#the veins. the precision. the audacity

[impossiblepearl]

I have nothing appropriate to say...

[skyrigel]

It drived Simon crazy, the way you said his name. Simple syllables poured together in honey like sweetness as you coaxed it out but something about the way you moaned it while he was ballsdeep in you.

Soft and purry, lost but still there with him with the way you let out his name. In a sigh. In a plea.

Through incoherent mind because Simon had you like that, his hand finding yours that clawed over his chest and dragging interwined fingers down over your stomach which was swollen, bulge that writhed under the soft warm skin with another deep thrust that got you saying his name again, and again.

As the cock deep in your hole pulsed, and twitched around your warm inside that felt like molten heat as his cock breached enough to tease before slamming all the way back home, while you gasped and whined for more, and more because he'd give you the world. Anything for his beloved.

And the name — cherry on top. Over and over like a chant out of your pretty mouth please Simon…yes Simon…oh, oh — a-Ah S-simon !

Breathless you sang your chirpy chatter while he pounded inside you, holding you in his arms as your red cheeks flushed and tinted, this cutesy audacity to get shy, naked and bouncing on his cock. Say his name and blush. Be a cock slut and bury your face in his neck as he gives you his thick dick to ride to the edge of your soul.

Enough that his dick could be molded by using your hole more precisely, he's sure every vein had been carved inside you the way you squeezed around him, wet and tight, with the way he painted your insides. His seed would drip the moment he would pull and you would utter that beautiful sound again, slowly and dreamlike and completely making him a menace, a slave at your command. Belly filled up with cum, eyes blown back in immense pleasure, no thoughts whatsoever and yet you still knew his name like breathing life through it.

Simon Riley could forget life itself but oh, the way you said his name while he fucked you raw and deep— never.

Masterlist

[kissesz]

𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞

caitlyn kiramman x f!reader

warnings : see above. mdni. angst. f!sub!reader. dom!caitlyn. mean!caitlyn, just briefly. cunnilingus. tribbing. vaginal sex. non-sexual intimacy. read: kissing. a lot of it. sapphic debauchery at its finest. arguing. emotional hurt/comfort. mentions of injuries & blood but not too graphic.

notes: (can be read as a standalone, part II of 'all that glitters') a oneshot—which, clearly, it isn’t anymore. i may have made a promise about making up. unfortunately, the dialogue is subpar at best, perhaps because i genuinely dread writing anything involving communication (which is why i attempted—only half-successfully—to compensate with overly long descriptions). on top of that, i’ve rewritten this at least a thousand times, meaning six and a half hours were spent agonizing over every single paragraph. i digress. i love you all, dearly.

Aged whiskey scorched a trail down your throat, amber liquid catching glimmers of the kaleidoscopic hues painting Piltover for Progress Day—sapphire tones of hextech glinting off effervescent fireworks, swirling and bleeding like watercolors through the fractured prism of your mind.

Or perhaps that was the alcohol, settling leaden in your veins as you draped yourself against the balcony railing. 

Revelry echoed distant and muted from the streets below, laughter filtering through as if from ripples underwater. Each scintillating burst a reminder of her, salt in wounds unhealed—nights of bare skin illuminated by those same lights, susurrous promises you'd been foolish enough to believe. Skin and sweat and lies, impermanent.

So naive.

The crystal tumbler in your hand caught light, throwing severed rainbows across your fingers. Watching them dance, you tried (and failed) to focus on anything but the ache that had made its home in your ribcage months ago, a persistent throb that no amount of liquor could numb.

Then, a knock cleaved through the silence like a gunshot.

Your heart seized—a pavlovian response so violent it stole the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping. Two strikes against solid wood, precise, just like the woman behind them. 

"Don't you fucking dare," you hissed to the empty air, fingers tightening around the railing until your knuckles blanched white against the dark metal. After months of absence, after countless nights spent aching and alone, after everything—she had the audacity to return?

The knock came again, more insistent this time, the sound like a second heartbeat, out of sync with your own yet impossible to ignore.

"Open the door." Caitlyn's voice, muffled yet unmistakable in its authority. That voice that had once whispered such honeyed poison against your skin now felt like sandpaper against raw nerves, abrasive and unrelenting. "Please."

Your laugh spilled out bitter, a broken sound for a broken moment. "Or what, Officer? You'll break it down? Add that to your litany of things you've destroyed?"

Silence stretched between you—taut and ready to snap. Then: "I'll wait all night if I have to."

"Go ahead." The drink seared going down, a familiar burn doing nothing to thaw the frost in your veins. "You're good at that, aren't you? Waiting until the perfect moment to walk away?"

More silence followed, heavy and sticky as molasses. For a moment, you thought she'd left, until you heard it—the soft thud of something solid against wood. Her forehead, perhaps, resting against your door as if she couldn't support her own weight anymore, as if the burden of her choices had finally become too much to bear.

"I deserve that," she said quietly, her voice carrying a of vulnerability you'd never heard before. A hairline fracture in her usually impenetrable facade. "I deserve all of it. But please... let me explain."

"Explain what?" The words clawed their way from your throat, each word tasting of copper and acrimony. "How you used me? How you'd come to me in the dead of night, take what you wanted, then vanish like I meant nothing?"

"You were never—" Her voice splintered on ‘never’, the sound slitting something in your chest, a fissure spreading through the walls you'd built to keep her out. "You were everything to me. That was the problem."

The crystal glass shattered in your grip, a startling crack that echoed the something rupturing inside you. Shards scattered across marble tiles like fallen stars, blood and alcohol—you couldn't tell which—dripping from your trembling fingers. The pain felt distant, secondary to the storm of emotions threatening to rend you apart.

Your feet carried you to the door of their own volition, possessed by a desperate momentum that overrode any semblance of self-preservation. The handle felt unfamiliar against your palm as you wrenched it open.

And there she stood.

Caitlyn Kiramman, in your foyer, like a washed out black and white photo of a deceased relative you couldn't bring yourself to look at. Her uniform was spotless as always, every button polished, every crease perfect—but her eyes—her eyes told a different story. They widened at the sight of your bleeding hand, that familiar concern suffusing her features before she could conceal it.

"You're hurt–" She reached for you, her fingers extending with such tender intent that it made your chest constrict, your heart stuttering behind the cage of your ribs.

You recoiled as if scorched, spine colliding with the wall behind you with a dull thud. "Don't." Your voice emerged raw, stripped of all pretense. "Don't you dare pretend to care now."

"Do you hear yourself? How ridiculous you sound?" She advanced, her presence flooding your space like smoke, cloying and suffocating. The scent of her, vanilla and gunpowder, so achingly familiar, made your head reel. Or maybe that was the blood loss. The whiskey. Turning everything soft at the edges except for her, sharp and impossible to ignore. "Not once, for a single second, did I stop caring. I left because I cared too much, because it was destroying me. Every time I chose you over my duty, every time I let my heart overrule my head, we were—"

"Oh, spare me the noble sacrifice bullshit, Caitlyn. Your precious integrity, right? Let me remind you of what you said: 'You know where I am if you need me.' Do you remember that? How you kissed me goodbye like it wasn't the last fucking time?" A dismissive sound tore from your lips, acrid.

"Enlighten me," you continued, voice quavering in a way that made you want to claw the weakness from your throat, "in all those months, all those nights I spent alone, where exactly were you? Because I needed you. Gods, I needed you every single day! And you were nowhere to be found!"

"It wasn't—" she started, but you cut her off, unwilling to hear whatever justification she'd made up for her absence.

"Shut up." Your palm struck her chest, leaving behind a bloody handprint stark against her pristine uniform. The fabric drank it in like it had been starved for it, marring perfection with your pain. Some bitter part of you relished it, wanted her to wear your anguish for once.

Hands caught your wrists then, a grip gentle but resolute, like you were something fragile, something invaluable she was afraid to break.

The calluses on her palms, from her rifle, from years of relentless training rasped against your pulse points. "You think it was easy?" Her voice trembled, her composure fracturing like a teacup on the verge of shattering. "You think I wanted to walk away? To lie awake every night remembering how you taste, how you feel, how you cry out my name when you—"

"Stop." You tried to wrench away but her hold was unbreakable, fingers branding your skin with unspoken apologies, with pleas for absolution. Your heart battered against your ribcage, that traitorous organ that still raced at her proximity, even after everything.

"Why?" She surged forward, and suddenly you were pinned between the heat of her body and the unyielding wall, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. 

Her breath ghosted across your face, expensive brandy chasing crisp mint—she'd been drinking too. She'd been drinking too, and that realization struck you like a knife to the sternum, twisting viciously. "Because it hurts? Because despite everything, you still remember? How I'd touch you, how I'd make you beg, how you'd unravel for me like you were made for it?"

"Fuck you," you spat, even as your body responded to her, muscle memory overriding reason.

"You did, darling." The endearment dripped from her lips, sweet and searing like honey on a spoon. Her face was a hairsbreadth from yours, close enough to count the individual flecks of navy in her eyes, to feel the heat of her breath mingling with your own. "Countless times. And I remember every single one. Every sound, every sigh, every way you fell apart beneath my hands."

Your breath hitched, catching on a breath suspiciously similar to a sob. "I hate you."

You did, truly.

Hating her felt natural, instinctual.

"No." Her thumb skated over your bottom lip, coming away stained with the smear of your lipstick. The tenderness of the gesture was devastating, a brutal reminder of everything you'd lost. "You wish you did. Just like I wish I could stop loving you."

The confession hung between you like a noose, tightening with each shallow breath.

"Why now?" Your voice cracked, splintering, jagged and razor-edged. "Why come back after all this time?"

"Because I'm tired," she breathed, resting her forehead against yours, the contact like a livewire against your skin. Her skin burned feverish against your own, her breaths labored. "Tired of pretending I don't need you. Tired of walking past your building every night, aching to come up but telling myself I shouldn't. Tired of being half a person without you."

Closing your eyes, the nearness of her was overwhelming, intoxicating; it made you dizzy, memories crashing over you in waves—lips on your throat, hands on your hips, her voice in your ear whispering vows she couldn't keep, oaths she'd shattered like porcelain against stone.

"You broke me." Words falling from your numb lips, more honest than you'd allowed yourself to be since she left, since she carved out your heart and took it with her.

"I know." Her lips brushed your temple, a benediction and a curse. A tear—yours or hers, you couldn't say—slid between your pressed skin, salt and sorrow. "Let me put you back together. Let me try."

"How?" You opened your eyes, meeting her gaze, stripped of all pretense. Your fingers itched to trace the circles beneath her eyes, proof that maybe she'd been haunted by your absence just as viscerally as you'd been ravaged by hers. "How can I ever trust you again?"

In lieu of an answer, she kissed you.

Not like before—not with the practiced restraint of Officer Kiramman, the consummate professional. No, this kiss was desperate, woozy and salty of mingled tears. Her hands cupped your face like you were something hallowed, her thumbs sweeping away the evidence of your shared misery, your shared sin.

Kissing her back, it bordered on violence, every shred of hurt and longing poured into the crush of your mouths. Your fingers knotted in her hair, yanking hard enough to sting, needing her to feel even a fraction of the agony you'd endured in her absence. Silken strands twined around your fingers like they'd been waiting for your touch, like they remembered every time you'd gripped them in ecstasy rather than anguish.

She gasped into your mouth, the sound caught between a moan and a whimper, apology and plea tangled on her tongue. "I'm sorry," she murmured between bruising kisses, each word a fervent promise falling from kiss-swollen lips. "I'm so sorry. I love you. I never stopped. Please..."

You bit down on her bottom lip, hard enough to taste blood of her own, the metallic sting a twisted sort of penance. "Prove it."

Her eyes met yours, understanding dawning like the sun cresting the horizon. With deliberate, measured movements, she began to strip away her armor. Her utility belt hit the floor with a leaden thud, bullets rattling in their clips. Her badge followed, the metal making a mournful sound as it clattered against marble. Then her uniform jacket, each button slipping free of its mooring until the garment slid from her shoulders like a remnant of a past she was shedding, a chrysalis giving way to something raw and new.

Each piece of her fell away until only Caitlyn remained.

The woman behind the title, the beating heart beneath the badge. She stood before you in her crisp white undershirt, more vulnerable than you'd ever seen her, her chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths, her eyes wide and shining in the low light.

"I'm yours," she said softly, her voice replaced by something fragile and aching. "Just me, loving you, for as long as you'll have me."

You stared at her, this woman who could command an entire city with a single look yet now trembled beneath the weight of your gaze. Who could stare down the barrel of a gun without flinching yet now looked at you like you held the power to destroy her. Who had walked away from you once yet now stood before you offering her heart, her future, her everything.

"If you leave again..." you started, the words tasting like rust on your tongue, sharp and metallic.

"I won't." She stepped closer, her hands finding the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, relearning curves and planes she'd once mapped in the dark, in stolen moments that now felt like lifetimes ago. Her touch sparked wildfires in its wake, your skin remembering her, craving her, even as your mind screamed for self-preservation. "I can't. Losing you... it nearly killed me. Let me spend the rest of my life making it right. Making us right."

You knew you should’ve resisted, should’ve made her work harder for your forgiveness, for a second chance at the heart she'd so carelessly shattered. But then her lips found that spot just below your ear, the one that made your knees buckle and your breath hitch, and all rational thought fled, replaced by an all-consuming need, a hunger that had gone unsated for far too long.

Her hands relearned your body with admiration that bordered on worshipful—each touch an act of contrition. Her fingers caught on scars she'd never seen before, on new edges and angles wrought in the crucible of her absence, but she didn't shy away. Instead, she traced each one like a devotee tracing the lines of a sacred text, committing them to memory, etching them onto her heart.

"I missed you," she breathed against your throat, her voice cracking on the admission. "Missed this. The way you melt for me, the way your pulse flutters beneath my lips." To illustrate her point, she pressed a lingering kiss to the hammering beat at the base of your throat, smiling against your skin as you failed to bite back a whimper.

Her name fell from your lips like a benediction, like a curse, like an invocation of something bigger than both of you. "Caitlyn..."

She pulled back just far enough to meet your eyes, and the naked adoration in her gaze stole the breath from your lungs. 

Gone was the stoic persona, the enforcer of the law. In her place was a woman laid bare, stripped of all pretense. A woman whose eyes shone with unshed tears and unspoken promises, whose hands shook with the force of her need, her longing.

"I love you," she said simply, the words rusty from disuse but no less true for it. "I love your fire, your strength, the way you never once made it easy for me. I love the way you see me, all of me, even the parts I try to hide. I love—"

You swallowed the rest of her words with a searing kiss, your hands fisting in the fabric of her shirt, dragging her closer until you could feel her heartbeat against your own, a desperate staccato that echoed the racing of your pulse. 

She caught you as you swayed, strong arms banding around your waist, holding you up, anchoring you to her as she'd always done, even when you insisted you didn't need it, didn't want it. "Let me take care of you," she murmured against your lips, the words akin to a plea. "Let me show you how much I've missed you, how sorry I am, how I—"

"Show me," you demanded, the words scraping your throat raw with their urgency. "Make me believe you."

The sound she made was part growl, part whimper, animal and anguished. Her hands glided down your sides to grip the backs of your thighs, fingers sinking into yielding flesh, and then you were airborne, your back hitting the wall with enough force to rattle the abstract art piece hanging beside your head. Your legs locked around her waist on instinct, muscle memory overriding the part of you still screaming for restraint.

"I'll spend forever making you believe," she vowed, punctuating each word with a press of her lips—to your jaw, the edge of your lips, the sensitive spot where neck meets shoulder. "Forever proving that you're it for me, that I'm done hiding from this, from us."

As she carried you to the bedroom, her steps never faltering despite the tremors wracking her frame, you realized with startling, terrifying clarity that you wanted to let her. Wanted to give her the chance to piece back together the remnants of you, to rebuild from the rubble and ashes she'd left behind. 

A tangle of limbs and discarded silks draped upon the edge of your bed held nothing new, freshly washed sheets tousling as she haphazardly lowered you into their embrace. 

And then, she was on you, her hand sliding up the apex of your thigh, teasing.

Finally, finally, her tongue met the barrier of your underwear, the fabric the only thing separating you from the heat and wetness that promised heaven. She took her time, tracing every inch of you, biting and nipping, until you were writhing beneath her, begging for more. And then she pulled them down, your hips lifting off the bed to accommodate her, exposing you completely to the cool air and the burning heat of her gaze.

Her mouth followed the path of your underwear, leaving a damp trail of kisses as she descended. She hovered above your clit for a moment, her eyes searching yours for permission, for reassurance. You gave it with a nod, and she took it as the invitation it was, her tongue flicking out to taste you, to show you without words how much she'd missed this, missed you. 

The sensation was foreign in its familiarity, your entire body tensing before relaxing into the bliss she’d coaxed from you, licking and suckling, driving you closer to the edge with every pass.

And then, with a lingering kiss, she pulled away, leaving you panting and desperate. Deja vu, perhaps? "Take these off," she ordered, her voice thick with desire, gesturing to her own pants. You obeyed, your fingers fumbling with the zipper, eager to feel her bare skin against yours. When she was finally naked, she straddled you, the wetness between her thighs pressing against your stomach, leaving a damp heat that sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

Her hands roamed your body, touching, everywhere, and you watched her, breathless, feeling your desire for her swell until it was a living, pulsing thing between you. 

When she reached your breasts, her caresses were feather-light at first, teasing your already-sensitized nipples until they were hard points of pleasure-pain that had you gasping. Then, she took one into her mouth, her tongue flicking against the sensitive flesh, her teeth grazing the tight bud, sending skitters of desire straight to your core.

As she worked you over with her mouth and hands, each touch, each kiss, each lick brought you closer to the precipice. Your hips bucked against her, seeking more, seeking everything she had to give, needing to be filled, to be claimed by her again. You reached down to guide her, impatient (if it were another time, she’d make a show of rolling her eyes), fingers curling around hers, to show her where you needed her most, and she took the hint, sliding down your body, aligning herself with your aching sex.

Her hips rolled against yours, the friction building until you were both heaving and desperate. The world narrowed to just the two of you, the slick slide of skin on skin, the gasps and murmurs of pleasure. You felt her love in every stroke, every touch, every shudder of her body as she took you higher, until you were both teetering on the brink of oblivion.

The feeling of her was exquisite, the pressure just right—coiling tighter and tighter, until you were both ready to shatter. Your nails raked down her back, leaving red streaks on her skin, and she groaned into your neck. The sound sent you over the edge, your body convulsing with the force of your climax, waves of pleasure crashing through you like a storm at sea. She followed, her hips stuttering against yours, her own release a hot, wet rush that mingled with yours, until you were both spent, limp and trembling in each other's arms.

Perhaps there would be no gold at the end of this, no sunset-fade and happily ever after. Perhaps you'd end up right back here again someday, bleeding out on memories gone septic with neglect. Perhaps you'd lose as much as you'd gain, in the end.

But what a thing it was—to be shattered and scattered, to cut yourself open on the fractured pieces and trust that the other person would help you staunch the flow of injuries after. To hold your own heart in your hands and decide that theirs was worth the risk anyway, every time.

So you sealed your mouth to hers and poured yourself into the spaces between, the cracks and scars and fault-lines cobwebbing you both. Let her lick the hurt from your teeth, suck apologies purple-dark into your skin until you couldn't tell her contrition from your clemency.

And later, when you laid tangled up in sheets that smelled of sex and forgiveness, her head pillowed on your chest and the ghosts of your names still ringing in the rafters, you thought that maybe this was a new breed of faith.

To believe, against all evidence, that you could piece each other back together. To know that you'd never be what you were before, untarnished and golden all the way through—but that maybe, just maybe, there was something rawer and realer and infinitely more precious to be found in those broken places.

To reach your hand between each other's ribs and hold tight to whatever you found there, battered and bloodied but beating still. Whispering: I love you, I love you, I love you.

I love you enough to stay.

I love you enough to bleed.

I love you in ways only the shattered know how to love.

I love you, and all your splintered edges.

I love you, and the way you carve yourself into me.

I love you, and I'll spend every breath I have left proving it.

I love you, and that's the best and worst thing I know how to do.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

©️ kissesz

tags for the lovely sweethearts who requested a continuation: @prettyyyy-girl & @hiroklaiz

[thef1diary]

ghost!max leaving notes on the fogged up mirror when you’re showering 😭

— it might’ve started with sweeter messages, but ghost!max can’t help himself. He wrote filthier messages after watching you in the shower. 18+ content below

The steam curled around you as hot water cascaded over your skin, the bathroom filling with a thick fog. It was your favorite part of the day—until you noticed the faint outline of letters forming on the mirror.

Your heart thudded as you leaned forward, wiping a hand over the sliding glass door to clear the condensation to read the words left on the mirror: Touch yourself for me

Your breath hitched, heat blooming across your chest that had nothing to do with the shower. He was here. Watching.

“Max,” you whispered, the word barely audible above the rush of water.

The response came swiftly, more words scrawling themselves onto the mirror with the same unnerving precision: I’m only going to watch you today

Your legs trembled, the audacity of his command igniting a spark of arousal that pooled low in your belly. Your body betrayed you, responding to the idea of his unseen gaze, his silent presence urging you to obey.

Another message materialized, sharper, more insistent: Don’t make me repeat myself

You swallowed hard, a shiver racing through you that had nothing to do with the cold. Your thighs parted instinctively, your hand bracing against the slick tile as your other slid between your legs. Hesitation lingered for only a heartbeat before the ache became unbearable, and your fingers found your clit, circling gently at first.

The first gasp tore from your lips, the slick pressure sending jolts of pleasure through your body. You swore you felt him—an ethereal press against your back, cold and electric, guiding you, urging you on.

More words soon emerged on the mirror: Good girl

The chill intensified, a spectral sensation of hands grazing over your hips—as if he was resisting himself from touching you—steadying you as your movements grew more desperate. The imagined weight of him was intoxicating, his invisible presence commanding, the thought of his gaze locked on you made you tremble.

Each thrust of your fingers sent waves of heat coursing through your veins, and your knees threatened to buckle. The rhythm of your breaths matched the pounding of your heart, ragged and uneven.

The mirror filled with new, jagged letters, his boldest demand yet: Don’t stop until you’re screaming my name

The pressure inside you built to a breaking point as you read the words, creating an ache that demanded release. You clenched around your fingers, your wetness dripping down your thighs that was quickly washed away by the steady stream of water. The intensity crested as pleasure ripped through you, a cry of his name escaping your lips, raw and unrestrained, the sound echoing in the steamy confines of the bathroom.

Your legs shook as you sagged against the tiled wall, chest heaving, the water doing little to cool the lingering heat that radiated from your core.

When you dared to look at the mirror again, one final message greeted you, lingering like a dark promise in the dissipating fog: Next time, I won’t just watch

want more ghost!max? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

[jinusajas]

06/22/25; 12:27am

yamato endo x fem.reader

warnings: street fighting violence, semi-public s-x.

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

{ part-time soulmates, full time problem, yeah | so hold me like a grudge… }

when your boyfriend invited you out for a spontaneous date, you were not expecting to be surrounded by a group of morons hitting on you, unable to take a hint as they followed your every move.

“i told you i’m taken.” you tell the goons for what had to be the umpteenth time, only to receive mocking laughter in return.

“you’re kidding, right? you’re dolled up and looking so pretty, and you’re telling me your man let you leave the house unattended?” his mocking laughter begins to grate on your nerves, and he had the audacity to touch you when his hand manages to reach out and grasp at your wrist!

“let go of me! if my boyfriend sees you doing this, he’s going to beat you and your crew to a pulp!”

not heeding your warning, the men surrounds you, ready to take you by force if needed when a large hand covered in tattoos rests on their shoulders.

“ya should’ve believed my girl when she said said she already had a boyfriend.”

before any of them could react, yamato endo ends up throwing all three of those bastards to the ground, freeing you instantly as you take a step back to admire his handiwork.

compared to your beloved yamato, all three of the goons were too slow to even lay a hand on them. with a precision that makes your heart race, you watch as he brings down his fists against all three of them, hearing the painful crunch of broken bones as they all remained an unconscious mess against the city streets.

not even a single hair was out of place when yamato fixes his hoodie, bringing the jacket back on his shoulder where it hung loosely, revealing his muscular biceps to you. with a coo of your name, he steps closer to you, slinging his arm around your shoulder while keeping you close to his side. “and how’s my baby doing? are you hurt anywhere?”

you shook your head in response, clinging to him as he takes you away from the scene. feeling his warmth seeping into your veins causes the heat to blossom all across your body. embarrassingly enough, just seeing him fighting off those assholes made you feel a little hot and bothered, causing you to clench your knees together with need.

the sudden movement doesn’t go unnoticed by yamato as a cheshire cat grin paints his expression. “heh…what’s this? does my girl need me?”

words refused to come out of your lips, yet the needy expression on your face was all the confirmation yamato needed to pull you off to the side. he walks deeper into the alleyway strung only with a few street lights before pinning you against a brick wall. “w-wait, we’re doing it here? what if someone sees?!”

yet he doesn’t heed your protests, already kneeling before you as he spreads your legs, freeing you from your skirt and panties. you shiver when the cold air kisses your soaked center, back already arched when yamato slides a finger inside of your slick walls.

“relax, the city is too active at this hour to even hear you screaming my name. and besides…” he trails off, giving your swollen clit a pinch before reassuring you, “if anyone dares to come any closer, i’ll just punch ‘em until they’re knocked out.”

“y-you’re incorrigible… hah!” yamato begins pumping his digits in and out of your heat, giving you that same devilish smile that made you turn into putty just for him. entirely focused on you and the way your pretty pussy clenches around his fingers, yamato was absolutely mesmerized by the sight of it all. after giving your heat a few more pumps, yamato removes his bow drenched fingers before surging forward, mouth already surrounding your aching cunt before sliding his tongue within your slick walls.

he leaves no part of you untouched, with your soft mewls filling the air as you braced yourself against his broad shoulders. when he kept devouring you like a man starved, you delved your fingers into his hair, pulling at each as each stroke of his tongue brings you that much closer to heaven.

and before you could taste your sweet release-

allowing the tightness in your abdomen to finally snap-

yamato devastates you by pulling away.

leaving you gasping for air as tears of frustration cascades down your cheeks.

“yamato! y-you bastard-“

standing back to his full height, he captures your lips in a searing kiss, silencing your string of curses while adjusting his pants. you hear the telltale sound of his zipper being pulled down as the tip of his cock traces at your entrance. “relax baby, i’m just preparing you for what you really need.”

and with one particularly hard thrust, yamato was completely sheathed from within you, making you cum immediately as you spilled yourself onto him. he winces at the sensation of your walls clenched around him, it taking an almost herculean effort to stave off his own release as he lets out a grunt of your name, “damn, i guess you’ve been really pent up then.”

when yamato was certain that he wouldn’t climax too soon, he picks up your legs, forcing you to wrap them around his waist before pounding into you. his cock was glistening with your juices, causing him to groan as the sounds of your squelching walls taking him in over and over again nearly sends him over the edge.

“dammit, i can’t even last two seconds inside of you.” yamato pants, hands already traveling down to your swollen clit once more as he gently pinches it, rolling it between his pointer and thumb fingers. this action made you cry out to him, already unable to hold on when you felt your second impending release washing over you.

when your moans got a little too loud, your boyfriend slams his hips into you one last time, pumping you full of his seed while swallowing the rest of your moans with a kiss. by now, the passion had slowly died down to a simmer, with yamato weakly thrusting his softening cock within your heat, ensuring that he was completely emptied.

your heart was still racing as you rest your head against the brick wall, swallowing thickly when you saw yamato’s expression turning smug. his signature smirk was seen on his stupidly handsome face, making your heart perform somersaults within your chest.

he chuckles, giving your nose one last kiss before carefully pulling out of you. it was now that you realized you had lost all sensation in both of your legs, making you nearly fall had it not been for yamato catching you.

“heh, did i fuck you that good, princess?”

you manage to weakly glare at him, bracing yourself against his chest when he puts on your panties and skirt. wincing in mild discomfort at having the fabric of your panties stained with the evidence of your release, yamato lets out a bark of laughter, finding amusement in your every expression.

“c’mon princess, i’ll take you home and run a bath for you. we’ll order out and just relax at my place.” with a happy sigh, you bring yourself closer to your beloved, allowing him to carry you back home as you basked in the pinpricks of pleasure that still lingered…

end notes: so, i saw the episode where everyone gangs up and tries to fight yamato, but he was too fast for any of them to land a hit and… it did things to my brain chemistry 🤤 so have this unedited thirst post since i have no other way to convey my emotions ♡

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[cosmictheo]

𝐎𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒 | 𝐟𝐞𝐲𝐝-𝐫𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐧

(gif credits to @pascow)

— summary: feyd-rautha was used to have whatever he wanted, it was well known, but so were you; what you desired, was already yours. and what you crave right now, is him. —pairing: feyd-rautha harkonnen x female!reader —word count: 1.5k —warnings: death, mentions of killing, blood, fighting (yk the usual feyd), just the reader and feyd-rautha being horny and a slut for each other.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

yes, i'm finally back!! dune part 2 has dragged me out of my cave and has given me inspiration like never before.

Feyd-Rautha was psychotic. Everyone knew it, perhaps the whole galaxy was aware of his very eccentric... preferences and appetites. He was well known for his immaculate and animalistic way of fighting, of destroying anyone who dared to present themselves as his enemy, of anyone who would dare to challenge him. But he was also honorable, proud and loyal to his beliefs, perhaps too self-confident for your own liking.

But every strong man had a weakness, a weakness that could bring them to their knees, to yield, to be left vulnerable. You were Feyd's weakness, rather, his strength, his fortitude, the fire in his veins, the beating of his heart. And it was quite strange and utterly unimaginable to think that someone like Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen would have any feelings at all, there were those who firmly believed that he didn't even have a heart, not even a soul, that he was a demon in human form, a ruthless and bloodthirsty beast, the worst of the worst.

But there you were to prove otherwise.

It had been your idea to actually take him as a husband. Your parents disagreed, of course, for they thought you would be better off alone, after all, you were one of the strongest women alive, you didn't need any man or woman by your side. They called you the Golden Dragon, someone with too much power for this world, you had abilities that the world could not really understand yet, connections with the universe that could not even begin to be explained, the last descendant of one of the most ancient Houses, one that had vanished in time, detached from battles and senseless wars for power, a House that was recognized by that flag with the roaring and menacing red dragon on a golden field. That ancient beast that many thought extinct... until you came to Giedi Prime riding one. 

And you had arrived just on his coming of age day, where his favorite ceremony was battles, of course.

You watched him fight the Atreides men from your seat, your mother and father sitting at your sides, watching him as well, all in silence. Your eyes followed his every move, not even pausing for a second to watch the other poor men being annihilated, no, for your attention was solely on Feyd-Rautha, noting the predatory nature of his steps, his precise and powerful movements, eyes darkened with delight, eager for more death and blood. 

"He is a good warrior" Your father commented looking at him in awe as well.

"Too much so, I'd say" Your mother added in a naturally stern voice, distrustful dark eyes, observing the gory spectacle.

"He was born for it" Your father continued to comment, turning his head so he could look at you for a few seconds "For slaughter and death. Only to bring that."

"I think he's cute" you finally stated your opinion, voice low and serene, not even having the audacity to look at your parents, for you didn't have to look at them to know that they were both giving you horrified and scandalized looks now. 

Your father muttered your name in a warning tone of voice.

"He would look good in our home. He's built for fighting and protect, just like us." You explained, finally detaching your eyes from Feyd-Rautha, who had just killed the last Atreides standing, unleashing a wave of applause, praise and cheers from the audience. "Don't you think so, father?"

Your look was almost defiant, and yet composed, and your father took it as a challenge, but he would never be so foolish as to show any disagreement with you, for what the dragon princess desired, she had.

So, after sharing a short glance with your mother, he gave you a short nod of his head.

"I do."

And so it was settled.

Feyd-Rautha, for his own part, saw you and knew you were meant to be his.  He had heard of you, of course, his uncle used to insist that he must behave himself once your family arrived, for you were worthy of having the full respect of House Harkonnen, and that losing you as allies was not an option at all. So behave he did... or at least he tried to.

"I dreamed of you last night." 

Was the first thing he said to you, both found in one of the large, dark halls of his home, just a couple of hours after his victorious fight in the arena. The Baron and your father were in an important and pending meeting in which neither your presence nor Feyd's was required, because the whole focus of it was the two of you, and a possible marriage to ensure the alliance and heritage.

His eyes were barely distinguishable with the all the thick blackness surrounding him, his pupils dilated with desire, hands clasped behind his back, as inflexible as ever. He had put his all into making a good impression, his uncle had ordered him to, and Feyd was quite obedient when it came to the Baron's wishes. He was so loyal to that foul man that you thought it was something no better described than adorable. 

The thing was that, as powerful and menacing as he was, he was just another man, another pawn into this colossal game of power and thrones. And you felt rather pity for him.

"Na-baron." You greeted him somewhat pragmatically, turning fully towards him, golden eyes gleaming even amidst all the darkness through your gold mask. "It was a good dream, I hope."

"(Y/N) Pazuk, princess." He just took the satisfaction of deliciously savoring the name of your House, pronouncing it in that husky, deep voice of his. He also had the courage to move closer to you, rising from the wall and stepping cautiously, holding your gaze, looking down on you as if you were prey, a small helpless animal under his looming shadow. He then reflected, thinking about choosing the most suitable words... and the most appropriate ones "It was a very good dream."

You were in his territory, his planet, you knew it well and so did he, you were walking straight into the mouth of the hungry beast. Everything that was there belonged to him, he controlled it all and saw it all. 

And everything he was seeing now was you. And he was intrigued, captivated even. Because he usually encountered boring and vulgar people, people who were nowhere near his level, people who he liked to torture and make bleed to death. And the thing was, you happened to stand on his level, and even higher.

"Tell me more." You had the courage to order him in a soft tone of voice. He knew instantly that you were testing him, he was smart and knew how to read people well... but you, you were different, he could see it too, you were much more complex than other people. And he was delighted.

A hint of a phantom smile tugged at the corner of his lips just as he stood in front of you, posture rigid and dominant. "You showed me the way. The right way. The way of victory, the way of life."

You swallowed spit slowly and he noticed it, for his eyes descended to your throat for a few moments before rising again to your face, analyzing every expression that passed through your gaze, every gesture of your lips, every sign you allowed him to see.

Then he twisted his head slightly, face turning somewhat mischievous. "You think I'm scary, princess?"

Now it was his turn to test you.

He watched as your lips parted before responding, raising your voice with pure confidence, naturally, holding his dark gaze. "I think you're quite the opposite really, Feyd-Rautha."

He was silent for a few moments, long moments in which he simply gazed at you intently, with his full attention on you, on your body, almost as if he was looking at your pure soul.

"You are my destiny." He finally uttered, you could hear how his voice had wavered more for softness than harshness this time. "Show me the way, my princess."

You managed to feel the warmth of his body against yours. For someone so cold and distant, his body was hot and warm like fire.

"Are you going to ask for my hand?" You ask in a small voice, feeling suddenly intimidated by his closeness. There were very few who dared to stand so close to you, yet there he was, threatening your personal space. "Because here I am, na-Baron."

Before I could answer you anything, you spoke again, twisting your head slightly, barely narrowing your eyes. "You think I'm scary, my lord?"

He had never been so profoundly proud and thrilled by his title as he was at that moment, when you slowly modulated it with your tongue like a purr, your voice tastefully savoring it.

"I think you are beautiful." He immediately responded. "And I want you to be mine."

And so, fate had done it's work.

[xxsycamore]

BAD LIAR

╰┈➤ You love Harrison, but he gets on your nerves sometimes. You know you can't lie to him, but you can still get back at him in other ways...

Harrison Gray/f!Reader • rating: E (MDNI) • tags: Jealousy; Make-up Sex; Couple Arguments; Rough Kissing; Vaginal Sex; Riding; Dirty Talk; Swearing; Rough Sex; Creampie • wordcount: 2,405 • masterlist

Visions of Temptation 2024/KINKTOBER DAY 5: Make-up Sex

"I told you already. Even if I didn't have my curse, I'd still see right through you. Because you're simply that bad of a liar."

The tiny gasp you let out only makes Harrison that much more amused. You feel the blood boiling in your veins, not even caring anymore if you're overreacting or not.

"I swear, this has nothing to do with you, Harry. I too like to drink strawberry milk sometimes, okay? It's as simple as that! I wanted to drink some so I got myself some. It was my strawberry milk. It wasn't strawberry milk I left for you because I'm too shy to tell you I got you a gift! Jeez!"

"I told you it's fine. I know how shy you can be when it comes to expressing your feelings…"

He pauses to take a sip - the last sip, precisely - of the glass before setting it down where you can see it.

The audacity.

"…So now that you saw me enjoying your gift, we can close the topic if you want to. No need to get so worked up over it… though I'd admit, it's a good look on you."

You watch the empty glass in disbelief.

"…It's sexy, even."

And in the next second, you simply storm out of the room.

***

Later that night, you enter the castle with your cheeks hurting from the big grin you’ve been sporting for quite some time now. With a spring in your step, you walk into the foyer while still linking arms with Liam.

You caught a carriage ride back home together after you ran into him, as your late afternoon going out happened to coincide with him finishing his rehearsal at Scala. Spending some time with him was definitely better than sulking by yourself while browsing the marketplace, seeing how quickly and effortlessly he cheered you up with his bright and bubbly persona. You're not sure if he asked out of politeness or if he picked up the signs of you having a bad day that easily - great, not only are you a bad liar but it seems like you can't hide your feelings at all now - but it wasn't long before you were telling Liam all about your lovers' quarrel earlier that day.

Liam's initial reaction was to smile. Just a smile, not a mocking laugh that reminds you of a certain someone's relentless teasing. Then he made sure to comfort you about it, saying he understands why you're upset with Harry. He's a good friend of his, after all, he knew exactly what you're talking about.

Liam's magenta eyes lighted up for a second, like an imaginary pair of cat ears tingling in attention on the top of his head, with a new smile blooming on his face. A mischievous one this time. He told you he has a plan.

"We're hooooome!" Liam announces out loud, making sure the figure sitting with its back to the door is able to hear it. Of course, both you and Liam know who this is, but you pretend you don't.

"Oh, Harry, it's you!"

Turning to face you while still holding onto the book he's been reading while waiting for your arrival, you and Liam make sure he sees your linked arms just for a bit longer before you let go of each other. You approach first, resting your arms on the backrest of the sofa where Harrison is sitting and gushing about the fun time you had with Liam.

"…And then he looked down and saw he was still wearing those funny-looking medieval shoes from the rehearsal!"

"I can't believe you had to point them out to me… In my defense, Tom is absolutely working me to the bone these days! He's so excited for this new play we're putting on!"

"Who wouldn't be? When you told me about the plot of it, it got me all excited too! Can't believe I haven't seen this play before… I definitely have to come see it. Hey, Harry, you're coming too, aren't you?"

Between the animated gesturing of you and Liam, Harrison remains quiet and mostly still. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, tilting his head for a second as if he's been distracted until you spoke his name.

"Hm? Oh, sure. I'll be there."

"Yaaay!" You clap your hands, before turning your attention to Liam again, as he apologizes for having to leave the two of you so soon. He doesn't forget to say that he's going out early in the morning and probably won't be back till the end of the day. And you don't forget to show how much you're going to miss him, giving him a nice goodbye hug. Right in front of Harrison's eyes.

Once he's gone, you let out a sigh, but don't hurry to move your attention to Harry just yet, even as you walk past him on the sofa. This, however, leaves you wide open, as a pair of arms wraps around your waist in a flash, pulling you right into the lap of the cunning fox.

"Eeek! What's gotten into you, Harry?"

Up this close, reading Harrison's gaze is not hard, even while he's doing the same to you. It's rare to see him so unlike himself, but if there's one thing you know for sure, it's that this is the face of a man being jealous. You need no special abilities to tell this much.

"Nothing much. What's gotten into you? You seem to be in high spirits."

You scrunch your nose at him, opening your mouth to bite back… but you select your words carefully so as not to be caught telling a lie, answering the question with a question.

"Can't I be?"

"'Dunno. It's not the face of someone whose treat was stolen earlier."

It's tempting to break the intense eye contact with a roll of your eyes, but you hold back, even if his words provoke you to do just that.

"Oh, that? I got over it already! I'm not childishly stingy about getting my treats stolen, like a certain someone."

Ouch, that must have hurt. You worry about going too far, but you can't deny the amusement of getting back at him. Especially when you can bask in the results of your earlier performance being written across his face. Maybe your place is in Scala, after all.

His teal eyes shimmer with an unfamiliar light in them, and trying to figure it out makes you feel dizzy. In the next moment, it ceases mattering altogether, because both of you go in for a kiss at the same time.

It begins slowly despite the dramatic pause that preceded it, neither of you wanting to give in first. You let Harrison in your mouth, just to ambush him; wrapping your tongue around his, you turn the kiss into something rougher, and he doesn't back down to you in the slightest. The mass of frenzied energy inside you manifests in clinging to his arms, to his shoulders, tugging at his hair, at his clothing; you maintain your iron grip even as you notice you're disheveling his shirt at this point.

He is the first to withdraw, and despite looking slightly out of breath, he's still staring at you with the same look in his eyes, almost as if he's mad at you. Good, the feeling is mutual.

"Bedroom. Now."

Thank god he said it already.

Once you find yourself in private with Harrison, you know you will not hold back, and neither will he. It's a surprise that a mindful hand still reaches for the light switch, though it's hardly important for either of you right now. With the way you're set on your goal, bodies knowing the way, you hardly need to be able to use your vision at all.

"You're the worst. I'm so mad at you."

"No, you aren't."

Ignoring his words, you relish in the feeling of the naked torso you drag your fingernails down, once that shirt is finally gone. But you're after his belt next, even if Harrison's own hands are on the way.

He's got your skirt removed already, trying to distract you with a kiss while he removes your blouse next, but you refuse to lift your arms up - not until you claim the next article of clothing on him. He breaks the kiss and clicks his tongue, fed up and impatient. Not unlike you.

He easily finds your wrists and grabs them, backing you to the bed and pushing you down until your body hits the fluffy duvet. From there on, his plan seems to be holding your wrists in one hand above your head while he attempts to lift the hem of your blouse again with the other, but it proves hard with you squirming underneath him. You can't stop looking at the expression he makes, and you remember to use your strongest weapon, your tongue.

"You're pretty worked up, aren't you, Harry? Could it be that you really got jealous…?"

He'd never confess to it straight up, so you can at least have your fun teasing him for a little longer.

"I didn’t."

"Liar."

The growing need to kiss his puckering lower lip is what makes you give up on the undressing war, letting the piece of clothing be taken off of you and discarded somewhere on the floor, joining the pile that's already there. Harrison keeps the kiss short because there's still more he can take off of you.

"Yeah, that's what I am."

That's it? No "at least I know when to stop", anything? You lift your head up to catch him moving down on you and tugging at your underwear using his teeth, and the sight makes you forget about your grudge for a split second. Damn it, you want him so bad.

You know once he gets between your legs you'd be screaming with pleasure no matter how stubborn you are. But at least you want to be the one calling the shots while your anger still fuels your boldness. It takes a little bit of effort and a little bit of tongue down Harrison's throat, but at last, you manage to push him down the bed and turn the tables on him.

Once you're on top, you drag down his pants in a rush together with his underwear, letting his erection spring out in your awaiting hands. You rub the blunt head onto your drenched entrance, teasing him one last time before you gradually sink down on him. Though it lacks the usual gentleness Harry treats you with, always mindful of his own size, and the result has you cursing him.

"F-Fuck you…"

"Yeah, it seems like you're trying to do that."

His big hands snake their way up your waist, already there to support you, and a part of you wants to smack them away and show him how well you can ride him without his aid. But you don't, despite yourself and despite the provoking words that his dirty mouth keeps on spilling.

You don't know what's to blame here, but the pleasure of becoming one with him grows tenfold under these circumstances. You need to keep going like you need air. Like it's the only way to channel the emotions rushing inside you right now. The only pause you're willing to take is to unclasp your bra and throw it down at Harrison.

He catches it, bringing it down to his lips for a second while flashing you another dirty look, before it ceases being of interest to him and he throws it away.

"You're- Haaah- You're seriously bad at this. Aren't you going to say something in defense?"

"I'm more interested in fucking you right now."

Your walls clench as you hear this, your body being way more honest than the words coming out of your mouth tonight, but it's hardly a surprise between the two of you.

"Since when did that become your priority? I thought you were having more fun teasing me?"

"Since yesterday. Remember when I commented on how sexy the look on your face is?"

The pace of your hips falters. Thinking about Harrison desiring you like this is, admittedly, hot, but it's his honesty that messes with your head here. As much as he uses his lies to his advantage, it seems like he can use honesty in just as dangerous ways.

Another lowering of your guard, and another chance for him to flip the two of you around.

Now that he's back on top, Harrison hooks your legs on the folds of his arms and it's your only sign to brace yourself for what's to come.

"Come on, say it. Say that you want me to fuck you. Or lie if you wish, I'm not stopping you."

You have to give up clutching your jaw the second Harrison starts pounding inside you in earnest, but the fear of him stopping is what makes you really say the words.

"Fuck me… Fuck me, please! More! Don't stop!"

"As you wish."

Unlike how talkative both you and Harrison have been so far, the following minutes are filled with nothing but moans and the sound of skin slapping against skin. When he leans over you, caging your body completely in his arms, you can't resist wrapping your own arms securely around his shoulders, afraid of him playing tricks on you again. Even if you know he won't. You need this so badly, and so does he.

"Harry… Harry, tell me you love me…! Ngnnhh-I'm gonna-!"

"I love you. I love you so much."

"I love you too-Ahhhh-!"

Hot-white takes over your vision as Harrison's pace shatters, his thrusts deepening just as you reach your peak, milking him for everything he has. He keeps rutting inside you while he cums, his heavy pants muffled into the crook of your neck as he leaves open-mouthed kisses against your feverish skin. You hold him so tightly even after the strong climax relaxes its grip on you, as if wanting him to sink into your ribcage and completely become one with you.

The kiss the two of you share once you can find your breath again, or maybe even before that, is a sweet one, but the aftertaste of it promises another round of this. It seems like there are still some things you have to settle with Harrison.

Liam when he came up with the idea: Oh they're fucking fucking tonight!

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[j23r23]

Getaway Heart

Tangerine x Reader - angst & fluff

Warnings: blood & vomit

You’ve been a getaway driver since you got your license at 18, maneuvering through the streets with audacity and precision that caught the eye of all the right, and wrong, people. For the past ten years, you worked alone in the shadows, carving out a reputation as the go-to driver for high-stake jobs.

On a rainy evening, the twins handler, a no-nonsense woman with a penchant for dark sunglasses and cryptic instructions, invited you to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Madrid. The place smelled of oil and rubber. There she introduced you to the two men known only by their code names: Tangerine and Lemon. They were looking for a reliable driver, and their handler thought you fit the bill. You knew the Fruits were renowned in the industry for being very good at what they do but were slightly unhinged.

Tangerine was the first to step forward. He was tall and lean, with a sharp jawline and piercing blue eyes that seemed to dissect you with a single glance. Dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that contrasted starkly with the grime of the warehouse, he exuded an air of sophistication and control. His voice was smooth, almost velvety, “So, you’re the driver everyone’s talking about,” he said, his tone carrying a mix of skepticism and curiosity.

Lemon, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. Shorter and more muscular, he had a rugged look about him, with bleached hair and an unpredictable glare. His attire was casual— black jeans and a denim jacket—giving off a more approachable vibe. In his hand, he toyed with a small sticker book, flicking it absentmindedly as he watched you.

The initial meeting didn’t go smoothly. Tangerine’s aloof demeanor and Lemon’s staring put you on edge. Tangerine scrutinized your every word and movement, as if searching for a weakness, while Lemon tested your patience with his relentless talk about trains.

“Look, love” Tangerine finally said, crossing his arms, “we don’t have time for screw-ups. We need someone who can handle the heat and think on their feet. Can you do that?”

You met his gaze, your jaw set in determination. “I’ve been doing this long enough to know that hesitation can get you killed. I can handle the heat. Question is, can you keep up? Oh, and the names Orange, love.”

There was a moment of silence before Lemon burst into laughter. “I like this one,” he said, clapping Tangerine on the shoulder. “Got some fire in her.”

Tangerine’s lips curled into a faint smile, the first sign of approval. “Alright Orange,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The memory made you grin.

Right after meeting the twins you had your first job together and it was utter chaos—shit hit the fan, sirens blaring, guns a blazing and the scent of burnt rubber hanging heavy in the air. You were behind the wheel, the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you navigated the streets of Madrid with precision.

"Tangerine, we've got company!" Lemon's tone was annoyed.

Tangerine, cool and collected, leaned out of the window, firing off shots with deadly accuracy. "I can see that, Lemon! Im not blind!"

You couldn't help but roll your eyes, as the banter between the twins was getting on your nerves. "Would you two save the chatter for later? I'm trying to concentrate here!"

Lemon laughed. "Relax, Orange, we've got this under control."

You just sighed in annoyance and literally put your foot down, pushing the pedal to the metal.

Tangerine, sitting in the seat behind you, clung to the door handle, as hes being pushed back by the force of the speeding car. "Bloody hell, Orange? " he shouted, his voice a mix of panic and irritation.

Lemon, in the backseat, looked even worse. His face was pale, and he was gripping the headrest in front of him for dear life. "For the love of all that's holy, slow down!”

You smirked, your eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror. "Relax, boys. Let me do my job and i let you do yours" you said, narrowly missing a pedestrian who decided now was the perfect time to jaywalk.

"Relax? Relax?!" Tangerine's voice went up an octave. "We’ve got the entire Mafia of Madrid after us, how in hell am i supposed to work when you’re driving like a maniac!"

You took a sharp turn, the tires screeching in protest. The car tilted dangerously, but you managed to keep it from flipping. Lemon made a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a growl. "If we die, I’m haunting your ass!"

"Hold on to something!" you yelled, spotting a narrow alleyway ahead. Without hesitation, you swerved into it, the car barely fitting between the buildings. The side mirrors scraped against the brick walls, sending sparks flying.

Tangerine’s knuckles were white from gripping the door handle. "Jesus Christ, woman!"

You chuckled, adrenaline pumping through your veins. "I got hired for my driving skills, remember?"

Lemon let out a strangled laugh. "Skills? More like suicidal tendencies!"

As you burst out of the alley and back onto a busy street, a car tried to cut you off. With a quick flick of the wheel, you sideswiped it, sending it crashing into a parked truck. "One down, a few dozen to go," you quipped, glancing at your handiwork in the mirror.

"Just keep us in one piece!" Tangerine barked, looking both impressed and terrified.

You sped towards an upcoming construction site, an idea forming in your mind. "Hold tight," you warned, accelerating even more.

"Oh hell no!" Lemon groaned, clearly dreading your next move.

You aimed for a ramp leading up to a half-built overpass. As the car launched into the air, all three of you screamed—though in your case, it was more of a whoop of excitement. The car soared over the gap, landing with a bone-jarring thud on the other side. The cars that are chasing you weren’t so lucky; the first few smashed into the gap, creating a massive pileup.

Tangerine looked at you with wide eyes, his breath coming in short gasps. "You’re absolutely mad, you know that?"

Lemon, still clutching the headrest, nodded fervently. "Completely off your rocker."

You gave them a cheeky grin. "But i got rid of them, no?"

As the car sped away from the chaos behind, Tangerines eyes still held a hint of disbelief. "You’re a bloody lunatic!"

Lemon slumped back in his seat, finally letting go of the headrest. "Next time, I’m driving."

You laughed, the thrill of the chase still coursing through you. "Sure."

After a few more sharp turns you finally pull into a secluded garage. You killed the engine, the sudden silence almost deafening after the chaos.

"You two okay back there?" you had asked, trying to suppress a smirk.

Lemon had groaned, his face pale as a sheet. "I think I'm gonna be sick, now that we stopped," he had mumbled, clutching his stomach.

Tangerine had shot him a glare before leaning out of the window, retching onto the pavement. "Yeah, and somehow we made it out alive!” he had grumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You turn in your seat looking at the boys smiling. Tangerine shook his head, laughing despite himself. “But remind me never to question your driving skills again.”

“Deal” you replied with a grin.

After that night, the three of you went through countless jobs together, facing danger with unwavering trust in one another. As time passed, your feelings toward Tangerine began to change. Working alongside him, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the way your heart fluttered whenever he flashed a rare smile or the way your pulse quickened at his touch.

The more jobs you pulled, the deeper your affection for him grew, and the harder it became to suppress your emotions.

And now, something feels off. As you sit in the driver's seat of your idling car, the engine's purr does little to calm your anxious nerves. The night is heavy with tension, the rearview mirror becoming your only solace. You glance back repeatedly, your mind racing through every possible outcome of tonight's job.

Tonight's mission was supposed to be a straightforward smash and grab. The target: a high-end jewelry store fronting as a money laundering operation for one of the city's major crime syndicates in London. Intelligence indicated minimal security—just a couple of guards, easily neutralized. Tangerine and Lemon were tasked with infiltrating, grabbing the goods, and getting out before anyone noticed. Simple, clean, efficient.

You were parked in the back alley of the building, engine running, ready for the signal. The minutes stretched on, each one feeling like an hour. Something gnawed at your gut, a premonition that things weren't going according to plan. You'd run through every escape route, every contingency, but no amount of planning could shake the unease that had settled over you.

The longer you waited, the more your thoughts drifted back to Tangerine. His smile, his confidence, the way he always seemed to know what to say to calm you down. You remember the first time he took a bullet for you. He had laughed it off, calling you a softie for worrying. That was Tangerine—fearless, almost reckless, but with a heart that beat fiercely for those he cared about.

You trusted them both with your life, but tonight, that trust felt more like a lifeline, taut and fraying with each passing second.

The rearview mirror offers no new insights, just the darkened street and the distant sounds of the city. You grip the steering wheel tighter. You can almost hear Tangerine’s voice, telling you to stay calm, to trust the plan. But the plan is starting to feel like a distant memory, overshadowed by a growing fear that this time, things won’t go as smoothly as they always have.

And then, like a thunderclap, the back door of the building bursts open.

Suddenly, Lemon charges through the back door of the building, supporting a hunched over Tangerine. It's clear that this simple job has gone terribly wrong. As they stagger closer, you see the blood—Tangerine is losing a lot of it. You reverse the car and drive towards them. Lemon yanks open the back door, practically shoving Tangerine inside before he climbs in himself.

"Go, go, go!" Lemon shouts, urgency in his voice.

You change immediately into first and slam the gas pedal to the floor, the tires screeching as the car lurches forward. The doors are barely closed, but you don’t have time to worry about that. In the rearview mirror, you see Lemon struggling to put pressure on one of Tangerines wounds, while the latter squirms in pain.

"What the fuck happened?" you demand, weaving through traffic with precision.

"Tangerine underestimated the Job, didn't wear his west and got shot," Lemon replies, his voice strained. Tangerine just groans, clearly in too much pain to speak.

"You didn't wear your fucking west?" you scoff, your hands gripping the wheel tightly. "You always chastise us when we're not wearing one, what the fuck were you thinking!"

"Yeah, well," Tangerine mutters in pain, "we all make mistakes."

You maneuver through the city's maze-like streets, dodging late-night traffic and running red lights. The city's neon lights cast eerie reflections inside the car, illuminating the tense scene. The smell of blood fills the air, and you can hear Tangerine's labored breathing from the back seat.

"You better not die on me, Tangerine," you say, your voice tight with a mixture of fear and anger. "I’m not dealing with your expensive funeral."

Tangerine tries to laugh, but it turns into a pained groan. "Always… so considerate," he manages to say between gasps.

"Save your strength, mate," Lemon says, pressing another wad of cloth against Tangerine's bleeding abdomen. "We need you to stay awake."

The car roars down a narrow alleyway, the tires barely gripping the slick pavement as you take a sharp turn. You can feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating. Every second counts, and the safehouse feels a million miles away.

"I swear, if we make it out of this alive, you're going to owe me one pristine car cleaning," you assert firmly, your voice tinged with worry.

"Deal," Tangerine replies, his eyes closing. Lemon looks at you through the rearview mirror "Just get us there in one piece."

You weave through the final stretch of city streets, your knuckles white on the steering wheel. The safehouse looms ahead, a nondescript building that has become your haven in times of crisis. You screech to a halt after driving into the garage, the car barely stopping before you pull the handbrake.

"Help me get him inside," Lemon says, rushing out and opening the back door. Together, you and Lemon half-carry, half-drag Tangerine towards the entrance, his blood leaving a grim trail behind you.

"Hang on, Tan," you whisper, your voice breaking despite your best efforts to stay calm. "We're almost there."

Inside the safehouse, the familiar surroundings offer little comfort. You clear the kitchen table with a sweep of your arm, sending everything crashing to the floor.

"Lay him down here," you instruct. "I need to see how bad it is."

Tangerine's eyes flutter open, and he looks up at you with a weak smile. "You always did know how to make things dramatic, love" he jokes, his voice barely a whisper.

"Shut up," you say, your throat tight. "Just let me fix you up."

As you rip open his shirt, revealing the extent of his injuries, the reality of the situation hits you like a punch to the gut. Four bullet wounds, two in his left shoulder one in his right arm and the worst is stuck in the right side of his abdomen.

This isn't just another job gone wrong. This is a fight for survival. And in this moment, all you can think about is keeping Tangerine alive.

"You ruined my Burberry suit," Tangerine complains weakly, attempting a half-hearted smirk.

"I said, shut up," you snap, your voice tight with worry. Your hands move quickly, working to stop the bleeding. Tears blur your vision, but you force yourself to focus, ignoring the emotional storm brewing inside you.

Lemon stands by, trying to keep pressure on the wounds. He looks at you, concern etched on his face. "You alright?" he asks, noticing your tears.

You nod, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on your shoulders. Each bullet you extract from Tangerine's flesh elicits an excruciating scream from him that reverberates through the room and it slices through you like a knife. But you steel yourself against the anguish, focusing solely on the task at hand. With each bullet removed, Tangerine's body relaxes a fraction, but his agony remains palpable.

Exhaustion settles over him like a heavy shroud, and he slumps back, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. You work quickly, stitching him up as best you can with trembling hands, the urgency of the situation lending you a sense of clarity.

Once Tangerine is bandaged and relatively stable, you turn your attention to the smaller cuts and abrasions littering his body. With gentle care, you clean away the blood, your movements deliberate and precise as you tend to his wounds.

When you finally finish, you look to Lemon, concern etched into your features. "You got any injuries?" you ask, your voice laced with worry.

He shakes his head, his gaze unwavering as he grabs a blanket and pillow, arranging them to make Tangerine's makeshift bed on the kitchen table a little more comfortable.

You look at your blood covered hands and your mind starts to race,

The reality of the situation sinking in. Despite your years of experience you can't shake the feeling of helplessness that washes over you. You've faced danger countless times before, but this time feels different.

As you turn to wash the blood away in the sink, Lemon appears at your side. His eyes hold a depth of understanding that cuts through the turmoil in your soul.

"Not exactly the night we planned, huh?" Lemon tries to joke, but his voice wavers.

"Yeah…" you reply, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes.

"You love him, don't you?" Lemon's voice breaks the silence, gentle but insistent.

You pause, the question hanging in the air. Tears spill over, and you nod, holding in a sob. "Yes," you whisper, your voice cracking. "I do."

Wordlessly, he reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. His touch is grounding.

With a steadying breath, you push aside the tumult of emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

You look back at your shaking hands seeing the sink run red as you rinse the rest of Tans blood away, the water swirling slowly like the tension in your chest. The room feels both too small and too vast, the weight of everything pressing down on you.

Lemon's eyes soften with understanding. "Does he know?" he asks gently.

You shake your head, tears now flowing freely. "No," you manage to choke out.

Lemon gives you a sad smile and pats your back. "It's gonna be okay. He's tough. He'll pull through. He's Tangerine, after all."

You look over at Tangerine, his face pale and his breathing shallow. The sight of him like this, so vulnerable, breaks something inside you. You sink to your knees beside the table, clutching his hand in yours, your tears falling onto his bloodstained shirt.

"I should have told him, “ You whisper, your voice breaking. "I should have told him every day."

Lemon kneels beside you, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "He knows," he says softly. "Somehow, he knows. And he’s fighting.”

The room is silent except for the faint, labored breathing of Tangerine. You press your forehead to Tangerine's hand, your sobs shaking your entire body.

"Please, don't leave me," you whisper, your voice raw with pain. "I can't do this without you."

"He's going to make it," Lemon murmurs, more to himself than to you. "He has to."

You cling to those words, praying that they're true. Because the thought of a world without Tangerine is too much to bear.

When the morning sun shines through the kitchen window, you stir, the warm light nudging you awake. You jolt up, immediately checking on Tangerine and finding him still breathing, albeit slowly. His chest rises and falls steadily, and a wave of relief washes over you.

Your body aches from the uncomfortable sleeping position, but you ignore it, stretching briefly before moving around the kitchen to make some coffee, the familiar routine grounding you.

Suddenly, you hear a faint sound. Turning around, you see Tangerine, though barely conscious, calling out for you, reaching out weakly.

"Hey, " he murmurs, his eyes fluttering closed but a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

You rush to his side, your heart heavy yet light with relief. “don't go too far" he whispers, his hand finding yours.

"Lemon!" you call out, your voice trembling with a mix of emotions. "Lemon, get in here!"

Lemon appears in the doorway, eyes widening as he takes in the scene. "What's going on? Is he—?"

"He's awake," you say, unable to contain the sob that escapes your lips. "He's going to be okay."

Lemon's face softens with a mixture of relief and joy. He steps forward, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "I told you he's tough," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "Tan doesn't go down that easily."

You nod, unable to speak, the relief washing over you in waves. You stay by Tangerines side, his hand still clasped in yours, feeling the weight of the nights fear and uncertainty lift just a little.

Lemon places a gentle hand on your back, his voice soft but firm. "You need to rest. Take a shower, change into some fresh clothes. I'll keep an eye on him."

You hesitate, glancing back at Tangerine "Are you sure?" you ask, your voice wavering with concern.

"I'm sure," Lemon reassures you, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You look like shit."

"Thanks, Lem." you shake your head at his compliment and make your way to the bathroom. The hot water cascading over you feels like a much-needed cleanse, washing away the grime and the fear of the night. You change into fresh clothes, feeling a bit more human, and take a moment to steady yourself before heading back to the kitchen.

When you return, you see Lemon leaning close to Tangerine, their voices low as Tangerine attempts to sit up, wincing with every movement. Lemon supports him, and you quickly move to their side, slipping an arm around Tangerine to help. Together, you guide him into one of the bedrooms, easing him onto the bed so he can rest more comfortably.

"Thanks," Tangerine murmurs, his face still pale but his eyes more focused.

"You need to rest," you say, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead. "We'll be right outside." As you and Lemon turn to leave, Tangerine's voice stops you.

"Wait." His hand reaches out, grabbing yours weakly. You look at Lemon, who gives you a knowing nod.

"I'll give you two some privacy," he says softly. "Call if you need anything." You nod at Lemon before turning back to Tangerine.

"You scared the living daylight out of me last night," you admit, your voice trembling slightly as you sit on the edge of the bed, Tangerine's hand still clasped in yours.

"I didn't mean to," he replies, a weak smile playing on his lips. "But I guess I did give that Burberry suit a run for its money."

You manage a small laugh, tears of relief filling your eyes. "I guess I owe you a new shirt," you say, your voice breaking with emotion as you remember ripping it off him to stop the bleeding.

"And i owe you a pristine car cleaning," he replies, squeezing your hand tightly, his smile widening.

Your laughter fades and you sit in silence for a moment, gathering your courage. You know that now is the time to speak your heart. “Tan I—” you begin, but Tangerine interrupts, his expression soft.

"Thank you." He looks down for a second, watching his hand play with yours. “Sorry, you were saying,” he looks back up into your eyes.

You blink in confusion, feeling your cheeks flush. "Oh, erm… you don’t have to thank me. It’s... it’s part of the job." you mumble.

Tangerine’s grip on your hand tightens, his eyes never leaving yours. "It’s more than just a job to you, isn’t it?"

You swallow hard, the truth pressing against your lips. "Yes," you whisper, barely able to hold back the tears. "It’s more. So much more."

He nods, a bittersweet smile on his face. "Lemon might have hinted at it before, but I’ve suspected for a while."

A mixture of relief and embaressement washes over you. "Lemon and his big mouth," you mutter, a weak laugh escaping your lips.

Tangerine chuckles, but winces in pain. You scold him lightly. "Don’t laugh, you idiot. You need to rest."

He grins despite the pain, bringing his hand to your cheek. "Will you stay?"

You lean into his hand, feeling his touch. "I'll stay." you whisper, tears falling freely now.

Tangerine’s eyes soften, and he reaches out to brush a tear from your cheek. "I’ve been feeling the same way you know. For a while actually."

Your heart races, and you struggle to find your voice. "What?" Tangerine’s eyes flick between your eyes and your lips before he closes the gap, kissing you softly. The kiss is tender, filled with all the unspoken emotions you’ve both been holding back.

Its a clusterfuck, but someone might like it...

[tojisrealwifey]

i mean, this could have gone worse?

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ synopsis: utahime walks in on you sucking off her boyfriend, satoru. but her reaction was the last thing you expected.

・❥・characters: gojo satoru, you, iori utahime.

・❥・requests : rules

warnings: mdni, 18+, smut, fem!reader, infidelity/cheating, getting caught, oral sex (m. and f. receiving), throat-bulging, threesome, no protection, this is a repost!

・❥・wc: 1.8k

・❥・masterlist

The subtle strain on your jaw grew stronger with every thrust. Slurping and gagging noises invaded both pairs of ears as you continued to slip Satoru's cock deeper into your throat.

His back rested against the bed's headboard, legs spread out enough for you to fit in comfortably. Your lips were wrapped around his cock, tongue occasionally skimming over the tip.

Knees on the bed, elbows resting against the mattress with an arched back, your ass was up in the air, legs open as Satoru could see your arousal dripping from your quivering hole.

He could still taste you on his lips, already eager to make you ride his face again.

"look so pretty baby...keep sucking me like that~"

He would praise you every few seconds, making you moan around his length.

He moves his hand to your throat, slightly pressing against the prominent bulge making you choke harder.

You quickly slipped away from him, mouth agape to take in heavy gulps of air. You whimpered from moving away too quickly but your lungs were in desperate need of oxygen.

You take a few minutes to breathe enough air while Satoru soothed his hand over your head. Once you move to continue, your eyes accidentally catch a glimpse of a small portrait of Satoru and Utahime.

Your teeth chewed on the inside of your cheek, slowly faltering in your movements. You were once again riddled with guilt, a regular occurrence every time Satoru's dick was stuffed in you.

When you feel a small tug on your hair, you swiftly go back to deep-throating his cock while noticing Satoru's vacant hand turning the portrait face down from your peripheral vision.

"You look so pretty like this, darlin'. Lemme cum down your throat, yeah?" Satoru asks with a sultry voice. Your eyes meet his, the crystal blue making you feel captivated and weakly nod at his request.

"Mmphh!"

You continued to suck him, bringing your hands into play. Saliva and pre-cum gathered around your cupped hands and you purposefully smeared it on your cheeks while bobbing on his cock.

You knew he loved to see your face messed up after you suck him off.

You were so engrossed in pulling out his release that you never noticed the bedroom door opening. You continued to choke around him as your pussy drooled more with anticipation.

Satoru on the other hand had only smirked at seeing his girlfriend enter their shared bedroom, bringing his hand to clutch on your hair and encouraging you to go faster.

Utahime watched your naked figure moving in between her boyfriend's legs, lips around his cock moving with precision. She watched as your tongue would momentarily slip out to stroke deliberate licks on his tip.

Anger brewed in her veins as she slowly walked closer till she stood right behind you. Gojo continued to smirk right in her face, letting out grunts from his approaching orgasm.

When he feels his orgasm rip through his abdomen, he swiftly slips his cock out of your mouth using your hair as leverage.

You yelp from the painful tug on your scalp but close your eyes as you feel Satoru's release dripping on your face.

Once you feel it stop, your eyes flutter open and you look at him confused since he had never done that before. But you only see him smiling smugly at something behind you.

"You have some fucking nerve."

A cold yet familiar voice makes you jump in your place, your fingers tightening their grip on Satoru's thighs out of fear.

"What can I say? She's too good." Satoru replies smoothly as you look at him with wide eyes at his audacity.

As he speaks you hear sharp footsteps move from behind you and stop right beside you. Your head turns slightly and you look up to see Utahime glaring down at you.

You notice Utahime's hand move slightly, watching as it grows towards you. On instinct you close your eyes, already flinching away from her approaching hit.

"Yeah. Too good for you, that is." Your eyes snap open when she says that, feeling a cloth wiping away the liquids that painted your cheeks.

"How dare you taint her face like this, you piece of shit!" Utahime glares at Satoru as she uses the long sleeve of her Miko attire to wipe your face.

You sat there confused as you were fully expecting her to put her experience as a sorcerer to pummel your ass.

"Ut- Uta-chan! What— Ahh!" You stammer out barely enough words before you are cut off by Satoru's hands on your breasts.

"Too good for me? I suppose you're right for once. Just look at these tits." He marveled, pinching your nipples that made you stumble over your moans.

His hands soon circle your torso to move you upwards as he slides his back from the headboard to the mattress.

You were straddling his stomach, face in his hair as his mouth suckled on your nipple.

"Ngh~ Satoru, stop! Uta- Ahh~ Utahime's r-right here!" You scold him in between moans, growing nervous over the situation.

You wondered just what the fuck was going on? And why hadn't Utahime lashed out how you had expected her to?

"Don't mind her." He responded from around your buds. You jolt a bit when you feel two cold hands on your ass.

"Hey! You didn't cum in her, did you?" Warm breath wafted over your cunt as Utahime questions him.

"Nope! It's why I called you in the first place." He sang while tugging your nipple with his teeth.

He called her here? The more they talked the more muddled your thoughts became.

"Good. I would have killed you if you did." She hissed before she plants a small kiss to your clit.

"Ah!~"

You let out a hoarse moan when you felt a warm muscle being pressed flat on your slit. Her tongue continuously licked your folds, desperately gathering your arousal and gulping it down.

Your cheeks glowed from how red they were. Having your most sensitive spots be tortured by two tongues was the last thing you were expecting from this confrontation.

"N-nghh...No- N-no...Too much!"

Your eyes were already rolling up, your body trembling due to the intensity of the stimulation. Soon your hips were moving against your will.

You had started to fuck your cunt against her face, her tongue plunging into your hole as you pushed back against her, cutting off her airflow.

"Mmphh! T-there...Right there!"

You needily pulled on Satoru's hair as he grunted with every tug, but you paid no mind, too lost in your pleasure.

"Fuu-uckk, so d-deep Uta...!"

Your toes curled when felt two of Utahime's fingers sinking into you, but it didn't last long. You shuddered at the intrusion, making you cum instantly.

You let out small mewls with every pant as you came down from your high. All three of you wait for a while, specifically waiting for you to stop trembling.

Once you are a bit composed, you look beneath you, in between your body and Satoru's to see if Utahime is really there.

You try to ignore your swollen nipples as your breasts dangle in front of you, noting internally to scold Satoru for being too harsh on them.

You instead focused on Utahime, staring into her eyes. You wondered if this was just a dream and you passed out after having sex with Satoru.

"Just w-what the hell is going on?" You rasped. Satoru chuckles, hand smoothing over your back as Utahime mimics the motion on your ass and thighs.

"Hahahaha! I was just helping Utahime out! She's been crushing on you for— Ow! Ouch! Okay! Okay! I'll stop!" Satoru starts exclaiming when Utahime placed her hand on his dick and started to dig her nails against it.

You winced at the sight but also pondered on what he had managed to say before Utahime started to stab him with her nails.

"You like me?" You choked out, shocked at the revelation. You continue to straddle Satoru's stomach while sitting up, turning the opposite way to face Utahime instead.

Satoru kept his hands on your hips, slightly leaning his head up to watch the scene unfold. Utahime sends a silent glare to the male, refusing to meet eyes with you.

"Well...kinda like that- I mean...It's—" Satoru groans at her, annoyed by how much she was hesitating. This only resulted in him receiving another glare.

"I'll save you some time. We both think you're cute, so we made a bet to see who you'll fall for first. Utahime was stupid to agree, considering she can't get two words out when she's around you."

His tone was teasing yet honest as he spoke, but you paid no mind, too busy processing what he meant.

"But-! You're both in a relationship!" You argue back.

"So? We're also polyamorous, sweetheart~ Plus, it's kinda hard when we both wanna top during sex. So why not just date the cute colleague that we can both enjoy fucking?"

He coos as he speaks the last sentence, softly pinching your cheek between the junctures of his thumb and forefinger, now sitting up with his chest against your back.

"P-polyamourous?! You mean the three of us...in one...relationship?" Your words come out slightly weird, your cheek still in between Satoru's fingers.

Utahime blushes as she smiles at your form. You seemed so innocent when you spoke, contrary to what the hickeys littering your body would say.

"That's right." Utahime replies minimally.

"Was this planned? This sounds planned!" You exclaim, crossing your arms and getting comfortable on the male's lap.

"I was growing tired of her not making a move already, so I decided to call her while you were here, hopefully, to get her gears moving. Worked like a charm, don't you think?"

"I suppose..." You exhale softly.

"Then, let's not waste any more time, hm?"

How long had this been going on for? 1 hour? 2 hours? 4 hours? Your brain was a puddle, cheeks flushed red and stained with dried tears, saliva, and cum.

Back arching for hours till your ribs cramped up, moaning till your throat dried out, nails digging till there was blood seeping out.

Your thighs were aching because of how long you had kept them spread out, bite marks covering your body as the two hadn't left a single crevice of your body untouched.

After the confession, the two had taken the full opportunity to bend your body to their will. From Satoru eating you out while Utahime played with your breasts, to Satoru being balls-deep in you as Utahime sucked on your clit.

You and Utahime lay splayed out as Satoru fingered the two of you simultaneously with each hand. His face in your cunt as you lay beside Utahime's head while he fucked her missionary.

Every orgasm had been overwhelming till you lost all feeling between your legs. You cunt working separately to which you could no longer stop yourself from cumming at every touch.

Even now, as Satoru fucks Utahime, you were on her face, rubbing your slit against her tongue, begging him to fuck the girl harder so she would moan against you more.

You didn't even fight when he pulled your lips to his, dragging you into a heavy kiss that left you breathless.

The three of you continued to taste each other for the rest of the night, both of them effectively putting you in a chokehold with every orgasm they pulled out of you.

You were truly grateful for not getting your ass beaten. Well, at least not in the way you expected.

[xcaptain-winterx]

Bestie pls we need pt.3 of be a man 😭

Be a man

Steve Rogers x reader

summary: Steve finds Bucky and Sam

warnings: cursing, angry Steve

a/n: English is not my first language, meaning you will probably find a lot of misspelling etc.. This is my first fic since a longggg time, so it’s not the best.

Part 1 Part 2

Main Masterlist Steve Rogers Masterlist

Steve is mad as he walks around, searching for his now ex best friend. How could he do this to him? He knows that he’s extremely anxious around you, and Bucky still had the audacity to put him in such an embarrassing situation. Steve doesn’t know yet what he’s going to do when he finds him, but one thing is sure: it’s not going to be nice.

Then Steve sees him.

Bucky is talking to Sam in the living area, sitting on the couch like nothing’s wrong. In front of him is a half-eaten sandwich and a cup of coffee, which is the typical thing he always has after a run.

A fucking run.

Bucky told him he had to go because of an emergency regarding Sam. Now here they are, sitting and eating after a run. Not only that, but they are looking like they are actually having a good conversation. In any other situation, Steve would be happy that they are getting along, but not this one. Definitely not this one.

They both haven’t seen Steve yet as he walks, or to be more precise, rushes over to them. Steve suddenly stops when he hears his name in their conversation.

“Yeah, I know. Steve needs a girlfriend. I mean, he’s 100+ years old and will continue to age until he looks like a rotten raisin. Nobody will want him then…I hope” Sam says to Bucky. Bucky nods, agreeing with Sam.

“He is too shy and insecure for that, which is weird because he should be so confident. He’s a gentleman, smart, creative, and not bad looking”.

“I would’ve listed good looking first” Sam says, chucking. “What do you think Cap and our little future Mrs. Cap are doing right now?”.

“Definitely not what Tony would be doing” Bucky replies with a shrug, “I think he’s either pissing his pants or getting an erection again”. Both boys laugh at that, while Steve is still there, listening to their conversation.

He’s furious.

His friends are joking about his problems as if he isn’t worrying about all this enough.

“I hate you, but your plan was actually great. Seems like you, after all, have some brain cells, frosty. Would’ve thought that they all disappeared during your 50 year sleep”.

“Asshole”.

“I like you too, man” Sam says and takes a bite of his own sandwich before continuing, “but for real, your idea was good. We are lucky that we found out what path she’s always running”.

“Thanks to the security cameras, bird. Do you think she just agreed to work in the med for the day because we said that Steve doesn’t like talking to male doctors?” Buckys asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

Steve’s veins start showing because of his rising anger.

“I think she agreed because she is new and doesn’t want to make a bad impression. Perhaps because she likes Steve, but I don’t think so” Sam says, and Bucky nods.

Steve’s heart breaks when his friends say that. They don’t even believe in him. His worst fear just came closer to being true, that you don’t like him. How could he even think that you could like him. He’s been acting like a pervert and freak for all he knows.

“We will never tell Steve about all that, right? You know, getting them to talk, or at least trying, asking her to work in the med, and you putting something in his food so he gets sick”.

“Never”.

His head snaps up at that, and all the sadness is immediately replaced with anger.

Fucking Barnes poisoned him.

Without a second thought, he stomps over to them. Sam is the first to see him, while Bucky has his back towards Steve. Before Sam can warn Bucky, he’s already getting pulled over the couch by Steve and pushed against the wall.

“YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY FOOD!”.

Bucky gulps: he knows he just fucked up.

“We just wanted to help! We even-“ Sam tries to explain, rushing over to them.

“WHAT DID YOU PUT IN MY FOOD!” Steve screams at Bucky.

“Listen pal-“.

“ANSWER ME!”

“I mixed a lot of stuff under it, which you were allergic to back then, and some rotten eggs” Bucky tries to say, knowing Steve will probably kill him now.

It’s silent for a second, like someone paused a movie. There’s a thick tension in the air ready to snap any second.

And it for sure does.

Steve throws Bucky across the room. He’s laying on his back, grunting through the hard impact. Before Bucky can stand up, Steve is towering over him.

“Listen, I just wanted to help. We both know you could’ve done anything on your own, but because of me and Sam-“

“NO” Steve spits out, “You’ve been planning all this without caring for my opinion and wishes!”.

“Steve, we just-“ Sam tries to calm the situation down, but Steve is not having it.

“Shut up! You both tried to take control of the situation and manipulated me for your stupid plan!”. He looks at them again before walking away. Just as he’s about to vanish around the corner, he speaks without looking back. “Don’t talk to me again. I hope you two are happy with what happened” and then just walks away. Sam calls after him, but he doesn’t react.

Sam puts his hands on his hips and looks at the ground. He never meant to hurt Steve; all this was supposed to help him and not make this entire thing into a huge shit show. Sam knows Bucky and he acted like two assholes who don’t deserve forgiveness for their mistakes. They didn’t realize the danger in their plan because they just focused on the goal.

Getting Steve a girlfriend. Looking back at it, Sam realizes that maybe this wasn’t the plan after all; maybe they just tried to give Captain America a girlfriend.

Bucky feels deep regret, more than the regret Sam is feeling right now. His best friend abandoned him. It’s not like he doesn’t understand why; he knows exactly what he did wrong. In all those years of being best friends they never had a real fight, minus the time he was brainwashed.

“What do we do?” Sam asks, helping him up.

Bucky can’t look at him; he wishes he could take everything back.

Telling Steve’s secrets.

Lying about actions.

Poisoning him.

Manipulating Steve to do stuff he doesn’t want to do.

“Nothing”.

tag: @bitchy-bi-trash @notcamii @purple-ash27 @queenofdisaster12 @fallout-girl219 @nerdytreeflower

[leclercsloveletter]

CL16 | friends or not

Summary: You love Charles, but he keeps you treading on the line between friends and strangers. The humiliation and frustration finally got to you.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem reader

Words count: 1842

Warning: mention of sex, angsty I guess? Google translated french

Author’s note: Inspired by Zeph’s song I just love her music so much. This is my first time using tumblr to post fic so let me know if I can improve the formatting somehow to make it easier to read! Thank youu <3

"Hey Y/n, I'm in Monaco today, pull through?"

"Sure, usual time?"

He left a heart reaction to the text, the familiar dance of messages unfolded with practised precision. An occasional catch-up session with Charles over a glass of wine or within the intimate confines of your shared solitude has become the only constant rhythm in your situation with him. In fact, you don't remember the last time it wasn't like this. He texts you when he's around, and sometimes makes plans just to let it fall through at the last second. You understand he's a man of business, always busy and on his feet, but why would he even consider getting to know you when he knows he can't be at least present in your life as a friend? Worse, why did you allow him to get his way?

Charles Leclerc is the type of man to only text back half the time you texted him. You would be lucky if he read your messages, a lot of the time, he resorts to ghosting you for days or even weeks only to reply with short, blunt, generic answers. Sometimes you laugh to yourself at the audacity of this man, a virtuoso of unpredictability, to parade you around like his future girl during intimate dinners with his friends only to burst your bubble when he's back on the road again.

But sadly, Charles Leclerc is more than that. Besides his devilishly handsome face, he donned the facade of the happiest man alive, a veneer that temporarily eclipsed the shadows of uncertainty when you're finally allowed to occupy his precious time. The streets of Monte Carlo bore witness to your interplay of laughter and the tender clasping of hands. With him holding you so close to his chest the paparazzi can't snap a shot of his mystery girl. It gets to your head like a sick disease. Moments like that are when his existence woven itself seamlessly into the fabric of your life.

Between the white sheets plastered on your naked body and the whispers of the Medditerian sea, Charles Leclerc was your Charlie. The Charlie that speaks in fluent waves of serenity about his life on the road. His words are like a siren's song, drowning out the echoes of your longing that surface in his absence. In those stolen moments, he becomes the tranquil pulse that courses through the veins of your shared narrative. You wish you could tear him out of your skin.

"So, how's life?"

You start the conversation, sitting across from him in a restaurant on the edge of Monaco. Charles is gorgeous as always, in his cream-coloured sweaters that you spent many early mornings nuzzled in before he kindly pulled it off your frame.

"Would you believe me if I said it was kind of shit? Could've been a better season I guess. How about you?"

Charles replied with a laugh, sipping on the sweet wine with eyes fixed on you. It should be illegal for him to give you that look, the look that says he has a genuine interest in your existence.

"I can tell, you always call me when you panic. I think I had more calls from you this season than I ever had before."

A quiet acknowledgment, an attempt to make him realise the shared vulnerabilities you had for each other. You look around before continuing, the same restaurant where you first met, linked up through a mutual friend at a dinner party. He gave you his number over a glass of whiskey on the rock, leaving you full of naive anticipation to send the first text.

"I remember the first time I saw you here. I was starstruck to meet you in real life, clinging to every word you said, so excited when you handed me your number. I wish I wasn't the last thing on your mind Charlie."

Words flow out of you uncontrollably, you don't know why you said that. The pain bubbling up and closing behind your throat as you speak intrigues Charles who now wears an expression of confusion and slight frustration.

"What do you mean Y/n? You know how much you meant to me, tu es la meilleure chose sur terre, chérie."

His gaze softens, hands reaching out to pat a stray hair on your head. His attempt at reassurance softened the moment, yet a lingering doubt clung to the air. You wish he meant it, or meant it and not regret it.

"You're looking at me like that again. Like I'm the best thing on earth to you."

"Because you are-"

"Only because I'm the only one to look at. The second best of two is just last Charles."

Over that bar counter where he slipped you his number, when you were dwelling on the heartbreak of your last relationship, or when you found yourself crying in his living room over the loss of your friend, Charles always said he'd be there for you. Yet, in the crucible of reality, the promises seemed hollow. He's only there when nobody else needs him. You're a second thought to him, a blind spot he noticed when it's convenient. But a part of you desperately held on to Charles, wishing, praying, begging that one day you would be promoted to have a position in his life and not just an on-and-off fling he does.

"I'm sorry Y/n, I didn't mean to make you feel that way."

He said, voice just as calm and peaceful as you always knew. But filled with static and signals that you're tired of decoding. Right at that moment, you realise you could either move on or continue being his nuisance. To set yourself free from Charles's hot and cold would mean to be free of the games he set you in.

"Just reply to my text more often Charlie."

But to set yourself free from Charles also means to lose the love you drove through all the mixed signals for.

-

"Mon ange, what are you thinking about?"

"Nothing much, just that time you brought me to dinner with Max and Kelly. It was nice."

The street of Monaco, viewed from the inside of Charles' car, was silent on a weeknight, surrounded by the sea where lights and chatters fell into white noise. It felt the same as the night when Charles hit you up last minute since he "didn't have a plus one for a party" which turns out to be just dinner with Max and his girlfriend Kelly who have to go on a work trip abroad next week.

Kelly sat across from you, mirroring one another: Women who are successful in their line of work, flowing with beauty and sophistication, have a world-class F1 driver accompany them while you all sit and gossip. The only difference is that she has a title and you don't.

"So Charles, when will Y/n be making paddock appearances? I think Ferrari would love it if you put on a show for the tifosi."

Max joked, tipsy over the seemingly unlimited alcohol on the table. Charles and you both choked on air, but you were flustered with your heart drumming in your chest, and Charles was trying to hide the scrunch of his nose.

"Ah I don't know Max, we are still trying to figure ourselves out. I'm in no rush to run PR and have Ferrari staging pap on me."

He sighs with a chuckle, Max and Kelly both wear concerned gazes seeing your face drop. In your head, the world stops spinning, he doesn't even have the guts to refer to you as a friend, but just something mysterious and hindering that he has to "figure out". The delicious food suddenly turns sour in your mouth, as sour as the pity he's sparing you by asking if you're alright.

-

"Charles, are we friends?"

"Of course we are, I wouldn't let a stranger in my car yea?"

He said lightheartedly, humming to the song on the radio. You can only let out a sigh, you don't know if he's dumb or he's leading you on anymore. Your desire for him is real, it's running thin by the second.

"Stop the car, Charlie."

"What?"

"We need to talk"

He pulled over carefully, you left the pista so fast it's like the leather was burning holes in your skin. The night breeze hit your already cold skin, Charles brought out a coat you know he kept in the back seat to swing over you. If only this was how it is always, to have him so close and so caring, to be his only one.

"So..."

"Charlie, are you bored of me? Did you realise I'm replaceable? If there's anyone better please just let me know and we don't have to pretend we know each other anymore. Please Charles I'm sick of being led around like your decoration only for you to treat me like less than a friend when you're away."

Silence, he stood in silence with a look you can't recognise after spending so much time tiptoeing around him. Your pleading caught him off guard, he probably didn't know you had a breaking point. Or at least he didn't expect it to catch up to him so soon. Charles pulled you into a hug, a futile attempt to assuage the tears streaming down your cheeks.

"I promise we are friends. I'm sorry mon ange, that I made you feel that way. I'm uncertain about us, I don't know what I want from you. I just want to keep you around."

"Charles I'm not just something to keep around. I have my values, I'm a human too. I want you but if you don't want us then just...let us go"

"I don't want-"

"This isn't just about you Charles, it's about me too. I will not sit around to wait for you while you go fuck another girl on a different continent every race season. You either give me something or you let me live."

You tore away from his arms in the outburst. Charles looks lost, heartbroken, just the way you look when he did the same to you. You almost run right back to apologise, to cradle him in your love and swear to never hurt him again. But you can't stand being a pet of his anymore, not when you put your whole soul into this man but still not deserving of a title.

Silence, silence hung in the air so heavy and suffocating as he led you back into the car, and dropped you off at your place. A "bye" so small it got lost in the wind as he drove away. War is over you guessed, even though there was no answer but no answer is better than waiting for a potential answer from him. You pull out your phone, delete his number, delete your pictures, unfollow his private account and let the heartbreak wash over you.

Down the street, Charles felt the same as you do for the first time.

[mamani-bento]

citrus reflux (kento nanami)

nanami x reader, 2.8k

established relationship, fluff + emotional constipation + humour

thanks for getting me through last week nanami pls get me through this one as well love u

mamani-bento's masterlist!

he can't know, right? there's no way he can know. if he's continuing to do this after knowing, that's just cruel. and nanami's a lot of things, but cruel is certainly not one of them. there's no way he knows that his stupid apron covered in stupid clip-art lemon graphics does stupid things to you. things that leave you feeling like your stupid, wretched heart is pumping overtime.

to be fair, you hadn't realised for the longest time either. and you're not an oblivious person, you know nanami is an attractive man. even before you two started going out, started feeling anything other than a professional respect for each other, you had been able to appreciate that he's a looker.

so it's not just the sight of his broad back greeting you in the morning when you blearily stumble into the kitchen as he's making breakfast. and it's not just the brisk efficiency of his chopping during sunday brunch preparation, precise juliennes laid out on the cutting board and thick fingers curled firm around the handle of the knife. and it's certainly not just the tensing of his forearms, veins stark as he covers his hands in flour, pliable dough being moulded under his able kneading. no, all these things help, sure, but the real clincher - and you're aware of how odd this is - is that damn apron.

the first time you see him wear it, you get whiplash. it's still early, still some time to go for the sun to rise fully. at first, you can't tell what's woken you. it's a saturday, and your alarm hasn't rudely blared into the cozy cocoon of the bedroom like it does during the week. eyes still closed, you scoot a little towards the centre of the bed, seeking warmth so you can fall back asleep. and then you scoot some more. and some more. grumbling, you blearily open your eyes to see you've moved right up till the other end of the mattress with no warmth encountered in the workout. as if on cue, a muted sizzle disrupts the quiet of the room, and, as if on cue, you rise at the sound. that's where the warmth has gone then.

you don't bother wearing your glasses, not at all awake enough to start processing clear vision, and you think, as you step into the kitchen, that maybe what you're seeing is just a consequence of your bad eyesight. it's blurry but there's definitely a thin strap of cloth circling nanami's neck and a knot at the small of his back. they're bright yellow, stark against the dark navy of his soft, cotton t-shirt. are you imagining it, perhaps? or still dreaming?

you're sort of swaying in place, half-asleep brain struggling to comprehend what your eyes are relaying to it, when the man in question turns around.

blinding white assaults your vision. as if the glaring newness of the material isn't shocking enough, several bright neon lemons cover the body of it. the thing is shockingly ugly.

and there's no logical explanation for this. but nanami stands in this monstrosity, concern on his face at your set expression, spatula held out in one hand and angled so nothing drips on the floor, and the rising sun is streaming in through the kitchen window, bathing its favourite golden-haired child in a yellow glow, and your heart is clenching clenching clenching until it feels like it's going to burst from the pressure.

"are you alright?" he asks, setting the spatula down. his eyebrows furrow as your face does a weird mix between sleepy disgruntlement, revulsion, and whatever is happening to your insides.

"what are you wearing?"

he has the audacity to look confused at first. glances down at himself, as if somehow forgetting that he's clad in this absolutely revolting piece of fabric.

"oh, the apron?"

you scoff, finally moving. a cup of tea sits on the counter next to him and you don't bother asking for permission before you lift it to take a sip. something is happening and this seems significant for some reason and you feel sick.

easily, he gently takes the steaming mug from your grip before you can taste any of it, pointedly looking at the other cup you had missed a bit further back. this one is full, and, apparently, yours.

"do you not like it?" he asks, seeming genuinely bewildered. he leans his back on the granite next to where you've perched yourself. your legs swing, heels rhythmically colliding with the cupboards below.

you take a sip of your drink before thinking of an answer. do you not like it? it's terrible, sure. but do you like him? of course. these two facts in tandem are doing wonky things to all your internal systems.

"it's bright."

"yes, i suppose it is. was the only one they had in stock, unfortunately."

truly, unfortunate.

you both sip your teas in the silence of the morning. the eggs continue to cook. the yellow band positioned just under his hair looks at you mockingly. you've got the warmth you had come looking for - his body is a furnace and you perpetually run cold and he's standing close enough now for the side of your knee to be touching the side of his thigh - but something tells you you've got much bigger problems to deal with.

it's been a week since you saw the offending article of clothing, and a hellish one at that. so hellish, in fact, that you've basically forgotten about the apron. you've tabled all the lemon-spawned convoluted feelings for later (never, if you have it your way), and it's the farthest thing from your mind as you step into the kitchen on friday night.

you've reached home before nanami, and you know he'll be back soon, but you want to get to bed so this week can finally be over so bad that you decide to get started with dinner. you bring out the ingredients, just beginning to chop the capsicum when the front door closes.

seconds later, nanami pads into the kitchen, making his way towards you to carefully wrap two arms around your waist from the back. you still the motions of the knife, leaning back into his frame and breathing him in. the knot of his spotted tie digs into the side of your head.

"how was your day?" you ask, free hand coming up to tangle in his blond strands as he burrows his head into the crook of your shoulder.

"long. yours?"

"same."

his lips brush across the skin on the side of your neck in apology, in acknowledgement, in sympathetic support, even as you raise his left arm to place a kiss against a knuckle.

"would you like some help?" he asks, peering at all the ingredients you've got spread on the counter. his voice rumbles against your neck, low and spoken soft since he's so close to your ear.

you could do with some help. "sure," you reply, briefly missing his warmth as he pulls away.

you expect him to start washing the other vegetables or to get started on the sauce, but with a mumbled 'give me a second', he promptly walks out of the kitchen.

...and walks back in pulling that damn lemon-print apron over his head.

you watch in near disbelief as he evens it out down his front, over his blue shirt. he's removed his tie and the white fabric sits smooth and stretches across his wide torso. then he reaches behind, arms twisting as he does up the knot at the back. and then he takes off his watch and carefully places it inside the apron pocket.

then he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and starts washing the other vegetables.

on the outside, you're cutting capsicum in a very calm and dignified manner. on the inside, palpitations. you sneak glances at him out of the corner of your eye as surreptitiously as you can - take in the long, out-of-place flop of hair falling over his forehead, the deftness of his hands as he lets the water run over all the tomatoes in his grip, thumb gently rubbing over a stubborn patch of mud on the vegetable. but these things you know, have always known, have witnessed uncountable times. so why are they making your heart crawl up and get lodged in your throat making every swallow difficult?

"you're staring," nanami says, not bothering to look at you.

well. not so sly, then.

you're not a shy person. he's caught you staring at him before, ogling him even, in situations far more erotic than this, and you've never felt particularly ashamed by it, but you suddenly feel very flustered at being called out.

"and what about it?" you sniff, a petulance you'll deny possessing creeping into your voice. you doggedly focus on the cutting board.

nanami's amused huff precedes a bowl full of wet vegetables entering your line of vision. as you pause your chopping to grab a tomato, a single finger comes to raise your chin, letting your eyes sweep up the length of nanami's torso, waist to neck to slightly smiling lips to twinkling eyes, taking in every awful lemon on the way.

"please," he mutters, "stare away."

you can't stop the tiny, foolish grin from growing on your face, and you scoff at his words. there's a blush starting at the base of your neck and your face feels like it's on fire. you're scraped raw by his gaze, his words, his apron.

clearing your throat, you lean away from him, his amusement only increasing. he lets you go without complaint, taking his spot in front of the stove next to you and getting the pan out. great. now he'll start with the sauce.

as he adds and stirs, as you chop and garnish, as your hips check and fingers brush, as his bloody apron gets splattered with bubbling red sauce and as he has a small, private smile of satisfaction that the thing is doing its job, you know this isn't sustainable for your heart. something, at some point in what you think is going to be the very near future, will give.

"kento."

"hmm?"

"kento."

"what?"

"i have to talk to you about something."

nanami blearily shifts his grip on your waist, head surfacing from your neck to look you in the eye in sleepy confusion. the clock on his bedside table says '03:23 AM' in blaring red, but it makes no difference to you. you've just had a realisation, a fucking massive realisation.

"i figured out why i hate your apron."

"it's three in the morn–wait, you hate my apron?" he's a little more awake and a little more confused now as well.

you haven't slept at all, obviously. you had gone to bed per usual, looking forward to the weekend ahead, only lingering feverishness about the terrible, horrible garment in your system. and then, as nanami's breathing had started deepening, small puffs of air tickling the back of your neck, your brain wouldn't shut up about the bloody thing.

you turned it over and over in your mind. what is so earth-shattering, heart-melting, nerve-fraying about a damn apron? why is it affecting you so intensely? why do you feel yourself falling off the precipice of a cliff you hadn't even known was there every time you see nanami in it? it's a miracle that he didn't wake up from the sound of the gears turning in your head, a real testament to how tired he was. you suppose you should feel a little bad about rousing him at this ungodly hour, but you know you need the cloak of the darkness and the comfort of blankets to verbalise what you've hit upon.

you shuffle away from him a few inches to see his face clearly. his hand tightens in reflex, large palm setting warm on the curve of your hip and unwilling to let you move back any further. it'll have to do.

"yes, i hate your apron, but that's not important."

you can make out a single raised eyebrow as his vision slowly adjusts to the darkness and he focusses on your face with a well-deserved skepticism. "it isn't?"

impatiently you wave his question away. you'll lose your nerve if you don't get this out quickly, and nanami is a determined man. he won't let it go. "it looks absolutely awful, but that's not why i hate it."

if possible, nanami looks even more confused. he slowly says, "okay. why do you hate it, then? and also, why are you telling me now?" his voice is still low and scratchy from sleep, and it makes yours sound too-loud. but then again, you might as well be yelling for what you're about to say.

you take a deep breath. focus firmly on a point somewhere on his stupid, handsome forehead under his stupid, handsome bedhead. "i hate your apron because it's so you."

"oh."

a pregnant pause.

"are you saying you hate me?"

exasperated at your apparent inability to coherently express what you've just taken hours to hit upon, you let it all out in a mad rush, words nearly tripping over themselves in a haphazard effort to make sense.

"that's not what i'm saying! ugh, no, it's just–you're so practical. it's so you to buy the last and ugliest apron in stock to keep your clothes clean while cooking, and the implications of it, of how you come back after a long day and still do the dishes and you wake up early on sunday mornings and make breakfast, and you're so bloody committed to these things without even realising it and it makes me absolutely sick."

as you ramble, nanami's expression moves from confusion to concern to a gentle understanding that makes you want to throw up, and you're falling falling falling off that precipice you were unaware of again. you want to hide under your pillow, but you've got one more thing to say.

he opens his mouth, and probably firmer than really necessary, you place an index finger over his lips in a bid to stop him from responding before you get this out. obediently, he's silent, only gently nodding at you to continue.

you sigh. "i hate that apron so much, because it reminds me of all the things i love about you. and there are too many things for me to know what to do with them."

the relief at getting the words out is enormous. weirdly, you don't feel like hiding anymore, and you quietly watch as nanami formulates his response.

you don't even realise your finger is still over his lips until he mumbles, faint chap rubbing at your fingertip, "may i say something now?"

startled, you remove your hand and tuck it against your chest, where the other has been safely ensconced so far.

"would you like me to stop using the apron?"

"no! no, that's not why i told you this. actually, maybe get a nicer-looking one? but no, don't stop wearing the apron."

completely disregarding your attempts to keep space in between your bodies, nanami tugs at you until you're nearly nose-to-nose, just a few centimetres shy of going cross-eyed to look at each other. you imagine you look a bit like a trapped deer.

he's gentle as ever, palm solid against your back, all sleepiness replaced by his sheer concrete reliability as he replies, "alright."

you wait for him to finish. and then you wait some more. when it doesn't seem like any more is forthcoming, your eyebrows scrunch together. "that's it? alright? you're not concerned by this at all?"

you feel rather than see him shrug. "i appreciate you telling me. i was a little confused about how weird you had been acting, so it's nice to have that cleared up. but i wouldn't say i'm concerned, no."

"oh. okay, then."

"okay."

"so do we just...do we just go to sleep now?"

again, an eyebrow is raised. "would you like to do something else?"

you huff, not discounting the prospect entirely but recognising that you're both too tired for anything else. "no. i just thought this would be a bigger deal, is all." now that the crux of the thing is done, you shift so you can burrow your head into the crook of his neck as he tightens his thick arms around your frame.

"oh, it's a big deal. but i think it's one of those big deals that you don't really do anything about, you know?"

you do know, and you feel a weight lift at his sentence. you don't have to do anything with all the feelings that come rushing at you when you see him wearing that stupid thing. you just have to feel them. which is another battle for another day, but for now, you're content at where you've weirdly ended up.

nanami continues, even as a hint of drowsiness begins to enter his voice, "i'd be concerned if i didn't feel the same way, i suppose. but you'll be seeing me in that ugly apron for a long, long time, so i think we're good."

you drift off to sleep like that, something shifting inside you at his words, fundamentally and irrevocably.

"what's this?"

"new apron. please throw that monstrosity away, this one is much less bright."

[im-657-mv]

under the moon

yandere hannibal x reader

word count: 876

The lucid moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the quiet city streets. But deep in the shadows where the darkness weeps, conceals a man of true vigor and intellect. A man of passion that no one truly understands, no one will. He stalks through the very shadows he creates ignoring all but one. You.

Hannibal's love has grown reaching new depths he's sure no one else has before. Only he can love you as much as the sun loves the moon, as much as the stars must conjoin with the night sky. It was insatiable like a carnivorous hunger that consumed both his thoughts and actions. He knew it was dangerous and he had tried to suppress what he called his natural instincts, but his appetite only increased. Tonight was the night that will bookmark the ages. Tonight was when he would finally take matters into his own itching desires.

His gloved hand delicately traced the outline of your apartment door lock, his fingers dancing over the cold metal with a perverse intimacy yet unknown to you, yet. Slowly a sinister smirk made its way across his dimly lit face as he thought of your naive sense of safety. A fickle thing such as a door lock keeping all the evil seemingly at bay, how innocent.

With a deft flick, the lock yielded to his touch, and he slipped inside, the darkness of the room enveloping him with a sense of familiarity. Immediately his nose clung to the scent of your natural aroma that engulfed him, a fragrance that sent a chilling shiver down his spine. Hannibal moved with a predator's grace, his steps silent against the floor. The faint radiance of the moonlight filtered through the curtains, blessing him with an uncanny shadow that he could move across.

As he made his way through your apartment, Hannibal's gaze fell upon the multitude of photographs that adorned the walls. Images of you in various stages of your life prior to him. He stood still, frozen, looking at your life that stared back at him, your eyes seemingly following his every move. He reached out, his fingers brushing up against the cool glass of the frame as if trying to desperatly bridge the gap between himself and you.

A sinful smile curved his lips as he continued his exploration, his eyes drawn to a doorway that led to your devout bedroom. With each step, his heart raced with a mix of excitement and anticipation. He knew he was crossing a line, but the thrill of his own audacity fueled his every move.

Pushing open the bedroom door, Hannibal's breath caught in his throat. There you lay in a peaceful slumber, your chest rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern appearing to sink up with his own. The moonlight watered through the window casting an ethereal glow over your features. Hannibal's pulse quickened, his fingers yearning to touch, to possess.

He approached the bed with a quiet reverence, his fingers tracing the curve of your jawline, the contours of your lips. His touch was a paradox, gentle yet possessive, humane yet sadistic as if he could claim your very essence through his caress. As Hannibal's fingers danced over your exposed skin, he reveled in the sensation, a heady rush of desire and obsession.

But he wasn't content with a simple touch, he deserves more. Slowly, he withdrew a small, gleaming blade from his pocket, the metal glinting in the moonlight blessing you. He held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest, as he brought the blade closer to your skin.

With meticulous precision, he made a shallow incision along the curve of your collarbone, a delicate line that blossomed with a trickle of your holy blood. You stirred slightly in your sleep, a soft sigh escaping your lips. Hannibal watched and lay witness to your presence, eyes wide with a twisted fascination as the blood welled up and flowed along the path he, God, has carved.

A sickening mixture of horror and delight coursed through Hannibal's veins. He leaned closer, instinctually, his lips hovering just above the wound, his breath mingling with the metallic scent of blood, your sacred blood. It was almost too much, the temptation to taste, to possess you even more intimately was irresistible. If you were just another person he would've killed and eaten you by now, but you were no animal for slaughter. You deserve life. You deserve his guidance, you needed it. You needed his eternal love.

He drew his lips to your mark, his mark, and painted his tongue red, cherishing in the feeling of obsession. Hesitant he withdrew his mouth from your wound, leaving behind nothing but a faint red mark. He had to step back before he decided something impulsive, something that wasn't planned until later in your destiny. His heart continued to race with a mix of triumph and euphoria. He had left his mark on you, a testament to his love and devotion.

With one final lingering look at your sound asleep figure, Hannibal slipped back into the shadows, leaving behind the darkness of his desire and the undeniable truth that he would do anything to keep you within his grasp.

[ai-musclebound]

He wasn’t supposed to look like this. At least, that’s what they used to tell him. Back in the days when he spent more time buried in books than under a barbell, he was the quiet one, the thinker, the one who solved problems while others chased glory. The glasses remain, a relic of that past life, but everything else about him has transformed – evolved into something unexpected, something undeniable. It started as an experiment. He wanted to see if the same analytical precision that made him a genius in the classroom could apply to the gym. Could muscle growth be as predictable, as logical, as equations on a whiteboard? It turns out, no – not entirely. The body resists, it pushes back, it requires not just logic but grit, persistence, and a willingness to embrace pain. He liked that. It was messy, chaotic, the opposite of everything he was used to. And now? Now he wears that chaos as armor, layer upon layer of strength wrapped around the mind that never stopped calculating. The glasses fool people. They make them think he’s approachable, maybe even soft. He isn’t. Behind those lenses is someone who will outthink you and outwork you. Every rep, every vein, every impossibly hard contour of his body is the result of a man who turned his own curiosity into power. He doesn’t just lift – he dissects, refines, and rebuilds. What you see here is not just strength but strategy, the ultimate equation solved. So, the question is: when he looks at you like that, do you see the intellect behind the muscle, or are you too distracted by the sheer audacity of it all?

[zmagpie]

that damned song. I stop, I crumble, I melt, I submit entirely. I must be a masochist for how I love how much this song hurts me. it's not a song about straightforward things. the straightforward ship has sailed a long time ago. life is complicated, life is nuance, life is subtle, life is a tangle of complexity. and then this song has the audacity to awaken that very complexity as emotion in me and I shoot it straight through my veins. and I get hooked like an addict. on repeat. over and over. take this away from me and I'll go into withdrawal.

I place my hand on my heart and tell her, my love, we are understood. there's someone else out there who not only felt the things we did, but also created art about it. we're not alone. this is the experience of being completely and unequivocally accepted.

it's not easy, is it? with the several permutations of emotions that exist, for one piece of art to both resonate with you and find you when you precisely need it? must be an act of destiny.

everything clicks. the rhythm waxes and wanes with the intensity of your emotions, the bass holds you and creates a sense of safety, and a husky, seductive voice sent from god. a subliminal cocktail of pure unadulterated art that awakens your pulse. who cares if I'm sad, I'm so fucking alive.

that damned song. I submit entirely.

Submission, Choosing to Drown in that One Song

[garfunkelworld]

She feels thirteen again, Draco Malfoy at her mercy as she has backed him into the wall, pointing the wand directly at the pounding vein on the side of his throat. Full of rage, ready to strike and break his upturned nose. Not with magic this time, but with pure, unceremonious mudblood, no, muggle violence—though she is prepared to jinx him so thoroughly he’ll have to scurry away like the little ferret that he is.

She feels fourteen again. A devilish, triumphant grin on her face as she shakes the jar in which she has successfully entrapped the vile little beetle that has been taunting her for a whole year. Cooing at her in that lofty voice she uses when intending to mock; to wound.

She is sixteen, a flurry of yellow wings orbiting around her as she aims her wand to direct the sharp-beaked little birds directly at Ron’s dumbfounded face. It isn’t meant to scare him or to chase him off. It’s not a warning. Hermione intends to draw blood.

And then she is seventeen, worlds crumbling around her as she stands alone with Harry, two pariahs on the losing side of a war, and he, Ron, has the audacity to crawl back to them after abandoning them, after weeks. She is screaming, spitting, and then she’s laughing at him with complete indignation—a high-pitched out-of-control laugh. In that moment, he is beneath her. They both are. The power she can wield, even then, is far above either of their capabilities.

But she isn’t really thirteen or fourteen or sixteen or seventeen.

Hermione Granger is twenty years old, the 'brightest witch of her age' and she knows spells that could make people’s skin peel back and their eyes explode inside their skulls. She can throw curses at light speed and with deadly precision. Poison draughts are no more difficult for her to brew up than her morning cup of tea. And there are rare, ancient runes in her vast armoury of magic that could reduce whole buildings to ashes at the flick of her wrist.

She is twenty, angry, and absolutely lethal.