your cervix so slightly, when he puts his weight on you, emptying his balls of cum inside you.
when he has to smack n rub your clit to help you take more of him ;-; playfully tapping your slit as his cockhead dips in and out of you .. makin you gush a lil so you’re nice n wet to take him to the base ohh
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