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euphoriaslux · 1 year ago

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two’s a party.

summary: you recently transferred to stanford, and decide to tutor a tennis player in your class. he has a friend. severe indecency ensues.

word count: 3.3k

warnings : smut, threesomes, f!oral receiving, swearing, smoking, drinking. slight cuck energy if you squint (i’m sorry ((no i’m not))). no challengers spoilers!

a/n: this fic got away from me big time but this movie has rotted my brain and as a result i have written utter debauchery that i will not apologize for. just had to get this out of my head, enjoy!

stanford science hall. monday , march 3.

You swear the last thing you’ll hear before your body is lowered into your grave is the process of lactic acid breakdown.

It’s 2:30 PM. Kinesiology 189 with Professor Wilson, a lanky middle-aged man with a PhD in exercise science and a half-grown beard that you don’t think will ever fully grow in, is almost over. He’s teaching Extended Studies of the Human Body in a humid classroom filled with student-athletes, most of whom are trying to stay awake, trying to hide that they’re taking a nap, or making no attempt to hide that they’re on their phones. You don’t really blame any of them, because the professor’s voice is so soft and monotone that it feels like he’s begging everyone to pay attention to anything but him. You’ve managed to stay somewhat on course with the thread of today’s lecture, the notebook in front of you filled with scribbles of incomplete molecular structures and somewhat legible drawings of the muscular anatomy of a hamstring.

This class is required for your biology major since you’re on a pre-medicine track. You don’t know why you’re doing it, the whole doctor thing, but you’ve developed a weird fixation for this class. The functionality of the body, how muscles stretch and tear with each movement, and how amino acids work to build them back even bigger.

And, possibly because of the tennis player who sits four rows ahead of you every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

His last name is Donaldson. You know because of the faded label on the massive bag he throws on the floor every time he walks into class, at least ten minutes late with a backward Stanford Tennis cap on his head. His first name remains a mystery, partly because he never talks in class, and mainly because you’ve made no attempt to speak to him. You like to think it’s because you’re so focused on the curriculum.

Professor Wilson knows your name, though, since you’re in his office hours every Thursday at 11 A.M. In part because he gives out most of the answers to his homework, and because you just transferred to Stanford your last year and very desperately need a letter of recommendation for medical school. Hence why you agreed to tutor a student with lower than 60% in the class during one of your meetings. And why everyone in the class was staring at you right now.

“... first come first serve, so reach out to her sooner rather than later.”

You give a tight-lipped smile, glancing around the room. Most people have looked away, back to their distraction of choice, but you meet eyes with the fluffy blonde-haired tennis player.

stanford library. wednesday, march fifth.

It’s 11 A.M., and you feel like your brain is about to explode if you look at another practice set.

“Hey”.

Your head whips around to the harsh whisper, only to be met with the blue-eyed mystery from your class. He has that large bag slung over his shoulder, with the end of a tennis racket peeking out of it. His hair is slightly stuck to his face, and his compression tee is slick to his chest like a second skin.

“Hi,” you whisper back. He smiles before tossing his bag on the floor and sitting in the chair across from you, either unaware of or completely ignoring the glares he’s receiving from the other students studying.

“You know,” he pulls out some kind of nutrition bar from his bag, unwrapping it and taking an aggressive bite, “for someone advertising their services, you’re pretty hard to find.”

“You’re in Mr. Wilson’s class, right?” you ask, hoping your subdued voice will remind him that he’s in a notoriously quiet place. He hums, pointing at you with his half-eaten snack.

“And I’m trying not to fail, but you didn’t leave your number anywhere in the classroom, and you bolt after every class. So how am I supposed to patronize your tutoring services…” he trails off, his volume the same level as when he walked in. You furrow your brows as he leans back into the chair.

“That’s when you say who you are.”

You feel a burn on the back of your neck as you tell him your name. He glances down towards the problem set you’ve nearly finished.

“How do you turn in any of those, I can’t get halfway through one of them.”

You pause for a moment before leaning slightly across the table to whisper:

“This new weird thing called studying. I think it just got approved by the CDC.”

“Very funny,” he shakes his head as reaches for your binder with your class schedule printed out on the front of it.

“Why are you taking so many bio classes?”

“Because I’m a biology major,” you can’t help the sarcasm dripping from your voice, and he looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, you’re making this too easy for me,” you raise your hands in conceit.

“I have practice every day at five so you can tutor me for like an hour beforehand,” he says before standing up, crunching up the silver wrapper and stuffing it into the front pocket of his blue jeans. You scoff at his sentence.

“Well, thank you for so generously fitting me into your schedule,” you roll your eyes, turning the page in your textbook. He grins.

“Tell the coach you’re there for Art. They’ll let you through.”

stanford tennis courts. friday, march 7th.

It’s 4 PM, and the California sun is sweltering. Your shorts feel like they’ve become a part of your legs, and your bag feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. By the time you make it to the tennis courts Art is already on the green concrete, shirtless with beads of sweat dripping down his face and chest. You hear his grunts as he sprints across the court, hitting the ball toward a slightly taller brunette with dangerously short red shorts. You watch them at the entrance for a few minutes, slightly entranced as the two play so seamlessly, as if they know every move the other person is going to make. You force your eyes away as you walk up the bleachers, stepping over leftover water bottles and chip bags to sit down and grab your notes from your backpack. It takes a couple more minutes for Art to notice you, yelling your name after he turns around to grab a ball his partner had hit particularly hard. You wave, and he says something you can’t hear to the brunette before the two of them jog across the courts and up the stands to where you are, blocking the sun as the two stand side by side.

“Who’s your friend?” you ask as you stuff the problem set you were working on in between the pages of your notebook.

“I’m Patrick,” he says, with a toothy smile and his ears poking out from under his hair. He has a bit more of a boyish charm to him than Art does, whose eyes are glued to his brunette counterpart.

“Are you in Mr. Wilson’s class too?”

Patrick opens his mouth to answer but Art speaks first, slightly pushing his friend with his shoulder as he says “He doesn’t go to Stanford, too busy being a tennis pro.”

Patrick rolls his eyes but his smile doesn’t leave his face. You notice how different this Art feels from the one in the library, how direct his playfulness is and how close he and Patrick stand together, their sweaty torsos nearly melding together.

Interesting.

“Like, Andre Agassi level pro?” you smile as the two of them laugh. Patrick raises the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, and you can’t help but take a glance at the exposed skin just above his waistband.

“Sorry, he’s like the only tennis player I know.”

“No, no I’m taking that as a compliment that you think I’m on the level of Agassi. No takebacks if you see me play,” Patrick points at you.

“Will do,” you salute, turning over to Art.

“You ready to study?” you ask him as he makes a comically loud groan, his head falling back. Patrick laughs, reaching over to ruffle his friends hair.

“You do remember that’s why I’m here, right? Midterms are in two weeks.”

“I definitely have not forgotten that.” he says. You purse your lips just as Patrick’s eyes seem to light up.

“I’m staying at the Courtyard Hotel for the weekend. You two can come over and study, I need to review my last match anyway. Kill two birds with one stone,” Patrick suggests.

“Just studying?”

“Just studying,” Art says, wrapping his arm around his friend's shoulder. You glance between the two of them, trying to decipher the unspoken communication they seem to be doing. But you can’t crack it, so you shrug.

“Sure.”

“Let us finish this set, and then you’ll have me all to yourself. Sound fair?”

“Wow, what a privilege. Don’t take too long, it’s hell on Earth out here!” you yell the last part as Art jogs down the steps and back down towards the net. You look up once you realize that the sun is still being blocked, and Patrick is still standing in front of you.

“You ever play?” he grins, flipping the tennis racket in his hand.

“Tennis? God, no, that would not be a pretty sight. I’ll stick to what I’m good at,” you gesture to the books and notes in your lap. Patrick nods.

“If you ever want to learn, I could teach you sometime, you know if-” he’s cut off by Art yelling his name, and you both glance to see him with his hands on his hips.

“Go, don’t keep your boyfriend waiting,” you wave him off, and you swear you can see him blushing. Must have been the glare.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he runs toward Art.

courtyard hotel. saturday, march 8.

It’s 11 pm. There’s a cold shiver in the elevator as you wait to get to the fourth floor, your tennis shoes tapping against the floor as one hand plays with the handle of the pack of beer in your hand while the other crumples and re-crumples the piece of paper with the hotel room number Patrick scribbled on it.

what are you doing?

You don’t have time to think about the consequences of your actions as the robotic voice signals that you’re on the fourth floor, the elevator doors fluttering open. It’s like your feet have a mind of their own, as you find yourself almost mindlessly wandering through the hotel halls until you’re planted in front of room 4B. You raise your hand to knock on the door but before you can make contact with the wood it’s thrust open, and Patrick is standing behind it. His dark hair is slightly tousled around his face, his striped shirt unbuttoned and his black boxer briefs low on his waist. He’s smiling, that same big smile as before, but his face is a little flushed, a gentle pink hue touching his cheeks. The two of you don’t say anything for a few seconds, as if you were both testing to see who would concede first to acknowledge the other’s presence. You raise the pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in your right hand.

“I brought studying fuel.”

You were never good at waiting.

Patrick laughs before he moves slightly out of the way to allow you to walk into his room. It’s small, with a queen-sized bed and a tiny desk, and the A/C emits an odd rumbling sound as it smacks against the window. Clothes and scorecards are strewn across the floor, and the scent of cigarettes permeates the room. You place the alcohol on the floor before deciding to sit on the bed, kicking off your shoes as you cross your legs. Patrick seems to stall for a moment, smiling to himself before closing the door behind him. He doesn’t lock the door, but you didn’t notice.

“Art’s not here yet?” you ask, watching as Patrick walks over and tears open the cardboard case, cracking open a can. Taking a sip, he leans against the desk as he smiles.

“Art can be bad with time.”

“As I’ve noticed,” you reach your hand out to motion towards the drink and Patrick hands it to you, staring as you take a large sip.

“Well,” you wipe the side of your mouth, “I told him to bring the topics he wanted to study, so I guess we can’t do anything until he gets here.”

Patrick nods with a slight pout, his fingers playing with the pop tab of the can. “I guess we can’t.”

“How’s tennis… stuff,” you laugh as you finish the question, not sure of exactly what to say.

Patrick seems to tense a little at the mention of the sport, moving over to sit next to you on the bed. His knee grazes your leg and you feel a slight buzz at the contact as he takes the beer from your hand.

“I’m kinda fucking it up right now,” he says, and you furrow your brows.

“How? You were like, really good yesterday.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. He hands you the beer and you finish it off, placing the empty can at the bottom of your feet.

“I’m good with Art. It feels so fucking natural and easy with him. But in my other matches, I don’t know. I just … can’t replicate it.”

You nudge him with your leg.

“Sounds like you two were made to play tennis together.”

He makes a noise of agreement, his hands slowly moving to ghost over your thigh.

“You and Art are pretty close?” you ask as he plays with the bottom hem of your shorts, but he doesn’t say anything. You take his silence as a yes.

“Do you ever get jealous?”

“Of Art?” he asks, almost incredulously. You shrug.

“Yeah, or jealous of the girls he’s with. Either or.”

Patrick sits on that for a few moments before smirking.

“What’s mine is mine, and what’s his is mine.”

You laugh at that, a real deep laugh, and Patrick giggles next to you, the both of you tipsy from the can of beer you finished. You reach over and put your hand on his flushed face, rubbing your hand across his cheek.

“What were you doing before I came?” you feel his face warm even more against your skin as you position yourself closer to him.

“Practicing- or, sorry, rereading my scorecards from my last match.”

You tutted as you moved your hand to the back of his neck, gently running your hands through his hair.

“You can tell me the truth, Patrick.”

He turns his head to press a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand before looking up at you as if to check if that was too much. Whatever your expression is gives him the confidence to move down to your neck, his tongue licking your skin.

“I think you know.”

You feel a pull in your lower stomach at his words, muffled by his mouth nipping at the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he sucks hard enough for you to put your hand around on his face at the pressure. Pulling his face up, the two of you stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and his eyes glance toward your lips. You wanted to wait, to make him beg and plead for it, but your body seemingly pulled you forward as your pressed your mouth onto his.

You were really quite bad at waiting.

He tastes like tobacco and faintly of the fruit medley in the dining hall, and you sigh as his lips interlock with yours and his hand grabs the back of your neck, pressing you into him. The kiss gets messy and hard, his tongue gliding over your bottom lip and into your mouth as you lift your leg to straddle Patrick, grinding into him. He whimpers into the kiss as his calloused hands drop down to the waistband of your shorts, hesitating for a moment before dropping his hand into your underwear. You grind just a little bit faster as his fingers press circles into your clit, covering your mouth with your hand as you moan.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as he uses his other hand to guide your hips, and your move your hands down to tug firmly on his hair. You can feel your climax building, the pressure in your stomach getting closer and closer to taking you over the edge-

You both jump at the sound of the hotel room dor slamming shut. Art is standing there, in that damn backward cap and a Stanford tee shirt as he crosses his arms over his chest, saying nothing as you and Patrick sit up straight, him adjusting his crotch and you smooth down your shirt, avoiding his gaze. Finally, the silence is broken by Art laughing.

“Christ, I’m not the cops,” he slips out of his slides as he waltzes over and opens a can of beer, drinking about half of it in one go. You look at him, and at Patrick, and then back at him, not knowing what the hell you just got yourself into.

“You want to fuck him right?” Art asks, and you can’t help your small gasp at how easily he said that. You glance at Patrick, hoping he’ll know what to say, but he’s just staring at Art.

“I-um,”

“So, no one’s stopping you,” Art cuts you off, taking a final swig of his beer and moving to stand directly in front of you. You open your mouth to try and explain, but before you can talk Patrick’s mouth is on yours again, his hand roaming your body. His grip is firmer now, his fingertips digging into the side of your stomach. He tugs at the bottom of your shirt and you separate, breathless as you pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. Patrick’s mouth moves down to your neck, then your collarbones, and then your chest as he reaches around to take of your bra, and you feel on fire from Art’s gaze across the room. As Patrick kisses down your stomach and yanks down your shorts, you turn over to meet Art’s eyes.

“Come here.”

Whatever resolve Art was holding onto crumbles as he quickly takes off his shirt and slips out of his Nike shorts, tossing his hat on the dresser. In a flash Art’s hands are on your neck, tilting your head around to kiss you as Patrick lifts up your hips so he can take off your underwear. Art’s lips are softer than Patrick’s but he kisses you a little bit harder, his hand cupping the base of your neck. Somehow, they both taste the same. You moan into Art’s mouth as you feel Patrick’s tongue swirl around your clit, rolling your hips into his mouth as Art’s cock presses into your back. It’s just so much so fast, and that familiar buzz starts to pool in your lower stomach.

“Look at him,” Art turns your head to Patrick and you look into his eyes as you cum, Art’s hands hold your head forward as a wave of euphoria crashes over you. Patrick’s hands are digging into your hips as he stares up at you and Art. Your chest heaves up and down as you try to catch your breath, leaning against Art as Patrick leans back up, his mouth a few inches from yours.

“Who do you want first?

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crushmeeren · 1 year ago

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Bakugou/Fem Reader/Kirishima

❥ All characters aged up/18+.

Master List Link

❥ Warnings; dirty talk, pussy eating, blowjobs, fingering, squirting, vaginal sex, Eijirou stuffs you ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

“Don’t be such a pussy. You know you can fucking do it, so do it.” Katsuki isn’t asking you. He’s demanding you. His jaw’s clenched tight and he speaks with a tone that says his patience is running thin.

Unfortunately for him, the harsh pep talk doesn’t quite motivate you the way he wants. You know it’s his way of being encouraging, but his efforts fall flat.

“Fuck off Kat.” It’s hard to speak when you’re panting so heavily. “God! I wish Ei was here,” you hiss crossly, gritting your teeth. Your sweat covered palms slip over your bare knees as you bend in half, desperately gulping down air, heart rate erratic.

Katsuki clicks his tongue behind his teeth, laughing. Which really sounds more like he’s mocking you as he taps his foot impatiently.

Clearly he’s not offended by your nasty comment.

“Why? So he can baby your ass?” He taunts meanly, lifting his chin up to stare down at you. He crosses his arms over his tank top covered chest, sitting up straight on the workout bench across from you as he stretches a leg out in front of himself. You throw an icy glare his way, choosing to ignore the jab for your own peace of mind.

Standing upright, you use the bottom of your muscle tank to wipe off the metric ton of sweat pouring down your face. The scent of your shirt is overwhelming and gross, causing your nose to wrinkle in distaste.

You’ve been at the gym with Katsuki for two hours. Two grueling, lactic acid filled hours.

The gym at Eijirou and Katsuki’s agency is relatively quiet and secluded, with all the equipment you could ever hope for. It’s a perfect place to focus on your lifting without distractions. So naturally, Katsuki woke up deciding today was the mother of all days to work on one rep maxes.

You’re both off work. Ei is out on patrol — so Katsuki can push, bully you into lifting as much weight as he wants. Which Katsuki swears it’s so you can’t run to Eijirou with “big ass doe eyes” and a pout whenever you get tired and want to go home.

So, here you are, stuck with Katsuki. He’s already hit a new PR and you’re working on yours. You’ve failed this weight three times already, and you could put your fist through the wall you’re so pissed off. Your glutes are on fire. Your hamstrings are on fire. Your lower back is on fucking fire.

Still, your boyfriend is ruthless. With his snarky attitude, it doesn’t take long for you to reach your boiling point.

“Kaaaat,” you whine, dragging out his name until he rolls his eyes. “I can’t do this today. Please, I just - I wanna go home. I wanna see Ei.” Tears of frustration start to sting and well up in your eyes and you sniff, adjusting the strap of your lifting belt tighter, avoiding Katsuki’s gaze.

An exasperated albeit fond sigh hits your ears. You take to fiddling with the hem of your stretchy biker shorts, irritated in your own lack of ability.

It sits in your chest like a lead balloon.

The bench protests as Katsuki rises from his seat, but you refuse to meet his gaze. Adamantly staring at a crack in the black mats that make up the floor, shifting from foot to foot.

You listen to his quiet footsteps approaching until suddenly black lifting shoes fill your vision.

Gently, a thumb and forefinger grip your chin. Katsuki tilts your head until you’re meeting his warm yet intense ruby red stare.

You deflate, becoming putty in his hold.

“Baby,” he begins, gruff voice infinitely softer now. “You are going to fucking lift this weight. You’re stronger than you know.” He’s overly confident, as normal.

Your lower lip wobbles, heat creeping up your neck and burrowing into your cheeks.

As infuriating as he can be, he’s no doubt your biggest supporter, fan, etc. Not counting Eijirou.

Katsuki’s unwavering belief in you sends goosebumps crawling up your sweat soaked arms. It ultimately convinces you to try again. You wrap your fingers around the wrist helping support your chin, feeling his steady pulse thudding.

“One more time and then we can go home?” You ask reluctantly. His lips curl into a smug grin realizing he’s won you over. Playfully, Katsuki shakes your head side to side, grip tightening on your chin.

“Yeah whatever,” he relents, rolling his eyes. “Ya know, if you hit this, I’ll give you a reward,” he says nonchalantly, trailing his hand down to snake around your throat with a barely there pressure.

“What kind of reward?” You eye him suspiciously. Although, you’d be remiss to deny the anticipation his words bring.

He leans into your personal space, smirking like the Cheshire cat. It gives you a close up of the golden brown freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose.

The air between you sparks dangerously. Warm like the left over embers of a bonfire.

“How bout, I eat that cunt till you’re squirting all over my face, yeah?” He purrs, squeezing your throat a bit harsher.

You grab his tank top with both hands, inhaling sharply. Katsuki’s tone of voice, his words - your entire body flashes hot within the second. “Oh?” You squeak out, trying to ground yourself while you’re this close to him.

Katsuki pushes in until his soft lips brush your ear lobe, tickling you pleasantly. He slips two fingers into the top of your lifting belt, tugging you to his chest.

“Fuck yes. I’ll get you so soft, so goddamn pliant, that Ei will just slip right into your pussy when he gets home,” he whispers huskily.

“Oh god,” you groan, letting your forehead thump onto his collar bone. You fist his shirt until your knuckles are white, a blistering heat gathering in your belly.

Katsuki snickers, placing a kiss to your jaw and pulling back to force your head up, leveling his gaze with yours. “C’mon baby, you know how much Ei loves that. So, why don’t you be a good girl, hit this lift and let me take your ass home.”

With that he’s gone. Leaving you to soak in the offer, causally making his way back to the bench. Your hands linger mid air where they held his tank top, blinking rapidly as you watch him — mind blown, shattered, melted.

He sends you a pointed look to say “hurry the hell up”, resting his left hand on the seat to hold his weight.

You breeze through your personal record the very next try.

One steamy, rushed shower later — you’re spread open wide, entirely bare and resting on your back. The cool sheets on your bed helping to soothe your sweltering skin.

You’re not alone. Katsuki’s naked too, comfortably laid out on his belly between your thighs. He’s lazily pumping two fingers in and out of your drooling pussy, paying close attention to the lewd way you suck him in. Your yearning, insatiable, cunt strangling every coherent thought from his head besides the stunning view in front of him.

Katsuki reaches up to take hold of your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. He runs his thumb over your palm, keeping your focus trained on him, and casually rests your conjoined hands on the mattress near your hip.

Your low moan pierces the air when Katsuki sinks his canines into the delicate skin on your inner thighs. He gazes up at you through long blonde lashes while he marks you with dark reddish purple hickeys all over.

They ache and sting, pulsating dully, each new bite causing your pussy to flutter. It steals your breath away, the way he’s taking you apart.

Yet, you’re getting restless, squirming in the blonde’s hold. By now you’ve already sent a salacious video of you deep throating Katsuki’s cock to the red head.

Drool and precum had been dripping down your chin, cheeks flushed and eyes half lidded for the camera as you dragged your lips up his cock. Katsuki’s rasping moans decorated the background, hips rolling shallowly to meet your mouth. The two of you obviously played it up, wanting to seduce Eijirou, to tempt him into getting home quicker.

You’re proud to admit it works almost too well.

He instantly replied he’d be home in 20 minutes. That was about 15 ish minutes ago. You’ve already been made to cum twice since then.

Katsuki had let his release spill down your throat right after he clicked send on the video. Now he’s currently inching you towards a third orgasm.

You’re aware Katsuki’s going to make you squirt this time. The slight fullness and pressure building in your bladder is a telling indicator.

He’s also trying to his damndest to stretch this out until Eijirou gets home, craving for the red head to be his captive audience. You share his desire, longing for your currently absent boyfriend to just be here already. You desperately want Eijirou to fold you into a pretzel.

Nevertheless, it’s exhilarating how sweetly Katsuki’s treating you for the time being. He’s normally a bit rougher so this tender side of his is turning you to a pile of mush.

Slim fingers curl up into your sweet spot, stroking it lovingly, and it sends a warm shiver snaking down your spine. Your back bows off the bed with something similar to a keen falling from your lips.

“Katsuki!” You cry out his name. It sounds as sinful as a curse and as holy as a prayer, free hand bunching the silky sheets up in pleasure, skull digging into the mattress below.

“Yeah that’s right. Your pussy feels fuckin’ amazing, doesn’t it princess?” He purrs, tone almost patronizing, but he can’t hide the underlying simmering heat coloring his voice. His soft lips plant a kiss over your swollen clit and your blood buzzes.

“So — ah! So f-fucking good Kat,” you babble, eyes falling shut. It’s irresistible, the pull you feel to roll your hips in time with his thrusts. You’re almost feverish from it all, cheeks so scalding steam may as well be rising from them.

You cling to Katsuki’s hand even more while he edges your orgasm to the surface, intermittently kitten licking your puffy clit. You tilt your head, glancing down at Katsuki with half lidded eyes, slack jawed. He keeps his leisure pace, stretching the rubber band of your climax to its limit.

The blonde’s expression mirrors yours. Dilated pupils, red blossoming brightly over his cheeks and down his throat — lids so heavy they’re almost closing.

His stare is laced with a rabid want that you recognize all too well, and the sight of him occasionally rocking his hips down into the mattress sets your nerve endings alight.

It’s obscene, the way he chases relief for his obviously aching, full cock, smearing precum along the sheets below. He never fails to become drenched when he’s so badly turned on.

You stare briefly at the ceiling, knowing it’ll be over immediately if you keep leering at him. You’re already on the cusp of cumming. The slow, sweet buildup of it making your heart pound brutally behind your rib cage.

Katsuki rips a high pitched wounded noise from your throat when he suckles on your clit again, your free hand darting out to tangle and twist his soft blonde hair.

A fresh wave of goosebumps light up over your arms, a thrill racing through you as he devours you. Instinctively you cross your ankles over Katsuki’s upper back, huffing as your tits heave with the rise and fall of your breath.

You try to warn him, open your mouth to tell him you’re about to cum — but you’re interrupted by your bedroom door swinging open.

Katsuki halts his movements, your orgasm fading into the background as both your heads snap towards the direction of the door. You don’t have time to be upset about it because finally your other boyfriend is home.

Eijirou stands there in street clothes, broad shoulders filling up most the doorframe. His red hair hangs loosely, framing his face. The ends are dripping, remnants of a quick shower he must have taken at the agency.

Eijirou wolf whistles. “Well damn! What did I do to deserve walking in on a sweet treat like this?” Eijirou teases, crossing his arms and leaning his shoulder on the doorframe.

“Ei! You’re ho—oh fuck!” You begin to greet him but cry out when Katsuki brushes the pads of his fingers over your g-spot intentionally, startling you.

You untangle yourself completely from the blonde, leaning up and bracing your weight on your elbows. You shove at the blonde’s shoulder with your heel, half heartedly scowling at him.

Katsuki snickers, pillowing his cheek on your squishy thigh and slyly looking over to Eijirou. He looks quite seductive, scarlet eyes full of mirth. Eijirou laughs delightedly at the playful display, the sides of his eyes crinkling when he beams at you both.

“Oi, quit fucking around Ei. Take your damn clothes off and get your ass over here.”

You smoothly join Katsuki in egging the other on. “Yeah Eijirou, been waiting a lifetime for you to come home. Katsuki wants to put on a show for you.”

Katsuki barks out a laugh, wanting to deny it, but he can’t.

“Okay! Okay, I’m hurrying,” Eijirou giggles, cheeks turning a soft peachy pink. He wastes no time disrobing, pulling down the zipper of his hoodie to reveal he’s wearing nothing underneath. Eijirou ignores the over the top catcalls you both throw his way, mumbling under his breath and pretending he doesn’t love it.

He sheds the jacket, dropping it carelessly to the floor as he makes his way to the side of the bed. He slips out of his sweats just as shamelessly.

You watch Eijirou’s already half hard cock twitch when you reach out for him. He eagerly accepts it, kneeling on the bed next to your head. You look up at him adoringly, lips turning up into a smile that makes the apples of your cheeks twinge.

“Hi Ei, we missed you,” you croon, affectionately squeezing his hand.

In response, he bends down to give you a sweet kiss in greeting. It’s brief, but makes you feel like you’re bathed in sunshine either way. He pulls back, a question clearly on his lips.

“Wanna sit in my lap baby? I’ll get the best view of you that way,” Eijirou offers, entirely serious. He shuffles until he can sit behind your head, bracing his back on pillows and the headboard.

“You don’t have to ask me twice.” You scoot backwards until you’re able to slot in between his wide spread thighs, resting your own sticky back along his chest. As you do so, Katsuki chases you, inching forward, never letting his fingers leave the searing heat of your pussy.

“Oh fuck,” you laugh breathlessly, taking note of their presence. You tighten around him greedily, desire burning you to ash.

“Oh princess, look at you. Even more fucking needy now that Ei is home,” Katsuki comments meanly, digging his thumb into your puffy clit as he settles in his new spot.

A weak yelp leaves you at how sharp the sensation becomes. You feel the rumble of Eijirou’s laughter as it vibrates throughout his chest.

“Maybe I just want to cum,” you chide him. “You’ve been edging me forever.”

Katsuki doesn’t respond, just grins like he’s won the lottery, a bit manic, and sets a borderline violent, relentless pace.

The howl you produce is ear splitting. The sudden dynamic shift begging your spine to bend but Eijirou quickly cages you in. He wraps his thick biceps around your stomach, hooking his chin into the muscle just behind your collarbone.

“Be good,” Eijirou warns. “You wanted this yeah? Then let Kat do what he wants.”

You scramble to lock onto his forearms, nails dragging angry lines over his skin. You obediently nod along with what he tells you, starting to get the impression your skin is too tight to fit over your bones.

Your body bounces in time with Katsuki’s motions and the razor sharp points of Eijirou’s teeth threaten to pierce the delicate flesh of your shoulder.

Mercifully, your orgasm comes on like a freight train. In less than a minute to be exact.

Katsuki bullies your g-spot with a precision only he could possess, flicking his tongue over your clit in a steady up and down rhythm. Pleasure pulses white hot in your pelvis, threatening to prickle out all over your waiting body.

“Oh. Oh, I’m gonna cum Kat! Ei, please, shit!” you curse, head spinning, not even sure what you’re begging them for.

“That’s it babygirl, we’ve got you,” Eijirou coos, tone a 180 from a couple minutes prior.

You’re wiggling in his iron clad grip, on the edge of exploding. One more push is all you need. The stifling heat of Katsuki’s mouth envelops your clit once more, sucking.

Your toes curl into the sheets, all the muscles in your lower half tensing as your climax rips you apart. You hold onto Eijirou’s forearms for dear life, molten lava gushing through your veins like a busted dam.

Katsuki pulls his mouth away with a wet pop, punishing you with each slippery glide of his fingers. You don’t think you can take much more, crossing into over sensitive territory. It doesn’t matter though, not with the looming pressure on your bladder giving without your permission.

“You’re so hot like this baby. Now fuckin’ squirt for me,” Katsuki snarls. Eijirou’s cock kicks where it’s trapped against your lower back.

It’s too easy to bend to his will.

You’re soaking the blonde’s chin and wrist before you know what’s happening, liquid running down to your ass. His head jerks back, briefly startled, before his eyes get wide. Katsuki slows, lolling his tongue out to lick his drenched lips for a taste. He moans, pink flush traveling down to his chest.

“No more,” you complain, hips stuttering as you push at his forehead. You try to catch your breath, coming down from the high and become boneless on Eijirou’s chest.

“Good job sweet girl, you did so well my love,” Eijirou murmurs in your ear. His breath tickles your cheek and you lean into him, letting the red head smooth his warm palm over your belly.

Katsuki slips his fingers free, biting the inside of his cheek when your pussy desperately tries to keep him from leaving you empty. He rises up, settling back on his calves, and admires how drenched his hand has become. He arches one pretty blonde eyebrow, smirking at his boyfriend.

“Want a taste of her Ei?” Katsuki teases, wiggling his fingers at the red head. Eijirou hums his agreement and Katsuki surges forward over you, dangling his dripping hand in front of Eijirou.

Katsuki’s cock, hot and heavy, brushes your lower belly. God, you just want to drag him down by his slim hips, flip him over and ride him until he sees stars.

But you don’t.

The deep seated desire for Eijirou to fold you in half wins out. You tilt your head up just in time to witness Eijirou’s pink tongue dart out for a taste. He trails his tongue up Katsuki’s fingers, dipping into the grooves between. You shudder, simultaneously moaning with the blonde.

“Ei,” you interject brokenly. “I need you to fuck me, now please.”

Eijirou’s boner jumps against your lower back. “I can totally do that,” Eijirou responds, playfully pushing at your back. You laugh, looking up at Katsuki expectantly as he continues to hover over you.

“Yeah whatever I just wanna watch Ei fuck you silly,” he says with a wink. You swallow and it’s like your throat’s been lined with cotton balls. Katsuki retreats, loosely circling his fingers at the base of his cock and squeezing for some relief.

“C’mon Ei, I’ve been waiting for you all day,” you giggle, sliding down until you’re flat on your back again. You plant your feet on the bed, allowing your legs to fall open as wide as they’ll go.

“I won’t make you wait any longer baby,” Eijirou assures. He crawls down as Katsuki moves upwards, effortlessly switching places. Katsuki’s knees bracket your head as he maneuvers until he’s comfortable. If you glance backwards you’ll be met with the view of the blonde’s cock and his partially obscured face.

“Ready pretty girl?” Eijirou paws at the squishy spots of your thighs, inching close enough until he can part the lips of your pussy with his shaft. The pink head bumps teasingly into your clit, a jolt of pleasure startling you. You nod eagerly and bite into your lower lip.

Eijirou uses his thumb to angle his cock down to where your warmth waits to greet him, to suck him in like a vice. To clamp down around him until his brain is fuzzy.

He barely dips the head of his cock in once, twice — before finally applying enough pressure his tip fully pops in. The initial stretch makes you shiver, and as he fills you with the rest of his cock, you start to tremble.

Your pussy doesn’t offer even a hint of resistance.

You wheeze out his name when he bottoms out. Eijirou’s blunt nails leave indentations on the backs of your thighs as he pushes them a bit more towards your chest. His grip is bruising, licking his lips as he concentrates on being still so you can adjust.

You look down to where you’re connected, fists clenched in the sheets by your sides and your pelvis throbs briefly from just how big his cock is. Eijirou grabs your attention with a strangled sound, and your gaze flickers to his impatient expression. You nod, giving him the go ahead.

He runs with it, proceeding to carve out a space inside you just for himself. Glazed over eyes flutter briefly as your pussy pulses, choking his cock, and his lips part slightly, eyes glued to where you’re swallowing him. Eijirou rolls his hips, pulling back and thrusting in with a singular fluid motion, slowly working up to a rougher, faster pace.

Katsuki curses from somewhere behind you, voice low and ragged as he tells you just how “fucking pretty” you look taking Ei’s cock. You echo the sentiment, praising the red head as he shifts around on his knees and thrusts harder.

Eijirou whimpers, taking your ankles and lifting until your knees hook over his shoulders. He bends you in half, placing his hands by your head. A moan is punched out of your chest and you grasp as his shoulders, the jarring sensation of feeling like his cock is in your belly making you whine.

“Eijirou, holy shit! Please — don’t stop!” you beg, voice edging on a sob. Katsuki hisses in pleasure behind you, the slick, wet sound of him jerking his cock burns your ears.

“Anything baby, whatever you want,” Eijirou says with a breathy sigh, fucking you hard enough to bounce your body with each thrust. The smack of his skin against yours spurs him on even further.

Your pussy chases his cock every time he pulls back, not letting him go for a second. He fucks you until you feel high, and when you get impossibly tighter — he knows you’re cumming.

Eijirou talks you through it, because of course he does. He drags out your orgasm as long as he can, a drop of sweat falling from the tip of his nose into the valley between your tits. He admires the way your body releases all its tension as you come down from the high.

“Good girl, you cum so beautifully for me,” Eijirou praises. “I’m gonna cum inside you okay?” He’s panting as he moves, clearly hanging on by a thread.

“Cum for me Ei,” you murmur, trailing your hands up and wrapping your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck.

Eijirou moans as you pull him down into a hungry kiss, attempting to eat him alive. He whimpers into your mouth, shoving his cock to the hilt in your pussy, and a new warmth blooms inside you as your boyfriend cums.

Eijirou wrenches his mouth from yours to gasp, jaw falling open as he rides out the last few pulses of his orgasm. A high pitched whine slices through the gooey atmosphere and you look backwards to witness Katsuki’s gorgeous face as he reaches his high.

His eyes pinch shut, the muscles of his neck straining as he tosses his head back on the headboard with a thump. He traps the tip of his tongue between his teeth, partially muffling the next moan he can’t control.

Eijirou hisses when your pussy involuntarily flutters around him, staring at the blonde squirming with pleasure. Katsuki’s shoulders drop as he relaxes, chest heaving. His stomach is covered in cum, as is his chest. There’s even some on his cheek.

Reluctantly, your attention snaps back to Eijirou when he gingerly pulls his softening cock free. Taking a moment to track the way his release sluggishly flows from you.

“Enjoying the view?”

Eijirou glances at you in surprise, rubbing the back of his neck with a nervous laugh. “I always do baby,” he coos.

“Fucking sap,” Katsuki snorts.

“Hey!” Eijirou protests. You laugh, reaching backwards to slap Katsuki’s ankle.

“Don’t listen to him Ei, he’s just as bad.” Playful banter consumes the three of you as you enjoy the relaxed atmosphere.

Eventually, you manage to clean yourselves up. You and Eijirou easily convince Katsuki to cook and fill your bellies with food. While you wait, you sit at island in your kitchen, happily retelling Eijirou how you got a new PR today at the gym.

You don’t leave out the way Katsuki used dirty tricks and promises of sex to persuade you, which makes Eijirou laugh loudly.

Katsuki just raises his middle finger over his shoulder in return, taking all the credit for your lift either way.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou smut #kirishima smut #kirishima x reader #kiribaku x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #kirishima eijirou x reader #bakugou katsuki smut #kirishima eijirou smut #dividers by saradika #bakugou katsuki #eijirou kirishima

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luveline · 2 years ago

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could we get more bombshell!reader and spencer please?

for you lovely ♡ fem!reader

"Hi, gorgeous."

Spencer should've known it was you from the soft, sweet-hinted smell of your perfume, but he was distracted by the book in his hands. "Hey, Y/N," he says.

"You realise you've stopped walking? And that we're both quite late?"

Spencer blows out a confused breath, looking over his shoulders. He'd known where he was when he started but obviously overestimated his ability to walk and read at the same time. "I do now. Thank you."

"Oh, you're welcome," you say, voice like angora silk. "Let's walk together, yeah? That way you won't get lost again."

Spencer stammers at your fingers slotting between his, your palm as soft as your voice. Your touch, even, is soft. You curl your fingers around his like he's something precious and the two of you set off together toward the elevator for the BAU floor. "I'm sorry I didn't text you back last night, I was catching up on my beauty sleep, something you clearly don't need to do, and when I saw it this morning I thought I'd rather hear it in person."

"No, don't be sorry, I knew it was a long shot," he says, momentarily distracted by the (frankly insane) feeling of your hands swinging in tandem. You're probably the last person alive he wants a sorry from. You're beautiful, and you're always sweet, always interested in what he has to say.

You prove it. "I was sorry I missed it, Spence, I thought the whole lactic acid theory sounded interesting. Think you can squeeze it in before the round table?"

Spencer gives it a try. It's impressive how he manages to focus on two things at once, freaking out about your hand in his —so casual and so unreal— while explaining the twisting science of muscle soreness and fatigue. He nearly doesn't notice you pulling him from the elevator and into the office, but then he gets that sixth sense feeling like there are eyes on him, and he pulls his gaze from your (again, frankly insanely) pretty face to investigate.

Working with his team, the agents in the BAU office have gotten good at subtlety, but half don't even try to pretend they aren't looking at you. You, in your fancy coat with your cute handbag, and Spencer, ragged in a cardigan and shoes with worn soles, holding hands. You rub the back of his hand with your thumb, your usual sunny smile flickering.

"Sorry," Spencer says. "Uh, sorry, I didn't… People are looking."

"I know." You take your hand from his. "It's not professional, huh?" You force a smile, trying to seem unbothered, as though this whole holding hands thing doesn't mean more to you.

Spencer hates to play the profiler card, but it's what he is. He knows you genuinely wanted to hold his hand from the twitch of your index finger alone.

You've always had a way about you. You're confident and fun no matter how many knocks you take, but you're serious when you need to be and a brilliant agent. Spencer can count on one hand the amount of times he's seen that confidence knocked. He hates that it's because of something he did.

"I mean, it's not hurting anyone," he says unsurely, trying hard to keep his attention solely on you.

Your eyes widen, your perfectly powdered face alight. It knocks the air out of him. "Until Hotch tells me off."

"I'll defend you," he says. It's supposed to be a joke but his words come out honey thick, practically sticky with promise.

Spencer offers you his hand again. As soon as you take it, he starts pulling you with more confidence than he feels across the office and up to the conference room.

"Oh, come on, Y/N," Morgan says with a grin when he sees you both, tethered and smiling as you make your way to your adjacent seats. "You're torturing my boy."

Hotch raises his eyebrows just a touch.

"It's fine," Spencer says. "I asked her to."

Hotch's eyebrows rise higher. He stares for a moment before glancing back to the case file. "Well, fraternisation between employees isn't permitted. But I'm more worried that you're both late. Let's get back to the case details, please, JJ."

As much permission as you're going to get, Spencer squeezes your fingers under the desk. You can't hold in a laugh. The team shares a moment of disbelief at the disruption.

"Spencer Reid," Emily drawls, breaking the short silence with a smirk, "you rake."

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader

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soleauclub · 24 days ago

Text

The Scalp-to-Toe Guide for Girls Who Want Silky Everything

by Soleau Club / www.soleauclub.com

Let’s cut to it—softness is a power move. Silky skin, shiny hair, glazed lips, even smooth elbows? That’s not just self-care. That’s strategy. Because when your scalp’s flourishing and your ankles are moisturized, life hits different. You feel luxe. You feel aligned. You feel like the human version of soft lighting and whispery R&B.

Here’s your full-body roadmap to feeling silky, slippery, and scandalously touchable—head to toe.

Scalp: The Root of the Glow

A glossy blowout starts before the brush. Your scalp deserves the same energy as your skincare routine.

Weekly detox: Scalp scrub or clarifying shampoo to reset buildup.

Oils, but make it active: Rosemary or peppermint oil to stimulate growth and boost shine.

Scalp massage: Fingers or a massage brush—do it while watching Bravo or overthinking texts.

You’ll feel the vibes and the circulation.

Face: Like a Pearl, But Hotter

Smooth skin is built in layers—don’t skip steps.

Double cleanse, always. First to remove the world, second to nourish.

Chemical exfoliant > physical scrub. We’re team lactic acid, glycolic, or PHA.

Hydration sandwich: Mist → serum → moisturizer → oil (if you’re feeling extra).

Gua sha or ice globes: Because lymphatic drainage is the new face lift.

Finish with SPF like it’s your religion.

Neck + Chest: Stop Neglecting Your Décolleté

Your face doesn’t stop at your chin, babe.

Same skincare rules apply: Exfoliate, hydrate, protect.

Try a “mask extension”: Rub that leftover sheet mask serum down to your heart chakra.

Silk pillowcases: For your hair and your chest lines.

It’s giving “ageless heiress.”

Arms: Soft, Shimmery, Subtle Flex

Your biceps can be strong and smooth.

Dry brush before showering: Always toward the heart, always with intention.

In-shower exfoliant: AHA body wash or a sugar scrub (bonus if it smells edible).

Body serum: Yes, this is a thing. Think niacinamide, hyaluronic acid, or peptides.

Luxe lotion or body butter: Massage it in like your life depends on it. Because it kinda does.

Hands: Your Subconscious Status Symbol

Hands age fast, so treat them like the queens they are.

Cuticle oil on deck at all times.

SPF on the back of hands. Yes, even in the car.

Night treatment: Slather them in shea or Vaseline, then sleep in cotton gloves.

Bonus: Hand massage. Sensual and circulation-boosting. We love a win-win.

Booty + Legs: The Softest Power Play

Soft thighs, moisturized knees, and a peach that feels like satin? Yes please.

Exfoliate 2-3x/week: Use a body peel, mitt, or scrub.

Ingrown treatment: BHA + gentle retinol.

Moisturize while still damp: Lock it in, lock it down.

Glow drops or shimmer oil: Especially for a date, brunch, or any excuse to stun.

Shiny legs = main character energy.

Feet: Because Crust Is Canceled

Soft feet are the final boss of full-body glow.

Foot peel mask (biweekly): Warning: It will shed like a lizard, but you’ll emerge reborn.

Daily TLC: Pumice in the shower + thick cream before bed.

Sleep in socks like you’re doing it for your future lover. Or just yourself.

White polish or a nude chrome pedi? Always.

Being silky isn’t about vanity. It’s about energy. The smoother you feel, the more you float. The more you float, the more you radiate.

So oil up, gloss down, and glow on, babe.

Ready to go hardcore with your clean girl routine? Follow Soleau Club on Tumblr for more daily challenges, catch our YouTube videos every Sunday for new routines, and stay connected with us on TikTok and Instagram (@soleauclub) for all the inspo and accountability you need. For it-girl wellness accessories and free US shipping, shop online at www.soleauclub.com

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ilium-ilia · 3 months ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Five: the help of someone else feels foreign

tw: wound cleaning

Your ears are ringing again.

It’s torturous. Never-ending. Forever plaguing you the moment things should be quiet. It drones on like the engine of a car—a bug buzzing near your head. It’s nothing but a painful reminder that you survived, and continue to do so despite the fact you’ve never once deserved it.

Dehydration torments your mouth by the time you finally come to. Everything slowly fades in like the transition of a movie; poetic and painfully slow. The sting in your palms, the way you have to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth only to let out a confused, gargled groan. Everything feels too bright as mood lighting illuminates an unfamiliar red and black room. Lead heavy arms struggle to push your torso off of the soft, leather cushions underneath you as your muscles scream at the build up of lactic acid.

You blink at the foreign room around you. You’re resting in a lush conversation pit with throw pillows, but there’s no one to converse with. There’s no company but a bare glass coffee table in front of you and a chandelier overhead that’s darkened to its lowest setting. Taking a shot in the dark, you guess you’re still at Terminus, but something seems uncannily off about it. There’s no faint hum of brooding music or overwhelming chatter. Sour alcohol doesn’t fill the air—there’s nothing.

Despite the mental fog that ravages your mind, you feel surprisingly fine physically. There’s no pounding headache or churning sensation of nausea like after a long night drinking; there’s only a slight thirst for water and a throbbing sensation in both of your hands. Once you’re able to get your eyes to focus, you realize they’ve been tenderly wrapped in white gauze. Tiny, faint patches of blood have bled through it, leaving behind rusty brown spots like freckles.

Then, everything hits you at once. The ache that weighs in your chest. The backlog of adrenaline that tickles the sides of your spine. You recall Andrei. How you were unfortunate enough to run into him after making a wrong turn. You think of his warning—how he’s always warning you—and how Simon found you. You cautiously rub at your raw eyes, taking care to avoid messing with the gauze too much. Attempting to keep the frustrated sorrow stewing in your stomach at bay seems like an impossible task.

How do you keep messing up?

“Morning’ sweetheart.”

Flinching at the voice behind you, you cover your mouth with a squeak as you twist your body on the sofa. Simon towers over you at an odd angle as he stands outside of the conversation pit with a poorly made club sandwich in one hand, and a glass of water in the other. The sunken couch nestled in the center of the floor seems like a den—tucked away far out of sight from any reprobate eyes.

He steps into the pit with ease where he settles a comfortable distance away. Thankfully, he sits on your right. He holds out the glass for you to take, but you don’t miss the way his eyes wander over your face.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologizes.

“It’s fine,” you quickly dismiss.

You reach your hand out to take the glass only to realize you can hardly grip it with the gauze. Its pristine, smooth surface just slips right along the cotton, so you grab it with both hands as if it were a warm cup of tea on a bitterly algid day. Once it’s free from his hands, Simon dives right in for a bit of his sandwich before leaning back against the couch.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, mouth half full.

“Fine,” you reply with the glass pressed against your lips. Its cold liquid washes over your dry tongue, reviving it like a desert turned into an oasis. Your eyes flicker around the room once more, this time noting the rich, marble floors. “Where… where are we?”

Before Simon can answer you, he dives in for another quick bite of his sandwich. He’s hardly sat down and it’s nearly half devoured already. You think back to the food you brought him from work—the delicious capellini pomodoro—and how it’s nothing but a pile of goo in the alleyway outside. A pang of guilt rattles your chest at realizing how long he’s been starving for.

“One of the rooms Price saves for private occasions,” Simon explains as he wipes his mouth with the pad of his thumb. “You were a little out of it after everythin’ went down. Hardly responsive. Was worried, so I brought you here to help you calm down. Pretty much passed out the moment you sat on the sofa. Completely shut down.”

Ignominy rises in your face, searing your cheeks and the tips of your ears until it boils over into your stomach. The mental image of Simon having to lead you around the club like a zombie puts you on edge. You hate being vulnerable around others. Most of all, you hate how your vulnerability oftentimes isn’t a choice you get to make.

“Tried to clean up your hands as best as I could,” Simon continues. You look down at your palms and flex your fingers, testing the range of motion. The sting is dull, but still there buried deep beneath your skin. “I’m not a doctor, but it should keep you together for now.”

“I… thank you,” you whisper before pausing. “How did you know where I was? Or that… or that anything was happening?”

“Boys up front messaged sayin’ you were on your way,” he explains nonchalantly. “Took you longer than it should’ve to find me. Got worried, so I went out lookin’ for ya. Though you’d gotten yourself lost, and then I heard people talkin’ in the alley. Well, you know the rest.”

When you look up from your hands, you find Simon staring at you. His dark eyes are endless voids in the dim light of the room—endless but so warm. The muscles lining his jaw flex and relax as he chews and swallows his meal.

“You know ‘im? That cunt in the alley?” he asks.

Wounded hands reach for your chest as if you’re able to console the rabid pounding of your heart with touch alone. You recall Andrei’s eyes—the bored expression of his tone. How flippantly he deals with life. The soft warning soaking his words. You are very much aware how bad his bite hurts. It’s a bite you don’t want Simon to feel because of you.

“No. I have no idea,” you lie.

Simon stares at you for a little longer, eyes scouring your face for any hint that you might be hiding something. He reads through your features like he’s done it a million times before—like he’s already got every bit of you memorised. Constantly searching; forever vigilant. You don’t feel like you can breathe until he hums and looks back at his food.

“Shady stuff happens ‘round here more often than I’d like,” Simon admits. “Probably just another ugly wanker sniffin’ for some fun. I see ‘em here sometimes. Alcohol, drugs, and crowds breeds trouble. Probably gets a good kick outta intimidating women.”

“Good thing they’ve got good security here,” you quip. It’s smarter than what you’d usually say—you blame it on the anxiety.

Dark eyes land on you once more with a smirk. “Cheers.”

He finishes the last bite of his sandwich before sinking back into the leather couch with a sigh. Despite how put together he comes across, there’s obvious bits of fatigue eating away at him. Heavy weights pull at his eyes, making them more hooded than normal. Usually, you try not to stare too long, but there’s something wrong with him that your hazy eyes and anxiety riddled brain wasn’t able to notice before.

Even with his scuffle with Andrei, his hands are in remarkably good shape. No split knuckles or irritated skin. If there’s any wounds from the knife that was drawn on him, you’re not able to see anything. But there’s something off about his face. Asymmetrical. A gentle swelling of his left eye hidden beneath an old, long healed scar. Amaranthine seeps into the paleness of his face—a deep bruise sits at the crest of his cheek.

“Simon, your eye,” you point out as you lean forward.

Fingers absentmindedly reach up for his face as he gently prods at the wound. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Already iced it. I’ve been hit harder than that before.”

Guilt rips through you like a bullet rips through a brain—you think you’ve finally realized the gravity of the situation. This wasn’t just a simple run in with some bum on the street; this is Andrei. This is worse than Andrei—this is Marco.

Situations brainstorm in your mind as you attempt to mentally fabricate excuses. Some way to beg Marco to believe that this isn’t Simon’s fault, but yours. It’s too late. You can already smell his cologne and feel his hand on your jaw.

Back pressed against the wall—breath on your face—mint in the air—blood on linoleum—

“Hey, stay with me.”

A warm hand braves the clamminess of your fingers as your cup is removed from your grasp, forcing you to blink away your panic and focus on Simon. It’s an embarrassing habit of yours—this terror. Some days, when you’re not smart enough to keep yourself distracted, it grips you so terribly you can do nothing but freeze. Let the world weigh you down. Sleep away the feeling until you wake up with little to no memory of what happened during your struggle.

But Simon is grounding. You focus on the scent of him; that faint but lingering nicotine—that fresh cotton. There’s a texture to his skin, something there besides the bruise. A gentle five o’clock shadow. Faint, silvery scars that dance along the bridge of his nose. The flicker of his eyes as he tries to read your face.

“Sorry,” you sputter. “I just… uhm…”

“I get it,” Simon interrupts before you can make a further fool of yourself. “Long night. We should getcha home. It’s gettin’ late.”

Your lips press tightly together as you force a breath into your lungs, praying your heart will steady. He’s too close for comfort, you realize. Heat radiates off of him like apricity, warming you from the inside out. Yet the look in his eyes is the softest thing you’ve seen for quite some time.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Thanks.”

It isn’t until you make it outside that you realize just how late you’ve been out. The faint periwinkle glow of the sky bleeds over the city as the sun attempts to break through the horizon. Around this time, normal people are getting up to start their days; enjoying a fresh cup of tea, and maybe a shower. Simon doesn’t say anything about the time, and neither do you. You don’t think you can handle any more guilt than what’s already eating away at you.

As Simon leads you to the car park, you find your eyes flickering to every poorly illuminated corner and alleyway. A part of you still fears that Andrei might be lurking, ready to pounce, ready to get revenge. You certainly wouldn’t put it past him. He’s done worse, and will continue to do worse. Yet, there’s no such boogeyman waiting for you, not when someone like Simon is around to ward them off.

Your pace slows as you near Simon’s vehicle of choice, and you feel your stomach drop at the sight of his motorcycle. It’s beautifully kept and maintained. A sleek black body reflects the flat sunlight, and the seat looks comfortable enough for cruising. Though you’re not too keen on driving what you consider to be a one way ticket to the hospital, you’d rather face your chances on that with Simon than sitting through a miserable ride on public transit.

“Here,” Simon says, pulling you out of your thoughts. When you turn to face him, you find his shoulders flexing as he slides his leather jacket off of his torso. He holds it out for you, already prepared for your arms to slip through the sleeves, and you bite your lip. “You’ll need this if you don’t wanna freeze to death.”

“Won’t you get cold?” you counter.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, sweetheart.”

You do your best to muster a look of disapproval, but Simon is unmoved by your expression, and instead shakes his coat, prompting you. Sighing, you give in and turn around to allow him to smother you in his coat. You try to remember the last time someone helped you get dressed, but you can’t. Something vague pokes in the back of your mind, attempting to convince you that you can recall some faint memory, but it feels false.

How long have you been like this? Taking care of yourself for so long that the help of someone else feels foreign?

“Simon?” you ask. Your breath swirls in a white cloud in front of you before it quickly sputters and dies. The warmth of his jacket bleeds through your clothes and into your skin, staving off the bitter frost that attempts to ravage your senses. “Can I… request something?”

He hums in response as he gently turns you back around to face him. His fingers fumble with the zipper for a short moment before he secures you. He sneaks his gloves out of the pockets of the jacket before giving you his full attention.

“Can you promise me you won’t tell Aelin about this?” you ask.

Thick fingers curl and uncurl as Simon shoves his hands into his leather gloves. He’s already got big palms and long digits, but the slight added padding of the gloves accentuates them, and you feel your mouth go dry again.

“Don’t want her to stress?” he concludes.

You nod, and he nods back.

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

There’s only a few more quick steps Simon walks you through before you’re ready to hit the road. Once your new jacket is fitted around your body, he makes you wear his helmet as an extra measure of protection. He’s got a rather large head, and it smells vaguely like sweat mixed with fresh shampoo, but he’s able to get it secured well enough. He fixes his long sleeved shirt around the edge of his gloves before swiping a black balaclava out of the jacket; something to protect his skin from the bitter wind you’re about to endure, no doubt. As he dons it, you try not to pay attention to the way it makes his eyes darken—as if they aren’t already intense enough.

Simon hops onto the bike and motions for you to follow after him. It takes a bit of wiggling for you to get comfortable—as he has impossibly wide hips to accommodate—but you settle behind him with your hands respectfully on your knees. The engine roars to life with a jolt, rough vibrations rattling your bones in the process, and you hope Simon doesn’t hear you squeak. Before he takes off, he reaches behind him and grabs your hand, pulling you closer to him and moving your arm around his waist.

“Hold on,” he barks over the rumbling.

So you do. You try to keep your hands covered with the sleeves of his jacket to keep them warm as he begins to pull out of the car park. The ride is smooth as he pulls onto the street, and he coasts along the pavement with ease. There’s not as much traffic as there usually is considering it’s an early Sunday morning, and you have a feeling Simon is driving under the speed limit for your sake. Despite the lower speed, the howling wind is loud enough to drown out the ringing in your ears.

You don’t realize until you’re about halfway home that you can feel Simon’s heartbeat.

It teases your fingertips; strong and steady, as if the cruise is comforting to him. Bright sunlight bleeds through your eyelids as you squeeze them shut and try to get lost in the feeling. It’s so distinct that you can almost convince yourself you can hear its reverberations travel throughout your body to meet your achy eardrums. You lean against him, chest pressed against his back, helmet resting against his shoulder, and allow yourself to wander. You think it’s the first time that your hands have stilled without driving you insane.

That comfort is ripped from you as Simon pulls up to your dingy apartment.

Silence falls as he kills the engine, and the two of you slide off of the bike where he assists in freeing you from the helmet before following you into the building. Neither of you say anything as you traverse up the stairs, fatigue too violent to fight off. This has been one of the hardest days you’ve had to endure in quite some time, and you can’t wait to fall asleep in the safety of your own bed and forget all about it in your slumber.

The moment you step foot into the flat, you’re tearing Simon’s jacket off, ready to be rid of the sweat stained clothes you’ve been wearing for the better part of the last twenty four hours. You hardly manage to get your arm free from the right sleeve before a stinging pain rips through your hand. You choke out a wince as you bring your palm up where you notice your gauze caught on the jacket. It would have torn free from your skin if it wasn’t for the dried blood welding it to your cuts. You make a foolish attempt to pull the rest of it free, but that only earns you another jolt of pain.

“Careful,” Simon warns. He grabs your hand and pulls you closer to him, preventing you from messing with it further. You stare up at him with heavy, dead eyes. “Let me help.”

Words bubble up in the back of your throat; sour ones that you have to force yourself to bite back as you allow Simon to help you for the umpteenth time since you’ve met him. He slips his balaclava off and doesn’t bother to fix his hair as he leads you towards the kitchen sink where his gloves quickly join his mask in his pockets. Your newly fixed sink turns on with a slight squeak as Simon wets his fingers and begins to rub at the space between your skin and the gauze.

Despite the refreshing sensation, it still stings as the water mixes with your fresh wounds, but it softens the scabs enough so that Simon’s able to pull the fabric free with little resistance. For the first time, you’re able to clearly see the damage done to your palms. Several deep, angry, swollen cuts line the meaty part of your hand, blending in with your palm lines. It’s hard not to grimace at the sight of it. You don’t think you want to know exactly what he had to pull out of your skin.

Simon’s thumb swipes over the cuts as gentle as a feather, and you find your eyes darting to his face. His cheeks are rosy with the November chill, but his eyes are glued onto your hand. It’s caring.

So caring that it makes you feel sick.

“I can come by in a few days to check up on it,” he says, eyes flickering to yours for only a moment. “You’d fallen into some gnarly stuff. Worried ‘bout infection.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Those words that you had to bite back earlier bubble up on their own volition, and they taste just as harsh as they sound. Even so, Simon doesn’t flinch. In fact, nothing about his stature changes at all. Maybe he’s used to the sting.

“Doin’ what?” he challenges.

“Why are you… Why are you doting after me?” you clarify. “My door, my sink, now my hands. I mean, you don’t even know me. Not really. Why are you wasting your time?”

“I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to waste,” he corrects as he begins to lower your hand. “Everythin’ I do is intentional.”

“But why?”

Simon doesn’t answer you, but his silence sings. The answer is written all over his face—hidden in the twitch of his lips and the glint of his eyes. Espial hits you square in the face, nearly knocking the breath out of you.

“Aelin put you up to this, didn’t she?” you ask, voice soft.

Simon drops your hand. “She’s worried ‘bout you.”

Just as soon as that discomfort hits, it fades into your stomach and disperses until there’s nothing left. Maybe it should hurt a bit more knowing that Simon has only been doing this on orders of your best friend. You know kindness never comes cheap, if it ever comes at all. Yet, relief overwhelms you in a violent wave. He has been nothing but compassionate toward you ever since the first time he met you—yet he’s not doing this because of you.

You don’t owe Simon Riley a damn thing.

“Yeah, she always is,” you humor with a dull titter. “Good. I’m… glad that you’re not doing this just for me.”

The sun is fully over the horizon by the time Simon leaves your apartment. There’s a deep, incessant ache that stems from his cheek bone, down the back of his neck, and all the way through his spine. He knows he should be used to it by now. His job has been full of nothing but perfectly timed violence, but it always takes a toll on his body in some way he doesn’t expect. He ignores the throe as he rides through the morning smog and bitter cold, and instead focuses on the events of the night.

There’s something terribly familiar about that man who accosted you in the alley. A malicious glint in his eyes that’s too dangerous for any run of the mill thug to wear. Simon wouldn’t have ever noticed if you hadn’t reacted the way you did. Paralyzed with fear, unable to do anything but freeze and throw up due to unbridled anxiety. When he asked you if you knew this man—this freak with his stony face and sharp knife—you said no.

He doesn’t believe you for a second.

Which is why he’s back at Terminus, hidden far back in the surveillance room, scouring through countless rolls of film as he witnesses the events of the night for himself. It’s grainy, poor quality, and stuck in black and white, but this stranger—now a freak with a broken nose—arrived at the club fifteen minutes before you did. Nothing about it seems fishy. It’s not some stakeout, nor is he waiting in the shadows to pounce on you like a predator. No, this is simple coincidence, and he vanishes out of the camera’s sight within seconds.

Then you arrive some time later, bashful and awkward as you talk to the bouncers at the main entrance. You set off on your own after a quick chat and make a wrong turn. Everything else after that, he remembers himself. Seeing it again doesn’t do anything to jog his memory, not even as the camera catches the man’s bloody face and freshly shattered nose.

He’s as much of an enigma now as he was before.

It’s just past eight in the morning by the time Simon decides he needs help. A deep burn irritates his eyes as he scrolls through the contacts on his phone where names begin to blur together in fatigue. Still, he finds the name he needs with little difficulty, and he’s impatiently awaiting an answer as he listens to the dull ring blare through the speaker.

“Hello?” a voice greets through heavy panting.

“Out of shape, Johnny?” Simon quips.

“Cardio day,” the man responds simply.

Simon hums as he leans back in the squeaky desk chair. Faux leather strains underneath the pressure of his weight, but he ignores it as his eyes focus back on the monitors in front of him.

“I’ve got an assignment for you,” he says.

“Pushing all the hard work onto me again?” Johnny teases.

“You’re more tech savvy than I am,” Simon deadpans. “Listen, when you come in tonight, I need you to find the name of someone for me. Get on cam five and look at the time stamp around one fifteen this morning. There’s a cunt leaving the alley next to the VIP section, and I need to know who he is.”

A quiet slurp followed by a loud gulp cuts through the static of the call before Johnny hums. “Right. Any physical description?”

“Bastard has a broken, bloody nose,” Simon answers.

“New dance partner?” Johnny chuckles.

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Right. Well, I’ll be in this afternoon working on a project for Price. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

“Good man,” Simon concludes.

The line goes cold seconds later, and there’s nothing but the strong whirring of computer fans to fill the silence. Achy fingers rub at his jaw as Simon rests his eyes for a moment. If that chair wasn’t so uncomfortably small, he swears he could fall asleep right then and there, but the storm of thoughts swirling in his head keeps him going.

You’re in trouble.

As for what kind, he’s not sure yet. All he knows is that he hasn’t seen someone that afraid since Tommy watched him slaughter a man while trying to save his life back in the butcher shop. He doesn’t know why his brother was so surprised to see that he—a butcher—was able to slice flesh so easily, but he didn’t like seeing that fear in Tommy’s eyes, and he certainly didn’t like it in yours. That primal, agonizing fear. He didn’t like how your brain and body seemed to shut down because of it, or how he had to all but carry you to safety so you wouldn’t have to pass out on the grimy ground.

Simon has no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, or why it seems to haunt you so maliciously, but he does know that he’s killed before and he’ll do it again if it gets you to sleep any easier at night.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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rawlsessential · 1 year ago

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Best Oil Control Face Wash by Rawls

Unleash the power of this Oil Control Face Wash, a game-changer in skincare. Crafted with a blend of natural wonders—Lactic Acid, Witch Hazel Extract, and Melaleuca Alternifolia Oil—this formula takes on acne and conquers excess oil. Hydration meets balance with glycerin and cucumber juice, while vetiver extract brings soothing relief. Elevate your routine with this gentle yet potent cleanser, leaving your skin flawlessly radiant.

Website: https://rawls.in/products/oil-control-face-wash-100-ml

#oil control face wash #hazel face wash #lactic acid face wash #sebum control face cleanser #dry skin face wash in india #cucumber face wash #lactic acid cleanser #sebum control face wash

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honeytonedhottie · 1 year ago

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lets talk skincare⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🎀

disclaimer i am NOT a dermatologist so to create this post i did LOTS of research and i'll link all of my sources at the end of the post. i just wanted to kind of put everything that i found in here so i hope its helpful 💕🗒️

HOW TO DETERMINE UR SKIN TYPE ;

wash ur face with a gentle cleanser, pat dry and wait for about 30 minutes. if ur skin appears shiny throughout then u have oily skin, if ur skin appears tight/flaky then u have dry skin.

if u notice a slight shine on your nose and forehead then you have normal skin. if you have a combination skin type, then the skin will get oily around the t-zone.

INGREDIENTS TO LOOK FOR ;

for skin with acne -> salicylic acid, benzoyl peroxide, sulfur and mandelic acid.

for dry skin -> lactic acid, hyaluronic acid, ceramides and glycerin.

for pigmented skin -> mandelic acid, niacinamide, vitamin C, and arbutin.

INGREDIENTS THAT U SHOULD NOT MIX ;

mixing retinol and vitamin C causes irritation, mixing vitamin C and glycolic acid results in over-exfoliation, mixing AHA and retinol causes extreme dryness.

INGREDIENTS THAT U SHOULD MIX ;

hyaluronic acid + ceramides = repairing skin barrier. niacinimide + salicylic acid = healing acne. retinol + niacinimide = collagen production.

GLOWY SKIN TIPS ;

use a cleansing balm to cleanse ur face to remove all the impurities from ur skin

use serums to hydrate ur skin

lather on moisturizer, dont put too much to the point where ur skin cannot produce its own oils, but you MUST moisturize

apply sunscreen everyday, not only on ur face but also on ur neck and hands

face masks 1-2x a week

get enough sleep, drink enough water, and steer clear of overly processed foods

SKINCARE DOESNT STOP AT UR CHIN ;

its important to take care of the skin on ur neck for SO many reasons because skincare doesnt stop at ur chin. ur neck reflects the first signs of aging, and its most susceptible to sun damage so show it some love!

use the same products that u use on ur face on ur neck also, moisturize ur neck and always apply sunscreen, lastly, use some retinol to build collagen.

HOW TO APPLY RETINOL ;

when applying retinol, use a pea sized amount. avoid application around ur eyes and the openings in ur nose, and use retinol in ur night skincare routine only.

HOW OFTEN TO USE SKINCARE ;

retinol should be used nightly (1-2x a week for beginners). hyaluronic acid should be used (2x a day). salicylic acid should be used (1-2x a week). sunscreen should be applied daily, no need to apply it at night and if u can, you should reapply it every 2-3 hours. vitamin C (1x a day in the morning).

SERUMS FOR UR SKIN-TYPE ;

for oily skin use -> salicylic acid, niacinimide and mandelic acid.

for dry skin use -> hyaluronic acid, ceramides and lactic acid.

for normal skin use -> vitamin C, glycolic acid, and retinol.

for aging skin use -> peptides, retinol and vitamin C.

for acne prone skin use -> salicylic acid, retinol, and niacinimde.

for combination skin use -> mandelic acid, niacinimide, and glycolic acid.

WHAT TYPE OF FACEMASK IS BEST FOR YOU ;

cream masks are good for all skin-types and it soothes and moisturizes. clay masks are good for oily or acne prone skin and it absorbs oil and controls shine. charcoal masks are good for oily or acne prone skin, and it deep cleanses and unclogs.

sheet masks are good for all skin-types, it nourishes and hydrates. enzyme masks are good for all skin-types and it gently exfoliates and brightens the skin. bubble masks are good for all skin-types and it hydrates and soothes.

gel masks are good for all skin-types and it provides a cooling effect. exfoliating masks are good for all skin-types BUT if u have sensitive skin then exfoliating masks are not for you. exfoliating masks remove dead skin cells and debris.

HOW TO LAYER UR SKINCARE ;

in the morning (cleanser + toner + hydrating serum + vitamin c + moisturizer + sunscreen) in the evening (double cleanse + toner + hydrating serum + retinol + moisturizer)

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haikyu-mp4 · 6 months ago

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Other plans

“Did ya hear about Hinata? Heard he got a girlfriend in Brazil, but I ain't judging or anything!” – @simpingdeadcharacters for my Gossip Event.

word count; 836 – gn!reader

“Shoyooo!” you yelled as you ran onto the sand, the heat of it under your feet barely affecting you as you took such quick steps until you reached Hinata. He opened his arms for you, spinning you around until finally putting you back down, quickly pressing a kiss to your temple. Most of his body was already covered in sand, so you absentmindedly started brushing some off his upper arm. For a second, you salivated at the sight of his tanned biceps, but you were quickly pulled back into the moment when he spoke.

“Took you long enough, slow poke. Ready for a round?” he asked, gesturing to the woman and her son who had taken the other side of the net. Hinata really would play against anyone who wanted to, and it was one of many things that made you fall for the man you now proudly called your boyfriend.

You squinted at the challenge and his teasing remark on you being five minutes late to the match, also making sure to politely greet today’s opponents. “I’m ready when you are.”

And so you spent another perfect day in the sun, playing until your sunscreen ran out. As you sat by the ocean this particular evening, you let your hands slowly rub across Hinata’s shoulders with the aftersun as the actual sun kissed the horizon, leaving the sky in a plethora of colours that you swore only Brazil could emit.

Hinata let out a small moan as you put pressure between his neck and shoulder blades, and you took the hint to keep pressing and help his muscles release the lactic acid. “You played really well today, you’re getting so good at setting,” you praised him, finishing the massage and leaning onto his back, arms hanging loose from over his shoulders. Hinata turned his head to kiss your cheek, nose brushing against your cheekbone.

“Thanks! Your spikes got better as well, but you still beat me on receives.” You chuckled proudly, poking his cheek in a teasing manner.

“I think we make a pretty good team.” Getting up off the sand, you offered him a hand and pulled him up, letting him take you under his arms as you two strolled to the small showers where the sand met asphalt. “You first, hot shot,” you encouraged, pressing the knob that made the water start, only for Hinata to push you straight under it. This water was always so cold, startling you as you squealed and ran back out of reach from the stream.

Hinata laughed, slapping his knee as if someone said the funniest joke ever. “You always fall for that!”

You huffed and smiled, swiftly taking the bag with his clean clothes, bolting onto the sand and towards the ocean. Your boyfriend ran after you on instinct but only realised what you were threatening him with when he saw you holding out his bag towards the water.

Luckily for you, you had lived there much longer and were much more used to running on sand, meaning you left Hinata in the dust for a while. The only problem was that your laughter made it more difficult to breathe, making you more tired, unfortunately slowing you down enough for him to tackle you to the ground.

The two of you tumbled onto the sand, aftersun sticking even more than your sweat had before, but neither of you seemed to care. Hinata smiled when he heard your laugh, tucking his face into your neck and blowing raspberries that always made you laugh even more at the ticklish feeling. Eventually, the raspberries turned into hot, open-mouthed kisses, making you move your head to give him more access.

“Let’s sleep at yours tonight, yeah?” Hinata suggested, and you adored the boyish look on his face when he lifted his face from your neck, pupils blown wide.

“But I miss Pedro,” you complained, giggling when Hinata rolled his eyes.

“I wasn’t planning on movie night with Pedro today,” he said, lips making their way down your neck and across your collarbone to the exposed part of your chest, then pulling your shirt down a little to explore further.

“Ahaa,” you hummed in understanding. “You had other plans?”

Hinata groaned as he finally detached himself from you, getting up off the sand and picking his bag back up where you left it beside you. “I plan on practising some spiking, if you know what I mean.”

The cheeky grin on his face made you slap his arm after getting up, knowing the suggestive meaning behind his words, but not making any attempt at rejecting it.

“Fine, I’ll come see Pedro another day.”

“Stop talking about Pedro when we’re discussing sexy time,” Hinata complained as you moved towards your bikes again, skipping the showers altogether in favour of bringing some beach home.

“Stop comparing my ass to a volleyball,” you countered, making him grin again.

“I can’t help it. That’s all I see.”

“Maybe I’ll just stay with Pedro.”

“Shut up.”

masterlist

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