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cbeargyu · 12 days ago

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跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife – SECOND PART

summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.

pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader

genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven

warnings: explicit smut (multiple scenes), dom/sub dynamics, power play, breeding kink, degradation praise, spanking, explicit dirty talk, oral (f receiving), creampie, possessiveness, choking (consensual), worship kink, rough sex, emotionally charged sex, soft aftercare, virginity loss (detailed), fingering, public display of dominance, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, death of a sibling (mentioned), grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity (organized crime themes), arranged marriage (turned consensual), emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles (challenged), tattoos/irezumi (traditional), canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension.

wc: 12,6k

notes: hi! here’s the second part of yuta’s story 🫶 i noticed a lot of people were interested in it and the response was really sweet, which made me super happy! someone asked me how i write so fast 🤣 the thing is, with this story (and most of them tbh), i usually write and prepare everything in advance when i have free time. i don’t publish them right away though, because i usually plan them in parts. so i keep them in my drafts, then i write the next parts, revise everything, adjust the flow, and once i feel like the timing is right, i post them lol. it’s kind of like "scheduling" my fics for delivery hahaha. alsooo i was kinda waiting for the anon to reply so i could tag them, but they never did 😭 if they’re reading this, please reach out to me 😭 jsjsjjs

part i. epilogue

taglist: (if you want to be added, fill up this form!)

@beestvng @bamtor1sss @turtash @amazinggraxia @rubiiisyeon @doiestars @7dreambaby @joepomonerof @hanxxz @sunghoonsgfreal

the steam clung to your skin like silk as you stepped out of the ofuro, towel wrapped loosely around your body, the faint scent of hinoki wood still clinging to your damp hair. the house was quiet—too quiet. you had grown used to the soft murmur of voices, the distant shuffling of feet as the men moved throughout the property, but tonight, silence held the hallways in a tight, heavy grip.

you dried yourself slowly, slipping into a soft ivory nightgown that barely brushed your thighs. it wasn’t intentional—just the first thing your hands grabbed in the dimness of your closet. you weren’t trying to look a certain way. you weren’t trying to think of him.

you tied your hair up in a loose bun and padded barefoot to your room. the warmth of the ofuro had relaxed you, almost lulled you into sleep already… until you heard it.

a sound—wet, harsh. a sharp exhale. a broken word.

you froze.

then came the strangled gasp. a thud. and finally, a shout.

“no—!”

you bolted down the hallway before your mind could process it, your feet silent on the wooden floor. you didn’t knock. you slid the door open sharply and found him tangled in his futon, drenched in sweat, breathing like he’d run miles barefoot through a battlefield. the moonlight spilling through the shoji window cut pale angles across his face, highlighting the way his brows furrowed in panic, lips parted in a grimace, chest heaving.

"yuta," you whispered, dropping to your knees beside him. “yuta—wake up, it’s just a dream—”

his hand shot out, blindly reaching. you caught it, squeezed it tight.

“hey. you’re okay. i’m here.” your other hand cupped his cheek, brushing away the sheen of sweat with your thumb.

his eyes finally opened, unfocused and wild, then slowly zeroed in on your face. his lips parted but no words came out. just another heavy breath, a tremor, and then—without a word—he leaned forward and collapsed against you.

you sucked in a quiet breath as the full weight of his upper body rested against your chest. your nightgown stuck to your damp skin, thin cotton against bare muscle. he was burning hot, trembling, but you didn’t pull away. your hands found their way into his hair, gently combing through the messy strands as his breaths began to slow.

“it’s okay,” you whispered again. “you’re safe.”

his arms didn’t wrap around you, but his head tilted just enough that his cheek pressed against the curve of your breast, and you felt his lashes flutter with each exhale.

after several long minutes, he finally spoke. voice hoarse, barely a breath. “i saw you bleeding.”

your hands froze in his hair. he continued, still not looking at you. “in the dream… you were lying on the floor. screaming my name. i couldn’t get to you. there was blood. so much fucking blood.”

you swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

“but it wasn’t real,” you said softly. “i’m here. see?” you took his hand and pressed it flat against your ribs, just under the swell of your breast. “no blood.”

he let out a shaky breath. “i thought i was going to lose you.”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t.

then, after a beat—

“stay,” he said.

your heart kicked up a notch. “here?”

he lifted his head slightly to meet your eyes. “just tonight.”

your mouth opened to answer, but nothing came out. your cheeks were already burning. the word hung between you like a secret.

you nodded.

he eased back onto the futon with a quiet wince, making space. you slipped under the blanket beside him, heart pounding, unsure where to place your arms, unsure of everything. it felt like you were intruding.

you turned your back to him at first, unsure if it would make things less tense. but before long, you felt the warmth of his body draw closer. not touching—just near.

"you’re tense," he murmured behind you.

you tensed more. “no i’m not.”

he chuckled, voice low, still slightly raspy. “i won’t do anything you don’t want.”

you spun to face him, cheeks aflame. “i wasn’t thinking that!”

his brows rose, amused. “sure you weren’t.”

you smacked his arm gently, earning another soft laugh from him—warm this time. honest. he reached up and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek.

“you look pretty when you’re mad.”

you scowled, even as your heart twisted into a knot.

you stared at each other for a long second, breaths mingling in the dark.

"does it still hurt?" you asked finally, nodding at the faded bandages on his side.

"only when i breathe," he joked, then sighed. "i’ll be fine."

you hesitated, then reached out and placed your hand gently over his abdomen. he tensed—but didn’t stop you. the heat of his skin under your palm made your fingers tremble.

"you're warm," you whispered.

"so are you." his eyes dropped to your lips.

you should’ve pulled away. should’ve turned back and faced the wall again. but you didn’t. neither of you did.

"this is weird, isn’t it?" you said softly. "we’re married and this is the first night we share a bed."

"we should’ve done it earlier," he said.

you looked up at him sharply, but his expression was unreadable. somewhere between a smile and a storm.

"why didn’t we?" you asked, more to yourself than him.

he tilted your chin up slightly, his thumb brushing your jaw. “because maybe now it means something.”

you felt your breath catch.

you didn’t kiss. not yet. but your faces stayed close, breath to breath, until sleep finally claimed you both—your fingers still tangled in his shirt, his hand resting protectively over your hip.

you didn’t dream that night.

but if you had, it would’ve been about him.

meanwhile, the world outside moved on without you.

the studio lights were too bright. the camera flashes too cold. you smiled on cue, tilted your head just so, changed outfits and pretended to care when the makeup artist fixed your lip gloss for the fifth time.

hitoshi didn’t speak much anymore. not unless it was absolutely necessary. not unless someone was watching.

you wanted to ask him if it was because of yuta.

you didn’t.

outside, everything felt disconnected. like you were walking through someone else’s life. fake laughter. fake perfume. fake nails. fake smiles.

but inside the walls of yuta’s house, something real was happening.

something warm. dangerous. inevitable.

that night, as you returned home past sunset, the hallway lights dimmed low and the scent of jasmine still lingering from the garden, you saw him standing at the end of the corridor—shoulders relaxed, arms crossed loosely, watching you with that look again.

not hungry.

not gentle.

just... aware.

you stopped walking.

he didn’t say anything.

neither did you.

but the glance lasted longer than it should have. held heavier than it ought to. like both of you were waiting for something to snap.

and you looked at each other.

not in the way married people are supposed to look at each other. not with comfort. not with affection.

with need.

the kind that simmers in silence. the kind that thickens the air between two people until it’s unbearable.

he took one slow step toward you.

you didn’t move back. you couldn’t. your knees felt like they were made of glass and breath was suddenly a conscious effort. his gaze flicked down your body once—just once—but it was enough to make your pulse trip over itself.

“come here,” he said.

not commanding. not tender. just… hoarse. low. like the words had scraped their way out of his throat.

you didn’t answer.

you stepped forward.

one step. then another.

you could see the strain in his posture. the tightness in his jaw. he was trying to control it, whatever it was burning under his skin. trying not to ruin this moment. but his fingers flexed at his sides, and you knew he was one breath away from snapping.

you stopped right in front of him.

your eyes met, closer now—so close you could see the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks, the way his mouth parted like he was going to speak and then thought better of it.

“this…” he began, but didn’t finish.

you shook your head slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “don’t ruin it with words.”

he didn’t.

instead, he reached.

a hand at your waist first—careful, grounding, his thumb pressing into the silk of your robe. your breath hitched. he exhaled shakily. then the other hand lifted, slow and deliberate, fingers threading through the hair at the nape of your neck. he didn’t pull—he just held. like anchoring you there, like making sure this wasn’t a dream he’d wake from.

“i don’t know what this is,” you murmured. “but i feel it.”

his brow furrowed like the words hurt. like they exposed something he wasn’t ready to admit.

“i do too,” he said, voice barely audible. “i’ve been trying not to.”

“me too.”

and then, as if your bodies had grown tired of waiting for permission, you leaned in at the same time.

the kiss wasn’t soft.

it wasn’t rushed either. it lingered, pressed, took. there was no awkward pause, no hesitation—just the raw electricity of mouths meeting after too long, of breath mixing, of hands finally allowed to hold.

his fingers slid deeper into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, to taste more of you, to pull a sound from your throat you hadn’t meant to make. you clung to him—hands gripping the collar of his shirt, sliding up the back of his neck, curling into the short strands of his hair as if anchoring yourself to him.

his other hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. you could feel the way his chest rose and fell rapidly, how he was still fighting the instinct to take too much too soon. but the tremble in his breath gave him away. this was unraveling him. you were unraveling him.

you kissed like you were trying to understand it. to confirm it. to make sense of this pull between you, the way nothing outside these walls felt real anymore. how everything out there felt empty, cold, meaningless—except this. except him.

his mouth left yours just barely, brushing the corner of your lips, then your jaw. “this wasn’t supposed to happen,” he whispered, but he didn’t sound regretful. he sounded undone.

you swallowed hard, lips brushing his again. “i don’t care.”

he kissed you again—this time slower. not because he was hesitant, but because he wanted to memorize. the shape of your mouth. the sighs you gave when he sucked your lower lip just enough. the way your nails pressed into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. it was indulgent, shameless, intentional.

and it wasn’t like your wedding kiss.

that one had been staged, timed, performed.

this one was the truth.

when he finally pulled back, both of you breathless, your eyes stayed closed a moment longer, your forehead pressed to his.

his voice was rough. “if i kiss you again, i won’t stop.”

your pulse pounded in your ears. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he laughed once—short, bitter, sweet. “because it is.”

your hands slid down his chest, slowing at the center where his heart beat fast beneath your palm. “then don’t.”

for a moment, he didn’t respond.

but his hand at your waist tightened again.

and his lips ghosted your cheek.

and he whispered, “stay with me tonight. just like this. just… stay.”

you nodded.

you didn’t go back to your room. you didn’t need to.

you had crossed a line now. one neither of you would be able to step back from. and even if the world burned down around the two of you, you knew this was real. raw. dangerous.

you didn’t turn the lights on. he didn’t ask why.

something about the dark made it easier to admit this was real.

yuta pulled you toward the futon slowly, not by the wrist or hand—but by placing a gentle touch on your lower back, guiding you like the space beside him was meant for you and had always been. his bed smelled faintly like cedar and something warmer, something him. the sheets were cool, but his body wasn’t.

he laid back first, propped against the pillows.

you hesitated—only for a second—then climbed in beside him, curling on your side. facing him.

he was already watching you. soft. open. like his edges had finally stopped cutting, like this was the only moment he didn’t have to be the heir, the boss, the legend. he was just a man. and for the first time, he looked free.

he reached for you. slowly. deliberately. a hand on your cheek, thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye as if checking you were really there. you leaned into it. eyes fluttering shut.

and then the kiss came again.

it was different this time.

slower. deeper.

not needy—but full.

the kind of kiss that asked questions instead of demanded answers. lips moving with intent, his hand sliding into your hair again as you leaned closer until your chest brushed his, until your breaths tangled and the space between you no longer existed.

he kissed you like this could heal something in him. and maybe, somehow, it did.

your fingers curled lightly at his nape, then trailed down the curve of his shoulder. you rested your forehead against his between kisses. he pressed one to your temple. then your jaw. then your collarbone. nothing rushed. nothing expected. just the hum of electricity, of presence, of him holding you like the world outside could go to hell.

at some point, you settled with your head on his chest.

his arm wrapped around you without hesitation. his thumb moved slowly along your upper arm, a rhythm so tender it made your throat ache. you could feel his heartbeat under your ear—steady, loud, real.

"i forgot what this felt like," he murmured into your hair.

you didn’t ask what he meant.

you just whispered back, “me too.”

he kissed the top of your head. and you kissed the skin at his collarbone.

you didn’t speak again for a while.

not because there was nothing to say—but because silence was finally safe.

and when sleep came for you both, it didn’t feel like surrender.

it felt like belonging.

the steady hum of the car wheels against the gravel-covered road filled the silence as the black sedan made its way through the outskirts of osaka. moonlight filtered through the dense tree line, shadows flickering like ghosts against the windows. yuta sat beside you, calm and composed in his midnight blue kimono embroidered with black cranes that symbolized protection and vigilance. your kimono was a delicate shade of plum, tied tightly at the waist, accentuating the soft curves of your form. your hands rested on your lap, fingers curled in, hiding the tension that had nested in your chest since you left the house.

"are you nervous?" yuta asked without looking at you, eyes scanning the road ahead like a man who had lived too many lives in one.

"should i be?" you replied, your voice even, but not cold.

"always," he said. and that was it.

the meeting with the clan elders was held in a countryside estate hidden among the pines. flickering lanterns lit the stone path leading to the large wooden structure. the air was thick with incense, and the heavy scent of sandalwood made your head feel light. as you entered the main hall, dozens of eyes turned your way. you held your chin high.

yuta introduced you with the calm pride of a man who owned everything in the room. you stood beside him as if born to be there, even if your heartbeat betrayed you. the meeting began as expected, with slow exchanges, nods of agreement, and passing cups of sake.

but it changed in seconds. the loud crack of wood splitting came from behind. yuta’s body tensed before the masked attackers even burst in. everything blurred—yuta grabbing your arm, shielding you behind his body, the clang of steel, the echo of gunfire.

you reached for the small pistol hidden beneath the folds of your obi. you never thought you'd use it. but tonight, you did. your hands shook at first, but when one of them lunged at yuta, instinct won. you pulled the trigger.

the assailants dropped one by one. yuta moved like wind and water—silent, fatal. but one shot grazed him. your scream was lost in the chaos.

once it ended, silence fell heavy. bodies lay sprawled on the polished wooden floor, blood pooling like ink.

in the car, as you both escaped back into the cover of night, you turned to him. "take off the top half of your kimono."

"it’s nothing," he muttered, though his breathing betrayed the sting.

"take it off, yuta."

he obeyed. his chest, usually smooth and unmarred, had a long, thin scratch from a bullet that had barely missed its target. you pulled cloth from the glove compartment, soaked it with the small bottle of water you had, and began to clean him. your fingers worked gently, but your eyes held fire.

yuta didn’t speak. he just watched you. eyes wide, confused, as if no one had ever treated him with such... tenderness.

when you finished, you pressed your palm against the uninjured part of his chest. his hand came up to cover yours.

"thank you," he said, voice low.

"you’d do the same for me."

he didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to.

the days after, something shifted. without a word, he started sleeping in your room. not in your bed. just in the same space. but at some point, the futons ended up closer. and at some point, your nightly kisses, born of adrenaline and intimacy, became ritual. nothing more happened—but the heat that bloomed beneath your skin every time his mouth met yours grew.

each night, his hands lingered a little longer on your waist. yours tangled into his hair. his breath warmed your collarbone. it was a slow burn that neither of you seemed ready to extinguish.

then came the whispers.

inside the tatami-lined war room, takuya stood before the clan’s council, arms crossed. yuta was beside him, silent.

"this arrangement is a distraction," takuya said sharply. "she was supposed to serve a purpose, nothing more. you’re losing focus."

yuta's jaw clenched. "say what you really mean."

"i mean," takuya snapped, "that you were supposed to be leading us into negotiations with the osaka-hyogo factions this week. instead, you're sitting at her bedside cleaning wounds and playing husband."

"i am her husband."

the room fell quiet.

takuya laughed. it was hollow. "a husband for six months. that was the deal. we marry her, used her image of being the perfect, respectable woman and move on. this... this is becoming a problem."

"she’s not the problem," yuta said slowly. "you are."

outside the room, you stood hidden behind the shoji screen. the words cut into you like glass. you hadn’t known the full extent of the deal before. six months. and now, takuya wanted to end it early.

you clutched your sleeves tighter. your chest burned—not with anger, but something deeper. pain. disappointment. a foolish part of you had started to hope.

to believe.

yuta had risked everything for you that night—stood in front of you when the bullets flew. defended your presence when his oldest ally called it a mistake. you couldn’t repay him by making him choose.

the clan or you.

so you didn’t say anything. you didn't confront him that night. instead, you kissed him like nothing had changed. like your world wasn’t slowly crumbling beneath your feet.

because if he had to choose, you'd rather he never knew there was a choice to make.

and that was the cruelest love of all.

one you couldn’t name. one you couldn’t keep. but one that lived in every stolen breath, every bruising kiss, every silent night shared under the paper lantern glow.

the garden was quiet.

too quiet.

even the wind seemed to hesitate, brushing past the trees like it didn’t want to disturb what was unraveling beneath the summer sky. soft lanterns flickered along the stone path, their warm light casting long shadows across the grass, but none of it reached you. not really. you were already somewhere else — deep in your own thoughts, drowning in the things you couldn’t say.

yuta stood a few steps away, his jaw tight, his shoulders stiff beneath the expensive black jacket he always wore when things felt heavy. he had one hand tucked in his pocket, the other hanging loosely by his side, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab something but didn’t know what.

maybe your hand.

maybe your throat.

you had just told him the truth — or part of it. that you weren’t going to stop modeling. that your work mattered to you in ways he could never understand. and he had laughed. not cruelly, not loudly, but with that sharp edge that always cut you when he didn’t know how else to feel.

“if it’s not about money,” he said, his voice low, “then what is it? huh? tell me.”

you blinked. “it’s about my dream, yuta. it always has been. the reason i left my village, the reason i stayed here. i need to feel like i’m building something for myself. like this... this isn’t all there is.”

his eyes narrowed. “and hitoshi? he’s part of that dream too?”

you didn’t answer.

your silence was like a gunshot.

his jaw clenched tighter. “so that’s it, then.”

“that’s not what i said,” you muttered.

but he was already shaking his head. not fast, not dramatic — just slow, like someone accepting the kind of truth they never wanted to hear.

“you didn’t have to say it,” he said. “i see it every time you come home smelling like him.”

you flinched. “i don’t—”

“don’t lie to me,” he snapped.

his voice cracked, and that scared you more than the accusation. because yuta didn’t break. not in front of you. not ever.

he took a step closer, and even in the fading light, you could see the tiredness in his eyes. not just from the long nights or the weight of his title — but from you. from this. from the fact that every time he reached for you lately, you felt a little further away.

“do you ever look at him the way you looked at me?” he asked quietly. “do you think about him when i’m not home?”

“no,” you whispered, barely audible. “never.”

but he didn’t believe you.

and honestly, maybe you didn’t believe yourself either — not because you wanted hitoshi, but because the distance between you and yuta had become a chasm neither of you knew how to cross anymore. it had started slow — missed dinners, hushed calls, unspoken things. then it became routine. avoidance. resentment.

and now here you were, standing in the garden of a man who once held you like you were fragile and holy, now looking at you like you were a betrayal wrapped in lace.

“when this is over,” he said, his voice colder now, controlled, “when the contract ends… will you run to him? will he be your safe place?”

you stared at him.

and said nothing.

because you didn’t know what to say. because even if the answer was no — even if hitoshi was the furthest thing from your heart — you couldn’t find the words fast enough. couldn’t reach him in time.

his eyes dropped for a second. then he turned.

the movement was simple, quiet, deliberate. he was walking away.

and for yuta, that was your answer.

you didn’t chase him.

you stood there, trembling, breath stuck in your chest. you watched his back retreat across the stepping stones, his figure melting into the shadows of the engawa, swallowed by the darkness of the house that had once felt like safety. and something inside you cracked open.

you wanted to run after him. wanted to scream that he was wrong, that he was the only man you had ever truly wanted. that hitoshi could disappear tomorrow and you wouldn’t blink, but if yuta left... if he really left...

you would never recover from it.

but your feet didn’t move. because what was the point?

you both knew how this story ended.

you were a contract bride, a girl wrapped in white silk and political lies. and he was the king of a blood empire, trying to build something clean on top of a foundation soaked in violence. there had never been a version of this where you got to stay.

you pressed a hand to your chest, felt the weight of your own heartbeat, heavy and uneven.

he doesn’t know.

he didn’t know that the thought of hitoshi touching you made your skin crawl.

he didn’t know that the only time you felt beautiful was when yuta looked at you like you were something rare and breakable.

he didn’t know that every time you came home, you searched for his scent first. that your pillow still smelled like his cologne. that you hadn’t thrown out the blood-stained robe from the night he almost died, because it reminded you that you’d saved him.

he didn’t know that you were still in love with him.

you collapsed onto the wooden bench at the edge of the garden, the soft fabric of your skirt folding under you, your hands trembling in your lap. somewhere in the distance, a wind chime rattled. your eyes burned, but you didn’t cry.

not yet.

the moon had started to rise, silver and low, bathing the garden in cold light. the flowers yuta planted last spring were starting to wilt — their petals curled, fragile from the heat. and it hit you then: maybe you were wilting too.

you whispered to the night. not a prayer, not a plea. just his name.

“yuta...”

but he didn’t come back.

he didn’t hear you.

or maybe... maybe he did. and chose not to answer.

you hadn’t spoken in two days.

not really. not more than clipped sentences passed during breakfast or muttered greetings when your paths crossed in the hallway. the silence between you and yuta had settled like fog — dense, stubborn, refusing to lift.

but that night, something cracked.

you couldn’t sleep. not in your room. not with the weight of his absence pulling at your ribs. so you bathed — slow, methodical — letting the heat of the ofuro melt the tension in your limbs. you scrubbed your skin until it felt new. until the scent of steam, jasmine oil, and longing clung to your every pore. then, without thinking, you slipped on a silk robe. pale cream, nearly translucent, tied loose at the waist. nothing underneath.

you didn’t wear perfume. you didn’t need to.

your hair was still damp, falling in soft waves down your back, glistening under the dim lantern light as you padded barefoot across the wooden hallway toward his room.

you had never knocked before.

but tonight, you did.

a soft, uncertain sound — two knuckles against paper and wood.

inside, you heard movement. fabric shifting. then a pause.

“come in,” he said.

your fingers tightened around the knot at your waist.

you slid the door open slowly.

he was sitting on the futon, shirtless, the blanket draped low over his hips. moonlight spilled through the paper panels behind him, cutting his body in shadows — the ink of his tattoos shifting over his arms, his chest, the sharp lines of his abdomen rising with every breath.

his eyes met yours instantly.

he didn’t say anything.

but his gaze moved — slow, deliberate — taking in the new robe, the way it clung to your damp skin. the light shimmer of moisture on your collarbones. the bare soles of your feet. your hair, dripping soft against your shoulder.

you stepped inside. silent. calm. and then you turned, sliding the door shut behind you.

when you faced him again, he hadn’t moved.

he was waiting.

you met his gaze. held it.

then, slowly — with fingers that didn’t tremble — you reached for the tie of your robe.

you pulled.

the silk slipped apart. loose. effortless.

and then it fell.

your robe hit the tatami floor in a whisper.

you stood still — completely nude, your arms resting gently at your sides, your legs pressed close together, breath quiet but deep.

“there’s only one way to show you that i want no one else,” you said, your voice soft, unwavering. “and it’s this.”

yuta didn’t speak.

he didn’t blink.

his eyes dropped — slowly, reverently — trailing down your body like a prayer he didn’t know how to say out loud.

he took in everything.

your breasts, soft and full, nipples already taut under his gaze.

the curve of your waist.

the line of your hips, the small patch of skin between your thighs where heat gathered.

your thighs. your knees. the delicate arch of your feet.

you stood there for him. only for him.

and for a long, still second — he said nothing.

then he moved.

fast.

the blanket was gone, flung aside. his body was on you in an instant — heat, hands, hunger. his mouth crashed into yours, open and gasping, desperate like he’d been holding his breath for days. you moaned against him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, fingers diving into his hair.

he lifted you.

you wrapped your legs around his waist, felt the hard press of him already thick and ready between your thighs.

he carried you to the futon like you weighed nothing.

and then he laid you down.

“say it again,” he growled, mouth at your throat, his hand sliding up your side, rough and trembling.

“i want you,” you whispered. “only you.”

he groaned — low, guttural — and kissed you again, his lips bruising yours, his teeth dragging gently over your jaw. one hand cupped your breast, thumb teasing your nipple until you arched beneath him. his other hand slid down — over your stomach, between your thighs — and when he found you wet, bare, aching...

he hissed.

“fuck,” he muttered, pressing his forehead against yours. “you’re already this wet for me?”

you nodded, your voice breaking. “been like this since the garden... since you left.”

his fingers teased you, slow circles that made your thighs twitch.

“you should’ve told me,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “should’ve told me you were still mine.”

you spread your legs wider for him.

“i’m telling you now.”

he slid two fingers inside you — thick, slow — and you gasped, hips rising to meet him.

“yuta,” you whimpered. “please...”

he growled softly, pulling his fingers out, licking them clean.

his breath caught, chest rising and falling as he hovered above you, his body flushed with heat, with want, with restraint. your legs trembled beneath him, thighs soft and parted, glistening with your arousal — and yet, your eyes betrayed something else.

uncertainty.

fear.

innocence.

and he remembered.

you were his wife, yes. you had given yourself to him in every way but this. and he had known — from the beginning — that when the moment came, it would have to mean something.

it couldn’t just be hunger.

it had to be reverence.

his hand slid up the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek with the gentlest touch.

“look at me,” he said softly.

you did. your lips trembled. your eyes shone with unshed tears.

“this is your first time,” he whispered. not a question. a truth. a weight he would carry with care.

you nodded, your voice caught in your throat.

“i know,” he breathed. “i know, baby.”

he kissed your forehead first. then your cheek. then your mouth — tender, slow, lips moving over yours like he was memorizing the shape of your fear, your surrender. his hands explored your body without pressure — just warmth, just presence — sliding over your waist, your hips, your thighs.

“you tell me to stop,” he murmured, lips ghosting along your jaw, “and i will. i mean it.”

“don’t stop,” you whispered. “i want you.”

his heart nearly broke in his chest.

he reached between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance — thick, hot, hard — and brushed the head of his cock slowly through your folds, spreading your slick over himself, teasing your clit just enough to make your hips twitch.

then he paused.

his gaze dropped to where your bodies met.

you were so tight. untouched. the soft pink of your folds glistened with heat and nervous want, trembling slightly under his fingers.

he lined himself up with careful precision, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance, and when he began to push — just barely — he felt your whole body tense.

“breathe,” he whispered. “just breathe for me.”

you nodded, clutching his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin.

he eased forward — slow, excruciatingly slow — parting your body inch by inch.

you gasped.

pain bloomed, sharp and full, stretching you in ways you’d never known. your thighs shook, your hands flew to his chest, and your eyes widened, glassy with sudden tears.

“yuta—” you whimpered, voice fragile. “it hurts.”

his heart clenched.

“i know, i know, baby,” he soothed, kissing your jaw, your temple, your trembling lips. “you’re doing so well. so fucking perfect.”

he stopped moving, giving you time. his thumb stroked your cheek, catching one of the tears that had slipped free.

“you’re taking me so good,” he whispered. “you’re the tightest thing i’ve ever felt, sweetheart. you feel like heaven.”

you whimpered again, your legs instinctively tightening around his hips.

“relax for me,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath. “just a little more.”

you tried.

you breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly.

he kissed you again.

and then, with a long, gentle press, he sank the rest of the way in — sheathing himself fully inside you.

you cried out softly, overwhelmed. your walls stretched around him, pulsing, resisting, your body struggling to accommodate his size. the pain was there — raw and real — but so was something else.

fullness.

intensity.

connection.

yuta stilled inside you, arms shaking from holding himself back.

“fuck,” he rasped. “you’re mine. all mine.”

his forehead rested against yours as your bodies trembled together.

he didn’t move yet. not until your breathing slowed. not until your nails relaxed against his chest. not until your legs loosened their grip.

“you’re okay?” he asked gently.

you nodded. “still hurts... but not as much.”

he kissed your lips — soft, slow, sacred.

“i’ll make it better,” he promised.

and he did.

he began to move in slow, careful thrusts, pulling out just an inch before sinking back in, watching every flicker of sensation cross your face. his hands cradled your jaw, his mouth praising every breath that left your lips.

“so beautiful,” he whispered. “you’re so beautiful like this.”

you whimpered, your body adjusting, the burn easing into a dull throb — and then something more. something electric.

pleasure.

he moved a little deeper, a little fuller, the stretch still sharp but starting to pulse with warmth, with friction, with heat.

“i can feel you opening up for me,” he murmured, voice husky. “you’re letting me in.”

your mouth fell open in a gasp as his hips rolled against yours, his cock brushing something deeper inside you.

“y-yuta...”

he groaned, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “say it again.”

“yuta... please... don’t stop.”

he lifted himself onto his elbows, looking down at you.

your hair spread like silk across the futon, your cheeks flushed, breasts rising with every breath. the sheen of sweat on your skin made you glow in the moonlight.

“fuck,” he whispered. “you’re a fucking goddess.”

he kissed down your body — your throat, your chest, your breasts — taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking gently, rolling his hips into you with a rhythm that made your toes curl.

you moaned loudly, the pain all but forgotten now.

he worshiped you.

his hands never stopped moving — stroking your hips, your thighs, your stomach. his lips pressed reverent kisses across every inch of skin. and when he fucked you, it was with slow, deliberate strokes that grew deeper, firmer, more intense as you moaned louder beneath him.

“so tight,” he groaned. “so wet for me. you were made for me, weren’t you?”

“yes,” you gasped. “yes, yuta — i’m yours.”

his thrusts quickened, your slick coating him now, your pussy fluttering around his cock as he hit that spot again and again, each thrust pulling a louder cry from your lips.

your legs wrapped around his waist, urging him deeper.

“don’t hold back,” you whispered, eyes locked with his. “i can take it.”

and he did.

he fucked you harder, faster, driving into you with a hunger barely leashed, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the quiet room.

“come for me,” he growled. “come on my cock.”

your body tensed.

the pressure snapped.

your orgasm hit you like a wave — deep and intense, your pussy clenching around him, your cry sharp and breathless. he groaned loudly, thrusting harder as you came, chasing his own high.

“i’m gonna fill you up,” he moaned. “gonna come inside you, baby. is that what you want?”

“yes,” you whimpered. “fill me, yuta — please.”

he grunted, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep, his cock twitching inside you.

he spilled into you in hot, thick pulses, his breath ragged, his body trembling over yours.

for a long moment, neither of you moved.

his body collapsed slowly over yours, his weight grounding you, comforting you.

his arms wrapped around you tightly, his lips brushing the top of your damp hair.

“you’re mine,” he whispered again. “no one else. only me.”

you nodded, your voice soft. “only you.”

and for the first time in weeks, your heart felt full again.

you woke to warmth.

not just the kind that lingered on your skin from shared heat, but the kind that lived deep — quiet and golden and whole. for the first time since you’d entered that house, you didn’t wake alone. no empty sheets. no cold side of the bed. just him.

yuta was still asleep beside you, one arm draped across your waist, his face turned toward yours. soft strands of his red hair fell across his brow, tousled and wild from the night before. he looked younger like this. not the man who ruled osaka in silence and steel — but the boy who whispered your name into your mouth like it meant something sacred.

his breath was slow. deep. steady.

his hand flexed slightly against your skin.

you didn’t move.

you just watched him.

you let yourself memorize every detail in the pale light of morning — the faint scar near his left brow, the small freckle on the side of his neck, the way his lips parted just enough to make your chest ache.

he was beautiful.

but more than that — he was real.

and last night, he had made you feel more than wanted. he had made you feel chosen.

your fingers moved before you could stop them, brushing the edge of his jaw, feather-light.

he stirred.

a low hum escaped his throat. his brow furrowed for a moment, then his lashes fluttered open. dark, still a little hazy, but focused on you within seconds.

he blinked once.

then again.

and then he exhaled like he’d been holding that breath all night.

“you’re still here,” he murmured, voice raspy, rough with sleep.

you smiled faintly. “where else would i be?”

his hand on your waist tightened. not possessively — just sure.

“wasn’t sure,” he whispered, eyes studying your face like he didn’t want to miss a single second. “after what i said… in the garden. i thought maybe you…”

you shook your head before he could finish.

“i meant what i said last night. i wanted you to know. really know — that it’s only ever been you.”

he was quiet.

his gaze dropped for a second. then returned to yours.

“i didn’t deserve that,” he said. “your honesty. your body. you. not after doubting you.”

your throat tightened.

“you were hurt,” you said gently. “and i didn’t make it easy. i let the silence grow between us.”

he turned onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, looking down at you now — the blanket slipping lower on his hips, his chest bare, skin still warm against yours.

“i don’t want silence anymore,” he said. “not with you.”

you reached up, fingers brushing against his chest. “so talk to me, then.”

he hesitated.

his brows drew together slightly — not from anger, but from fear. it was strange, seeing that expression on a man like him.

“i never planned to fall for you,” he admitted. “this started as protection. strategy. and then... you walked into my world like you were born to burn in it. and i couldn’t stop watching. couldn’t stop wanting.”

you bit your lip.

“i wanted to hate you,” you confessed. “wanted to resent this marriage, the way it forced me to pretend. but it never felt like pretending. not with you.”

his hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip.

“tell me what this is,” he whispered. “for you.”

you didn’t hesitate.

“it’s home,” you breathed. “it’s terrifying and messy and too much sometimes — but it’s home.”

he closed his eyes briefly, as if your words were too heavy to hold in open air.

then he leaned in and kissed you.

soft. slow. reverent.

not hungry like the night before. not claiming. just... grateful.

his forehead pressed to yours when he pulled away.

“if i lose you,” he murmured, “i’ll burn this entire fucking city down.”

you smiled. sad, soft.

“then don’t give me a reason to leave.”

he nodded, just once, but it felt like a vow.

“from now on,” he said, “you’ll never doubt your place here. in this bed. in my life. in my heart.”

“good,” you whispered, eyes stinging. “because i already gave you everything.”

his mouth found yours again, a little more urgent this time — and just like that, the morning turned into something golden, something sweet.

you stayed wrapped in each other until the sunlight painted your bodies in warmth, until the silence between you was no longer heavy — just peaceful.

and for the first time in weeks, the war was over.

takuya stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the compound like it could offer answers he didn’t already have. yuta was behind him, still barefoot from the room upstairs, wearing only loose black pants, a cigarette burning between his fingers.

the tension was thick. too quiet.

he didn’t greet yuta.

just stood with his arms crossed, eyes unreadable, spine stiff as stone.

“we need to talk,” he said.

yuta didn’t flinch.

“then talk.”

he watched him for a long, long second. then gestured toward the sliding door. “not here.”

yuta followed him into the garden, silent steps on the stone path, the air still carrying the lingering scent of summer rain and night-blooming jasmine. the same place where him had once walked away from you. now you were walking into something else — not heartbreak, but confrontation.

he turned to face him once the path ended.

his jaw was clenched.

“you’ve changed.”

yuta’s gaze didn’t flinch. “good.”

“no. not good. you’re softer. distracted. emotional. you think with your chest now. not your head.”

yuta crushed the cigarette in the tray. stepped forward.

“you think i’m weak because i love her?” he asked, voice deadly calm.

“i think you’re human. and in this world, that’s a liability.”

yuta tilted his head. “she’s not a liability. she’s the only reason i’m still standing.”

takuya didn’t speak. the silence stretched.

yuta took another step, closing the space between them.

“this marriage? it was supposed to be for appearances. a shield. a tool.” his jaw tightened. “but it’s not ending.”

takuya raised an eyebrow. “you sound certain.”

“i am.” yuta’s voice didn’t shake. “she’s loyal. she’s stronger than half the men we command. and she’s mine. i’m not letting her go.”

“she’s not from this world.”

“and yet she’s survived it better than most.”

takuya’s expression hardened. “i’m telling you to think with a cold head.”

yuta stepped close. too close.

“and i’m telling you — this isn’t about control anymore. this is about truth. about grounding. she’s good for me, takuya. not because she makes me soft — but because she makes me still.”

takuya studied him for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes.

then, finally — a nod.

slow. reluctant.

but real.

“then stand by it,” he said. “and make damn sure no one doubts it.”

despite yuta’s firm confrontation with takuya, life didn’t shift all at once. there were no grand gestures, no dramatic changes in tone. just subtle things. quiet things.

a few days later, you returned to his —or maybe now, your room—, room and found it gutted. the futon replaced by a wide, luxurious queen-sized bed, draped in black sheets and lined with down pillows. the floor had been redone, dark polished wood. new lighting. warm, soft. a space not just made for sleeping — but for sharing.

your old room, however, hadn’t been discarded.

instead, it had been transformed into a closet.

an absurdly large, obscenely modern closet — velvet benches, full-length mirrors, recessed lighting, and drawers that slid open at the touch of a finger. racks of high-end clothing lined the walls: silk, cashmere, leather, tailored and imported. you’d lost count of how many designer tags you saw before the nausea hit.

“you used clan money for this?” you asked one night, mouth still agape.

yuta had only shrugged from the bed, shirtless, flipping through a magazine. “technically it’s our money.”

“that’s not how money works, yuta.”

“that’s how my money works.”

you weren’t supposed to find it.

the drawer in yuta’s private study was always locked. it wasn’t forbidden — just quietly off-limits. you never questioned it. never tried. but that night, he’d left in a rush, forgetting to grab his keys. and when you went in to bring him a new set, the drawer was already cracked open.

you told yourself not to look.

but you did.

inside: a black lacquered box, unmarked. inside the box: a bundle of old photos, yellowed with time. beneath those, a sheathed tantō blade — older than the one used in your wedding, its hilt worn, stained. and finally, a letter, folded so many times the edges had nearly fallen apart.

you opened it with trembling fingers.

the handwriting was messy. a mix of japanese and english, written like it had been scrawled during a storm.

“he died because of me. i told him not to take the other road. i said i’d handle it. i was wrong.”

beneath the words: a name. shotaro.

you sat there for a long time. silent. still.

when yuta returned home hours later, his jacket still damp from the rain outside, you were waiting in the study. the letter on your lap. your eyes unreadable.

he stopped in the doorway.

for the first time since you’d known him, he looked afraid.

“where did you find that?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“you left the drawer open,” you said quietly. “i wasn’t searching.”

he closed the door behind him.

slowly.

“shotaro was your brother,” you said. not a question.

his silence was answer enough.

you stood, walking toward him. you placed the letter gently in his hand.

“you’ve never told anyone?”

he shook his head once. “takuya knows some. but not everything.”

“why hide it?”

he exhaled, fingers tightening around the paper. “because i failed him. i told him i’d protect him. and he died for me instead.”

you stepped into his space, palms pressed to his chest, voice steady.

“you carry so much. alone. but you don’t have to anymore.”

he looked down at you — eyes shadowed, face unreadable. but something in him cracked. not loudly. not visibly.

just enough.

his hands came to your hips. gripped tight.

“say it again,” he whispered.

“you don’t have to carry it alone.”

his lips crushed into yours before the words fully left your mouth.

and everything exploded.

he pushed you back against the nearest wall, mouth devouring yours, hands sliding under your clothes, yanking your kimono open like it offended him. his body was hard, heavy, desperate against yours, and when you whimpered, he growled — deep, low.

“strip.”

you obeyed immediately, eyes wide, breath shallow.

he watched you undress, step by step, until you stood naked in the soft light of the study, the shadows of your tattoos dancing across your bare skin. his eyes raked over every inch, jaw clenched, cock already hard and straining against his pants.

“on the desk,” he ordered. “face down. hands flat.”

your heart pounded as you obeyed, the cool wood chilling your skin, your thighs trembling in anticipation. you heard the sound of his belt coming undone, the low hiss of his zipper.

then silence.

“do you even realize what you do to me?” he asked, voice rough.

you opened your mouth to speak, but he grabbed your hips, yanking you back so your ass arched up perfectly.

“don’t answer,” he growled. “just listen.”

his cock slid between your folds — thick, hot, teasing — rubbing through your slick without entering.

“you walk around this house like you don’t know you own me,” he murmured against your spine. “you sit in my meetings like a queen, and you think i don’t see the way they look at you? the way they fear you?”

he pushed the tip in — just barely — and you gasped, fingers curling against the wood.

“but you know who owns you, don’t you?”

“y-yes—”

he slammed into you in one brutal thrust.

your cry echoed through the room.

he didn’t wait. didn’t ease you in. he took you — hard, deep, merciless — one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tight it burned.

“who fucks you like this?” he growled. “who makes you scream like you’re mine?”

“you, yuta — fuck — only you.”

his pace was relentless, hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin loud and obscene.

“that’s right. and you’ll take every drop of my cum like a good little wife. won’t you?”

“yes—please—fill me—”

he bent over you, teeth scraping your shoulder.

“you want me to breed you, don’t you?”

you moaned so loud it broke into a sob.

“say it.”

“i want it. want your cum—inside me—wanna be full, yuta, please—”

he bit down softly on your neck, thrusts growing erratic.

“then take it.”

you felt the heat building in your core, body shaking, his cock pounding your g-spot over and over. your orgasm hit you like lightning — thighs trembling, vision white, a scream ripping from your throat as you clenched around him.

he cursed loud.

and then came.

deep inside you.

hot, thick ropes of cum spilling into your pussy, his grip tightening as he rode out every wave, buried to the hilt, panting against your skin.

you stayed like that — bodies locked, his cum dripping from you slowly, warm down your thighs — until your heart slowed.

he pulled out gently, and you turned, breathless, sweat-slicked, aching in the best ways.

he cupped your face.

kissed your lips.

then rested his forehead to yours.

“you know everything now,” he whispered. “there’s nothing left to hide.”

you smiled faintly.

“good. because i already gave you all of me.”

his lips brushed your ear, voice low and full of reverence.

“and now i’ll never give you back.”

you found riku by the back steps of the house, his phone in hand, legs pulled up to his chest, eyes scanning something you couldn’t quite see. he didn’t hear you approach. or maybe he did and was just pretending not to.

the late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting a warm haze over the garden stones. it smelled faintly of earth and chamomile, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe before breaking the silence.

“we need to talk,” you said gently.

he looked up, startled for a second, then shrugged. “if it’s about the shoes i ordered on your card—”

you gave him a look. “riku.”

he sat up straighter. serious now. “okay. what’s up?”

you sat beside him, folding your hands in your lap, your yukata sleeves pooling at your wrists. you took a breath, choosing your words carefully.

“you need to go back to school.”

he blinked. “what?”

“you heard me. i already spoke to the headmaster. they’re willing to let you re-enroll next term. and you need to talk to your mom. properly. you’ve been avoiding her.”

riku looked away. jaw clenched. “she wouldn’t understand.”

“she doesn’t need to understand all of this,” you said softly. “but she deserves to know you’re alive. and trying. you think you’re protecting her, but disappearing from her life like this… it’s not fair.”

he didn’t respond at first. his gaze drifted out to the garden wall, and you could almost hear the gears turning behind his silence.

“this life,” you continued, “this world we’re in now — it’s not safe. you know that. and i can’t help worrying that something might happen to you, and she’ll never even know why. i’ve accepted the risks of being here. but i never wanted them for you.”

his shoulders tensed. he stayed quiet, but his eyes looked glossy, like he’d blinked just a second too late.

“you still have a chance to choose,” you whispered. “and i want you to choose something that won’t kill you.”

he finally looked back at you, a long exhale dragging out of his chest.

“i’ll call her,” he said quietly. “and i’ll apologize. properly.”

you smiled, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

but as you did, your eyes caught the edge of something just beneath the sleeve of his jacket — a strip of white gauze wrapped tightly around his forearm. when your fingers brushed it lightly, he flinched.

you pulled the sleeve up.

the bandage had been carelessly wrapped. fresh ink peeked through the gaps — intricate black lines, a dragon’s claw, maybe, or waves, the skin still slightly raised and tender.

your stomach twisted.

“riku…”

he winced. “it’s nothing. i mean… it’s just a little piece. it’s not even done yet.”

you stared at it for a long moment.

“do you have any idea what she’s going to do when she sees this?”

he rubbed the back of his neck. “probably cry. or throw a pan at me.”

“or both.”

“...at the same time.”

you sighed, but your lips twitched into a small smile. still, your chest felt heavy. not angry — just afraid. he was walking deeper into the world you were only now beginning to understand, and it made your role in it feel even more complicated.

you didn’t say anything more. you just wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a sideways hug, holding him there for a few seconds longer than either of you wanted to admit.

that night, after too many glasses of sake and a long evening spent in each other’s arms, the bed was a mess of sweat and tangled sheets.

you were lying on your stomach, your hair stuck to your back, body exhausted and humming. yuta was sprawled on top of you, chest pressed to your spine, his arm tucked under your ribs, his face buried in your neck.

you groaned, voice muffled into the pillow. “you’re heavy.”

“you love it.”

he was right.

he kissed the back of your shoulder, a lazy drag of lips against damp skin.

“you’ve ruined me,” he murmured.

you laughed breathlessly. “you say that like you weren’t already unfixable.”

“i mean it,” he said, shifting slightly so he could look at you. “i didn’t expect this. any of it. you… being here. being mine. and still choosing to stay.”

your eyes softened.

“you’re not an easy man to love, nakamoto.”

he smirked. “but worth it?”

“every headache.”

he leaned over the side of the bed, rummaged through the drawer, and returned with a small velvet box — navy, square, simple.

you blinked. “what’s that?”

he sat up slightly, straddling your thighs, hair messy, chest still flushed. the box opened with a click.

inside was a ring — gold, sleek and bold, with a marquise-cut diamond set sideways, surrounded by a halo of tiny black sapphires. the band was engraved with delicate detailing, traditional japanese patterns etched into the metal like hidden promises.

it gleamed even in the low light. expensive. beautiful. utterly yuta.

you sat up, stunned.

“you’re asking me to marry you right after we’ve had sex?” you asked, laughing.

he shrugged. “i was inspired.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“you’re naked and gorgeous and mine. i panicked.”

your laughter caught in your throat, replaced with a tightness that swelled in your chest as you stared at the ring. your eyes watered, lips parting, voice shaky.

“is this real?”

he nodded, his voice quiet now. “i don’t want the kind of marriage we started with. i want one that means something. to both of us. no contracts. no politics. just us. in front of the clan. in front of the gods.”

your fingers reached out, barely brushing the edge of the ring.

“i want to do this right,” he whispered. “let me show you.”

you swallowed hard.

and smiled.

“then yes,” you said, voice thick with emotion. “ask me a hundred times and the answer’s always going to be yes.”

his grin broke wide.

and this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t about hunger.

it was about forever.

the second wedding was nothing like the first.

the first had been arranged in cold hallways, behind doors that clicked shut like iron, signed with blood and pressure and the unspoken rules of the underworld. the first had been necessary — a move on a chessboard.

but this one?

this one was chosen.

held in the shrine courtyard of the nakamoto estate, under the quiet watch of ancestors and gods alike, it began with the low beat of taiko drums and the scent of incense curling through the crisp morning air.

you stood at the center of it all.

dressed in a white shiromuku, the traditional bridal kimono of purity and rebirth. its silk trailed the floor, heavy and immaculate, embroidered with phoenixes and cranes in shimmering thread. your tsunokakushi — the white head covering meant to conceal ego — crowned your head, soft and still.

beside you stood yuta.

his posture was straight, proud, the black crested montsuki haori and hakama hanging from his frame like armor. he looked every bit the oyabun — the head of a family — and yet his gaze never left you, like nothing else in the world demanded his attention.

behind you, rows of men and women knelt on tatami mats — the inner circle of the nakamoto clan. some bore tattoos beneath their sleeves, others scarred hands, others cold eyes trained by violence and loyalty. but in this moment, they were still. silent.

they were bearing witness.

the priest began the shinzen kekkon — the wedding before the gods — by purifying the space with shide and sake, then guiding you and yuta to the front of the altar. a sacred tree branch, tamagushi, was placed in your joined hands. together, you offered it to the kami, bowing low.

this was no contract.

this was devotion.

your palms touched. warm. sure.

and then came the san-san-kudo — the sharing of three cups of sake, each one drunk in three sips: first you, then him, then together. nine sips in total. three-three-nine. an old number. a sacred one.

you drank slowly, your lips brushing the rim, the liquid sharp and ancient on your tongue.

when he drank, he didn’t look at the cup.

he looked at you.

as the final sip passed between you, the priest intoned words of binding.

not legally.

spiritually.

eternally.

and then yuta turned to you, voice low but clear.

“i married you once for duty,” he said. “now i marry you for truth.”

your throat tightened.

you bowed your head and replied, voice steady:

“and i vow to walk beside you, not behind.”

there were no claps.

no applause.

just silence.

respectful.

reverent.

a world watching its king choose something sacred.

when you stepped away from the altar, hand in hand, a man approached from the side.

takuya.

he bowed.

deeply.

then, with solemn hands, presented the ceremonial dagger — tantō — wrapped in white silk. a symbol of acceptance into the family. not as a pawn.

but as one of them.

yuta took it, unwrapped it, and turned to you.

“kneel,” he said softly.

you did.

without fear.

he placed the blade across your palms.

“you carry the weight of my name,” he said. “from now on, no one questions your place.”

you bowed low, touching your forehead to the hilt.

when you stood again, your eyes met his — and something ancient passed between you. a vow older than paper. stronger than ink.

hours later, after the feast, after the toasts, after the smoke and laughter and low bows from men who once called you nothing but ‘the girl from the village’...

you were lying on your stomach in the private room upstairs, your white kimono loosened and draped to your waist, exposing the pale skin of your back and arm.

the tattoo artist sat beside you, focused and quiet.

the hum of the needle filled the room.

yuta was there too.

he sat behind you, shirtless, cross-legged on the floor, watching the design bloom across your skin — a dragon and peony motif interlaced with fine black wind bars, each line tying you deeper into their world. the colors were subtle, but fierce.

the design stretched from your shoulder down to the start of your wrist.

a mirror to his.

not identical. not copied.

complementary.

his hand rested on your calf, thumb drawing lazy circles as the artist worked. you winced once, and he leaned forward, kissing your spine.

“almost done,” he murmured.

you nodded, breath steady.

when the final line was inked and the cloth wiped away the last trace of blood, the artist stepped back.

yuta stood.

he offered his hand.

you took it.

the photograph was more than a picture.

it was a statement. a declaration. an immortal moment suspended in monochrome — raw and reverent. in it, you sat with your back to the camera, your legs drawn close, arms resting lightly over your chest, the cropped sarashi wrapping your torso like a ribbon of quiet power. the light caught the shine of your new tattoo: a sweeping sleeve of mythical creatures and chrysanthemum blooms, still fresh, still red at the edges, but already a part of you. you wore it like a second skin, regal and unbothered, your chin slightly lifted, your hair pulled into a loose knot at the nape of your neck, strands framing your face. behind you sat yuta, shirtless, composed, his own tattoos a war map of history carved into muscle and bone. he sat in seiza, arms resting on his knees, head turned just slightly toward your shoulder, not in possession — but in respect.

the image held no smiles. no forced emotion. it was calm. deliberate. powerful. and when it was printed, framed, and placed in the tokonoma alcove of the clan’s primary meeting room, no one questioned it. it hung higher than the weapons displayed on the walls, higher than the scrolls of bloodlines and signed treaties — at the very center of the room, commanding the eye.

to those who entered from the outside, it was a symbol of unity between worlds: tradition and transformation. loyalty and love. ink and intention.

but to those who belonged to the nakamoto clan, it meant something more.

it was the moment they stopped seeing you as “the outsider.” the girl in the white dress from a village none of them could name. the contract bride. the quiet one who used to bow too deeply and speak too little.

now, you sat beside yuta during meetings — not in silence, but in observation. not hidden behind him, but at his side. when younger wives or girlfriends were brought into the compound — nervous, uncertain, too afraid to speak — you were the first to greet them. you created rules to protect them. gave them space to breathe. and over time, it wasn’t uncommon for high-ranking members of the clan to glance your way during decisions, silently asking for your read. your word.

sometimes, you gave it. calmly. decisively.

and when you did, yuta never interrupted.

he listened. he agreed. he trusted.

your presence became part of the structure — not ornamental, but foundational. the quiet balance to yuta’s fire. the logic behind his instinct. you were his shadow when it was needed, and his shield when he left himself exposed. and though some still whispered in the dark corners of old ways, they never challenged you. not after the photograph. not after the wedding. not after the way yuta looked at you when he thought no one was watching.

he looked at you like you had saved him.

because you had.

that night, long after the meeting room had emptied and the halls had quieted, you found yourselves in the sanctuary of your shared space — warm lamplight casting soft amber shadows across the tatami mats, the scent of cedar and sandalwood lingering in the air. your yukata was folded neatly on the bench, your body bare beneath the sheets, still warm from the bath, hair damp against your shoulders. you sat cross-legged on the futon, eyes closed, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the new lines of your tattooed arm. it ached — not painfully, but as a reminder. of everything you now carried. of everything you had chosen.

yuta entered quietly, still in his black hakama, his haori open at the chest. he watched you for a long moment, leaning against the doorframe. no words. just breath. reverence.

then, slowly, he crossed the room.

he knelt in front of you, hands resting on his thighs, gaze fixed on your face. when you opened your eyes, he was there — so close, so still, as if moving too fast might shatter something fragile between you.

“i see you,” he said quietly, voice low and full. “not just as my wife. not just as my lover. i see the whole of you. and i want you to know… i trust you with everything. with this clan. with my life. with myself.”

your throat tightened, your chest blooming with something deep and unspeakable. you reached for him, cupping his face with your inked hand. his fingers curled around your wrist, not to stop you, but to hold you there.

he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm.

then another to your wrist.

and then, slowly, he laid you down.

his body followed, not with urgency, but with worship — every kiss placed like an offering, every touch a vow. he undressed with no rush, peeling away the layers of cloth until only skin remained between you, until he could feel the curve of your thighs against his hips, your breath against his throat.

he kissed the dragon on your shoulder, then the soft underside of your arm, the delicate line of your ribs. when he reached the curve of your waist, he paused, resting his cheek against your stomach.

“i’ve never bowed to anything but blood and blade,” he whispered. “but for you… i kneel willingly.”

you ran your fingers through his hair, the pads of your thumbs brushing over the scars on his back.

“you don’t have to kneel,” you whispered. “just stay.”

he did.

that night, he didn’t take you roughly. he didn’t claim. he shared. his lips traced every new line on your body as if learning them for the first time. he kissed the places where you winced, and moaned softly when you melted beneath him. he held your hands above your head, not to restrain — but to ground. to feel your pulse against his palms, the heartbeat he’d promised to protect.

when he finally pushed into you, the stretch was deep, familiar, perfect. no pain now. no hesitation. only breath. only movement. you gasped his name against his mouth and he shuddered, whispering yours back like a confession.

he moved slow.

steady.

deliberate.

your bodies rocked in time with the sound of distant wind through the paper doors, with the beating of your own hearts. he watched your face the whole time — every arch of your spine, every flutter of your lashes, every whisper that spilled from your lips.

and when you came — trembling, wet, full of him — he followed, murmuring words into your neck, words you couldn’t remember later but felt deep in your bones.

afterward, you lay tangled in silk and sweat, your inked bodies glowing under the flicker of dying lamplight.

he pulled you close.

kissed your forehead.

and whispered into your ear with a voice only meant for you:

“you’re not just the woman i love. you’re the one who made me real.”

and in the silence that followed, you smiled.

because you believed him.

completely.

the journey was quiet.

no guards. no entourage. just you and yuta in the back of a black car, the windows fogged slightly from the spring rain outside. he hadn’t said much since you left the house — just held your hand loosely in his lap, his thumb tracing slow, endless circles against your skin. the route took you far from the city, past rice fields and roadside shrines, into the kind of silence that belonged to memory and ghosts.

when the car finally stopped, you stepped out into a small mountain cemetery — tucked into the hills, moss-covered, serene. the rain had eased into a mist, the scent of wet earth and cedar wrapping around you like incense.

the cemetery was quiet in the way only mountain cemeteries could be — the silence not empty, but full, brimming with memory, with weight, with things that still hovered in the air long after breath and body had left the world. above the hills, the late spring sun filtered through a haze of low clouds, casting a soft, muted light over the moss-covered stones and uneven steps. you walked beside yuta, your fingers lightly wrapped around his, your pace steady and deliberate, each step more a ritual than a motion. the path curved slightly as it climbed, the gravel crunching underfoot, and the scent of pine and damp earth rose in slow, solemn waves around you, the kind of scent that felt ancient, like it had always belonged to places like this.

he didn’t speak as you walked. he hadn’t spoken much all morning, and you hadn’t asked him to. you knew what this day meant. what it carried. what it demanded of him. when he finally stopped, it was without warning, his body going still as if something inside him had met resistance — not fear, not hesitation, but reverence. you followed the direction of his gaze and saw it: the gravestone set slightly apart from the others, modest in size, but so immaculately kept that the stone still gleamed beneath the faded sky. the characters were carved deep into the black granite, bold but elegant:

nakamoto shotaro 1972 — 1989

you stared at the dates for a long time, feeling the years settle into your bones. he had been seventeen when he died. seventeen and full of the kind of impossible plans that only younger brothers had — plans to run, to rebel, to protect someone taller than him with his own small body if it meant taking some of the weight off his shoulders. you didn’t know him, not really, not in voice or laughter or presence. but you felt him now — in the way yuta’s hand tightened around yours, in the way the breeze shifted at your ankles, in the way something unspoken hovered just above the earth.

yuta knelt slowly, his knees pressing into the gravel, the sleeves of his haori brushing the edges of the stone as he reached forward with both hands and gently set down a bundle of fresh white chrysanthemums. he didn’t rush. he adjusted each stem until they sat perfectly balanced, then bowed deeply, his forehead nearly touching the stone. you stayed behind him, giving him the space to let the moment breathe, your heart tightening in your chest with each passing second.

when he finally lifted his head, he exhaled slowly — a sound that wasn’t just breath, but release, something old and painful and buried long enough that it had become part of his spine. his voice, when it came, was low and quiet, spoken more to the grave than to you.

“i couldn’t come before,” he said. “i didn’t know how.”

the wind stirred slightly, catching the edge of his hair.

“i ran. i thought if i built something powerful enough, loud enough, cold enough… maybe it would drown the guilt. maybe i wouldn’t see your face every time i closed my eyes.”

he glanced back at you then, and you met his gaze, offering him nothing but presence.

“but i never stopped seeing you,” he continued, turning back to the stone. “and i never stopped thinking — what would you say if you could see me now? if you knew what i’ve become?”

he reached into the inner fold of his robe and pulled out a photograph, carefully wrapped in a cloth. he unfolded it slowly and set it down beside the flowers, weighing it with a smooth black stone.

you recognized the image before you saw it fully.

it was the photo.

the one of you and him — back to back, inked and bare, solemn and unbreakable.

“this is her,” he whispered. “the one who brought me home. my precious wife.”

you stepped forward then, kneeling beside him. you didn’t speak. instead, you pressed your palm to the stone, fingers splayed. it was cool beneath your skin, rough at the edges, and yet it vibrated faintly, as if warmed by something deeper than sunlight. in that moment, you felt him — not just yuta, but shotaro too — and it struck you how alike they must have been. same blood. same defiance. same loyalty.

yuta turned his head toward you, his voice steadier now, softer. “i told you once that i had a sister,” he said. “but i never told you why i stopped speaking to her. it wasn’t just grief. it was shame. she raised us both after our parents passed away, and i failed her. failed him.”

you looked at him, your expression unreadable, your voice gentle.

“but you didn’t fail him, yuta. you survived. and now you’re honoring him in the only way that matters — by living differently. by loving differently.”

his eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened again, they were wet.

not broken.

not defeated.

just full.

he took your hand and kissed the back of it slowly, then stood. you rose with him, brushing gravel from your knees. together, you bowed one last time to the stone, deeper than before, not as farewell but as acceptance — of loss, of memory, of love that had changed its shape but never its place.

as you turned to leave, the wind passed again through the trees, rustling the leaves above like a whisper, and you could’ve sworn — just for a second — that the air felt warmer. lighter. forgiven.

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justarkive · 3 months ago

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THE JEONS | smut drabble 3

Ass Or Tits? (…Both + 1) 🔞

summary: a collection of chaotic family drabbles. thats it.

contents: family!au, non.idol jungkook, girl!dad jk, fluff, angst, sensitive topics + smut sometimes!

• chapter contents: smut!! unhinged devotion, horny affection, unprotected sex, chaotic couple energy, soft!kook but filthy smut hehe, body worship lowk. oral f receiving, anal play (rimming), nose in ur puss, tongue in ass, hands on tits… TRIPLE KILL. groping, nipple play, cum on skin, he rubs it in lol, mild spanking, face-sitting adjacent behavior?, he’s obsessed with ur ass fr, possessive!jungkook, one braincell between u both, sex but make it cinematic and unserious, romantic filth, giggly sex, “i wish we could do missionary and doggy at the same time”— and he fuckin does it… not QUITE. but he does it in his own way.

• taglist: @jenniebyrubies @lovingkoalaface @iamstilljk @elinaki92 @rpwprpwprpwprw @mafersame @parkinglot-nights @reallygenerouskoala @mimi1097 @aznstoner @jungshaking @pinkpunkdynamite @angie-x3 (check pinned to be added)

masterlist, series masterlist

Jungkook loves every single part of your body—and he makes sure you know it.

Your face? He kisses it. Slowly, obsessively, like he’s tracing every freckle with his mouth.

Your neck? He marks it. Low and dangerous, where only he gets to see.

Your tits? He’s no better than Hana, truly—always latched on, always greedy.

Your stomach? He’ll cum all over it, no shame, just moaning about how pretty you look covered in him.

Your pussy? Nothing compares. It’s his weakness, his damn religion. He’d pray to it if he could.

Your thighs? He bites them. Sinks his teeth in like he’s starving.

Your legs? Rubbed absently while you sit in his lap, his hand lazily stroking like you’re a pet he can’t stop touching.

Toes? Don’t test him. He’d suck them clean if you asked.

But your ass?

Your ass is where he dies.

Outside the bedroom, he’s no better. He’s got a hand on it constantly—squeezing, slapping, gripping it through your clothes like it’s his stress ball.

Oversized shirts and his boxers are his favorite thing you wear. He swears they’re dangerous. The way the cotton barely hangs on, the way your ass fills out those boxers too well—it drives him insane. And when you lift your arms to stretch and the shirt rides up just enough to flash the curve of it?

Dead man.

You know how weak he is for it. You’ve known for a while. And maybe that’s why you do it now—why you walk past him with nothing but one of his T-shirts and your ass on full display, glancing back with a smirk as you feel his stare burn into you.

You don’t even make it to the bed.

He’s on you before you can blink, dragging your hips back toward the couch, pushing you forward until your hands are braced against the cushions.

“Fuck—” he mutters, voice thick with reverence and hunger, already shoving the shirt up over your back, palms greedily gripping and squeezing. “Look at that. You know what you’re doing to me?”

You giggle, wiggling back into him. “No idea.”

He groans, lining himself up behind you, nudging his cock between your cheeks before pushing into you with a hiss.

“Gonna cum all over it,” he babbles, thrusting deep, dizzy. “So fucking pretty—fuck—you’re gonna let me? Baby, yeah?”

You can only nod, moaning as he hits that sweet spot over and over, breath stuttering with every bounce of your ass against his hips.

And when you say, “Do it, Jungkook—cum all over it,” in that breathy little voice?

He’s a fucking goner.

He’s thrusting into you hard—deep and heavy, hips slapping against your ass with every stroke, greedy hands keeping you exactly where he wants you. You’re whining, moaning, every sound caught between his name and broken curses.

You’re expecting him to say something filthy. Something sexy. He always does.

But instead—

“I wish,” he pants, breath hot against your shoulder, “we could do doggy and missionary at the same time.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’m serious,” he groans, thrust stuttering a little. “Like—if I could see your face and your tits and your ass at the same time? I don’t think I’d last, baby. I’d probably cum in, like, five seconds tops.”

You freeze for a second. He sounds genuinely mournful about it. Like it’s his greatest sexual tragedy.

And then—god, the image—you burst out laughing. Full-body shaking kind of laughter, muffled into your arm, your stomach tightening and your pussy clenching hard around him as you try to breathe through it.

And Jungkook?

Jungkook chokes. “Fuck—!”

You feel it before you hear it—the way his hips stutter, the low moan he tries (and fails) to swallow. You clench again by accident, and he gasps, pulling out at the very last second and barely managing to finish on your ass.

Barely.

You look over your shoulder, still giggling like an idiot.

He’s standing there, blinking down at you, looking like he’s just been personally wronged. “There’s not even that much,” he pouts, rubbing his thumb through the mess he managed to make. “That wasn’t fair. You cheated.”

You’re breathless from laughing, face smushed into the couch cushion. “I cheated?”

“You clenched. On purpose.”

“I was laughing!”

“Exactly!” He grumbles, smearing his cum across your skin anyway, palm wide and lazy over the swell of your ass like it’s his personal playground.

You hum, still giggling. “Come on, Kook. Make me cum.”

His complaints die immediately.

Gone. Buried. Forgotten.

His face is between your cheeks in a second—mumbling something that sounds like “not even mad anymore,” while his tongue drags through your folds with reverence, hands keeping you spread and trembling.

And you just grin, melting into the cushions, eyes fluttering closed while he eats like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Because, well. It kinda is.

Your back arches against the sheets, hands tangled in his hair, tugging without direction—just needing something to hold onto.

“Oh—fuck, Jungkook—fuck,” you whimper, eyes fluttering, thighs twitching. “Thought—thought you were a tits guy.”

His eyes flash up at you. He doesn’t stop. Not even a little. Just lifts his head barely enough to say, with his mouth still shining and open, “Say it again.”

You bite your lip, gasping through a moan. “Thought you were a—tits guy…”

He groans. Visibly. Like the sound rocks through his whole chest.

“Baby,” he says, voice low, dark, wrecked. “I’m both.”

He kisses your clit once, slow and soft, then moves down again, mouthing messily at your folds.

“But this ass?” He grumbles into you, nosing lower just to prove his point. “This ass has been fucking killing me lately.”

Your breath stutters out of your lungs, a high whine in your throat. You squirm, reaching down blindly until you find his hands, and guide them up—pressing them against your chest, your voice all whimpery and slurred when you pout, “But you’re leaving them out…”

He melts.

Like, literally. His whole body goes soft and gooey for a second, his hands squeezing gently over your tits like he’s petting something delicate and breakable, his thumbs brushing lazy circles over your nipples.

“Cute,” he mutters, voice muffled as he dives back down between your thighs. “You’re so fucking cute, baby.”

You whimper.

He moans.

“You don’t believe me?” he murmurs, breath warm and wicked as it fans across your inner thigh. “Think I’m lying when I say I’m both?”

You can’t even form words—you just stare down at him, dazed and breathless, lips parted, body trembling.

“I’ll prove it.”

And then he does.

He kisses down your stomach, slow and sticky and worshipful, one hand staying high to cup your tits—thumb swiping over your nipple, squeezing gently like it grounds him. The other slides under your thigh, spreading you open wider than you thought possible.

And then—he’s everywhere.

Like literally.

Nose pressed flush to your clit, nuzzling against it like it’s his fucking home. Tongue dipping lower, deeper, licking into your ass without a hint of shame. And all the while—his hands never leave your chest. He’s palming you, groping you, kneading you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted and he’s been starved.

It’s obscene. It’s overwhelming. It’s all-consuming.

You cry out, loud and broken, as your hips jerk and your hands claw at his hair.

“Jungkook—fuck, fuck—” your voice is high and unraveling, thighs shaking around his head as your orgasm punches through you like lightning. “I��I can’t—oh my god—”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t come up for air. His nose still nudging your clit, tongue still buried inside your ass, hands full of tits like he’s living out the fantasy he once only joked about.

Missionary and doggy. At the same time.

Not quite, but close.

And you’re the only one laughing. A choked, dazed giggle slips from your throat even as you’re trembling, and the moment your body pulses again around his face—he groans.

Loud. Deep.

You cry out as you come, high and broken, hips twitching, hands fisting the sheets as your body pulses and clenches and pours out against his mouth.

And he—he licks it up like he’s starving.

Like it’s dessert. Like it’s devotion.

“Jungkook,” you gasp, half-laughing, half-crying, overstimulated and twitchy. “Jungkook—”

But he doesn’t stop.

You’re still coming down and he’s still between your legs, mouth still dragging along you like he could live there, like he wants to live there.

You have to physically pull at his shoulders, tugging him up, shaking your head as you whimper, “Stop, stop—baby, please—”

And then he’s crawling up your body, face wrecked, lips wet, chest heaving, and lifting you into his lap like he didn’t just destroy you. You’re a mess of limp limbs and overstimulated nerves, curling into him with a ragged breath and wide eyes.

You bury your face in his neck, trembling and wrecked, and mumble into his skin, “You’re insane.”

He grins—unrepentant and breathless. “And you’re cute.”

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bernardsbendystraws · 9 months ago

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ʚ Matt helps you squirt for the first time ɞ

“That’s it, sweetheart. Good job—mhm, yeah, just keep letting it feel so good…” Matt purrs. The scene displayed in front of him is enough to make him so hard it hurts. His cock is painfully throbbing against the bed, his hips mindlessly grinding into the soft material as he watches you writhe.

“It—I, oh my god, Matt, it—” Your words do little to help his current predicament. If anything, the tip of his dick is aching so much he’s sure it’s almost purple—but, he doesn’t care. This isn’t about him. It’s about his girl—it’s about you.

“C’mon…yeah, keep grinding into my fingers, baby. Just like that,” he praises. The small vibrator he has placed against your clit is working wonders. You never knew everything could feel so overwhelming good like this.

Scissoring his fingers against the spot that makes your back arch off the bed, Matt is driven with passion. It feels good—too good. The added sensations from the small bullet makes your body crave more than you can handle, your limbs falling into his trap—begging for more.

Desperate whimpers and pleas start falling from your lips. To Matt, this was all part of the process. You had come close to finishing a couple of times, but he kept slowing down just enough to make the knot dissipate before you could come undone. The way your walls clamped around his fingers was mesmerizing. He loved watching you fall apart for him, but this time he wanted to see you really fall apart.

Matt notices how uncontrolled your actions are. Your hips grind against him helplessly. He can hear the subtle tear of your nails clawing into the bed sheets a little too hard. “Yeah? You wanna cum, don’t you? Isn’t that what you want, sweetheart?” he urges.

Broken cries leave in between moans. You can’t even gather the ability to respond. Matt’s always been incessant on making you chant his name when you come undone, but not this time. This time he’s only focused on you. “Fuckkkkkkk….clenching ‘round my fingers so tight. I,” Matt lets out his own deep groan as your wet, sloppy cunt squelches with layers of slick. “---you got it, baby. Just…just let go for me, yeah?”

The small encouragement is enough to coax your mind into falling numb. Quivering legs clamp on either side of him, pushing against his shoulders tightly. He doesn’t care—not when you’re like this. “Oh—oh my—-oh my, fuck!” you scream.

Matt feels like he’s living in his own daydream watching a clear wetness splatter out of you. A sloppy mess is being created, small sprays of liquid squirting out of your pussy as he keeps his movements consistent. “God, sweetheart. Such a good girl—doing so good for me,” he breathes.

Slowly riding you down from your high, he can’t help but rest his forehead against your inner leg—your wet inner leg. He’s already edged you a couple of times, building you up to experience the gut twisting bliss of squirting all over him. With little self restraint, Matt licks the slick from your legs. “Mmmmmm, you taste so good. So fucking good,” he rasps between hungry, open-mouthed kisses.

You’re too tired to even move. Your legs are still shaking on either side of him. Reaching down, you comb through his hair. Matt is quick to rest his head completely on your thigh, his eyes staring towards your pussy that looks heavenly all swollen and wet. “---’m so….’m so tired,” you announce breathlessly.

A soft moan erupting from his mouth makes you look down. You watch as his hips roll into the mattress, his eyes devoted to analyzing your pulsing lips. “Matt,” as you go to sit up, your legs start to close.

Out of pure instincts, Matt can’t help but pin your inner thigh down with a flat palm. “No, just—mmmm, just stay like this, baby. I—I’m so close,” he huffs out.

With intention ridden in his eyes, Matt continues his rocking motions. Small whimpers push through his lips with each thrust of his hips into the bed. “Keep…keep playing with my hair, sweetheart. I—-please, fuck,” he rasps.

Gently, you push your fingers through his hair. Matt clutches onto each of your thighs tighter, a small puddle of drool falls between his cheek and your legs. And fuck….he looks heavenly.

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lucy-literates · 2 months ago

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Knots

Synopsis: Your husband has a grueling job, so you secretly took massage lessons to surprise him and help him relax after a long day (post Thunderbolts*).

A/N: My requests are open! I'm seriously considering going back to the cinemas to watch Thunderbolts* again. I can not tell you guys how happy I am that Buck finally got his own theme, he so deserves it. I’m so proud of him. Anyway, enjoy :)

Not only does Bucky run around saving the world, he also babysits 5 adult children. There isn’t a mission they’ve been on that has gone how they planned, whether Alexi just ran in shouting “We are the Thunderbolts!”, or John who got the best of him and he took on more than he should’ve. It was always Bucky that got stuck saving their asses.

He knew that was gonna happen when he agreed (was forced into) the job, and deep deep deep down, he kinda likes it.

He’s never had that mentor role before, always being the fragile, broken soldier who needed guidance and healing. He now get to be the strong leader, who helps the other heal.

Some days, that looks like letting Yelena take her anger out on him. Other days, it looks like handcuffing Bob to the couch when he’s got the occasional craving for meth.

He wouldn’t change a thing. Except, for maybe a few more quiet days he could spend with you. He could never get enough of those.

He just came back from 2 week mission, dropping the others off at the tower and hightailing it to your little apartment down the street.

He fished the key you gave to him out of his pocket, and burst through the door. He silently stalked around the apartment, looking for you.

Next thing he knows, there’s a gun pointed in between his eyes.

“Holy shit Buck, I thought you were trying kidnapping me” you scold. It’s happened before, that’s why Bucky gave you one of his many handguns. You placed it down safely, then jumped into his arms.

He took you to the bed, hugging you and giving you small pecs the whole way. He placed you down, and reached for your computer which displayed your brand new masseuse certificate, something you had achieved right as Bucky got home.

You lunged for the laptop, slamming it closed and taking it from you. He immediately raised his eyebrow in a silent question.

“It’s actually a surprise for you” you admitted. “For me? When” he asked.

“Now. Lay done on the bed, shirt of” you ordered.

“Is this one of those new sex things you’ve been asking you try?” He accused.

“No! Now do what I said” you demanded

“Please” you added for good measure.

He grumbled and did what you demanded. You squeezed some moisture onto you hands and slid them up his back, gliding through the muscles.

You started on his shoulders, the tension and knots melted away as you worked. Bucky was groaning and moaning underneath you.

“You like your surprise?” You asked rather meekly

He replied with a muffled “fuck yeah” and went back to enjoying the pleasure.

His muscles rippled as you good your hands all over him, goosebumps changing after your hands. Some spots, like his shoulder blades, back, neck, and calves took a little extra work to get the knots out. You enjoyed being able to make him so relaxed while you basically got the freedom to touch whatever you wanted.

It wasn’t a secret that you struggled to keep your hands to yourself around your husband, this just gave you another excuse to touch except he enjoyed this one.

You spent an hour and a half massaging from his feet, to his scalp. He fell asleep somewhere around working on thighs.

He hadn’t showered yet, but you knew there was no way you were going to wake him up for one. So, instead, you got a warm wash cloth and bathed him the best you could. Luckily, you had him strip to his boxers so you didn’t need to worry about trying to slid clothes off.

You went to the walk in closet and pulled down a blanket, the only one you owned that completely covered him. You laid it on him and then off the light, making your way to the bathroom so you yourself could shower.

You emerged 20 minutes later to find Bucky sitting up in bed, book in hand. It was a book you recommended for him. He looked as he heard you lightly pad across the floor. He avoid back on the bed and lifted the covers, inviting you in.

A light bulb lit up in your head. “Buck, do you want to be little spoon this time?” He looked at you like you had offended him in the highest degree.

“That massage was amazing, but no fucking way am I ever going to be little spoon.”

You chuckled as his little outburst and joined him in the bed, snuggling into his now knot free chest.

“I’m not kidding doll, my body feels so loose and free now. Thank you” he admitted, kissing your forehead. “Surely you didn’t need to go get a whole certificate for it”

“Busted” you mutter. “I might want to start my own little masseuse business, massaging you just gave me a good excuse to get started”

“Of course it did” he chuckled, ever amused by your reasonings.

He held you tighter and whispered “good night, doll”. You pecked his lips and whispered “good night Buck” in return. You flicked off the lights and fell asleep to the sound of Buckys steady, content heart

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tellingtell5 · 2 months ago

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The parting glass 《Remmick, sinners x reader 》

Remmick x reader

A/N: Ever since I watched Sinners, I’ve been completely mesmerized by everything—the music, the characters, the cinematography. Everything. I was captivated by all the characters. And Remmick's character brought me right back to that time in my life when I was obsessed with vampires. I'm not condoning any of the character’s actions in the film—it simply gave me an idea for a story. I’m fascinated by the idea that music could be a way to connect with one’s ancestors.

I've actually been listening to this song while writing (I still can't get over sunrise of the reaping).

Be gentle please, is my first readers pov.

Part 2.

Angst. Lost.

The wind tousles your hair, veiling your vision with dark strands. Through this curtain, the world appears distorted. You don't bother to brush it aside; instead, you let it conceal the tears that have been escaping since yesterday.

An eerie silence envelops you, sending shivers down your spine. Soon, it will be broken by the pastor's deep voice, offering generic words for a soul considered only in the final tally.

You tremble—not from the cold that reddens your ears, making them throb in a way you've never noticed before—but from a sharp pain that grips your head. You cross your arms, resisting the urge to clutch your temples, hoping the others won't think you're shielding yourself from the prayers.

A moan of grief pierces the air, resonating in your bones. Should you display such raw sorrow for this profound loss? Yet, you feel numb, events clumping into a ball lodged in your throat—neither swallowable nor expellable.

You're suspended in a strange limbo, where sorrow whispers icy words at your nape, raising goosebumps and making your skin feel alien, as if it no longer belongs to you. A void nests in your chest, paradoxically heavy, pressing against your throat, reaching your eyes, where absence morphs into an unrelenting itch.

Parting your lips, you inhale, hoping the air will dissolve this ghostly discomfort. Yet, the taste of freshly turned earth fills your mouth. You imagine tasting salt in the air, despite being far from the sea. Perhaps it's from the tears shed over time, saturating the atmosphere with briny sorrow.

It's late; the sun no longer illuminates the varnished coffin. Instead, the moon's first rays cast shadows on the mourners' faces, adding a macabre hue to the scene.

Lost in thought, you don't notice the preacher has finished speaking, now inviting others to bid farewell to the body amidst sobs. A part of you is relieved not to have heard the speech from someone who didn't truly know your grandmother. In her final years, she renounced God and avoided church since leaving her homeland. "Things are different here, love," she once told you when you were eight, urging her to attend Sunday service.

A warm hand on your shoulder startles you, eliciting a sound akin to a whimper. You recoil from the touch that burns like embers.

Turning, you see your father's face, and the void in your chest deepens. He's tearless—you've never seen him cry—not even now, bidding farewell to his mother. His eyes are sunken, shadowed. A chill runs through you as you imagine the corpse in the coffin isn't your grandmother, but this man, barely standing beside you. His skin sags over his bones, as if grief, not worms, is decaying him, dulling his features.

His eyes, now dark voids, silently plead with you to do what he cannot.

You break free from his grasp, your steps unsteady, as if loss has erased basic instincts like walking. The mourners' attention weighs on you; your heart races, each beat a wave of nausea and dizziness. A panic attack grips you—is it the anticipation of others? The fear they'll realize you have nothing to say, despite being raised by her? What could you say? She won't hear it. But this isn't for the departed; it's for those left behind.

You open your mouth, but only erratic breaths escape, vertigo hitting hard. A song lyric surfaces—a tune you found long ago in one of your grandmother's hidden journals.

You consider singing it but hesitate, fearing consequences. Even in her absence, the act feels forbidden. Yet, a melody rises within you, starting as a barely audible murmur, causing heads to turn in alarm.

At home, raising your voice in song was strictly prohibited—not even humming. Your nana set that rule long before your birth, after fleeing her homeland. The reasons were never discussed, but you were taught that singing could bring dire consequences.

You'd never heard your family sing. Your only exposure came from sneaking into the church to listen to the choir, your heart syncing with the forbidden, exhilarating rhythms.

The words escape with unexpected force. It's your first time singing publicly. The mourners hold their breath; sorrow replaced by fear. Yet, no one stops you. A sob interrupts you, prompting a pause. In that moment, you recall discovering the journal, feeling the leather and coarse paper beneath your fingers. You'd hidden it under a loose floorboard, reading it only when your father allowed trips to town. You'd lie about visiting your mother's friends, instead finding solace under an old tree, imagining how to sing those words.

"Of all the money that e'er I had

I have spent it in good company

Oh and all the harm I've ever done

Alas, it was to none but me"

Your grandmother left no instructions on how to sing it. You always wanted to ask her, to challenge the absurd rule imposed at home.

"And all I've done for want of wit

To memory now I can't recall

So fill to me the parting glass

Good night and joy be to you all.."

Alongside that song, many others emerged. You weep, thinking of your nana's delicate handwriting, wishing you could have sung with her. When your voice breaks, you remember the first times you dared to give rhythm to those written words. They seemed beautiful, but their meaning only became clear once voiced. Each time, the surroundings felt charged with something unknown, and you never felt alone—just like now.

"So fill to me the parting glass

And drink a health whate'er befalls

Then gently rise and softly call

Good night and joy be to you all."

You continue singing, sensing a peculiar buzz in the air. The atmosphere grows dense, hard to breathe. Goosebumps rise again, but you persist. You fear you're losing your mind when you feel your nana's comforting presence beside you. You worry she's returned to scold you for disobedience. But your heart swells with longing, reminiscent of childhood nights when she'd sit by your bed, sharing ancient, soothing tales. The song falters with another sob as you feel her lips on your forehead, bidding you farewell. This time, she won't be there in the morning, helping your father prepare breakfast.

"Of all the comrades that e'er I had

They're sorry for my going away

And all the sweethearts that e'er I had

They would wish me one more day to stay"

The moment you hummed that last verse, one of Nana's old notes finally made sense. You remember the ones she used to leave tucked beside songs, written in a shaky but stubborn hand. "It’s not just a meeting with our ancestors. It calls dark things, too." You never really understood what she meant—until now.

But since it fell into my lot

That I should rise and you should not

I'll gently rise and softly call

Good night and joy be to you all

Because as you sang, you didn’t just feel her love in the warmth prickling at the back of your neck; you smelled the lilies—Mum’s lilies—the ones that always followed her like a whisper.

You kept humming when the words stuck in your throat. A lump had taken root there, and all you could manage was a choked, humming mmm. Then Dad pulled you close—too fast, too tight. His arms crushed around you, one hand cradling your head against his chest like you were still a little girl. You buried your face in his shirt, grabbed fistfuls of it like it could hold you together, and felt warm drops fall into your hair.

So fill to me the parting glass

And drink a health whate'er befalls

Then gently rise and softly call

Good night and joy be to you all

You didn’t look up. You didn’t want to see what grief had done to your father’s face.

"Darlin'," his voice cracked. "I appreciate it—truly, I do. It was beautiful. But don’t do that again."

Your heart broke right there. Shattered like glass in your chest. You clung to him harder, trying to understand. Had he felt them too? Nana. Mum. Their presence was thick around you, like fog—real, undeniable. You opened your mouth to say something, but Dad’s chest jolted as he tried to swallow a sob. That was your answer. He had felt it.

Then why was he asking you to stop?

Maybe it was just the way things were.

One of your aunts stepped forward, her cheeks raw and puffy, lips pressed tight with grief and something else—anger. She'd just come from dropping a fistful of earth into Nana’s grave. You hadn’t seen her in years.

Dad let go and turned to her. You watched them, a new fury smoldering low in your gut.

"Tell the girl not to do that again," your aunt hissed. Her words were wet, her teeth clenched like she was trying to bite back a curse. "She’ll doom us all."

"She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She just wanted to say goodbye."

"We all felt it. So what else heard her, ah?"

You didn’t understand. Not the words exactly. But the fear in them struck you like cold water. Still, something inside you lit up—relief, maybe. You weren’t going mad. Nana had been there. You hadn’t imagined it.

But what did she mean by "what else"?

Who else.

Your thoughts scattered as Dad’s hand found your shoulder. Wordless, he turned you toward the house. You walked, each step sinking into the earth like it wanted to drag you under. Home didn’t feel like home.

It was too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself thinking: maybe it was Nana who made this place feel alive. Her muttered jokes, her laugh that didn’t match her years. Maybe she’d kept the shadows at bay just by being here.

Dad murmured an apology and vanished into his room, dragging his feet like the weight of the day had finally broken him.

You stayed behind. Alone. In the still, dark kitchen.

You closed your eyes, bracing against the swell of memories. The song had helped somehow—it had let something out, loosened that hard knot in your chest. But now those feelings were flooding back, fast and heavy, crashing over your ribs.

You dropped to your knees. The wooden floor bit into your skin. Hands clapped over your mouth to stifle the sobs. You didn’t want him to hear.

Then: knock knock.

A gentle tapping.

Like whoever was outside didn’t want anyone else to know they were there.

You froze.

Another knock. A whisper against the silence.

Your mind jumped to wild places. Madness, maybe. Maybe you’d finally cracked. But no—it was real. You felt the floor under your palms. You heard it.

Knock. Knock.

You pushed yourself up, legs trembling, and stumbled to the door.

When your fingers brushed the chain lock, a cold spark shot through your nerves. You paused. Something about this was wrong. All day, people had come to offer condolences. Friends, neighbors, even strangers with kind words and too many flowers.

But none of them had made you feel like this. Like something was watching. Waiting.

Your hand shook as you slid the chain free.

You both held your breath.

Maybe it was just another neighbor—someone who’d only just heard, coming by late to pay their respects. But it was late. The world wouldn’t stop turning just because Nana had died. Tomorrow people would go to work, carry on. Anyone who knocked now must be truly shaken by her passing.

You couldn’t leave them standing in the dark.

Despite the fear clawing at your spine, you cracked the door just an inch. Through the gap, you saw a figure—head bowed, black hair hanging like a veil.

When the hinges groaned, he looked up.

And smiled.

A trembling, broken smile.

"Evenin."

The voice doesn’t sound wrong—but it doesn’t sound right, either. It slides over your skin like a whisper of fog, too soft, too deliberate, like something that remembers how to sound human but hasn’t done it in a long time. You don’t know why, but every one of your fears sharpens at once.

He's wringing a wool cap between his fingers, knuckles white, shoulders hunched as if weighed down by something heavier than the drizzle behind him. His presence presses at you like a held breath.

"Maud?"

You freeze. Nana's name strikes you hard, straight to the chest. Maud. No one says it. Hearing it now—at your door, from the mouth of a stranger—feels like a door opening that you didn’t unlock.

Your throat tightens, and against your better judgment, you ease the door open a little more. Enough to see him properly. Enough for the rain to scent the threshold. Only your body shields the house now.

"I'm her granddaughter," you say, though your voice comes out brittle, fractured. "If you're here for the funeral, it was earlier today."

He frowns as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. For a beat, his face is blank, like a record skipping—but then he nods slowly, his gaze drifting somewhere far away.

"Aye," he murmurs, clearing his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. His accent is thick, low, full of rounded vowels that pull you back to memories you don't own. "I s’pose I’m a bit late."

Then his eyes meet yours.

It hits you in the gut—this wrongness that isn’t danger, not yet, but is watching it unfold in slow motion. There’s something familiar about him, and that’s what unsettles you most. You don’t recognize his face, but the shape of his expression, the tone of his voice, the shadow in his gaze—it stirs a memory in your blood, not your mind.

You do the math. Your gran had to have known him over fifty years ago. He doesn’t look a day over thirty.

"Were you the one singin’ earlier?" he asks suddenly, angling his head toward the woods behind him. His smile is tilted, caught somewhere between reverence and disbelief.

You don’t mean to nod, but your head moves anyway.

That smile grows. Wider. Too wide. Almost to his ears. Something primal stirs in you when your eyes catch his teeth—just a flash—but it’s enough. His canines are... sharper. Longer. You blink, and he presses his lips together again, like he’s hiding something. But the smile doesn’t fade.

"Thought you were someone else," he mutters, voice low. He shakes his head. "You’re the spittin’ image, y’know. Thought for a second I was dreamin’."

You don’t think he meant for you to hear that. But he doesn’t seem to care that you did.

You cross your arms, a shiver slipping up your spine that has nothing to do with the weather. "How did you know Nana?"

His hand moves to the strap across his chest, and you instinctively tense. As if sensing your reaction, he raises his other hand, palm open, in a wordless I won’t hurt you. Slowly—deliberately—he unhooks the strap and lets an object fall against his chest. You can’t place what it is. Some kind of instrument.

"Her songs..." he says, and there's something reverent in the way he says it, like a prayer half-remembered. "They were the best I ever heard. Her voice... somethin’ sacred in it."

The words feel like betrayal.

Gran never sang. She forbade music. Even the rhythmic tap of a finger was met with thunderous silence and a warning glare. She had rules. Music was dangerous. She said it with such fire, such fury, that it left no room for questions.

"When did you hear her sing?"

Your voice cracks mid-sentence. You swallow and try again, but it barely comes out.

His smile wavers. The corner of his mouth tugs as if caught between pride and guilt. You get the distinct, dizzying sense that if you tried to shut the door on him, he’d be able to force his way through without even breaking a sweat. Your fingers grip the door harder. The old wood groans. He notices.

When his eyes meet yours again, something dark passes through them like a storm cloud blotting out the stars.

"You’ve got a gorgeous voice, y’know that, love?"

The terror comes back so fast it’s like you never stopped feeling it. His gaze isn’t just hungry—it’s famished. But his posture is casual, calm. It doesn’t match the intensity behind his eyes. You feel like a deer, caught just seconds before the pounce.

"Why don’t you let me in?" he offers, voice silk. "We could talk about how your gran used to tour the country with her band. She was a marvel, that one."

The temptation creeps up your throat like a song. You don’t know why, but part of you wants to believe him. Wants to know. You can almost feel the invitation forming on your tongue—Come in, please, tell me more. But you bite down on it, hard.

You wince. The copper taste of blood fills your mouth.

A sound escapes him—sharp, desperate.

His nostrils flare. His mouth parts. You watch his pupils swell, and for the briefest instant, his irises flash crimson. You freeze. Hypnotized. There's something in his stare that calls to you, pulls at your feet, urges you forward like a voice in the fog.

You step. Just once. Almost across the threshold.

His breath catches.

You feel the edge of it—whatever he is—waiting, reaching. But then you swallow, hard, forcing the taste of blood back. As if that tiny act breaks the spell, you stagger a step backward, your body yours again.

His face twitches. He shakes his head like a man waking from a dream. That grin returns like it never left.

Your heart is hammering now. You don’t know what almost happened. You don’t want to know. But something deep inside you, something older than memory, whispers: don’t let him in.

"Well?" he asks, almost playfully. "Will you let me come inside, lass?"

You say nothing. You press the door gently, firmly. His smile never falters. He doesn’t stop you. You close it.

Wood touches your forehead. You lean into it, breath caught in your throat. You can’t see him anymore. But somehow... you know he’s still there. Standing on the other side, his breath slow and deliberate, mirroring yours.

His voice comes like a whisper through a dream.

"I’ve come for a reason. I’ve searched too long to walk away now. Help me finish what I started… or bear the cost, my sweet."

The words slither under the crack in the door and settle inside you. Heavy.The fear you’d tried to suppress curls up beside your heart and makes itself at home. You don’t know what he meant by “the cost.”

You just pray you never have to find out

#jack o'connell #remmick #sinners #angst #fem!reader #remmick x reader #vampire #fem reader #fanfiction #sinners fic #parting glass

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ohimsummer · 8 months ago

Text

AMENDS

— minors dni, bully! stsg x afab! reader, oral [ f. receiving ], edging, dubcon, dacryphylia, püssy slaps, hair pulling, pet names (good girl, pretty girl, princess)

"let us know when you're ready to apologize, pretty."

a thick cloud of fog smothers your thoughts. geto's words sound so quiet—miles away.

it seems like forever and a day has passed. his large hands trace the curved arch of your back before coming to rest on the globes of your raised ass, presented to him like a feast.

you jolt. a feeble whimper spills from your lips as geto gives a sudden, harsh slap to your pussy. "are you listening?"

he is satisfied with the weak nod of your head, giving a low hum before his tongue dives back into your folds. a tremble runs throughout your body, the ache in your legs getting worse with every clench and tense of muscle.

"you're so stubborn.", satoru huffs, thumbing away a fat tear from your lash line before continuing to toy with a strand of your hair. your head rests heavy in his lap, cheek smushed against his thigh. "all you had to do was wear the co–, uh, necklace."

the stutter doesn’t even take note in your mind. the mention of that damned necklace triggers the memory of how this all started: over the 'gift' gojo tried to bestow upon you, something in which you vehemently declined. especially at his request that you wear it beneath your turtleneck.

it wasn't even so much a necklace as much as it was an obvious collar—a thin piece of leather, pink in color and embedded with silver studs. it connected in the center by a piece of metal curled into the shape of a heart; a similar tag swayed loosely by a silver ring. engraved on either side were their names: suguru and satoru, though gojo was crystal clear in specifying that the side with his name on it was the front.

your eyes are attracted to movement in your peripherals. satoru twirls the collar around his index finger, still ranting on and on about how he spent so much on this special gift for ‘his girl’, and you wouldn't even show gratitude in a simple thank you, let alone the appreciation to wear it at least once.

he shifts slightly and the tent in his pants, inches from your face, rubs against your nose. you remember trying to suck him off at some point, as that’s how he usually preferred your apologies, but no. geto was insistent that gojo be more strict with you, easily swaying his best friend by calling him a softie for you. and now you're stuck, told to actually use your words for once ‘like a good girl’.

what little focus you had is gradually ripped away as geto pushes you closer and closer to another orgasm. he thumbs over your clit, pinching the nub between his fingers for some added suffering, thrusting his tongue inside you to lap up any juices and slick leaking from your hole. you’ve devolved into a sweaty, panting mess within minutes. geto moans against your cunt like a slut, like you’re the best thing he’s ever had. at least one of you is truly enjoying yourself.

it doesn’t take long before you get that familiar, tightening feeling in your stomach. it’s a rubber band being yanked on both ends, about to snap clean in two at any moment. your pussy flutters sporadically around his tongue as you’re forced to the brink. yet another orgasm right at the cliff, overdue to tip over the edge, when-

geto pulls away. he tugs lightly at your clit with his teeth when he does, relishing in your broken whimper. this is making you sick—so sick you’re truly about to break.

gojo’s conversation with himself is interrupted by your tug on his sleeve. casting you a mildly interested glance, his frown deepens, a display of clear disapproval. he sighs in an annoyed, dramatic fashion before tugging you up by the hair to look him in the eyes.

“what do you want?”, he says rather rudely. “told ya not to talk to me anymore unless it's to say you’re sorry.”

you blink, dazed, mouth falling slack but no words yet coming out. shaky hands paw helplessly at his chest as the words drag through your head, barely registering. satoru just stares at you. he thinks you look dumb, but you deserve to after hurting his poor feelings.

“ ‘’m…sorry…”, you barely whimper, quiet and pathetic.

satoru just rolls his eyes. “oh, come on. first, you break my heart and humiliate me and now this half-assed apology? do it properly, at least!”

your vision is hazy, but it doesn’t matter. the two sets of eyes digging into you leave a fiery trail of goosebumps on your skin. geto has finally stopped his insanity-inducing punishment; gojo’s tight fist in your hair tugs at the roots, burning your scalp.

“i sai–, i said—,” you stutter, seeing double, “—i’m sorry for not appreciating your gift, satoru.”

“mm.”, he hums, and you can see the whites of his teeth as two of him grins, proud of finally having gotten his way. “and?”

the thoughts rattle around in your mind. eyelids droop to darken your view before you add on, “and i–, i would be honored to wear it.”

gojo eases his grip to let your head flop back onto his lap. “see, atta girl! was that so hard?"

geto grabs you by the shoulders and hair, far more gently, holding your exhausted body upright as gojo unclasps the collar.

he tugs down the hem of your shirt, excitedly wrapping the leather around your neck. “see, i don’t know why you had to go making this difficult!”

and gojo snaps it on with a ‘click!’, leaning back to admire his handiwork. you feel yourself being tilted further back as geto angles your body to get a good luck at their new claim over you.

“what a pretty girl.”, he murmurs and kisses your cheek, reaching to toy with the tag dangling from your neck.

your head lolls as you’re manhandled into another position. geto’s blurry form is now in front of you, so it’s gojo’s warm chest that you’re sprawled back on, and his long legs that your knees are hooked over.

“since you’re bein’ so good for us now,” gojo whispers into your ear, “i’ll give you a treat, yeah? since we've made amends."

something thick and hot glides over your pussy, up and down, rubbing over your twitching clit. gojo grunts beneath you, shuffles a bit. he rubs his large hands over your inner thighs, grinding his cock between the slick lips of your cunt. he layers kisses up your neck, onto your cheek, ending the trail at your temple, and then reaches down to line himself up with your spasming hole.

geto looms over you to sandwich you between them. he digs two fingers into your cheeks, pulling you into a sloppy kiss where he nips at your lips and sucks on your tongue, spit drooling from the corners of your mouth.

“see how nice we are when you behave?”, he mumbles against your kiss-swollen lips. “tell satoru you’re sorry again.”

the wind is squeezed from your lungs as gojo sinks his full length into you. your words are cut off completely, and geto grins as you arch into him. gojo's tip pokes at your cervix, his balls kissing your ass.

“i’m sorry.”, you whine again.

both men chuckle. satoru kisses your wet cheek again. “it’s okay, princess, i forgive you.”

🎀: @sbgg @paradiseoflosers @deepenthevoid @bubblez-blop @luvvmae @risuola @bunnymacaron @hehehehesthings @starlightanyaaa @higurumapet @suguwuuu @lemonintrovert01 @c3nti-pede @krraayy @notdwenby @beomluvrr @mochacafee @sherb3t @hobarihope @suguwuu @v1xenluna @n3ptoonie @halparkebitch @getos-sugarbby @im-just-here-doing-nothing @gegeeeeeeeeeeex @squishies0102 @mochi-islive @kkncc @mxsocool @mrs-nicoleee @lovesickliyue @astrasworldsblog @euphoriagrae @foreshadowing-forsaken-fuck @euniciane @xocherishxo @sugojosgf @gyaruismind @marichat0n @ichikanu @mikeysflag @xinfvl @sugu-love @b-b-b-my-b-f-f @idkluvv @h-4-bib @starsharkz @sataraxia @apatauaia @savethegoddamturtles @wirelazeee @lcvelina @incognito-veritas @blindbabycadder

#bully! stsg #stsg x reader #satosugu x reader #x reader #bully! satosugu #bully! satosugu x reader #satosugu smut #satosugu x reader smut

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demonic0angel · 5 months ago

Note

I found this from one of the accs I follow but I just want to know if you can make a small prompt with it :DD

https://www.tumblr.com/cookiesnotd3ad/775458923428904960/could-never-agree-more?source=share

(LMFAO)

Dick's eye had somehow gained a twitch that he could not suppress.

He took a deep breath.

"So you're telling me... that in the time I was gone, Jason got married, Cass somehow gained the favor of a death god, Tim is suddenly polyamorous, and Damian has now adopted ghosts for pets?!?!???"

All of his siblings and not-siblings looked at each other. Then they mumbled some confirmations. Jason was the only one who didn't look ashamed, proudly displaying his gold ring as he said smugly, "Yep."

Tim spoke up then, "I'm not really suddenly polyamorous. Me and Young Justice have been in an open relationship for a few years now."

Nightwing's eye twitched again. Cass took a wary step back from him.

"Does anyone else have something they want to tell me?" He said, his fists clenching tight enough to creak.

One week.

One week!

He had only left Gotham for one week and already, he felt like he was having heart attacks from his siblings' craziness! If this continued, he was pretty sure that his lucious hair was going to go gray!

Why, oh why was he the older sibling?!

Steph raised her hand. "I'm dating the journalist that makes conspiracy theories about us."

Dick stared at her.

"The one who correctly deduced all of our identities except yours because you're not adopted?"

Steph gulped. Then she said, "Well, Jason married the new psychiatrist who works in Arkham!"

"And I'm proud of it, dammit!" Jason cried.

Dick closed his eyes. Then he turned to pluck Damian off of his feet, pulling him close in a hug before he then pointed at the stairs leading away from the Batcave.

"Get out of my sight."

They all wisely scrambled, except Damian, who pouted as he was being used as an emotional support animal.

"Why me?" Dick complained, hugging Damian as he whined. "I didn't do anything! Why do my siblings have to make stupid choices that I have to suffer through? Why do I suddenly have a sister-in-law too?"

Damian made grabby hands at one of the strange, gelatinous creatures on the cave floor and Dick retrieved one for him with a sigh.

As Damian pet the strange, smooth creature, he said, "Well, if it makes you feel better, Cassandra, Drake, and Todd are dating siblings from the same family. And they're all ghost royalty."

And then he added after a moment, "In fact, I believe there is one more from their family who has gained an interest in you after Jason showed him some pictures. Apparently, he used to conquer worlds. He seems to be quite the powerful suitor for your affection, but I shall not approve."

Dick froze in place.

Suddenly, weeks worth of exhaustion, crime fighting, and nuisances upon nuisances, all caused by his beloved bane-of-his-existence family, was broken by the final straw.

"..... Damian, where are my escrima sticks."

"Richard! Cease this! It's a sorry day in hell when I have to be the peaceful one! Richard! Do not grab Todd's guns! Richard!!"

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biteyoubiteme · 6 months ago

Text

lemon cake

lemon drop!soobin x angel cake!reader

‧₊˚ ⋅ synopsis In a world where everything is sugary and sweet, it is always fun to throw in a little twist. Quiet and tired Lemon Drop finds himself struggling to keep up with the day to day of single-parent life. Knocking on Angel Cake's door, begging for more than just help, might take care of two of his problems. ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ warnings 🔞!!! fairytale au, lemon drop!soobin, angel cake fem!reader, slight spit kink, spit and cum as flavored aphrodisiacs, not really but chubby reader implied bc angel cakes body is soft and described as cake (skin indents and takes a few seconds to bounce back), mentions of masturbation (f! and m!), hand job, oral (m!rec), virginity loss, breeding kink, corruption kink, biting, cumplay/eating/snowballing, no protection, creampie, prob forgot some sorry

⊹₊ ݁ . wc: 8.9k . ݁₊ ⊹

၄၃ ⸝⸝⸝ now playing: new emotion- the aces an: ive never been so happy to post a fic before! this was so very fun to work on with my moots. im honored to have worked alongside some absolutely incredible writers- actually wild that you let me in on this when you guys are just so amazing im a little dazed lol. and it was so fun to read everyones fics early and go back and forth on little ideas we found would benefit each others works. this was one of the best things to do and im so thankful for mae and her mind,,go read everyone elses fics pls pls pls they are so so good. anyways love my friends <333 [m.list] [strawberry shortcake m.list]

Angel Cake loved a routine. Most things could be broken down into a neat list of checkpoints, a simple to-do list set up like the recipe for a good day. She would get to the store early, prep the tables, and make sure all the clothes were neat enough for when she opened the door. Sometimes a new shipment would come in and she would take her time checking off every box as she added the new items to her inventory. She loved folding all the shirts up, stacking them, lining them all so neatly, and keeping them color-organized.

It wasn't until an hour later that the store officially opened for the day, the sweet buttery scent from the town's shops wafting in through the doors. Angel Cake would sit behind the register looking through catalogs to pick out new things to order, helping customers when they filtered in and lulled around the shop admiring her cute displays. Almost an hour after opening is when her favorite customer arrived. “Strawberry!”

She loved to shop, everything she wore was hand-selected by Angel, perfectly picked out from the catalog with her in mind. Even the pale blue shirt worn by Kai was bought within these four walls. The sweet blueberry boy gave a shy wave, apple dumpling, strawberry’s little sister, running right past the two of them to her favorite section in the store.

“I brought you your share from the bake sale,” the cream-colored box carefully held in hand. It was one of the small things Angel looked forward to, the soft cake and cream, the first bite of sweetness. “They took a little longer than expected to make but they turned out so good,”

Kai flushed a deep shade of blue, the color only highlighted by the blue strands of his hair. Even Strawberry was blushing, her eyes tacking onto apple dumpling to avoid looking at angel cakes questioning glance. “Berry why don't you help Dumpling pick out a new school dress, I see angels gotten some new ones in,”

It was all it took for Kai to follow after the giggling child, leaving Angel and Strawberry alone. “You won't believe the weekend I've had,”

“Was it beomgyu? I hear he went to the market for the first time in a month and acted so bitter over Cherry’s jam,”

“No no nothing like that, I just- berry and I-” If strawberry could get any more color to shade her cheeks she would, her flush traveling to her ears, “We kind of…”

“You kind of what?” Angel Cake had known for years that Blueberry had a crush on Strawberry. They spent most of their time together, strawberry baking and blueberry strumming his guitar. It wasn't news to Angel that either of them had fallen into a relationship without much effort.

“We kissed and then it wasn't kissing it was- well-” she was struggling to find the right words, the images of the night before flashing in her eyes as she stumbled through the words. “It was so much more than kissing, the both of us were just insatiable and he just- he tasted so good,”

“Tasted? Like when you kissed?” Angel tilted her head as if that would tip the right information into the right spot for her to understand. Tasting someone did not necessarily sound all too fun, she could picture the underwhelming flavor of blueberries and didn't find it appealing at all. Angel was never really a fan of how plain they could be, although she would never confess that to Strawberry who couldn't stop herself from remembering the flavor as if it was spilling right back onto her tongue.

“Not exactly-” but it was all Strawberry could say before the two of you turned to the sound of apple dumping giving a shout.

“Meringue!” the little blonde, dimpled-cheeked child, giggling as she ran to meet her friend, exclaiming just as loud, “Dumpling!”

Everyone in all of Strawberry Land knew exactly how close the two little girls were. Spending hours joined at the hip, playing games, singing songs, and laughing enough to fill the sweetest of souls with the happiness shared between the two of them. Most times lemon meringue would find herself sprawled out on the living room floor, coloring with apple dumpling while angel cake and strawberry tested recipes in the kitchen. The two little girls being the best test testers, never afraid to say when they didn't like something.

Most times meringue was over because Blueberry was the perfect babysitter, teaching the girls how to play the guitar, and finding fun ways to keep them entertained. He kept them busy while Lemon Drop, meringue’s dad, was off at the local college teaching. Lemon drop soobin was always a bit bitter, the slight tinge to his personality always brought forward with his obvious sleepiness. His under eyes slightly bruised from the late hours he spent bent over books, grading papers, and chasing after his little sweet tart. Rumpled shirt half untucked from his pants, butter blonde hair mussed, and glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Angel Cake could feel her stomach flutter at the sight, he looked unbelievably warm, the kind of person you wanted to slip into and cuddle up. His lazy blinking eyes tracked around the sweet cream shop, deeply breathing in the sugary air.

Soobin wanted a nap, the warmth of the shop hugging him the second he breached the doorway. It was the favorite shop on the strip, the scent pulling him in amongst the rest of the fruity temptations. Buttery warmth hinted with vanilla cream beckoned him in that direction every time. It was easy to get lost in thought and follow his footsteps right to your door without realizing it when he followed his instincts. With an excuse to step inside, he could settle his craving without shyly backing away from the doorway, tinted pink from the recurring embarrassment of finding the shop irresistible. It was okay when Meringue was with him, but when he was alone, gazing through the sugar glass window to see angel cake folding or hanging clothes, it was a little more awkward.

He wasn't particularly known as the fondest resident in strawberryland. He was known to fight back, the sting of his arguments leaving people with a bitter impression of him. It was something that was expected of the debate professor, teaching the people how to stand up for themselves and find the proper form to an argument.

Angel found him to always cut back the sweetness of the people who took his class, leveling out their need to please in a way that she knew people who didn't take his class found caustic. Working in such a closed shop she heard more than anyone else did in the street market, the stalls so open the voices carried over to one another. No secrets could be kept when the air picked up every sound, enough so that anyone could get burned when gossip traveled. It made her shop the gossip harbor, the walls soaking in the secrets enough so that it set the illusion that nothing would make it to the unknowing subject of conversation.

Just last week she heard the run-around rumor mill turning out stories of frosty puff and gingerbread taehyun. The occasional talk of lemon drop, he's just so sour, listing ways to prove someone wrong. Can't we all just get along and not fight? He must be teaching that poor sweetheart of his such nasty things.

It had made Angel roll her eyes. Who cared if he was giving the rest of Strawberry Land a backbone, it was needed in such a basket of softies. But Angel knew she was in the same boat, still a product of her environment, soobin had moved back after finding himself in a big city amongst the rich and decadent. Nothing like the homegrown bunch he had been born from.

Strawberry pinched angel's arm, her soft flesh dimpling at the draw to attention. It always took a second for Angel's skin to bounce back from a tight hold, easily squashed like the cake from which she was named. “It wasn’t just kissing it was- I don't even know how to describe it, we tasted each other in places I never thought to before,”

“Like where?” it felt absurd to think of putting angel's mouth anywhere besides the mouth of a lover, maybe the back of their hand. Strawberry fiddled with the loose ribbon she used to tie a bow on the shortcake box, tugging the strand until it neatly fell away. Even for her name, Angel had never seen strawberry so pink, from ear to ear as she swallowed. “Down there,” her eyes flickered down to Angel's zipper, popping up just as quickly to see if Angel understood what she was saying.

“Berry!” Angel whisper-shouted, shocked, and intrigued all at once. Angel wasn't too dense, she understood to some extent how it worked but never thought about their being a flavor, or even that your mouth was used for more than just kissing.

“Angel, I don't even know how to describe how good it tasted- better than this,” she held up the short plump cake, the sweet cream swirled on top and donned with a little strawberry heart. “And it's hard to taste any better than this, I mean it's more addictive than sugar,”

It seemed hard to believe, especially when Angel sunk her teeth into the light dessert. The warmth of the sponge still lingers in between the ripples of fresh fruit. The frosting was her favorite part, dotting her upper lip in the clear mark of overindulgence, the creamy whips making her softly moan.

The sound echoed in the shop, just loud enough to be heard under the giggles of the girls, talking out planned outfits to wear to school tomorrow, but it didn't catch Kai’s attention, only catching the ear of lonely Lemon Drop Soobin. He watched the way Angel wiped at her mouth, sucking her thumb clean before rolling her eyes, “Hard to believe,”

“Well, you won't know until you try,” Strawberry muttered, closing the box of sweets and tying the bow back up.

“Ew no, I hate to say it but blueberry is kind of a flavorless fruit-” Angel Cake started looking over to where soobin and Kai stood. Angel stuttered in her speech, cheeks flushed and shoulders straightening under Soobin’s piercing gaze. Strawberry not even noticing the hiccup, “No! Not with Kai, anyone else but him, I mean it, Angel, it was something else,”

Soobin quirked a brow, Angel's cheeks deepening in color. It didn't help that he was looking at her with her train of thought derailing in the direction of a lovely open pool of crisp lemonade. She could just smell the citrusy freshness that followed after him, the scent that made her perfectly aware of how different they were, and forced her to face the recollection that she wanted him in a horribly needy way.

She wondered exactly what he would taste like, obviously lemony, but would he be more sweet or sour? Fresh or bitter? He was the opposite of sweet little blueberry who was now clapping at the choice of dresses the girls had picked out. Lemon drop was a streak of verbena-washed clarity in a town full of half-baked sweet tarts. She wanted him to wash over her and teach her things she never would have known without him, open her pallet to more than just the sweets found in a shop just like Strawberry said. Because as much as she talked down on the people around her, she was just as close to them, still grappling with the niceties of sprouting out in a field of pushovers. But she had time to bake, enough so that she knew she wanted more than just a dollop of sweetness to finish her off. She needed the honesty of someone who would be just as bitter as she was sweet, someone who had left and come back, someone who knew exactly what she wanted and had achieved it themself. Only now all she could think about was what exactly you had to do for a taste of anything at zipper level.

“You know, I heard he's looking for a sitter, especially because Kai is helping me so much at the stand. It's great to have Dumpling around but sometimes following her and meringue is a bit much,” Strawberry added, looking right past soobin to where Blueberry was fussing over apple dumplings shoelaces.

“Really?” soobin had broken eye contact to tend to little lemon meringue, carrying the outfits she's picked out in one arm and pushing back his hair with a ruddy knuckled hand. She watched the two of them like she was memorizing her favorite recipe, taking the time to run over every line, connecting the little bullet point dimples the two of them shared. Even when Strawberry took her bunch with her out the door, leaving the two of them alone at her counter, she couldn't stop the smile from spreading across her features.

“Don't you just love it, angel? It's so bright and pretty and does a perfect twirl when I spin,” meringue is nearly a spitting image of lemon drop, the only difference is her hair doesn't have the classic butter blond but a sun-washed version, the roots starting as a toasted tan color before fading out. But even then it's impossible to say they weren't related. Holding onto the edge of the checkout counter, hand still fluttering over the dress she's picked. Soobin reaches into his back pocket to pull out his wallet, grinning with the edge of his mouth as he watches her look up at Angel with her big brown eyes, dimple so deep in his cheeks she's sure she can swim in it. “It's perfect,” Soobin mutters.

For someone who has been pushed into the bitter pile by the rest of the town, Angel finds it hard to believe someone like the man before her could be anything but comforting. It was in his name, lemon drop, so nostalgic, in and of itself an acquired taste.

“I know you think that but I was asking angel,” meringue scrunched up her nose in that little kid's way, the light dusting of faded freckles tucked into the creases like a bunched blanket.

“I love it, would it even be a good dress without a perfect twirl? It's why I make sure all of the dresses in here look good when you spin,” Angel folds the items neatly sliding them into the gift bag. “Here you go,”

Soobin passes out the exact change, hand brushing angels as he lets the money go, surprised by the warmth radiating off the soft contact. Just as comforting as the alluring scent in the streets he shouldn’t have expected any less. Meringue is elated to be handed her bag giggling to herself as she thanks Angel and her dad. “Next time I see you I hope I can see your perfect twirl and soob- lem-” Angel stumbles over the right name, never really having spoken to him personally besides a few light greetings in passing.

“Soobin is fine,” his grin was a mix of amusement and arrogance that whipped Angel around in a mix of unrelenting jealousy. The ease with which he found himself walking through life was something angel only wished to grasp, and here he was, with confidence written into a single smile.

“Okay, soobin, if you ever need help after five I'm always free to watch her when you need work done. Strawberry was just telling me you could use a hand, "Angel says it so innocently, eyes blinking up to him in a way that he can't think about too closely. It takes everything in him not to look down at the very hand she speaks of, even if it's metaphorically. Because he could use a hand, specifically hers wrapped around him revealing the stress he was feeling in ways that he knew only she would be able to take care of. But it was too much to ask in a place like this, too much to think about when he was in public, and certainly too much when his child was waiting by the door for him to take her to her playdate.

“Thank you I could- um- really use the help,” he didn't know what to do with his hands, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose only for them to slip right back down, hand running through his already messy hair. It was the most angel had ever seen him discomposed, more like a stuttering school boy instead of a college professor who made school boys cower.

“Okay just let me know, you know where you can find me,”

It was only a few days later when soobin came by to ask for Angel's assistance, meringue hot on his heels as he shuffled into the shop right before closing. “I know it's last minute but Kai was supposed to take her to Strawberry’s house but turns out he cant and-”

“It's okay,” Angel chuckled, “I know the two of them have been so finicky with plans recently it's no problem at all. I just need to make sure the doors are locked up and then we can go,” and so they waited while you twisted the key, checking the knob twice, and shuddering from the slight chill in the air. In only a few days, Angel knew the gingerbread cobblestones would be coated in the thin glaze of the first frost, dollops of shoveled snow pushed up against her shop looking like misplaced piles of spilled frosting.

Lemon meringue ran ahead, her ballet flat-covered feet skipping between each stone like a made-up hopscotch map only she could see. Instinctively, Angel walked a step closer to soobin, bumping his arm with every other step they took toward his house at the end of the lane. Angel knew this was one of the reasons why he was accepted more than his other bitter labeled fellows, he lived in town, and went to town meetings even if he didn't add to the majority opinions. If he lived down on the outskirts, house kissing the woods or worse buried deep inside them, he wouldn't have a chance of being accepted in the way that he has been. It gave Meringue the best opportunity to find friends and build a relationship with the community before they ostracized her for being anything but sweet because of the name she carried.

Pushing open the door to their modest place, Angel was surprised by the solace laced into the brown woods and honey-colored accents thrown around the house. Stacks of leather tomes litter tidy shelves, and little dolls, and figurines placed by meringue are known only because of how high each item reaches. It smelled of freshly picked lemons and the cozy baked smell of warmed sugar. It was just late enough for the sun to be setting in through the gauzy curtains, casting the room in a warm golden glow. Angel wasn't to bask in the light, curl up like a kitten on the plush couch, tucked in with the knitted blanket tossed over the back like an invitation.

Meringue shot forward, hand wrapped around Angel's wrist tugging her past the living room and to the overly saturated room that could only belong to a child as happy as her. “Look, angel! I can show you all my princess dresses, we can do a fashion show!” She pushed open a trunk decorated like a little carriage fit to wheel a queen in, the lid holding back all the tulle and silk, only to now spill out like an overstuffed donut.

Soobin chuckled by the doorway, knowing exactly how his daughter was. She would keep Angel entertained enough for the both of them, needing no help to find something to do. It was the only thought in his head until he caught sight of Angel's wrist, his little meringue’s handprint still indented on her soft skin. He watched in amazement the way it slowly rose back into shape like a cake filling the tin in the oven. The thoughts running in his head were nothing to be proud of, images of his hands on the plush of angel tummy driving him mad. He had to turn away, leaving them alone in the room to focus on the stack of papers he had on the edge of his desk to dull the image of his handprint on the crease of her hip, dented into her thigh.

It was hard to get work done as is, his mind always fluttering through the tasks at hand, the next paper to grade, the time to pick up meringue, when he would be able to fit in the time to sleep. Now all he can think about is sweet cream dotting the smooth expanse of buttery cake. He hardly got through the few papers waiting for him, red pen in hand, staining the tips of his fingers as it sat motionless waiting for him to write. Hours passed, the soft laughter and chatting heard through the cracked door, every so often a glimpse of yellow and pink crossed in front of his field of vision, both angel and meringue going from the living room and back.

It made soobin happy to not worry that Meringue was having a good time, sometimes she fell shy especially when not near Apple Dumpling. She even had to warm up to Strawberry, only becoming her bubbly self when she and dumpling were alone, hiding behind her closest advisers in the face of someone new. But Meringue had always wanted to talk to Angel Cake even before they had known her to be best friends with Strawberry. His sweet lemony girl's eyes go wide and glittery seeing the expanse of clothes held in Angel's shop, do you think she gets to try on anything she wants? Look at how cute she dressed Daddy! I wish I had her job.

Every little comment only showed how deeply Meringue wanted to play dress up, more so play with Angel. He's sure even if he had asked for Angel to watch meringue in the shop she would have just as much fun as she was having going around the house now. He loved how comfortable Meringue found herself around Angel, and how Angel accepted his girl with open arms.

Time slipped past soobin without realizing the laughter had faded into hazy silence, more than half his stack of papers cleared through and marked to be returned to waiting students. He ran his fingers under his eyes, glasses set askew from the rubbing, sighing into the empty study. Soobin didn't notice Angel until he smelled her, that wonderfully delicate sweet smell of vanilla sweetness making him hold back his groan. He had thought it had only been the smell of the shop. The cake-like walls were made to pull in customers like the cinnamon scent of a bakery wafting through the streets, beckoning all who breathed in the air. Maybe Angel smelled so delicious because of working all day, the scent rubbing off and sticking to her hair, her clothes, her skin.

“She's fast asleep, knocked out almost as soon as she laid down to read her bedtime book,” Angel leaned against the edge of soobins desk, hip digging into the wood, fingers sprawled over the skewed pages of work. To Soobin, she was a dazzling masterpiece of messy hair and flushed skin, dress short enough for him to see the way the desk was pinching her thigh.

“Thank you,” the words twisted into a whisper from how dry his mouth had gotten just from looking at a single strip of skin. Licking his lips he tried to swallow, finding something to say besides the hollow echo of words he had managed.

“Oh it's nothing really, she's a doll,” Angel's eyes danced over the pages at her hand, “you lived in the city right?” even just the mention had soobins mind going back to the dull colorless house he found himself in when studying for his degree. It made him sick to think about raising meringue in a place like that, she was why he had moved back home, not caring how off-put the rest of the town was about him now.

“Yes, I did,” he sat back in his chair, one elbow still resting on the desk and the other laid out on the armrest. He was half turned to angel, lower because of sitting and now having her tower over him. And her damn thigh was there right next to him, knuckles twitching to brush over the smooth expanse of skin.

“Did you like it?” Angel had tipped her voice down to a whisper, the dim light needing the change when she had decorated the question in enough hope and worry. It wasn't as if Soobin’s answer would change much, she knew she dreamed of a city out there bright enough to blind the thought of home but it was hard to leave when it was all she ever knew, she didn't even know if she truly wanted to leave.

“I liked it enough,” soobin bit at his bottom lip, worrying over the question. It was as honest an answer as he could give. “But it wasn't home, not for me, not for meringue. There is nothing quite like the comfort of home,”

“Like this place you have here,” Angel lifted her chin, looking around the packed study with even more books and bobs. “That couch of yours looks too cozy not to nap on,”

“You should see my bed,” it was a quick response, one that didn't pass the filter connected to the bit of his mouth that kept him from saying anything embarrassing. “I- I didn’t mean it like that-”

But Angel didn't get the innuendo embedded into the words, she just nodded, “I should, I bet it's just as warm as the rest of this place, you have it at just the right temperature,”

The lack of sleep was making him loose, his finger drifting out to press right into the outside of Angel's thigh, pushing against the soft plush of her skin just enough to feel the heat from her, “you sure it's not you? You seem to keep warm enough,”

“Oh no, take it from a cake to know exactly when they walk into the right level of warmth. This is perfectly cozy,”

“You do feel…lively,” soobin drags his finger up Angel's thigh, reaching right to the hem of her dress, stopping right before it could go any further. The line he had drawn was like the roadmap to the realization that he should not be touching her like this. But it was incredibly hard to remember his mind when he felt this hazy; drunk off the lack of sleep and the sweet smell of sugary cake.

Angel felt the pad of his finger slip right up her spine, sink into her nervous system, and cloud her mind. Even if he had pulled away, flexing his hand as if that would sink the feeling of her warm skin into his palm, she could swear the touch was tattooed right there forever now.

She couldn’t forget it, not on the walk home, not when she showered the day away, not even when she climbed into bed. The moonlight slipped in through her lacy curtains, the soft gleam pulling her mind right back to the study. Her finger pressed right where she remembered him, circling the spot like she was tracing the shape of the yellowing moon on her thigh.

Even the moon made her think of him, a little lemon drop in the sky, her bed warm enough to picture what it would be like to snuggle up in his. Her fingers were too soft and not at all how she needed them to be to pick up her illusion. Pressing them harder into her thigh she felt an ache between her legs, centered right at the heart of her.

Angel had never felt such a pull to touch herself, not until the butter blonde boy was there just out of reach, so close to palming her thigh instead of just using the tip of his fingers. She wanted his hands all over her, they didn't even need to be warm, she just needed him. Needed his finger pressed on the tormentor's bud that called for him. But for now, she would have to make do, her hand pushed into her shorts feeling along the wet seam of herself never knowing that her body would crave someone so bad without even having tasted them like strawberry had said.

But the only thing on her mind was lemon drop, her hips rolling into her hand, the soft moans drawn out from a mouth so unfamiliar with this sound. Her body told her the way to move, and where to seek peak pleasure until she was a gasping mess, creaming around her dainty digits. Angel Cakes' new discovery was a calamity, highlighting a deep desire she didn't know she could hold within herself. A catastrophe; soobin had been the one to knock a tray of glasses to the floor, already so recklessly close to the edge until one push sent them shattering, angel couldn't clean the glass fast enough, left to never be the same again.

Soobin was no better, he was a cracked vase slowly leaking out in drips of sun-melted ice, he had to hold it together for work, for home; hastily wrapping fingers around the seeping seams only for his thoughts to pour out between his fingers. Because angel cake was spinning in his living room, twirling around with his daughter, giggling until they were a dizzy pile on the floor. His office door just cracked as he caught sight of angels' sweet lacy white panties, clinging to the curve of her ass. If he had knocked over the tray of her sanity, angel cake had taken a hammer to his fragile vase, smashed it until it was powered, and easily passed as dusting sugar on the treats in strawberry’s shop.

Soobin felt his addiction take its toll on him, every night the image of angel cake washed over his sleeping mind until he was reduced to nothing but a needy muddled mess of thruming joints. He couldn't go one day without his hand wrapped around his cock, working his wrist until he was spilling dribbles of cum onto sheets that needed her in them. It was worse when his order from strawberry came in, Kai handing the box over right at the doorway, picking up Meringue for her sleepover with Dumpling. The smell of the shortcake filled the house as soon as he shut the door behind them.

He was embarrassed to have such an obsession with angel cake, sure that she would cringe away from his desperation for her. So desperate he was standing in the kitchen with one hand down his pants and the other digging into the soft sponge of one of the cakes just brought over. The cream and crumb squished out between his fingers as he came, moaning into the empty space until the sound reverberated around him, the smell of her dancing around his body. He wanted her, needed her.

Soobin didn’t even remember the trip to Angel's shop's door, his nose pulling him along the crumb-dotted cobblestone, leading him right to the front doors, so willing to be eaten by the magic-laced girl inside. He could see her through the frosted glass windows, the closed sign turned to signal the end of her shift but she was leaning over the stand of shirts, fixing them in the way she wanted, her end-of-day routine. He could smell her, that buttery sweetness addicting, making him delirious. He wanted to sink his hands into her warm flesh, hold her tight enough so that if anyone saw they would know it was his hands that had been on her, that she was his, and his alone.

He pushed open the unlocked door, the ding of the bell signaling his entrance, that glance over her shoulder ruining him once and for all. “Hi! Did I forget I was supposed to come over tonight? I can pack up real quick or she can stay here-”

“No, blueberry took her- i- i-” he was struggling with the words, a stuttering fool standing in the middle of the shop like he'd come to beg. And he had, he would beg her till the end of his days to have one taste, to have her tear into him like she was peeling back the layers of his sanity. “I need you,”

“Oh?” she tilted her head to the side, the pure look of innocence smashing into him like a wave. He wanted to stain her, fill her up, and call her his.

Soobin struggled to swallow, every breath filling his lungs with her, she was right there on the tip of his tongue. “I need you,” his hand reached down to the bulge sitting against his thigh, hard, thick, and weeping for her.

If Angel Cake hadn't spoken to Strawberry about the zipper-level kisses she would have been confused beyond belief. But it had been all she could think of since then, what it would be like to lick up his body and know exactly what it was that made people so addicted. Because she was grappling with the fact that she was already falling down the rabbit hole of need, to finally taste him would be like crashing right into another world. “I don't know- I don't know how-” she was flushed all over from the confession because she didn't want him to leave, if he needed her she would mold herself to fit and fix any problem he had. Her lack of knowledge wouldn't hold her back, if he was a teacher she would be his best student.

“I'll show you, tell you everything you need to know,” he snapped the button on his pants, undoing the zipper releasing enough pressure to let out the most sinful noise angel had ever heard. She could feel her panties flooded with the cream that had been leaking from her for days now, always tied to the thought of him. If he felt even a fraction of how she did, Angel would make sure to take the best care of him.

“O-okay,” Angel Cake could feel her mouth water, her thighs pulling together, needing them closer to relieve the ache she felt. Soobin locked the door behind him, tugging Angel to a spot behind a rack of clothes. “Here get on your knees in front of me,”

Angel was fast to listen, sinking to the ground in front of him, hands placed neatly on the tops of her thighs, looking up at soobin with those wanting eyes. Just thinking about those plush lips warping around his cock was taking him out, and watching the tip of her tongue wet her mouth was excruciating. Soobin reached into his pants, pulling out his veiny shaft, the sheer size making Angel's eyes widen.

She didn't know what she was expecting but she was not expecting to feel empty at the sight. The top of him was shiny with a layer of leaking pre-cum. Soobin ran his thumb across his slit collecting the wetness to swirl around the tip, moaning at the way Angel's mouth fell open without realizing. “You can touch it,” he nodded, watching how Angel was gripping her skirt, crinkling the fabric trying to hold herself back.

Angel lifted a shaking hand, fingers brushing the side of him, amazed at the softness so much that she wrapped her hand around him and gave a tug. Soobins chest rumbled, his hand reaching out for the rack next to him, the hangers clattering from the force of his grip. “Sorry-”

“No, no you're doing good, just like that, slow and easy,” he nodded, biting back his moan when her wrist flicked again, “you can squeeze a little harder,” he whispered, his free hand finding itself around hers, showing her just the right amount of pressure he was looking for. Soobin's hand guided Angel's until he was using her hold as if it was his own, speeding up the pace.

Angel watches in amazement as soobins head rolls back, his brows pinched as he whimpers. She's never wanted to taste something or someone so bad, and now, with him right in front of her, she can't resist the temptation for what it is. Angel sits up just enough so that she can press a sweet kiss to his tip, a string of pre-cum still connecting her lips to him. Soobin lets out a shocked gasp, watching the way she licks her lips clean.

The taste is subtle, the sweet and sour mixed together only to draw Angel back in for more. She didn't even know what she was doing, compelled by the flavor to envelop him fully, the flat of her tongue licked up and around to collect more of the addictive fluid. Soobin’s knees go weak at the warmth of her mouth, hips jerking to try to chase the feeling, “Oh fuck just like that,” his hand still holding hers, working over the rest that wasn't pressed into her mouth.

Angel cake moaned around him, his bitter lemon taste mixing with the sweetness from his pre-cum. She wanted to swallow him whole, take more of him down. Soobin couldn't even think anymore, Angel's mouth trying to work further down, her hand stopping right at his base. Angel hollows her cheeks, sucking him down like its instinct, soobins groan taking over the silence and joining the soft wet noises. Soobins restraint breaks, overwhelmed by the way her mouth molds to his cock so perfectly, his mind working to imagine it's her waiting cunt. She takes him down so deep he can feel the back of her throat. It's enough for him to wrap his hands into her hair, fingers wrapping softly around her skull as he fucks into her mouth without warning. Angel moans, the vibrations going straight up his cock and making his balls clench. Her hands reach out for his thighs to keep herself steady, tears welling in her eyes, loving the newfound sensation.

Angel Cake doesn't know what to expect, lashes fluttering as he loses himself in the feel of her. It's a shock when his thrusts become erratic, his body trembling with a deep groan, sweet lemon cream spilling on her waiting tongue. Angel tries to swallow, unable because he keeps going, fucking his cum right into her still willing mouth, spurt after spurt following until he has to pull away. Angel gasps, sucking in gulps of air, mouth a mess of dripping lemon custard and saliva.

If she had thought the pre-cum had been addicting, she didn't know the effect the real deal would have on her. Blindly, she wiped the corner of her mouth, licking the cream she'd collected, humming as if she'd just taken a bite of the richest lemon bar. The sight and sound made soobin impossibly more obsessed with her, fingers going down her cheek, pulling her attention to his awestruck expression.

His head was clearing but it didn't stop the infection of her as it slipped well past his mind, into his bones, into his soul. He had heard about how easy it was to save a fruit tree if you cut away the rot fast enough; right at first sight. Angel cake had taken hold of every thorny branch on his tree and twisted herself in the sparse foliage, so deeply intertwined now that he wasn't sure there was ever a time when it would have been an easy snip to rid himself of this fever.

Angel Cake's face was a glistening mess of wetness when he squished her cheeks with one large hand, her pouting lips so kissable and pink. “Look at you,” a surrealistic sigh caught on the edge of his tone. He leaned down, needing a taste of the two of them, the perfect combination of bitter and sweet, angel's sugary spit mixed with his lemony custard making him powerless. And when he pulled away, letting go of angel's cheeks, he watched the way her lips stayed puffy, the illusion of dimples still there as her skin rose back, flushed a petal pink. “Did I do good?”

“You did perfect,” soobin brushes his nose along the bridge of hers, his eyes closing, breathing her in. He wanted to tear into her, squish his fingers into her, and memorize every little action that brought out a sound. But in his post orgasm clarity, he noticed exactly what he had done. He had tainted this perfect angel, filled her with more than just bad ideas but had fully gone in and let his uncontrollable emotions take over.

Even when Angel Cake had gotten home later that night, she couldn't stop licking her lips. She was lying in bed, wriggling in the sheets trying and failing to find a comfortable position let alone sleep. Her hand was stuck between her legs, on the verge of tears for nothing working to cave in a hunger that she was only now painfully aware of. She hated that she was alone, hated it more than she knew the feeling of his hands on her, knew that those long fingers would have been perfect to fix her problem as easily as she had fixed his.

The hunger triggered a compulsion within her similar to the one soobin experienced on his walk to Angel’s shop, her feet carrying her through the streets, half-dressed in her silky lace pajamas. The lemon drop moon cast its path down the cobblestone to Soobin’s front door. The cold unfelt against Angel's warm skin, and when soobin opened the door he could see the steam rising off of her heated body. The haze of it mixed with the backlight of the moon made her look like a true angel waiting right at his front step, outlined in the glow. She hasn't even come in shoes, her thick socks slouched around her ankles, her shorts pinched at her waist, and one tank top strap down her shoulder. He could see her pebbled nipples through the thin material, his lips pursing at the thought of wrapping around them. “Angel?”

He couldn't tell if this was one of his dreams, the kind that left him reaching out in a bed she never saw. “I think I need you now,” she couldn’t find it in herself to be embarrassed by the words, not when she had seen him in the same state, begging and just as needy. Soobin rushed to pull her inside, ready to get her wrapped up in something to keep her from freezing if that was possible for someone so warm. He hardly had the door closed when she was pulling him closer to her, wrapping her arms around his neck, tugging him into her space. She needed to have him in her mouth again and soobin knew he wasn't going to turn her away. His hands slid down her back, fingers digging into the soft skin, groaning into her sugar-sweet mouth, the sound catching in the back of her throat, and she swallowed it down greedily.

Angel didn't know what to do with her hands, her mind shutting off and following their natural way, slipping into his hair, the strands tangling between her fingers, his lemony sweet kisses taking over her mind as he slowly kissed her. But Angel was impatient, whining and rubbing her thighs together.

“What is it baby? Tell me,” he kissed down her jaw, intoxicated by the smell of her, so much stronger when she was so hot against him.

Angel reached down for one of his hands, guiding it like he had done for her, pushing his fingers until they slipped right against the silk of her shorts, “it's so achy,” she whimpered, “and all I can do is think about you,”

She was like a freshly wrapped gift left on the front step, the label perfectly signed with his name and his name alone. A sinful treat he couldn't wait to sink his teeth into. He dragged his fingers along the seam of her, the silk already spotted with wetness, “you want me to take care of you?” the husk of his voice was thick in her ear like syrup.

“Please- please,” her nods are erratic, hips rolling trying to keep him right against her tender clit. Her pathetic cry echoes in the living room when he pulls his hand away. But he doesn't keep his hands away for long, dragging her to his room, having her fall to his bed, right where he's wanted her. Her knees fall open, the heels of her feet digging into the mattress. She's a vision of her namesake, mewling when soobin hooks his fingers into her waistband and takes down her panties and shorts, sliding them down her legs and peeling her socks off, leaving her bottom half exposed.

Soobin is caught at the sight of her gleaming cunt, leaking arousal the color of royal icing, creamy and sweet, looking as if she had been stuffed full of him already. Nothing could keep him from getting a taste. He fell to his knees like this was a place to beg for forgiveness. But he wouldn't be sorry, not after he started his feast. Soobin licked a bold stripe up from her entrance to clit, groan ripped from him with only one drop of her. He wrapped his arms under her legs, holding her open and watching how his fingers dented her flesh, the plush of her spilling between fingers itching to stay there and mold her as his forever.

Angel let out a sharp gasp the second his mouth was attached to her aching center, thighs trying to snap shut around his head, held in place and forced open as she arched her back. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, her breathing only coming out when she slipped out moans. He was devouring her, licking her clean like he was enjoying the frosting before the cupcake, sucking deeply on her clit just to watch her tremble.

Soobin does not care about the mess he's making of her, face dripping with his Angel's cream, moans of delight vibrating against her puffy clit. He doesn’t even notice the way she's writhing beneath him, only that he's now faced with the most delicious meal he has ever had. Moaning into her, slurping up all that she has to offer trying to pull forth more of her sweet cream. And he didn't have to try hard, not when she needed him so bad already, the bubbling building in her lower belly so newfound and yet never before so intense. Angel cake feels like a balloon ready to pop, one deep long suck on her clit has her seeing stars, her orgasm washing over her as swiftly as a needle prick, causing her to come undone. The gush of her arousal keeps Soobin’s mouth right against her, his persistent licks only pulling him in more.

He was a desperate mess, working away at his pants, rutting into the mattress as if that would curb his insatiable hunger. He needed to be inside of her, filling her up with his lemon custard, fucking her senseless until she was begging to stay right here in his bed and never leave. He wanted that, to keep her as his, not just press his hand into her thigh and leave that lasting mark. No, he needed to claim her as his in the best, most lasting way. “Do you want me inside you Angel?” he pressed the flat of his palm into her pelvis, relishing in the way he felt himself sinking into her skin. “Right here, filling you up, making you mine-”

Angel had never felt so empty, not until he pointed it out, solving a problem she never thought she had. Her mewling response was a mix of pleas and whimpers. She didn't care what he did so long as she could have him near, and if he could fix the burn in her belly he could devour her just as well as tear her apart.

Soobin lifted Angel's legs enough so that the backs of her knees were slotted against his inner elbows, one hand reaching down to guide his dripping cock to her waiting entrance. Angel does not expect the pressure of being pushed into, her gasp caught on a half-open mouth of pure bliss. Every slow tantalizing inch stretches her out, her body instinctively clenching around him trying to suck him in. “Relax, baby,” he whispers, his hand sliding up her stomach, up under her tank top to reveal her breasts. He rubs at her skin, soothing her tense muscles until he's sunk all the way into the hilt, her body melting and molding around his.

Soobin waits, catching himself from letting go, letting their bodies adjust to each other. But Angel is impatient, rolling her hips, not even realizing she's trying to fuck back onto him, only that she needs some kind of friction. But soobin is slow to pull out and even slower to push back in, eyes connected to the spot they meet at. Her body was like clay beneath him, so easily shaped into the perfect temptation. Every drag in and out coated his cock in her cream, mesmerizing him, numbing his brain.

Angel could tell the difference in him, that split second that makes his eyes go hazy, hips snapping into hers making her body ripple from the force. “you were fucking made for me- do you feel how deep I am-“ he’s slamming into her, the lude sounds of their wetness mixing; echoing with their moans. All the veins in his hands straining from the hold on her soft sides.

He was pressed so deep into her she could feel him hitting a spot that made her hips sink, her hands reaching out to hold his hands, needing the comfort not knowing what was building inside her. so much more intense than when it’s her fingers or even just his mouth. “soobin im-im-“ she can’t even find the words looking for something that she didn’t know existed until just now.

“we can cum together- I’ll fill you up make sure to pump you full so you know exactly where I'm going to put our baby,” he moves his hand down to press his thumb to her clit, triggering her to jolt, the walls of her pulsing around him before she’s falling apart.

Angel's body is a tightening mess, her back arching, cheeks flushing as she comes undone for him. The pull of her body to his makes him shudder, his whole body falling against hers needing to be close, needing to smell the vanilla sweetness of her skin, sinking his teeth into her shoulder as he holds back his strangled moans. Slow languid thrusts push his lemon custard cum back into her, needing to make true to his promise to have her full of him and only him. Needing to mix together their cream for the perfect bake.

Neither of them knows what's happened to them, only that they are a tangle of limbs, wrapped up tight enough that Angel can still feel the pulse of his cock deep inside her, still pumping into her never having cum so much in his life before then.

Angel feels boneless when he pulls away, her whimper making him chuckle. “I just need to see your creamy pussy again,” the sight to behold better than before now that he knows the wetness is more his than hers. His fingers dragged through her sensitive cunt, collecting the mess to shove it back Into her, fucking her on his fingers for a second. He lifts his fingers in front of them showing Angel the sheer amount of cream coating the digits. “If I could bottle this flavor I would,” he licks them clean before leaning over to shove his tongue into her mouth, needing her to taste what he’s found as his new obsession.

Angel swallows down the cum, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer, twisting legs and burrowing in closer. “you taste sweeter than I thought you would,”

“Did the thought of it keep you up?” he asks, nose brushing along the column of angel's throat. “because thinking of you while being alone in this bed is hell, I need both of my girls under my roof to feel complete,”

“both…” the sound of the word was heavy in her mouth. Not in an uncomfortable way but in a way a piece of chocolate sat on her tongue, melting and sweet, craving to place another one as soon as it was gone.

“Both.” The finality of the word is better than the buttery sheets he’s pressing her right back Into.

taglist 🏷: @kissmekissykissme @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @seungfl0wer @lunesdesire @no1likemybbgcharlie @chasingthatjjunie want to be added to the taglist? check out my rules to see how to join! want to be taken off the taglist? send an ask! thank you so much @izzyy-stuff for helping edit this for me ily ily ily @thetxtdevil and @beomiracles for betareading this a bit, but special special thank you for mae who gave me a lot of these ideas in the first place, her perfect mind came up with the cake like reader with indenting skin and helped with the conversation with strawberry and angel <3

#soobin x reader #soobin smut #txt x reader #txt smut #choi soobin x reader #soobin hard hours #soobin hard thoughts #soobin txt #txt soobin #yeonjun #beomgyu #taehyun #huening kai

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postmoe · 5 months ago

Note

So, I'm getting around to doing Amphoreus and... we're at the bath house... and there is a special bath house for heroes.... can you imagine being taken in there without anyone else knowing just to be banged senselessly?

With Mydei and Phainon x Reader

girl we on the same wave length. I just added a bit to something i had going but didn't like it enough for the story i wanted lol.

non-con, helplessness, a bit of choking, bathhouse, ambrosia, master/servant dynamicish

Translations off google so (I went the Ancient Greek route)... Dominus - Master. He philtatē - dearest love. (feminine).

Amphoreus is full of many heroes, and though they are all strong and worthy of their titles, there are some that put true unease in others.

Like Mydei. Even with Phainon right next to him, trying to lighten the mood in the room, people still fear his sharp looks and dominating muscles. Everyone has seen what these two heroes can do, and no one wants to be on the wrong side of them.

Not to mention how protective they are of each other. Back and forth arguments seem like nothing when their anger is truly displayed, especially at people who speak ill of their partner.

And then there's you, their precious, priceless darling. A warning isn't good enough if you were to be picked on, broken bones, lost jobs, people are still debating whether or not the person who moved lands is dead or still alive.

So, when you're dragged from your station, or told to meet them somewhere, everyone drops everything to make sure you comply. Which is why, even if people did see you be hauled into the heroes bathhouse, you know calling for help would do nothing good.

That's why you stand there, sweat soaking through your white road, nipples poking into wet, sheer fabric, face stoic and hands holding a large jug of wine like it were any other client. They seem entertained enough by each other, hopefully today they will just leave you alone.

However, as Mydei pulls away from the heated kiss, grinning drunkenly your way and leaning his head against the edge of the in ground bath, you know there is no such luck. "He philtatē, come drink ambrosia with us," he practically moans, Phainon grinding his naked body in his lap, kissing and lapping up the sweat of his lovers neck.

You make a point to keep your eyes facing forward, not wanting to give them the thought that you're indulging in their actions, "No, thank you, dominus. I am working right now." That's not to say you would if you weren't on shift, but, it's as good an excuse as any other.

Phainon finally frees his mouth from the other's body, sculling the rest of his drink, red ambrosia trickling over his lips, down the cleft of his neck, and over the pecs of his chest before mixing with the bath water and disappearing. His eyes are hooded, cheeks dusted red with the effects of alcohol and lust, "Why the sudden harsh treatment, He philtatē, you were never this reserved when we first met."

With a bow of your head, avoiding his gaze, you say, "Kindess is part of the job. I welcomed you in, my job is done."

"Boo~" Phainon whines, rolling off of Mydei and sitting next to him in the water. "You're not like this after work or with your colleagues," he mutters, now holding out his empty cup, "Refill, please!"

You're not even going to ask how he knows what you're like when they're not around, already having the sneaking suspicion they've been following you and paying someone to tail you when they're gone. You crouch down to aim the jug into the goblet, only for Mydei to snatch the wine from your hands which makes you cry out a, "Hey!"

Within moments, you're being dragged into the water by a laughing Phainon. You thrash and splash the water as you're manhandled, thick fingers pulling your clinging robe over your head, leaving you in thin panties and the gold chains around your torso to help support your breasts. You're held tightly against his chest, coddled like a sweet pet until you stop moving so violently. Once you calm down enough, Mydei hands a cup to Phainon, who then promptly presses the rim to your tightly sealed lips, "Ambrosia~ Ambrosia for He philtatē~"

His other hand is roughly grabbing your jaw, the ache forcing your mouth to part enough for the liquid to slip through. You grunt, swallowing the sweet drink, a lot of it falling down your front, until the cup is empty. His hand is swaying in front of your face, the motion annoying you so you backhand the goblet, it flying and dunking in the water. He's so out of it that it takes him a minute to realise what you've done, the man laughing and messily petting your head in a playful manner.

Mydei exhales, sinking further into the bath to relax his muscles, "The whole trip he wouldn't shut up about you. 'When can we see (Y/n) again?' 'How much longer until we leave for (Y/n)?' 'Do you think if I send a letter, it'll reach her before we get back?' Couldn't even focus on fighting."

Phainon cheekily pinches your cheek, directing your attention back to him, "Funny he says that. Just whose name do you think he was calling every night we fucked?" You grab at his wrists once they start to slip to your cunt, fingers brushing your clit while your strength did nothing to hold him back. He didn't even acknowledge it, choosing instead to ask, "We have those new heroes, too. Should we introduce them to our private hole?" A wince escapes you as he slips a finger in, your pussy clenching from the intrusion. He swirls his digit around before adding another, "And what of Anaxa? Where is he?"

"Anaxa is still busy, he won't be back for another month," Mydei steps from the tiled ledge and stands in front of you, his large hands stroking over your shoulders, cupping your breasts in his palms and grazing the nipples with his thumbs. His eyes follow every move with a predatory gaze, "They certainly have proved their worth..."

You zone out as they talk about you like some object. Gritting your teeth, frustrated tears mix with the sweat on your face as you silently cry. What sort of a God or Titan or Deity would allow something such as this to happen to one of their subjects? It just proves how lost your soul really is from everyone else's. Everyone was right, you were abandoned by the titans the moment you were conceived.

Mydei pushes himself against your front, sandwiching you between him and Phainon so he can easily kiss your tears away, "Now look what you've done, you made her cry."

Phainon coos against your hair, his fingers hooking inside you to get a jerking reacting out of you, your hips trapped between the two, "It's okay, He philtatē, we won't share you if you don't want to. It actually makes me happy to see your heart is ours alone."

That's absolutely not true.

"Just be good for us tonight or else we might have to get them to 'help' hold you down," Mydei chuckles drunkenly as if his joke was actually something worth laughing at.

It pissed you off how he could just say something like that and get away with it. You pushed a sturdy hand against his chest, halting him from your boldness. (E/c) eyes look to the door, longing for anyone to enter and stop this madness. Your voice is quiet, moisture inside your mouth gone from the alcohol, bath heat and sexual actions of these men, "One day... One day someone will stop you."

The amused rumble from Phainon's chest made your heart sink. Then, when Mydei's fierce eyes sharped as his grin showed too many teeth to bring an intense foreboding to flood your veins, you shrank back into Phainon as he suddenly seemed to be the lesser of two evils. Mydei scoffed and gripped the base of your neck, your chin tilted up on the curve of his thumb and index as he held you just hard enough to make you wheeze and meet his eyes, "That day won't be a day you're alive."

When he finally let go, the world around you went white and your head couldn't tell which way gravity was holding you. Thankfully, you had your two heroes to keep you safe.

#yandere mydei x reader #yandere phainon x reader #yandere mydei x reader x yandere phainon #mydei x reader #phainon x reader #yandere hsr #yandere hsr x reader #honkai star rail #yandere x reader #hsr #x reader

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thesimstree · 7 days ago

Text

Clear Sims 4 Cache: Fix Lags, Errors & Slow Loading (Windows & macOS)

Sometimes The Sims 4 starts acting weird: little bugs pop up, thumbnails don't display right, and loading times get a bit longer than usual. These are all pretty normal signs that it's time to clear your game cache. Deleting temporary files is a good habit for any player �� it helps keep things tidy and makes everything run a little smoother. Let's figure out together what cache is, why you need to clear it, and how to do it properly and safely.

What is cache and where does it come from?

In The Sims 4, cache means temporary files and folders that the game creates to speed up loading, store thumbnails, save mod info, log errors, and handle various in-game processes.

Every time you start or play the game, it generates or updates some of these files. Cache is there so the game “remembers” which thumbnails and objects you’ve used lately, finds things quickly, and saves certain settings and operational data.

The cache includes:

— Images (thumbnails) of Sims, lots, and objects;

— Temporary settings and launch data;

— Working data from mods and scripts;

— Logs about errors, crashes, memory limit overflows, etc.

Why do you need to clear the cache?

If you don’t clear the cache regularly, it builds up old or corrupted data – which can lead to all sorts of problems:

Lags and long loading times because of excess or broken files;

Errors and crashes, especially after removing or updating mods or the game itself;

Wrong thumbnails showing: for example, an item is deleted but its thumbnail is still there;

Mod and script bugs due to leftover data;

Endless loading screens, crashes, or even corrupted saves;

Overall drop in performance.

This happens especially often if you use a lot of custom content or actively add/remove mods.

How often should you clear your cache?

1. After every game update.

2. Whenever you make changes to the Mods folder (adding, deleting, or updating mods).

3. If you notice weird bugs, really long loads, crashes, or errors.

How to clear Sims 4 cache (Windows and macOS)

Step 1

Exit the game. Never clear cache while the application is running.

Step 2

Open The Sims 4 folder:

Documents — Electronic Arts — The Sims 4

Step 3

Delete the following files and folders (important – not all of the folders or files listed below will always be in your The Sims 4 folder, and that's totally normal):

General cache

— cache (folder): holds temporary data (mostly image previews from the Gallery); this folder gets filled only while the game is running, so you can safely clear it between sessions

— cachestr (folder): cache for script mods

— onlinethumbnailcache (folder): thumbnails of Gallery items

— avatarcache.package: used mainly to fix Gallery errors on Mac, but can grow quite large

— localsimtexturecache.package: cache of composite sim textures (max size – 100 MB); deleting helps solve character display issues

— localthumbcache.package: thumbnail file; it’s useful to delete this from time to time, and absolutely after adding, deleting or updating mods

— UserData.lock: auxiliary or temporary service files, may pile up

— ReticulatedSplinesView: auxiliary or temporary service files, may pile up (deleting this file will cause all your packs to register as "new" again, this means pop-ups on the main menu and all content will have the "new" gold star highlight again)

— notify.glob: auxiliary or temporary service files, may pile up

— ConnectionStatus.txt: auxiliary or temporary service files, may pile up

Error logs

— lastCrash.txt (all files)

— lastException.txt (all files)

— lastUIException.txt (all files)

These log crashes and game errors. Most players don’t need these, but if you’re having constant errors you can show them on forums for troubleshooting. Old ones (with numbers) can always be deleted.

Auxiliary folders (delete only if empty)

— ConfigOverride

— Recorded Videos

— Screenshots

Step 4 (optional)

You can take it a step further and clear cache files built up by certain mods:

— BE-ExceptionReport.html (all files)

— BE-UIExceptionReport.html (all files)

— WickedWhimsInfoLog.log / WonderfulWhimsInfoLog.log

Important: Don’t delete the Saves, Tray, or Mods folders – these are your games and custom content.

Step 5

Restart the game. Sims 4 will automatically recreate all the necessary files from scratch. You may need to re-enable mods and CC in the game settings after clearing the cache.

You can make it easier

For players who want to cut down on the routine, there’s an automated solution – a Cleanup Script for Windows by @andirz-mods. This is a special one-click utility that automatically deletes all recommended temporary files and error logs, without touching your mods or save files.

It automates the cleanup, but you’ll need a Patreon subscription to the author for access.

So, to make sure you can always tidy things up quickly on your own (without scripts or third-party programs), keep this guide handy:

🌱 Create your family tree with TheSimsTree

❓ Support 🌸 Our Blog

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ghettogirly · 1 year ago

Note

Hey boo! I'm not sure if you're taking requests, but if you are, would you be willing to check this out?

I was thinking about a fresh out of prison Armando Aretas. He's been a little rough with you during sex, ever since he was released. Hurting you is definitely not his intention but he can't help but lose control after all this time away from you. It doesn't bother you at all but he still feels bad about his actions and wants to make it up to you. (Soft smut)

xblackfemalereader or femalereader would suffice.

This is for the freaks! Okay, I'm out.💋💋

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐨́𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚..

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

᯾ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐒 𝐗 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

᯾ synopsis: Armando couldn’t wait to return back to you after being freshly broken out of prison, wanting to come back home and to cherish you again was all that he wished for. However, he certainly didn’t wish to hurt you either.

᯾ theme: angst with a happy ending, smut.

᯾ format: story.

᯾ warnings: sex, mentions of escaping prison, armando is a rough during sex, mature language, reader gets hurt during sex, use of a safe word.

᯾ authors note: i hope you enjoyed!! This is my longest story yet, sorry it took so long, i added so many different elements.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆, this was a normality within the institution as the men went crazy being locked in their cell for 23 hours a day. Their brains slowly turning insane at the routine of staring at white walls while the day goes by. Men turned into animals here, feeling as if they’re in a cage, they had nothing else to cast out their anger on.

Animalistic screams were scattered around the block of cells as the prison warden took no notice, sitting down on his chair with his hat covering his eyes as his head was down. Clearly taking no notice of the cameras. Casually walking over to the welded steel door, Armando looked through the tiny screen on his door, looking around as far as the tiny little screen within the door let him. He was used to the chaos, however, that didn’t mean it got any less annoying.

Yet, today was the day.

Plopping his magazine on his bed, he walked around to his shower room. Armando crouched down slightly. Pushing his fingers through the small steel gaps of the tiny vent in his cell, he opened it, taking out a match. “aquí tienes…”

His prison flip flops created a smack on the concrete floor as they connected. Whistling, he looked up at the camera while messing about with it in his hand. Wasting no time, A whoosh of light appeared before him as the flame quickly ignited and started moving slowly down the little stick. “Hasta el fuego.” Throwing the match onto his bed, he ran into the shower and disappeared down the hole.

Below the hole was a motorcycle waiting for him , with some cartel members side by side. Jumping on the blacked out bike, armando revved his aggressively before driving off. “Vamos! ¡No tenemos tiempo!” The other men nodded before quickly following their boss.

𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐑𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃. Armando’s orange jumpsuit clung to him as the fibres shrunk due to the contact of the rain above, now displaying his buff physique. Alarms were heard blaring in the distance, presumably because of the chaos he left behind.

Regardless, he kept his pace, running to a remote location within the field. His cartel organised a chopper for him there, to safely secure him back at the mansion. Branches snapped as he jumped over them or threw them out the way, Armando stayed alert.

Left. Right. Up. Behind.

Every area had to be surveilled. No witnesses. No police.

Finally reaching the location, a chopper was there awaiting him. A member stepped out to greet him, yet, there was no time for that. “¡Súbete al puto avión!” The male shouted, ordering his men as he signalled the pilot to engage. Some cartel members were still far behind. “Tsk.”

Bolts of light flashed among the mexican faces as bullets made of hardened steel penetrated the bodies of the workers still running to the helicopter, knocking them down one by one, the male angled his arms with ease. Looking through the scope, he released each bullet one by one, none of them being able to escape this fate. BANG! BANG! BANG!

“If they can’t keep up, leave them in the dirt.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐍̃𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐒. Twirling his ring around, all he could think about was his wife. You was the light of his world. Staying with him through thick and thin, you even gave up your dream of a beautiful wedding by marrying him in prison.

He was coming back home now though, ready to give you the world baby.

Satisfied with the life Armando already gave you, each day you thanked the heavens that he was still alive. It was painful, seeing him locked up. Yet, it would’ve been worse placing down his casket six feet under. 𝐌𝐈𝐗𝐄𝐃 𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓, travelled through your system as amygdala integrated your emotions with the other areas of your brain. He was coming back.

“Ma’am he’s here.”

“Jefe, estamos aquí.”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐌𝐈𝐀𝐌𝐈. Cartel members swiftly moved to the door, opening it, revealing the muscular leader. Splashes of dirt imprinted the orange jumpsuit due to the dampness of the forest. It had slight rips in it, clear signs of getting caught onto nature.

Armando slowly made his way out of the chopper, slowly analysing all his workers as they waited for his approval. “Es bueno estar de vuelta.” Bottles were popped as loud cheers were heard from the whole crowd, who walked over to greet him. He gave handshakes and side hugs to his most loyal “friends.”

𝐀 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃. “Finally you’re home!” Running up to him, you jump in his arms as they wrap around you, leaning in for a kiss. “ive te perdió..” Armando whispers, feeling your scent flow over his senses, bringing him a sense of comfort. Looking up at you with love in his eyes, he licks his lips, “Maldita sea, no puedo esperar para quitarles la ropa.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐏𝐄𝐄𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐋𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒, 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍. His heavy arm laid on your thighs, sleeping at an angle due to his constant movement while sleeping. Clearly he was not used to being in a comfortable bed, transitioning from prison conditions to luxurious conditions being a massive jump.

Yet, you felt strange. Your body felt sore due to the sudden use of muscles contracting while keeping up with Armando’s rough pace. Maybe it was the prison system that made him more aggressive, maybe it was the excitement. Who knows?

Nevertheless, you brushed it off. Not wanting to overthink all the possibilities of the sudden change in his sexual stance the night before. This was a moment to enjoy life, not dwell on it.

Removing the pink, silk bonnet that rested on top of your head, protecting every curl from breakage, they spilled out. Resting beautifully on your shoulders. It was frizzy at the roots due to the intensity of last night, the sweat causing the curls to become puffy, but that’s not nothing a little mousse can’t fix. Messing about with your curls as you was lost in thought, you felt a gentle press to your shoulder.

“está bien?”

You nodded, not really feeling the need to tell Armando about your thoughts from the night before, not wanting to concern him on his first morning being free from the cage he used to be contained in. “Never been better.” Planting a kiss on your lips, he smiled at your reply, not thinking anything of it as he was essentially on cloud nine. “Ven a acostarte con-“

A loud buzz reverberated off of the oak bedside table, a loud groan was made by the male as he slowly rolled over to pick it up. Swiping the green button, he answered. “¿Por qué coño me llamas tan temprano en la mañana?” You chuckled at his blunt answer, typical Armando.

A sigh escaped your husband’s lips, clearly annoyed at the shit he had to deal with so early in the morning. Placing the phone down he looked over at you, “tengo que irme..”, annoyance was plastered all over his face.

“That’s fine, i’ll be waiting here for you anyways babe.” You said gently, kissing his cheek and then his lips. Wrapping his arms around you, he leans for another kiss. and another. and another. “You need to go..”

“¿Realmente tengo que???”

Chuckling you lightly hit his arm, “Go and get up.”

“Ya no me amas?”

A pillow was then flung towards his head.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝟎𝐏𝐌 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍. Armando had blood splatters on his white-collared shirt. The first two buttons were undone as he coordinated the outfit with black pants, he was looking sexy but that wasn’t the point. “What happened?” Asking in a panic as you walk up to him to check if he’s okay. “Estoy bien, no te preocupes.”

He walked into the bathroom, taking off his shirt and pants as he threw them into the wash basket. Walking back out, half naked. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, the scars tattooed all over his body due to the violent nature of the cartel being a sad story to tell, but sexy to look at.

𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 - 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐀

“Súbete a la cama, princesa.”

Wasting no time, you did as you were told, stripping off your clothes. Slowly crawling onto the bed you laid down, spreading your legs as he got in between you. Tracing his finger up and down your clit, your wetness coating his finger. “Stop-“ Not even having time to finish your sentence, he pushed a finger in, making you gasp.

Pumping it in and out, you writhed under him at the pleasure he’s inflicting upon you. “Oh fuck!”

He slowly lowered himself down by your clit, still pumping in that finger. You felt his hot breath on your lower area, sending down electrical impulses throughout your nervous system, diffusing through your synapses. A wet object then placed itself upon your clit, circling it.

Armando licked stripes up and down,

making you moan in pleasure, tugging on his hair as you urge him to do more. “I can’t..”

“Puede.” Lifting himself up from that area, he pulls his finger out from you, putting it in his mouth and tasting you. Repositioning himself, he lines up his cock with your pussy before pushing himself in, stretching you out. A sharp flash of pain struck you before quickly dying back down. Armando didn’t seem to notice and slowly started thrusting for about 5 seconds before increasing his speed.

It was somewhat animalistic as he roughly thrusted into you, clearly taking his anger out on your body. It was satisfying at first, but then, his pace got faster. His grip becoming harder. “Armando!” You shouted, but he was still caught up in the overwhelming feeling of being inside of you.

“Cherry! Cherry!”

That’s when he noticed and stopped., quickly pulling out of you “¿Te lastimaste?”

“Estoy bien, todavía estoy adolorido de la otra noche.”

You noticed the pained expression that plastered his face. “Lo siento, lo siento-“

Holding his face in his hands, you look at him with a passion in your eyes. “I know you never meant to hurt me. Stop blaming yourself so much.”

Armando looked at you and nodded, before lifting you up and carrying you to the bathroom.

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐇, he slowly stroked your face as you relaxed against him. “Perdoname quierda.” He whispered.

“Don’t worry, i already have.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[🕷️] 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒:

“aquí tienes…” : there it is..

“Vamos! ¡No tenemos tiempo!” : Let’s go! We don’t have time!

“¡Súbete al puto avión!”: Get on the fucking plane!

Los campañeros: Their companions.

“Jefe, estamos aquí.”: Boss, we are here.

“Es bueno estar de vuelta.”: It’s good to be back.

“Te extrañé” I missed you.

“No puedo esperar para quitarme esta ropa”: I can’t wait to take these clothes off.

“está bien?” : You okay ?

“Ven a acostarte con-“ : Come sleep with-

“¿Por qué coño me llamas tan temprano en la mañana?”: Why the fuck are you calling me so early in the morning?

“tengo que irme..”,: I have to go

“¿Realmente tengo que???” : Do i really have to ???

“Ya no me amas?” You don’t love me?

“Estoy bien, no te preocupes.” : I am fine, don’t worry.

“Acuéstate en la cama, princesa.” : Lie on the bed princess.

“Puede.” : You can.

“¿Te lastimaste?” : Are you hurt?

“Estoy bien, todavía estoy adolorido de la otra noche.” : I’m fine, i’m still sore from the other night.

“Lo siento.” : I’m sorry.

“Perdoname quierda.”: Forgive me, love.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[🕷️] 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @milliumizoomi @shurisgf @tyneshaaa @sarcasticbitchsblog @amplifiedmoan @wizewhispers @5tarlan7 @thedarkworldofhananerea @armandosbabymama @dyttomori @deadpool15

#imagines #reactions #headcanon #jacob scipio #armando aretas #armando lowry #armando armas #badboys ride or die #bad boys #headcannons #ghettogirly #armando x reader #armando aretas smut #angst with a happy ending #armando aretas x reader #bad boys for life #short story #fanfiction #armando aretas x black reader

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menteycorazoncito · 6 months ago

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Through the Night - Arthur Leclerc

ᥫ᭡: pairing: Arthur Leclerc x reader

ᥫ᭡: warnings: uses of cherie, mon amour and baby.

ᥫ᭡: a/n: last fic of the year guys. ending it with some arthur comfort. based on this request

navigation | request guidelines

Your voice cracked over the phone “I can’t do this anymore, Arthur”

Arthur’s heart ached at your self-loathing. He knew that you have been struggling lately with balancing your life, but hearing you like this suffocated him.

“Where are you?” he asked, he needed to see you.

He was met with silence for a while. “At the park,” you sniffled.

“Stay where you are, mon amour.” he told you.

He immediately grabbed his jacket and left in no time, not even considering the fact that it was freezing or late. The cold weather bit at his face as he sprinted through the busy streets to find you. Despite the busyness of the city, the park was questionably empty. No one else was there apart from you at that hour. But that was the reason why you went there in the first place.

The closer Arthur got to you, the slower his pace until he was in front of you “y/n?” he called, out of breath.

“Why are you here?” you ask, avoiding his gaze. You couldn’t face him. Not like this, like a mess.

He crouched down in front of you to meet your gaze, his hands resting on your knees. “Because I care, baby.”

Your eyes red from the litres of tears you’d cried in the past couple of hours. “It’s not worth it, Arthur. No matter how much I try to get myself together, for myself, for my family, for you, I fail. I can’t figure it out. I’m just too… broken. You deserve someone much better Arthur, someone who is not-“

“Hey, hey, cherie” Arthur interrupted you. He lifts a hand from your knee to cup your cheek. “I don’t care how broken you think you are. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your vulnerability was fully displayed as you cried even more at his words. Tears pouring like a waterfall.

He got up to sit next to you on the bench, as he wrapped his arms around you in a hug. “Only I get to decide what I deserve, and I want you. I choose you, I always will.”

His words manage to calm you down a bit, the realisation that you weren’t entirely alone after all settling in. For the first time that night you managed to let yourself relax (at least as much as you could). Yet despite this, the doubts still lingered. “What if I disappoint you?”

“You aren’t a disappointment. Not to me, not to any one. I am proud of you.” he whispered softly in your hair.

You allowed yourself to lean into embrace, letting his words sink in as you buried your head into his neck looking for warmth. Arthur notices, and takes off his jacket, handing it to you. “You must be cold. Who knows how long you have been here.”

Too tired to protest, you let him wrap his jacket around you. The warmth of it immediately engulfing you adding to the comfort of Arthur’s arms. The two of you sat silence for a while, neither wanting to break the peaceful atmosphere.

But when you start to drift off on Arthur’s shoulder, exhausted from crying, he pulled away from the hug a bit to look at you.

“Let’s go home, yeah? You need to rest.” he said, slowly helping you up.

You made your way home, hand in hand under the moonlight. The night had been hard, but with Arthur by your side, better days didn’t seem so far away.

#arthur leclerc x reader #arthur leclerc imagine #arthur leclerc fluff #arthur leclerc x y/n #arthur leclerc x female reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader

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fernslivers · 2 months ago

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The Marriage Game

As the only child born to your parents, a girl, you were raised as a boy to ensure your parents could pass on their wealth–and so far, the ruse has held. There's one little snag though… you need a wife. Lucky for you, your parents seem to have found the perfect match, the unwanted former wife of a disgraced samurai.

A/N: AHHH, whew! I hope you like this, anon!! It's going to feature a slightly sweeter Mizu, since I'm trying to write her as she was in the flashback. I figured since that bad moment with the betrayal didn't happen, she would be more guarded but not AS broken and jaded as in canon. I hope it translates correctly and not too OOC. It got a little more spiced than anything I've written so far! I know that wasn't included in the ask so I hope that's okay! :,) [Not beta'd so apologies for any errors in spelling!]

Reader is wlw!

TW: Spice, loss of virginity, unpleasant parents all around, internalized self-hate, gratuitous mentions of M*kio being a dick

-----

“It's not going to work–she's not going to want me,” you mumble to your mother as you wait for your new bride to arrive. She hushes you.

You subside obediently, but your doubts persist. Your family might have money, plenty of it, but that hasn't stopped several fathers from looking down their noses at you as a husband. Uncommonly delicate for a man, one has said. Too short, snorted another. And the daughters, while they kept their gazes lowered demurely as they'd been taught, had let you know with one glance that they agreed with their parents’ disdain.

You hadn't wanted them anyway, no more than you wanted a man. There was something missing from them, something blank in their yielding sweetness that did not appeal to you. Is there something broken in you?

–

“This one will be different,” your mother had insisted, when she first brought home the news. “She's already been sent home by one husband for being unfit–too ugly, I heard. But strong. She'll be in no position to complain about your looks, and she'll be able to handle the chores you can't.”

You had flushed, stung by the implied insult. All you've ever really wanted to do was express yourself through art–lingering in front of painters’ displays, tracing your fingers over the wares at a pottery booth. Or perhaps to be let alone with your animals, which never wanted you to be anything but yourself. Both choices were actively discouraged in favor of menial chores that added muscle to your limbs and calluses to your hands. But nothing your parents did could make your frame taller, or your features less feminine.

–

Now, as you give her a reproachful glance, she sighs.

“Oh, don't look like that,” she waves your feelings away, as usual. “Besides, she can't refuse you. Her mother has already agreed on her behalf–this isn't a prospective meeting, it's a wedding. Your wedding. Be glad!”

Even still, that might be worse. Gods above, how humiliating would it be for your bride to walk away from the very wedding itself?

You're not even sure what your parents expect to happen here. Yes, in theory, they have a son to inherit their wealth and status.

Then what?

Again, it wasn't that you wanted a man. To be sure, your budding orientation had been a fortuitous development for your parents. But most brides are expecting you to be something that you are not. You certainly don't have the necessary parts to give your new bride an heir to follow you, and carry on the family name. Are they already assuming she'll grow dismissive of you, and take a lover to put a child in the cradle?

Probably, you think grimly. Why would they care about your feelings on the matter? They know you're too gentle to be angry with her, and they'll be happy to know there's a continuation of their name. After all, they sacrificed your happiness just to keep their wealth in the family.

There’s some commotion outside, and your stomach lurches. She's here.

You follow your parents outside, telling yourself not to trail meekly behind like a daughter; you're a son. You have to be strong, confident. Assertive. Yeah, right. Framed between them on the porch, you know you cut a small, unimposing figure, one arm nervously rubbing the other.

Two women are climbing out of the litter that's touching down in the front yard. One, the shorter one, steps forward, as the other hangs back. You hang back also, staying up on the porch, where maybe you'll look taller.

Between you and the other woman, the older folks all congregate, loudly greeting each other with exaggerated politeness and cheer. They’re happy, chatty–proud of themselves for making a deal that each person thinks benefits them the most.

Above their heads, you and your new bride lock eyes.

Oh.

You are so far out of your depths.

Strong doesn't begin to cover the aura of the woman you're set to marry. All the confidence you’re pretending to have, she truly owns, carried as lightly as a cloak around her shoulders, moving with an easy grace and smooth bearing that you could never hope to manage. Even from a distance, you can tell she's got to be at least a half a head taller than you.

At least in expression, you can tell she isn't much more confident than you are. Her eyes travel from your nervous shifting to the softness in your features, to the large amount of space between the top of your head and the doorframe above you. You both have the same trepidatious look, watching each other with the mutual wariness of cats meeting for the first time.

Your mother was wrong about the other thing, though. She certainly is strong, but she is far from ugly. You can feel your breath catch as those startling eyes meet yours… and then your heart sinks as her mouth tightens, and she looks away. Disappointed by you, no doubt. It seems impossible that she could expect you to dislike her. Something inside you folds up in defeat.

This is going to be a disaster.

—

Once again, Mizu finds herself in the position of lying silently, waiting for a husband to arrive to claim his bride. This time, she feels no fear of ravishment; she knows what to expect, physically…and unlike Mikio, you were far from gruff during the ceremony and the dinner afterwards. You had carefully offered her the choicest bits of food, asked respectfully about her interests and her travels to come here. Indeed, you were shockingly kind, compared to her last experience.

In some ways, that makes this wait worse. She expected rejection already, and from you, it seems even more likely than before–and she doesn't want it. Mizu doesn't find you undesirable, not by a long shot. But next to you, she feels even less ladylike than she had with Mikio. You are the prettiest, most delicate man she's ever seen, you look like she could snap you in half one-handed. Not the kind of man that's going to go for someone like her.

No. She fears this time that her previous husband was right to call her unlovable. That you won't want her. The thought of having to go through all of this drama to be rejected again fills her with a deep depression. She recalls with horrible clarity the way Mikio had stared at her coldly when she greeted him in her bridal attire, barely bothering to form the words get out. If Mikio had been horrified by her, how much more so will you be? You're no tough old samurai.

She would love to be able to live happily with a husband as pretty and kind as you, even if it meant giving up on her demon’s path. But to do that, she'll never be able to connect with you.

She'll have to forever guard her true self or run the risk of being sent away yet again. Or worse, she wonders if unlike Mikio, you can't choose for yourself; she saw how your parents stomped all over you during dinner. What if they won't allow you to refuse? If you can't send her away, then you might hate her, leaving you both trapped.

She had argued and fought this marriage for so long; only the heavy guilt trip from her mother brought her here. Her mother… the only person ever to accept her besides Eiji; even with the woman's habits and guilting, Mizu finds it impossible to simply leave her uncared for. It’s her duty; something she would never shirk, even if it hurts.

But what about you? She knows from her mother’s long haggling that you've struggled nearly as much as she has in finding a spouse (though, seeing you, she can't understand why), so perhaps you feel as strong-armed into this marriage as she does. Do you resent being shackled to her by a pair of pushy mothers?

She searches every hint of your behavior today in her memory, looking for some clarity on your opinion. Unlike Mikio, you had made no comments on her appearance, but she could feel your eyes lingering shyly on her when she wasn't looking your way. Were you staring out of interest, or distaste?

The door slides open behind her. Mizu squeezes her eyes shut, biting her lip in prayer even though she feels foolish. She'll never be able to admit to herself how much it means to her that someone out there might want her. You were kind at dinner, that must mean something; please reach for her, please show interest, please let it work out this time…

Your footsteps, her new husband’s footsteps, hesitate, standing a few feet back, as though watching her. Then, with a pit of dread opening in her stomach, she hears the steps turn away, and the shuffling of another mat being set out. Her breath hitches in pain, before anger sets in.

No. Not this time. She can't do this again.

She's not going to lay in the dark like a heartsick girl because a pretty man didn't reach for her in the dark. She wants it laid out here and now. She won't deny her ember for another loveless marriage. Not even for mama.

She rolls over abruptly, brow already furrowed.

You freeze in the middle of laying out the blanket, the whites of your eyes glinting as they widen in the dark. Your heart thumps to see the scowl on your new wife's face when she pushes herself up on one elbow to look at you. You had assumed she would not want your attentions, and would pretend to be asleep to avoid them, so you wanted to accommodate her–not as though you could ever lie with her anyway, not in the way you think she's expecting.

“S-sorry, did I wake y–”

“Am I unappealing to you?”

Her voice is different, somehow, low and raspy–nothing like the softer feminine tones she'd tried to use during the day.

Oh no. You stammer for a moment, frozen, unsure what to say, even as you feel a strange flutter in your lower belly. No. Definitely not… unappealing.

“I…I…What?”

Your eyes dart away from hers; do you dare to turn away and ignore her? Instinctively, you know better than to try and command her to hush, whether you're the “man” or not. The very air of the room tells you that you're not in charge, here.

Mizu sits up, still frowning, as dogged in her pursuit of the topic as she is with every other goal.

“It's our wedding night. Why do you want to sleep over there?” She tells herself she's not afraid of failure or rejection anymore; she already believes herself unlovable. But she's bracing for the words all the same. She wants you to say it, admit it, so she can feel justified in abandoning this duty to pursue her revenge. Tell me, she thinks, her eyes boring into you piercingly. Tell me the truth so I can be set free.

For a moment, there's silence, as you meet her gaze, looking stricken. She thinks–at first–that it’s because you're too kind to want to hurt her with the truth.

Internally, you're panicking. What if the truth makes her leave, and your parents turn on you for ruining this? What if she tells her mother, who spreads it across the region via gossip? What if she simply pounds you into a pulp for deceiving her? You saw her lean, muscled arms as she carried in her luggage–she's more than capable.

You’re about to invent some excuse, some lie to buy yourself another night, when you see the barest hint of a flicker in her eyes. Old pain, buried beneath anger and bold demand. What did her last husband say to her, you wonder. You know the humiliation you felt when the word spread that multiple fathers called you undesirable for their daughters. Did she hear the similar rumors that she was somehow undesirable? You feel suddenly sorry for her, stuck with you– a husband that can't give her what a husband should.

At least you can give her the truth.

You look away, sucking in a deep breath.

“I can't… be a husband to you.” Your voice is hushed, the tone cracking at the edges. She takes it exactly the wrong way.

“Because I am ugly to you.” She says flatly, fighting to conceal the sting of hearing her fears confirmed, but then your head snaps around to meet her gaze. So she has heard the rumors, you think.

You have no idea how often she has.

“No!” You exclaim, and the earnestness in your voice disarms her, makes her believe that you mean it even when it seems impossible. “No. You're… you're not at all… you're very–…any man should be proud to have you as a wife.” Your words are a shock, making her heart speed up rapidly as you stammer. Even in the dark, she can tell that you've started to blush, and the ice building in her chest cracks ever so slightly as her own face warms. She can't meet your eyes, suddenly…but then, you’re looking away, too.

“Don't lie.” But her voice wavers uncertainly. She recalls Mikio’s revulsion, his utter refusal to ever look at her again. You're only saying that because you haven't seen the real her, yet.

You shake your head, hands trembling. She deserves to know the truth. But the confession sticks in your throat.

“You deserve better than this,” you mutter, sinking down on your sleeping mat criss-cross, putting your head in your hands. The strangeness of that response gets her attention again.

Mizu stares at you, confused. She deserves-...? She feels suddenly cold as the thought strikes her that you could be feeling an attack of a guilty conscience. Is this all a setup? Were you going to turn her in, but now you feel badly? Was this all a trap?

You’re looking down between your fingers, so a tiny rustle is all the warning you get. You yelp aloud when a sudden weight tackles you to the mat, and she claps a hand over your mouth to silence the noise, both of your other wrists grasped easily in her other hand. Pinned, you’re left staring up at Mizu’s abruptly fierce expression in shock. Despite your alarm, there's a sudden, illogical stab of something squirmy in your lower belly. Her eyes catch the moonlight through the paper windows, gleaming like clear ice in the dark, all shadows and pale blue. This-... this is what was missing from those other girls, you realize, even if you can't parse exactly what this is. She really is something amazing…you can feel your breath catch in your throat, a sudden twinge of mingled regret and desire choking you. If only you could be what a wife would want… you would be hers in truth if you could.

If she isn't about to kill you.

“Who did you tell that I'm here?” She demands, releasing your mouth to let you answer, ignoring her own mixed feelings at the way she can still feel the imprint of your mouth on her palm. Lying below her, your eyes wide and your hair spread across the pillow, you really are lovely. Almost feminine, with your delicate features and full lips. She feels an instant throb of desire, something that had never come on so suddenly or so fiercely in her last marriage. Damn it, she could have been so happy to be married to someone that looked like you. Why does she have to be who she is?

“What do you mean? Why would that matter?” you stammer, confusion dancing in the wide dark pools of your eyes. You've no idea she's got a bounty–you’re sheltered, your parents are wealthy, and don't concern themselves with tracking criminals.

There's something in your genuinely perplexed tone that makes her believe you. You're no fighter, no warrior, only something soft. She knows she would recognize a lie.

As her anger fades, she looks again from your eyes to the wrists that her fingers are wrapped around. Belatedly, with her heart seizing, she realizes that she's done it again.

Attacked her husband, frightened him. Her hands release their grip as she sits back.

Her eyes are stricken, wide with the remembered fallout; the harsh words, the silent packing up, mama’s unforgiving blame. Her heart begins to pound fast once more, certain she's ruined everything. Again.

You sit up, slowly. Seeing her wide eyes, a flicker of fear is building in your chest, too, for a different reason. Her distress seems almost like shock to you, as though she's seen something… You don't bind at night, did she see–...?

Fearfully, you tug the collar of your sleepwear more tightly together.

Mizu recognizes the motion instantly; recalls her own compulsive tugging… and why. Something clicks, cutting through her panic and steadying her. A suspicion, tiny but impossible to ignore, as she watches you look away, your face tight. Your soft-featured face, with that smooth, delicate throat–

It's not possible. The coincidence would be too…

Her expression shifts from guilt and horror to sudden focus. Again, she shoots out a hand, covering yours against your collar, gripping it tightly. You look up, prey-animal fear in your eyes.

“Don't…lie,” she says again, more softly, and the blue searches over your face like an illuminating shaft of moonlight. Your own eyes are luminous in the dim room, wet enough to reflecting the low light, even if men aren't meant to cry.

But… you aren't that, are you–and now she knows it.

—

You explain it all slowly, with your knees pulled to your chest. An instinctive shield.

“My parents… tried very hard to have a son to carry on the family line,” you whisper at the end. “But… after me…something had gone wrong. My birth made it so that there were no more babies. They only had me.” You hang your head, and Mizu recognizes her own guilt, that of a gaslit child, in your face. It stuns her, to see it in another, clarifying her own mother’s actions with sudden horror. She doesn't resent the freedom she's gained to seek her revenge, but in you, she sees that the disguise only came with more shackles. “So because it was my fault… they felt I had to make up for it.”

Anger curdles in her chest.

“It was the gods’ decision if it was anyone’s,” she says fiercely. “Not yours. You were a child.”

You look up at her, hope and hesitance warring on your face. In the silence, an owl cries outside, the haunting call drifting in through the open window. She stops, shocked by the impact of her own words on herself, hearing them said aloud in her own voice. It wasn't your fault. How long has she waited, without realizing, to hear someone say that to her?

“How do you know?” You ask, your smile growing crooked.

Mizu’s hands clench into fists in her lap. Only moments ago, she had felt certain to find herself rejected yet again, certain she would be slipping away before morning, finally feeling freed of obligation, having truly seen the proof that she could never live a normal life.

Now conflict dogs her conscience.

You see the consternation in her eyes, and though you could never know the reason, you rightly assume the situation is causing her some mixed feelings.

Hesitantly, you reach out, your hand covering hers.

“Don't lie.” You murmur her own words back to her, and she can't find a reason to fight the invitation in your gentle gaze.

—

You're astonished when she explains about her vow, about the similar disguise she adopted.

“But you're so beautiful,” you blurt out, unable to believe she could pass for a man, then flush when she meets your gaze with disbelieving surprise. A little scoff escapes her, but when you hold her gaze steadily, serious, she looks down.

“...I'm sorry,” she replies, stumbling a bit over the honesty. You smile shyly, your turn to be flustered, and she feels her heart turn over. Cute. It startles her to realize her attraction hasn't lessened now that she knows the truth.

“For what?”

“I nearly killed you just now. I frightened you.”

You remember the heart-pounding sight of her above you, her gaze glinting like a blade, teeth bared fiercely. The squirm in your belly has nothing to do with fear.

“You didn't hurt me,” you tell her reassuringly. “Startled me, only. You moved so fast. It was…”--hot–“...impressive.” You give a short laugh. “Perhaps you should be the husband. You're better at it than me.”

Belatedly, you see the flash of pain in her eyes. You have to be a boy, Mizu. Stricken at her expression, you begin to stammer out an apology, but she shakes her head, waving it away as though her moment of vulnerability is too uncomfortable to linger on. All she says is, “Being violent doesn't make a better husband.”

“No,” You agree, apologetically. “But I wish I could protect you the way you seem able to protect yourself.”

“I don't need protection,” she says, more harshly than she meant to. At your flinch, her brow softens. There's a little pause.

You draw your knees up, hugging them. “I guess you'll want to leave, now?” The thought is depressing, but hearing her speak of her vow, the spark in her eyes, you can't stand the idea of trapping her here as your fake wife.

“What?” She looks up, eyes widening.

“On your quest?” You clarify. “I would not force you to stay here, no matter what our parents say.” When she doesn't reply, only stares openmouthed, you add, “I can get you the things you need. We have money. I can get you a travel pass, a horse… whatever might help you.”

She closes her mouth, opens it–closes it again. She looks genuinely moved, the icy edge of her eyes softening as her hand convulsively grasps yours, gratitude bubbling up inside her; of the tiny number of people she has let past her walls, you are the first to ever offer even a scrap of encouragement towards her goals. To Eiji she was foolish, to her mother–selfish, to Mikio… well, even in the beginning he had laughed skeptically, and it had only gone worse from there.

But…

“I owe it to mama to make this work out,” she says with a sigh, though resentment burns in her heart. A disloyal voice mutters in her heart that Mama only wants her as a meal ticket, but she dismisses it.

“We could keep your mother here, while you get your revenge,” you offer, wanting to please her so badly, trying to hide your reluctance; already, you don't want her to go. Her hand over yours is warm, it feels so strong…it's the first time anyone besides family has touched you in any capacity.

She smiles ever so slightly, a rare moment of humor, tinged with the truth. “I could not leave you with them; you've done nothing to deserve such a fate.”

You smile gratefully, then bite your lip, thinking.

“Maybe you could…pretend to be me?”

Her brow furrows. “What?”

“On the travel pass–it would have my name. We could travel together, the husband and his new wife,” you expand on the thought, speculating as you go. “You can take up your disguise again when you want to, I can take it up when you don't… either way, all anyone would see would be a man and his wife, traveling legally.”

She's staring again. She looks so blankly dumbfounded that you begin to feel like maybe your plan really is that stupid.

“I'm the heir, remember? I can do as I like, technically.” You grin reluctantly, even as you heart thumps at the idea of your parents' reactions. You've never defied them this outrageously before, but since you're meant to be their son, it occurs to you that they can't protest without outing themselves or losing their heir. It's funny; you've never realized how much power you had, that they need you as much as you need them. Not until you had someone you wanted to help.

“I…I can make sure we have money, and I can stay out of the way…if we can afford horses, and places to stay it will be easier for me to stay out of danger. Maybe with bigger bribes, you won't have as much trouble…”

Still, she says nothing.

“...And your mother can stay here! My parents can't say you left me if we go together, not if they want to keep their son, so they will have to…care for her as an in-law…honorably…” her staring is really starting to make you nervous. “Mizu…?”

She lunges forward again and you freeze; only to feel those hands gently cup your face instead of squeezing your wrists. Softly, at odds with the quickness of her movements, she kisses you.

All your life, you had wondered what it would be like to be kissed; you had simply assumed it was a privilege you would never be allowed. You had no desire for men, and surely no wife would want to once she knew your secret…

It's everything you had never thought you would be allowed to have; her lips glide smoothly and sweetly against yours, lighting up nerve endings you didn't know existed, sending cascades of tingles down your spine. Despite the softness of it, there's an easy sense of control in the way she tilts your face with her hands, guiding you where she wants you, one callused palm sliding down to stroke over the skin of your neck, tugging you closer. You shiver at the muted strength behind that easy tug, how it pulls you forwards against her without the slightest effort.

There's a heat coiling in your belly that you've never felt before by the time she pulls back, her eyes searching your face.

There is a pause.

“...I don't want to sleep alone,” she blurts out, cheeks flushed. Your heart, already fluttering, begins to thump hard.

“Neither do I,” You say breathlessly, watching the way she smiles again, shakily.

You stare at each other, lost as to how to proceed.

“I…I don't know how to please a woman,” she says finally, her flush deepening.

“I don't know how to please anyone.” You admit.

You both stutter out a laugh, mutually nervous, but then the laughter fades to a charged silence.

Slowly, as if trying not to scare you away, she reaches out for you again, cupping the back of your head. This time the kiss is only soft for the first moments before it grows heated, hungrier, both of you relaxing into a desire you never expected to be reciprocated.

The swipe of a tongue over your lower lip startles you; it slips between your lips when they part on a gasp. At your tiny noise, you can feel her tense; she rises from sitting, to her knees, shuffling closer to you, her hand sliding down your spine. Without breaking the kiss, she guides you back to lie down on the mat.

This time when she looks down at you, the fire behind the ice has a very different burn to it, still focused like a beam of light all on you; no less of a thrill. Desire is written across your flushed features, easy to read…along with anxiety; this is all so new to you.

Long fingers stroke your cheek. The blue eyes are intent, focused as always, but determined on something more pleasant now. “I will take care of you,” comes the whispered reassurance. She presses another kiss to your lips, then another, pulling back to watch the way your eyes slowly lose their nerves and become hazy. Her gaze roves over your pretty features, down over the smaller frame beneath her. She swallows back her own nerves; she wants to make this good for you, better than what she had.

The neck. She remembers how good that, at least, had felt with-...no. She's not going to think about him anymore–not ever again.

It's easy to redirect her thoughts; the first brush of her lips against the delicate skin beneath your jaw rewards her with the sound of you moaning her name softly, sending a pulse of desire straight down through her core, more potent than she can ever remember feeling. Without thinking, she bites down, reveling in the soft skin yielding beneath her teeth. You grit your teeth to stifle your cry, desire pooling with sudden intensity between your legs at the little spark of pain.

“Too hard?” Oh by the gods, that raspy voice in your ear…

“Mm-mm,” you manage shakily, teeth digging into your lip.

“Tell me if it is,” comes the reply, firm voice breathless, lips already finding your skin again. Your fingers tighten against her shoulders as she buries her head deeper against your neck.

Her fingers are careful when they part your shirt, while you fumble nervously with the many, many layers of her kimono. She isn't exactly helpful, more interested in letting her long fingers map the contours of your body, finding places that make your fingers stumble and your body twitch. She leaves you to puzzle out her clothes, distracted and eager, so that you’re too busy to be shy…up until the moment her hands push your thighs apart.

You freeze with a gasp, your face going deep red so fast that heat prickles behind your eyes. Nobody has ever, ever seen you like this, exposed, openly desirous.

“Mizu…”

She pauses immediately, breathing hard. Her eyes are piercing, hungry. She looks…incredible. You've managed to get her down to her hadagi, with the base layer garment falling off one lean, sharp shoulder, her hair falling in a rich dark curtain around you both. She looks like a wolf crouched above you, a feast waiting within its grasp, predatory in a thrilling way. But then she looks up at you, and you can see that she's waiting–she's used to self denial. She'll wait forever for you to be ready. “We can stop–” she murmurs.

No. You shake your head, but you’re too overwhelmed to speak. I don't want to stop. Feeling desperate to make it clear, you reach out and take her hand, pulling it down to the pulsing ache at the apex of your thighs.

The touch is a shock to you, even self-inflicted. You suck in air sharply at the feeling of her hand, cool fingers against wet heat. Wide eyes meet hers; you see the predator flare again as the blue color darkens. Cute, she can't help but think, flexing her fingers against you and seeing you arch immediately, biting your lip to stifle your cry. So…sweet.

Once she's seen your face crease in ecstasy, she will take the time to disrobe, properly; she'll teach you how to touch her. She can feel herself throb at the thought of your face in flushed, shy concentration as your hands find the places on her body that ache to be touched. For now she straddles your thigh, pressing her heated core against it as her fingers press inside you, burying her grunt of pleasure in your neck as she feels you shift your muscles to press up against her more firmly. Even in the throes of losing your virginity, you respond to her pleasure.

It's nothing like what she knew before; as she brings you forward into submission, everything is soft and slick and easy, and there is nothing but a pleasure that builds on and on. She knows that for you, this is all you know, and she is determined that this is all you will ever know; easy pleasure under her possessive touch.

–

She wakes you before the sun is up, and you gape at the person above you. It’s still Mizu, but dressed as a man, her hair scraped back into a bun, only that one stubborn curl escaping. She looks sharper, more dangerous, and you feel a pulse of delighted attraction. No matter how you dress, you are stunning.

You pack as quietly as possible. By mutual agreement, you'll stay dressed as a man for now; it's easier to ride, and all of her kimonos are at least a foot too long for you. Besides, frankly, you have no idea how to dress or behave as a woman.

She looks over her shoulder at the house, seeming guilty, as you pack up.

“She'll be fine,” you murmur, taking up your reins. Internally, you think with some vindictiveness that the three of them will probably drive each other completely crazy, and they'll deserve it. But Mizu has honor, and duty, on her mind, and you want to save her the conflict.

“We can come back to visit, or stay, when you're done,” you offer, and she turns to you with a grimace. You have to laugh. You agree with the unspoken thought of how unpleasant that could be.

“Then we’ll settle somewhere new, when this is all over,” you promise her, your chest bubbling with happiness at the thought.

“Hm,” she grunts. Something about her male disguise in the light of day seems to make her more taciturn, more guarded from the soft openness you saw last night in the darkness.

But there's still a tiny hint of that same smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she glances sidelong at you from under the brim of her wide hat.

“How do you feel about raising horses?”

You smile. “How do you feel about becoming artists?”

Something about the word artist seems to brighten something in her eyes, even behind the glasses; she looks almost light for a moment at the prospect.

“An artist,” she says, low and contemplative, turning back to face the road, thinking with a pang of her sword father, how much she can't wait for you to meet him. “Perhaps that is my fate.”

#mizu x reader #mizu #bes x reader #mizu blue eye samurai #anon ask #blue eye samurai #bes mizu #bes #mizu bes #mizu x y/n #mizu x you #prose #wlw #bes x you

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