sailornymph

[sailornymph]

𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐁𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐃, 𝐁*𝐓𝐂𝐇; 𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐇𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐍

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: they said “leave him”. that he’s dangerous, toxic, too far gone. but she didn’t want to be saved. she wanted to be ruined.

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: this is for the freaks (😜) toxic relationships, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, power imbalances, degradation, obsession, overstimulation, creampie kink, jealousy, light choking, light bondage, dubcon tones, and slightly morally dark dynamics.

𝐀/𝐍: on my way back home from a long road trip, bored out of my mind, so i am here, writing for you all. ignore the fact that i haven’t revamped yet, or started working on requests, because i procrastinate but i did create a taglist, with the upcoming theme, so if anyone is interested, here it is

♡ 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐀 𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐇𝐀

— he ruins you like it’s a lesson. every time. slow strokes until you’re gasping, moaning too loud, and clutching at his shoulders like he’s oxygen. he doesn’t stop until your legs are shaking, your voice gone, your pride shredded on his tongue.

— he doesn’t ask if it’s his, he tells you it is. every drop of cum, every twitch of your pussy around him, every bite mark on your hips. he claims you the way a clan head claims territory—forcefully, permanently, with no interest in who disapproves.

— when your friends tell you to leave him, you laugh. they don’t understand that when madara fucks you full and keeps his cock inside for hours, murmuring about filling you again the moment it leaks, that’s not something you walk away from. that’s something you pray for.

— his favorite thing is making you beg for what he’s already going to give. not because he needs it, but because he loves hearing how pathetic you sound when you admit that no one else can make you come the way he does.

— he eats you like punishment. like you wronged him by being this soft, this warm, this perfect. sometimes he holds you open with his calloused hands and doesn’t let up until you’re crying, he’ll look up, mouth drenched, and growl, “don’t run from what you asked for.”

— his hands are rough, and they stay on your hips when he’s inside you, anchoring you while he fucks you slow and deep until you’re cursing his name. he wants to hear it, wants your voice wrecked saying “madara, madara, madara—” like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

— you swear you hate how possessive he is, but you still ask him, breathless and aching, if he likes knowing no one else has ever fucked you this deep. and when he answers by pulling your legs higher and thrusting so hard the headboard cracks, you don’t ask again. you already knew.

you were warned before you ever laid eyes on him. don’t speak to madara. don’t look at madara. don’t let him see that you want him. but you did and now you’re paying for it.

his mouth is on your throat, teeth grazing your pulse, and your knees are already on the floor. he hasn’t even touched your cunt yet, and you’re trembling, soaked, aching to be ruined. he’s still clothed. armor still on. hand gripping the back of your neck like he owns you, because he does. you just didn’t know how badly until now.

“on your knees,” he said, and you dropped. no hesitation. not even a second thought.

he stares down at you with that smirk—the one that says he’s already won. and when he undoes his robes, lets his cock fall heavy and thick against your lips, your mouth parts without needing to be told.

“open wider,” he growls, and you do.

he shoves it in slow, just enough to hear you gag. then pulls back, spits on your tongue, and thrusts back in with a grunt. hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your jaw. he uses your mouth like it was made for this. like your only purpose is to swallow him whole.

you moan around his cock and his eyes darken. “you’ll take all of it,” he says. “even if you cry.”

and you do cry. your throat’s stretched, your lips swollen, drool spilling down your chin. you look up at him through watery lashes and he groans—low and guttural, like he’s trying not to lose control.

he comes down your throat without warning. deep. hot. filling. he doesn’t let you pull away. just holds your face there, cock twitching, and says, “swallow. all of it.”

you do. because you’ve been his since the first time he touched you.

he drags you to your feet like a ragdoll, flips you onto the bed, and spreads your legs so wide you whimper. your robe’s already gone. your cunt’s already leaking. your whole body’s trembling for him, and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

he slaps your pussy once—hard. “look at this mess,” he mutters. “and you still have the nerve to look me in the eye.”

you try to apologize. he doesn’t let you. just lines his cock up and pushes in, slow and brutal and deep. you gasp. arch. clutch the sheets.

he laughs. laughs, like your pain is his pleasure. like your pussy was made to be broken in half by him.

“take it,” he grunts. “you want to be mine? this is what it costs.”

he fucks you with no rhythm, no patience, no mercy. his hand on your throat. your legs around his waist. his name ripped from your lips over and over while your cunt clamps around him so tight he growls, curses, spits on your face.

you’re crying again. you don’t know why. maybe from the stretch. maybe from how deep he is. maybe because you’ve never come this hard from just being used like this.

he slaps your tits. grips your waist so hard you know you’ll bruise. and when you come again, sobbing, writhing, begging for a break—he flips you over and starts again.

from behind now, your face shoved into the mattress, your ass raw from his hand, your pussy sloppy from how many times he’s come in it.

“this is where you belong,” he snarls, thrusting so deep you see white. “under me. full of me. mine.”

you’re babbling. you can’t even speak anymore. just moaning, crying, nodding like a good little thing who knows better than to beg for mercy.

and he’s still not done.

he flips you again—onto your back this time—pulls your thighs apart, and watches as your cunt flutters around nothing. leaking. abused. perfect.

“say thank you,” he murmurs, jerking himself over you. “say thank you for letting me ruin you.”

you do. broken voice. dazed eyes. tears on your cheeks.

he finishes all over your stomach. your thighs. your cunt. rubs it into your skin like a brand, then slides two fingers into you again. “still hungry, aren’t you?” he whispers. “you were made for this.”

when he finally lets you rest, your body’s limp. you’re sore. dripping. raw, and he smiles.

“next time,” he says, “you’ll beg me to knock you up.” and you know he’s right, because you’ve never felt this alive. never felt this claimed. never been so sure that pain and love are the same thing.

and madara? madara doesn’t do soft. he does possession, and you never wanted to be saved anyway. not from this and not from him.

♡ 𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈 𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐇𝐀

— you thought he’d be tender. and he is… until he’s hard. until he’s kissed you slow, whispered something gentle against your cheek, then shoved you onto your knees and told you to open your mouth. itachi doesn’t ask. he guides. and you follow like you were born to kneel for him.

— he holds eye contact when he slides his cock down your throat. deep, controlled thrusts, hand cradling the back of your head like this is devotion, not degradation. he watches your lips swell, watches tears spill down your cheeks, and murmurs, “you can take it, can’t you? be good for me.”

— he fucks you like a punishment wrapped in silk. deep and precise, hips flush against yours while he presses your legs apart and keeps them there. he moans your name like it’s holy. like your pussy’s the only place he finds peace. and you cry for him, pathetic and trembling, and he smiles when you do.

— he’s not loud. but he talks. dirty, calm, devastating things. “so wet for me already?” he’ll ask, fingers dragging through your folds, thumb rubbing your clit until you squirm. “you were waiting for this, weren’t you? my good girl, always aching for it.”

— he fucks you full and then stays there. cock still inside, even after he’s emptied himself. he likes the way your body twitches around him, overstimulated and dripping. likes dragging your hips back into his lap just to see you tremble and sob out, “too much—please.” and he’ll kiss your shoulder and say, “just a little more.”

— he makes you beg, but only after he’s wrecked you enough that you forget your own name. spread wide. cunt swollen. voice broken. then he asks—what do you want? say it. tell me. and when you choke on the words, he kisses your wrist and says, “i already know.”

— your friends think he’s a saint. quiet. composed. but they’ve never heard how he praises you while you ride him, hands on your ass, cock so deep your belly aches, his voice like velvet as he says, “such a perfect little thing. look at how well you take me. all of me.” and when you finally come, gasping into his mouth, he doesn’t stop. he just holds you down and says, “again.” you stopped pretending to care what people think. the warnings, the gossip, the concern. you already know what he is and you love the way he ruins you for everyone else.

it’s always the quiet ones. the ones with kind eyes and soft voices. the ones who speak gently and fuck like they’re trying to erase you.

you knew itachi was dangerous from the beginning—but it wasn’t the way he fought, or the things they whispered about the missions he never returned from. it was the way he looked at you.

not like a man. like a warning. like he already knew how easy it would be to pull you apart.

he never kisses you in public. never holds your hand. never even raises his voice. but every time he’s alone with you, you’re on your knees with his hand in your hair, his cock in your mouth, and his eyes glazed over like he’s somewhere between heaven and hell.

he moans when you gag. when your mascara runs. when you’re messy and dripping and your throat spasms around him. he wipes the spit off your chin and says, “look at you. always so eager.” you don’t answer. not with words. just moan around his cock until he pulls you off and makes you say thank you.

he likes hearing it. your obedience. your ruin. your voice wrecked from begging. he pushes you face-first into the sheets and fucks you slow, not sweet. slow, like he wants you to feel every inch stretch you open. like he wants you to remember it when you walk.

“you can’t take it, can you?” he murmurs, mouth at your ear. “but you still open those legs every time.”

you nod, sobbing, thighs trembling.

he fucks you like he’s above it. controlled. precise. never rushed, never clumsy, always just enough to make you need more. but when he snaps, when the hunger slips through that calm mask—he’s merciless.

you try to pull away once. try to squirm, say you’re too sensitive, that you’ve already come three times,!but he just grabs your throat and says, “then come again.” and you do, you always do.

he fucks you until your eyes roll back. until your voice gives out. until your cunt clenches around him so tightly he groans, deep and quiet, biting your shoulder just to stay silent.

he pulls out just to watch your hole flutter. slaps your pussy once, twice, until you’re crying again. rubs his cock through the mess and mutters, “still so greedy.”

he finishes inside. always. slow thrusts, cock pulsing, tip pressed right against your cervix. he doesn’t say a word—just watches your face as you come again from the stretch alone.

after, he doesn’t hold you. he cleans you. fingers the cum back in when it leaks out, wipes your cheeks, brushes your hair back. “such a mess,” he murmurs. “but i like you this way.”

you ask if he’ll stay. he kisses your forehead and says no. you ask if you mean anything. he tucks your robe around you and says, “don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

he leaves you wrecked. body buzzing. heart bleeding. thighs sticky.

your friends tell you to run. tell you he’s using you. that he doesn’t feel anything. that he never will. but none of them have ever heard the way he moans your name when you clench around him. none of them know how it feels when he stares at you like you’re a puzzle he doesn’t want to solve, and none of them get to see the moments when his hands shake—just a little—after he’s made you scream for him.

you don’t want gentle, you want intention, control, you want the kind of man who fucks you like he’s trying to own your soul. and that’s itachi—beautiful, unreadable, devastating. and you wouldn’t want him any other way

♡ 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐀 Ō𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

— he doesn’t believe in luck. only fate. and fate brought you to your knees before him, wide-eyed and trembling, while he drags his cock over your lips and says, “open.” you do. not because he asks, but because your body know, this isn’t a man you deny.

— he uses your cunt like a right. bends you over, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your jaw as he forces your back to arch deeper. he groans when you clench. slaps your ass when you cry. tells you to shut up and take it when your thighs shake from the weight of him still fucking you open.

— he spits in your mouth before he kisses you. tells you you’re lucky he’s even gentle enough to do that. you moan for him anyway. needy. wrecked. already dripping down your thighs while he teases your clit with the thick head of his cock. “so desperate,” he murmurs. “you’d let me break you just for this, wouldn’t you?”

— he calls your pussy his. not sweetly. like something worse than a curse. like it’s something sacred and disgusting at once. “you exist to take me,” he growls, hips crashing into yours until you’re gasping, drooling, dizzy. “this hole, this body, mine. say it.” and you do. over and over. mouth ruined, voice cracking, eyes wet.

— you try to run once. or maybe you just needed space. he doesn’t chase. he drags you back. fingers bruising your hips as he forces you to your knees, cock slapping against your cheek while he says, “next time you leave, you’ll be limping for days. understand me?” and you nod, dizzy, because you already are.

— he fucks you through your sobs. not cruelly. but without mercy. overstimulated. wrecked. body trembling. you scream that it’s too much, and he just pulls you tighter and says, “then learn to take more.” and he means it. he fills you to the brim and keeps going, until you’re shaking, twitching, soaking his thighs and still begging for more.

— when you fall asleep after, raw, stretched, leaking. he lays a hand on your belly and murmurs, “if you’re not pregnant yet, we’ll fix that.” and you believe him. because he’s already claimed you in every other way that matters. you’re not his lover, you’re his altar and he fucks you like you’re the last offering he’ll ever take.

he never says it outright, but you know you aren’t supposed to be here. you weren’t born into greatness. you don’t come from power or prophecy. you’re just a girl who speaks too freely, walks too boldly, and looks a man like indra in the eye like you aren’t afraid of what you’ll find and maybe that’s why he lets you close.

he never touches you in the daytime. he watches. lets you speak, lets you laugh, lets you disarm him without even trying—but the moment night falls, when shadows stretch and silence settles over the compound, he comes to you like he can’t help it.

the first time he kissed you, it was with a hand wrapped in your hair and a growl pressed to your mouth. now, he doesn’t bother with pretense.

he enters your room late, the air still warm from summer. doesn’t say a word. just closes the door and reaches for you like he’s tired of pretending to be human.

you’re against the wall in seconds, breath caught in your throat, thighs parted from sheer instinct. he groans when he feels how wet you are through your robe. “you knew i’d come,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your neck. “you always know.”

you nod. you can’t lie. not when his hand is already pulling the fabric aside, when his mouth is already licking the swell of your breast, when he sinks two fingers inside you like he has the right.

“so fucking ready,” he breathes, curling them deep. “needy little thing. you wait for this all day?” you don’t answer, you whimper.

he drops to his knees and drags you with him. onto the floor, your back against the tatami, robe hanging off your shoulders while he yanks your thighs apart and stares at your pussy like it’s a battlefield he’s about to conquer. he doesn’t kiss it, or tease, he devours.

tongue deep, relentless, hands pinning your hips down while you cry out and arch into his face. he moans into you like the taste alone is enough to keep him sane. licks you raw, suckles your clit until you’re shaking, slaps your thigh when you try to close them.

“take it,” he snarls. “don’t fucking hide from me.”

you come hard—too hard—legs twitching, cunt clenching around nothing, tears slipping from the corner of your eyes. and he’s already untying his robes, cock heavy, flushed, thick enough to make you swallow hard.

“turn around,” he says. “face down.”

you hesitate, still dazed. he grabs your hips and forces you onto your stomach.

“i said—face down.” you obey.

he pushes in slow at first—deep, claiming—and your fingers curl into the mat. he’s too big, too rough, but your body knows him now. opens for him. aches for him. welcomes him.

and then he snaps his hips and all you know is pain and pleasure so tightly wound together they could strangle you.

“this pussy,” he grunts, fucking you harder, “belongs to me.”

he pounds into you from behind, hand tangled in your hair, pulling you up just to shove you back down. you’re drooling. shaking. sobbing into the floor.

he slaps your ass, hard enough to make you scream. does it again. again. until your skin’s burning and your cunt’s clenching around him.

“say it,” he growls. “say who you belong to.”

“you,” you choke out, voice broken. “indra—i belong to you—”

he groans and slams in deeper. he doesn’t stop even when your thighs go limp. doesn’t stop when you come again, clenching and crying, body giving out under the weight of him, he fucks you through it.

“i’m not done,” he says, low and cruel. “i’m not nearly done with you.”

he flips you onto your back and sinks back in, presses your knees to your chest, watches your face as he splits you open again.

you’re soaked. ruined. cum already dripping out of you.

he fucks you into the floor, over and over, until your voice is gone and your vision’s blurry.

and when he finally spills inside you—deep, hard, possessive—he stays there. grinding into you. filling you. he doesn’t pull out. he doesn’t let you close your legs.

he leans down, presses a kiss to your lips, soft and dangerous.

“you don’t need to be saved,” he whispers, breath warm. “you were made for this. made for me.” and you believe him, because there’s no one else in this world or the next who will ever fuck you like this. who will ever own you like this. who will ever make you feel this much like a weapon and a prayer in the same breath.

♡ 𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐎 𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐇𝐀

— he fucks you like it’s the only thing keeping him from snapping. hard, desperate, filthy thrusts that slam your hips into the mattress, into the wall, into his chest. doesn’t matter where. doesn’t matter when. if you’re wet, he’s already pulling your panties down. “don’t run,” he grunts, cock already stretching you wide. “you like it when i use you.”

— he says the worst things when he’s inside you. praises and filth twisted together—“look at this messy cunt. so fucking tight. made to be filled. made to be mine.” and the way he says it? like prayer. like blasphemy. like he’s thanking whatever god let him ruin you this way.

— his favorite position is anywhere he can see your face while you break. legs over his shoulders, ass slapped raw, tears pooling at your lash line while your pussy clenches around him. “cry for me,” he growls, voice ragged. “cry while i breed you.” and you do. every time.

— he spits on your pussy before he eats it. spits on your tongue before he kisses you. spits in your mouth while you moan around his cock because he wants you wet, dirty, obedient. and when you swallow without flinching, he laughs. “good girl. so fucking ruined.”

— he fingers you mean. deep, crooked, thumb on your clit while you buck and cry out. two fingers turn into three, then four, and when your back arches off the bed, he just whispers, “don’t you dare come until i say.” and when you do—because you always do—he doesn’t stop. not until you’re a mess on the sheets, twitching, sobbing, begging for his cock like it’s the only thing that can save you.

— and when he fucks you, it’s bare. always. “you think i’m gonna waste this load in a condom?” he sneers, rutting into you with so much force your legs go numb. “nah, baby. you’re getting every drop.” and he doesn’t just come inside you—he stays there, grinding into your overstimulated pussy until you’re choking on your own spit, mindless and stretched and full.

— you tried to say no once. just to see if he’d stop. but all he did was shove his fingers down your throat, drag your panties down, and say, “don’t make me remind you who this body belongs to.” he fucked you against the wall that night, your knees shaking, your voice long gone. and when he came inside you for the third time, he kissed your forehead and whispered, “now say it. say you’re mine.”

you should’ve left the first time he told you he wasn’t a good man. the night he grabbed your hips and said, “i don’t do soft,” you should’ve believed him. when he pressed your face into the sheets and fucked you like a promise, like revenge, like a man trying to forget who he was—you should’ve known.

but instead, you said his name like a prayer and came so hard your body forgot how to breathe. obito doesn’t make love. he takes. rips orgasms out of you with his teeth, with his fingers, with that cock that never stops, not even when you cry. he pushes so deep you see stars, holds your throat when you get too loud, spits in your mouth and mutters “good girl” like it’s a leash.

he doesn’t care if the door’s locked. doesn’t care if someone hears. doesn’t even care if you’re begging him to slow down. his hand snakes between your thighs and rubs your clit harder. “you want it like this,” he breathes, cock twitching inside you. “you want me to fuck you until you forget your name.”

and you let him. because somewhere along the way, you stopped caring about anything that isn’t his voice, his weight on top of you, the way he groans your name when you squeeze around him like you’re the only thing that’s ever felt real.

you’re on your knees, his cock down your throat, hands tied behind your back with the sash from your own robe. he thrusts slow, deep, both hands on your face like he’s praying to the mess he made. you gag. tears spill down your cheeks. your throat burns. he doesn’t stop.

“just like that,” he groans. “fuck, you’re perfect.”

he pulls out just to slap it against your tongue, thick and wet and angry, before shoving it right back in and holding your face down until your lungs scream. you choke. your thighs tremble. your pussy clenches around nothing.

you’ve never loved anything more. he fucks you into the floor after that. fast. mean. your ass in the air, legs spread, one arm still tied. you’re crying by the third orgasm, shaking, drooling, voice wrecked.

he doesn’t stop.

“mine,” he growls, fucking you harder. “say it.”

“yours,” you sob. “yours, yours—”

and that’s when he comes. deep. raw. brutal. he doesn’t pull out. he never does. just holds you down, cock buried to the hilt, watching his cum leak out of you while you twitch and whimper.

“look at that,” he mutters. “bred and still begging.”

your thighs are soaked. your brain’s long gone. and he still flips you over, licks into your mouth like he’s starving, and starts again.

he makes you ride him after that. legs shaking, cunt swollen, both of you sticky with sweat. he doesn’t move, just watches you fall apart on his cock, hands on your hips, eyes so dark they don’t look human anymore.

“don’t stop,” he says. “you wanted this. take it.”

you bounce like a good girl. cry like a ruined one. and when you come again, sobbing, collapsing into his chest, he grabs your ass and thrusts up into you so hard you scream.

you wake up the next morning full of him. sore. leaking. unable to walk straight. and he just smirks, kisses your temple, and says, “i could still go another round.”

your friends don’t ask where the bruises come from anymore. they know. they’ve heard the stories. seen the marks. watched the way his eyes follow you like a wolf waiting for his next meal.

they say you should be scared, but what they don’t know is how safe you feel with his cock deep in your throat, with his hand wrapped around your throat, with his name moaned like confession.

you don’t want to be saved, you want to be owned, you want to be broken open. you want to be his and obito’s never been gentle, but he’s always yours.

♡ 𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐄 𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐇𝐀

— sasuke doesn’t know how to ask for things. so he takes. takes your time, your breath, your body. takes you into his lap without warning, sliding your panties to the side just enough to sink into you while his eyes stay locked on yours—daring you to say no, knowing you never will.

— he’s not romantic. he doesn’t whisper sweet nothings or light candles. he grabs your wrist when you pass, shoves you against the wall, and fucks you like he’s trying to shut you up. he doesn’t even kiss you, just keeps his hand over your mouth, groaning low in your ear when you squeeze around him too tight.

— he likes to watch. he’ll pull out just enough to see your cunt stretch around him, to watch your juices coat his cock, to see the exact moment you break and beg for more. his smirk always comes slow, sharp. “look at you,” he murmurs. “needy little thing.”

— his control is terrifying. he can keep going until you’re writhing, crying, scratching at his arms. but he won’t finish, not until you say it. his name. your place. the filthy truth of who you belong to and when you do, when you whisper that you’re his, that no one’s ever fucked you like he does—he fills you to the brim and doesn’t pull out until he’s satisfied you know it’s staying there.

— your friends say he doesn’t smile. they haven’t seen the way his eyes flicker when you sit on his face, tug his hair, grind against his tongue like you were made for it. they haven’t heard the growl in his throat when you come, his voice thick and ruined when he says, “again. i’m not done.”

— he won’t say he loves you. but he’ll press his mouth to your bare shoulder in the dark, cock still buried in you, and whisper, “don’t fuck anyone else.” like it’s a warning. like it’s a vow.

— you used to think he was cold. distant. unreachable. now you know better. now you know how he sounds when he’s moaning against your ear. now you know how tight he grips your thighs when he’s about to come. now you know what it means when his voice shakes and he says, “you’re the only one who gets this.” and you don’t want to be saved, you want more.

you’ve been warned about him more than once. your friends say he’s too cold. too detached. a ticking bomb dressed like a man. they whisper that he doesn’t feel things the way he should. that the uchiha name is cursed, and sasuke is the worst of it—pretty, distant, and coiled tight with violence.

but when he touches you, all you feel is fire. he doesn’t show affection the way normal lovers do. he shows it when he lets you stay the night. when he hands you a cup of tea without a word. when he pulls you into his lap after a mission and grinds against your pussy through his pants like you’re the only thing that keeps his hands from turning to fists.

he fucks like he hates you. like every thrust is a punishment, a warning, a confession. your knees bruise against the floorboards, your voice hoarse from how long he’s kept you on your back, moaning, begging, letting him use your body to burn away everything he can’t say out loud.

“you like this,” he murmurs, breath ragged, hand locked around your throat while he fucks you through your fourth orgasm. “don’t act like you don’t.”

you do. dear kami, you do.

it doesn’t matter how many times you tell yourself to slow down. to think. to breathe. all it takes is his voice in your ear, that sharp breath he takes when your pussy clenches around him, and you forget your own name. all you know is his.

you’re sitting on his bed when he comes home one night, still bloodstained, his chakra sharp and unsteady. he doesn’t say anything—just looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense, then kisses you hard enough to hurt.

you taste iron on his tongue. you feel his hands clawing at your clothes like he’s starving. you try to speak, but he shuts you up with a rough pull of your hips and a growl of your name.

he fucks you right there, half-clothed, bent over the edge of the mattress with your panties ripped and your cunt already aching. one hand in your hair. the other gripping your hip so tight you know it’ll bruise. his pace is brutal. unforgiving. he moans when he hears how wet you are.

“this what you waited for?” he rasps, thrusting harder. “you let everyone else see you, but this part—” he slaps your ass, makes you gasp, “—this part is mine.”

you nod, desperate, dizzy, soaked.

he turns you onto your back without warning, lifts your legs over his shoulders, and pushes in deeper than before. your moans break apart into sobs. he doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow. doesn’t kiss you to soothe the sting. he holds your thighs down and fucks you until you’re seeing stars, until your voice is gone, until you’re clawing at his shoulders like you’re trying to climb out of your own skin.

and then he stays inside.

even after he comes. even after your body goes limp. even after you whisper that it’s too much.

his cock still hard, his voice still low and dangerous. “you’re not done,” he mutters. “i’ll tell you when you’re done.”

you can’t speak. can’t think. you just lay there and take it—because you’ve never belonged to anyone else the way you belong to him.

and he knows it.

when he finally lets you rest, he doesn’t say much. just pulls you close and presses his face into your neck like he’s trying to memorize you. you fall asleep with his cum still dripping out of you, and he doesn’t let go once.

the next day, your legs are sore. you’re bruised, marked, leaking. your voice is shot. you tell yourself it’s wrong. toxic. unsustainable.

but then he looks at you across the room—dark eyes soft for just a second—and you feel it again.

you’re not being destroyed, you’re being claimed. he never asks you to say you’re his. he just fucks you like you already are. and you let him. every time.

𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐒:

♡ 𝐈𝐙𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐇𝐀

— izuna doesn’t fuck like a man, he fucks like a curse. something ancient. raw. hot enough to make your legs tremble, mean enough to leave your voice hoarse for days. he doesn’t slow down when you scream. he grabs your ankles, throws them over his shoulders, and fucks you deeper because what else was that pretty little hole made for?

— he spits in your mouth and calls it affection. grips your face, leans in, tells you to open up like it’s a test of loyalty. you always do and he always smirks, dragging his cock through your folds and teasing your entrance like you’re nothing more than a toy he built himself.

— he doesn’t believe in gentle mornings. he wakes you up with his fingers already inside you, murmuring how warm and wet you always are for him. you’ll blink up at him, confused and drowsy and he’ll press his forehead to yours while fucking you on his hand, whispering, “you’re mine even when you sleep.”

— he’ll pull out just to watch it drip, then shove it back in with his fingers while you whimper, overstimulated and aching, and growl, “this pussy doesn’t get to waste me.” you swear you see stars when he says that. or maybe it’s just how hard he makes you come after.

— he can’t stop touching you in public. hands under your clothes, thumb brushing your nipples through your kimono while he keeps a straight face, voice steady as he says, “speak properly or i’ll fuck you dumb right here.” and the worst part? you believe him.

— he likes to breed you. talks about it constantly. fucks you full and stays inside, holding your hips while he whispers how good your body is, how you’re gonna take all of him, how he wants you leaking with his cum when the elders look at you. and you let him—because you’re already too far gone to care who knows.

— the filth comes easy when it’s izuna. he tells you you’re perfect with his cock in your mouth. tells you he’s proud of you when you cry from how deep he’s fucking you. tells you “good girl” like it’s a collar. and the more you lose yourself under him, the more you realize you like it. you don’t want love, you want to be fucked until you forget who you were before him.

you don’t remember what peace felt like before him. you just know it was quieter, emptier, easier to breathe, maybe. but now it’s his name stuck in your throat, his fingerprints pressed into your skin, his cum leaking down your thighs when you walk back into town like nothing happened.

izuna is never gentle. not with his mouth, not with his cock, and definitely not with his jealousy. he doesn’t like when you’re too friendly, too soft-spoken, too polite to men who aren’t him. you say it’s just manners. he says, “if you want something to fill that pretty mouth, you come to me.” and then he proves it, grabbing you by the nape and shoving his cock past your lips until your eyes roll back and your jaw aches.

he holds your head down and watches you drool around him. doesn’t let you come up for air until your throat’s fluttering from the effort. he calls it a lesson. you call it what it is: addiction.

you tell yourself you’re stronger than this. smarter. you remind yourself of the way your friends look at you now—worried, wary, whispering behind your back that you need to leave. that he’s dangerous. that he’s unraveling you.

but they’ve never seen the way he looks at you after battle. wild-eyed, breath heavy, dragging you behind the nearest tree with blood still drying on his hands. they’ve never felt what it’s like to be pinned beneath him, kimono shoved above your hips, cunt soaking, back arching as he fucks you like victory isn’t real until he’s buried deep inside you.

you moan his name, and it only makes him fuck you harder.

“say it again,” he growls, hands locked around your wrists. “say it like you mean it.”

you do. you say it until you can’t anymore. until it’s just broken whimpers and the sound of your skin slapping against his. you tell yourself he’s too much. too rough. too greedy. and then he slams into you and you cry out for more.

izuna doesn’t do aftercare. he does possession. cock still inside, hand around your neck, voice low as he whispers, “if anyone else ever touches you, i’ll slit their fucking throat.” he means it. you know he does. and you still kiss his mouth like it’s the only safety you’ve ever known.

sometimes, when you walk past the clan wives, they whisper to each other. they see the bruises. the limp in your step. they see the way he lingers behind you, eyes always on your ass, fingers pressed to your lower back like he’s reminding the world where he’s been.

they say you’re not thinking clearly. they say he’s ruining you. but what they don’t know is that you like it.

you like when he makes you ride him slow, hips grinding into his as he groans about how tight you feel, how soaked you always are. you like when he slaps your ass and spits in your mouth while you’re moaning for more. you like when he pulls out just to come on your pussy, then fingers it back in while you whimper and tremble under his touch.

he always laughs when you’re overstimulated. “you act like i haven’t done worse,” he mutters, pushing back into you without warning. “this little hole can take it.” and it can. you always do. even when it hurts. especially when it hurts.

he makes you say thank you after. for the orgasm. for the stretch. for letting you come at all. and when you do, fucked-out and tear-stained, he kisses you hard enough to bruise and tells you he loves you.

you think maybe that’s true. or maybe he just loves how you let him fuck the sanity out of you.

you try to act normal afterward. clean up. walk straight. pretend like your cunt isn’t raw from the way he kept you full for hours. but it never works. you’re always glassy-eyed. always dazed. always dripping.

and he loves that. loves ruining you in ways that stay.

once, you tried to resist him. told him you needed a break. told him your friends might be right and that scares you. he didn’t yell. didn’t even look angry. he just tilted his head and said, “fine. say it while choking on my cock.” and then he dragged you down to your knees and made you prove that you didn’t mean it.

you cried when he came down your throat. not because it hurt. but because you knew then—he could do anything to you, and you’d still beg him to fuck you after.

and he knows it too. he sees it every time you open your legs for him without being told. every time you go silent when he says, “mine.” every time your hands tremble and your cunt flutters just from the sound of his voice.

izuna may not be soft. but he knows how to keep you and you’re not trying to escape anymore. you’re too far gone to want saving. too full of him to want anyone else. too wrecked to remember who you were before he made you his, and that’s exactly how he likes it.

this may or may not be deleted, if i feel like this was too freaked out, when i wake up 😭

[sailornymph]

hi lovely readers <3

first, i just want to say thank you so much for all of the support. it’s been six months since i started this account, and i’m already at 700+ followers — which means the world to me. i see your requests, i adore them, and i’m so grateful for every one of you.

i’m currently thinking about doing a little revamp soon — going through and editing things, maybe even changing a few things around. i’m also finally considering creating taglists (which i’m very excited about!).

✨ i’ll be taking requests until tuesday ✨

i’ve also been thinking it might be fun to add a few more options for you all. while i do write mostly for my own enjoyment, i love being able to share with you too — so i might expand things a bit. lately, i’ve had a lot of requests for mha and bleach, so those may be added to the rotation soon!

feel free to message me anytime, and i truly can’t wait to share more with you all!

[sailornymph]

the shape of love; uchiha men

synopsis — you’re soft, shy, and far from the shinobi world they dominate, but to them, you’re everything and they’ll make sure you never forget your own struggles.

content warning — curvy/insecure fem!reader, body worship, teasing/flustering, reader blushes easily, age gap dynamics, possessiveness, oral, praise, light degradation, soft doms

requested via messages

♡ madara uchiha

— he notices everything; madara doesn’t miss a thing, not the way your arms wrap around your middle when you’re uncomfortable in your own skin, not the way you pull your clothes tighter to hide curves that draw attention. he’s a master of observation, a born strategist, and yet when it comes to you, his attention isn’t calculated. it’s instinctual. he knows your insecurities even when you try to hide them behind practiced smiles. and he doesn’t coddle. instead, he treats your body like it is sacred, never letting your self-doubt taint the way he sees you—always powerful, always his.

— his hands linger longer than necessary. he is not a man of idle affection, but with you, he becomes possessive in the most subtle ways. his large hands often rest at the small of your back, fingertips barely grazing the curve of your waist as if to remind you, this—this is his favorite part. and when he walks past you, he’ll let them skim over your hip, slow and deliberate, until your cheeks burn. he doesn’t need to say anything; he knows your body responds to his touch just as much as your heart does to his gaze.

— he uses his words like weapons—soft, cutting, and worshipful

“you cover yourself like you’re ashamed. if anyone should be ashamed, it’s them—for not being worthy of the sight.”

madara’s compliments are rare, but when they come, they crash through you like a landslide. he speaks low and slow, his voice dropping just for your ears, a private kind of praise that leaves you breathless. he loves how easily you blush, how he can reduce you to trembling silence with nothing more than a sentence. and gods help anyone who dares speak on your body with less reverence than he does.

— he’s extremely protective of your self-image

madara is not tolerant of your self-loathing. he’ll listen, sure, but the second you call yourself “too much” or “not enough,” something primal flickers in his gaze. he doesn’t comfort you with lies; he simply reminds you of how desired you are, how often he’s thought of bending you over the nearest surface or worshipping you until you forget the world outside. and then he shows you—over and over, until your thighs shake and your doubts vanish with your voice.

— he doesn’t want you small, he wants you powerful. your softness doesn’t lessen you in madara’s eyes. if anything, he sees it as a symbol of resilience—an echo of strength carried through blood and bone. he traces your stretch marks with calloused fingertips, presses his lips against your thighs like they’re altars, and tells you, “they called my clan monsters. you think i fear the opinion of people who can’t handle a woman with real presence?” he doesn’t want you to shrink. he wants you to take up space—his bed, his life, his legacy.

you’d never meant for him to see you like this. the mirror was cruel in its reflection—hips too wide, thighs pressed together no matter how you shifted, the hem of your robe catching awkwardly against the plush curve of your backside. the silk was supposed to be luxurious, tailored, beautiful. but all you could see were the places it clung too tight. the places it didn’t hide.

your fingers hesitated at the waist tie, debating whether to strip it off or wrap it tighter. and that’s when you heard it. the door didn’t creak. madara moved like a shadow, all presence and no sound.

“why are you frowning?” his voice, deep, rich, familiar—washed over you like gravity.

you froze. “i didn’t hear you come in.”

he took a step closer. then another. you could feel him behind you now, the weight of his attention far heavier than the robe.

“answer me.”

you didn’t want to. didn’t want to explain that your mother’s side always ran curvy, always had too much hip and too much chest, and you’d spent years wondering if men looked at you with admiration or ridicule. not that it mattered. you weren’t brave enough to ask.

he lifted a hand and traced the edge of your reflection—his knuckles ghosting along your arm, your waist, your lower back. he didn’t speak. just watched you squirm.

“i don’t know if i like how this looks,” you finally whispered.

madara’s expression darkened. not angry, but something sharper, something that pierced through your shame like lightning through silk.

“and yet,” he murmured, his palm flattening against your belly, “i’ve never wanted you more than i do now.”

your breath hitched.

his lips brushed the shell of your ear. “you walk through this compound like you don’t realize what you do to me. to every man who has to look away or bow lower so they don’t offend me. do you not see it?”

you shook your head, too stunned to speak.

he turned you, slowly, until you faced him. his hands slid down your sides, resting firmly at your hips. “i see you hide. i see you shrink yourself, and i hate it.”

he dragged his gaze down your body, taking his time, letting you feel every ounce of that stare. “you are not too much. they are simply not enough.”

heat spread through your cheeks—furious, flustered, undeniable. you tried to turn away.

but he didn’t let you.

“you blush so easily,” he smirked, thumb stroking the edge of your jaw. “i could get drunk off this.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but he was already pulling you flush against him, letting you feel just how much he wasn’t pretending. his arousal pressed hot and heavy against your stomach through the folds of his robes.

“do you still doubt me?” he asked softly.

you couldn’t speak.

he dipped his head, pressing kisses down your throat, hands sliding behind to grip your ass with greedy reverence. “good. then allow me to remind you how divine you are.”

and when he laid you down that night—spreading you open with slow, deliberate care—you didn’t feel small anymore.

you felt seen.

wanted, his.

♡ itachi uchiha

— his quiet admiration is endless. itachi doesn’t compliment you often in public, but his love is written into every glance, every lingering brush of fingers against your sides. he memorizes the dips and curves of your figure like scripture. the quiet, intelligent way he watches you undress—slowly, reverently—leaves no room for doubt. he doesn’t need to say you’re beautiful every second. his silence speaks devotion. when you doubt yourself, it’s always him who steadies you—with a gaze that never wavers, and a voice that reminds you, “you are more than enough. you are everything.”

— he helps you reframe what “too much” means. when you admit you feel too thick, too noticeable, too soft, itachi tilts his head and asks, “too much for whom?” not in sarcasm, but genuine confusion—because in his eyes, your presence is balanced, grounding, magnetic. he tells you with unshakable certainty that strength and softness are not opposites. “the world praises bones and angles,” he’ll murmur as he runs his fingers down your curves, “but i prefer the parts of you i can hold.”

— he adores the way you blush—especially when it’s because of him. you’re so easy to fluster, and itachi lives for it in his own understated way. he’ll whisper something devastatingly suggestive in that low, velvety voice, only to act innocent moments later—like the flush on your cheeks wasn’t entirely his doing. his eyes narrow ever so slightly in satisfaction when you squirm, lips twitching upward in a rare smile. teasing you is one of the few indulgences he allows himself. especially when it ends with you breathless and blushing beneath him.

— he has a nearly spiritual reverence for your body. when itachi touches you, it’s like he’s praying. his hands are slow and sure, mapping every inch of your body with unshakable purpose. he kisses the stretch of your thighs, the softness of your belly, the curve of your breasts, like he’s cataloging all the things the world told you to hide—and telling you, wordlessly, i want all of it. every mark, every swell, every inch.

— he reminds you with his body what his words won’t always say. itachi isn’t verbose, but his actions leave no room for misunderstanding. he’ll lay you out beneath him and take his time worshipping you until your self-loathing melts into nothing. he’s slow, thorough, relentless in his affection. and when you’re gasping his name, tears gathering in your lashes from the overwhelming intimacy of it all, he’ll murmur, “this is how i see you. this is how you should see yourself.”

the fabric of your top clung to your body in all the ways you hated. it was supposed to be a simple night in—no missions, no pressure—but that didn’t stop your reflection from twisting your stomach into knots.

you tugged at the hem. the shirt refused to loosen over your hips. your thighs, warm and plush, touched even when you stood with your feet apart. and the stretch marks creeping along your sides? loud. glaring. you hated how loud your body felt in silence.

“you’re quiet,” came itachi’s voice behind you—soft, inquisitive. he was always so damn perceptive.

“just thinking.”

he approached like he always did. calm. unthreatening. his presence grounded you, but tonight, even he couldn’t stop the shame bubbling up in your throat.

his hands came to rest lightly on your waist, thumbs brushing against your sides in lazy circles.

“you were frowning.”

“i didn’t mean to.”

he paused. then, “you think poorly of yourself again.”

you stiffened. “i’m just… aware.”

“of what?”

you looked down. “of how i look.”

itachi turned you slowly, carefully, his eyes meeting yours. dark and unreadable. but something in them stirred—something warm and focused.

“look again,” he said simply.

you frowned in confusion.

he reached for the hem of your shirt and tugged it up, gently, exposing your stomach inch by inch. you almost protested, but his expression held no room for shame. only awe.

his hand slid over your bare waist, fingers grazing the soft flesh as though it were precious.

“do you think i do not notice you?” he murmured.

you blinked, heat rushing to your face.

“the curve of your hip,” he continued, voice low, reverent. “the dip of your back. the softness of your thighs when you sleep against me. it’s all i think about when you’re not near.”

his words knocked the air from your lungs.

“i know what the world tells women who look like you. i know how cruel the silence of comparison can be.” he leaned in, brushing a kiss just above your navel. “but when i look at you, i do not see lack. i see the kind of beauty that cannot be faked.”

you swallowed hard. “you’re just saying that—”

“no,” he interrupted, eyes sharp. “i don’t lie to you.”

his fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, easing them down. you trembled.

“may i?” he asked.

hesitantly, you nodded.

his kisses trailed lower, worshipful, slow. over your hips, your inner thighs, your stretch-marked skin. like every part of you was a verse in some sacred text he alone had been granted the right to read.

you whimpered when his mouth reached the place you ached the most, thighs instinctively trying to close. he held them open with firm hands.

“don’t hide,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “not from me.”

your skin burned. your body sang.

he took his time, tongue and lips working you open until you were gasping his name, your fingers tangled in his hair, your shame long since dissolved into pleasure.

when you came, it was with a sob. not just from release, but from the overwhelming weight of being wanted—truly, deeply, seen.

he held you after. silent. strong and you realized something.

in the hands of itachi uchiha, you weren’t too much.

you were just right.

♡ indra ōtsutsuki

— he’s completely unapologetic in his attraction. indra does not believe in hiding desire, and when it comes to you—especially your body—his admiration is borderline primal. the first time he saw you undressing, his gaze locked on your hips, on the softness of your waist, and he stared like a man witnessing divinity. he didn’t say you were beautiful. he said you were glorious. there is no shame in the way he looks at you, and no hesitance in the way he touches you. his attraction is loud, proud, and utterly unshakable.

— he believes softness is strength. to indra, strength is not only in battle—it is in carrying, enduring, and bearing the weight of existence. he sees your curves not as excess, but as the physical embodiment of everything he respects: resilience, warmth, fertility, softness that hasn’t broken under pressure. he traces the fullness of your thighs or the plush of your stomach and says things like, “this body was made to be worshipped. to be held. to be protected.”

— he loves how easily he can get you flustered—and he’s relentless about it. you can’t hide how easily you blush when he flirts or stares too long. it’s in the way your lips part when he praises you, in the shiver that races down your spine when he grips your hips and growls his approval in your ear. indra uses it to his advantage, whispering the filthiest things in the calmest voice until your face is glowing and your legs won’t stop shifting. his smirk only deepens. “you burn so prettily for me, little one.”

— he loathes self-deprecation and shuts it down instantly. the moment you speak negatively about yourself, something cold flares in his eyes. not at you—at the world that made you feel that way. “who told you that nonsense?” he’ll demand, voice like a storm. when you stammer through old insecurities, he pulls you close and speaks with the kind of conviction only a god’s son can carry. “you will never speak of yourself like that again. not in my presence.” and then he’ll make you feel as divine as he believes you are.

— has a worship kink the size of a mountain range. indra loves control, but even more than that, he loves devotion. and with you, devotion becomes worship. he wants to be on his knees. he wants his mouth on every inch of you. he wants to feel your thighs quiver around his face as you sob out his name. he gets off on seeing you unravel, to prove that no one will ever adore your body the way he does. “let me show you what the world should have taught you,” he’ll whisper. “that a goddess like you deserves to be revered.”

you tried to leave your robe on when indra pulled you into his lap. you sat sideways, thighs pressing firmly against his as his arm circled your waist. you felt… exposed. large. not because of him, but because of you. your mind spun in quiet self-loathing. too heavy. too soft. too much. and he was so ethereal—so sharp-jawed and otherworldly—that you felt like an echo beside him.

you tugged the robe closed tighter.

“don’t,” indra said, voice low.

you froze. “don’t what?”

his hand slid up your thigh, slow and firm. “don’t hide from me.”

you looked away. “i’m not.”

his fingers stilled. “do not insult my intelligence.”

your stomach turned. “i just… i’m not sure how this looks on me.”

indra’s hand curled around your waist. in one smooth motion, he shifted you so you straddled him fully, his large hands gripping the softness of your thighs and settling you right against the thick ridge of his clothed cock.

you gasped at the contact.

“this,” he murmured, voice steady, “looks like it was made for me.”

you blinked.

he leaned forward, nose brushing against your neck. “your thighs could crush me. your hips—gods, your hips—you were shaped like this to drive me mad.”

your breath hitched.

his hands explored you like treasure—reverent, firm, worshipful. every time you shifted to cover something, he stopped you. forced you to sit with the feeling of his touch.

“i have taken lands in my name,” he whispered against your jaw, “but none of them compare to the curve of your waist under my hands.”

“indra—”

“you don’t believe me,” he growled, hands tightening.

you shook your head, eyes stinging. “i’m sorry—i just… i’ve always been bigger, and people—”

his mouth crashed into yours before you could finish. not gentle. not soft. desperate. claiming.

when he pulled back, his pupils were blown wide. “you do not apologize for existing. you do not apologize for the way the gods carved you.”

his hands found your ass and gripped it, pulling you closer. “i want every inch of you. every mark. every place you think is unworthy.” he rolled his hips up. “i want to fuck your doubt out of existence.”

you whimpered.

“do i have your permission?”

you nodded, breathless. “yes.”

he laid you down on the furs like he was handling something sacred. stripped the robe from you inch by inch, growling softly when your full breasts spilled free. he kissed down your body slowly, hungrily, spending extra time at your thighs—praising their shape, biting gently at the flesh, whispering, “divine.”

and when he finally pushed inside you, it was overwhelming. he filled you completely, buried to the hilt as he held you still and whispered, “feel that? this is how perfectly we fit.”

he didn’t let you look away. didn’t let you close your eyes. he wanted you to see—to witness what he saw when he looked at you.

a goddess.

his goddess.

and by the time he had you screaming his name, sweat-drenched and trembling beneath him, there wasn’t a single piece of you left that doubted it.

♡ obito uchiha

— he never grew up with softness, so yours ruins him. obito was raised in a world of harshness: war, grief, expectation. but the first time he touched you—your hips, your thighs, your plush little belly—it broke something in him. the softness, the warmth, the way your curves welcomed him instead of rejecting—he became obsessed. you were comfort he never thought he’d deserve. his hands always wander to your waist, to your sides while you sleep, like he’s trying to ground himself in the fact that you’re real, and his.

— your body makes him feral, he doesn’t just like how you look—he craves it. the jiggle of your ass when you walk, the stretch of your chest in a low-cut top, the way your thighs squish when you sit on him—it all makes his brain shut off. obito has absolutely muttered, “fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” into your skin before burying his face between your thighs like a man starved. he gets lost in it. needy, panting, overwhelmed. he’ll tear your clothes if you let him.

— he teases you just to see you squirm. you blush so easily, and obito lives for it. he’ll lean in close when you’re around others, palm low on your waist, and whisper things like, “you know i was thinking about bending you over this morning, right?” just to watch the color bloom in your cheeks. the darker your blush, the smugger he gets. it’s how he distracts himself from the guilt and pain. when you smile shyly and swat at his chest, it’s the only time he feels peace.

— he has deep-rooted insecurities and gets protective when yours show. the moment you start downplaying your looks, obito gets quiet—but not because he agrees. it’s because he knows what it’s like to feel worthless. to hate your reflection and seeing you—his beautiful, thick, brave girl—talk about yourself like that makes him ache. he’ll climb into your lap, cup your cheeks with rough hands, and say, “you think you’re too much? i don’t even think i’m enough for you.” his pain cracks through, raw and real—and it always ends in soft, desperate kisses.

— he always ends up on his knees! whether he’s fucking you or comforting you, obito always ends up on the floor, hands gripping your thighs, face buried where you’re warmest. he’ll murmur confessions between kisses: “you’re perfect,” “i need you,” “don’t hide from me.” he thinks you’re ethereal. a miracle and he’ll prove it—tongue deep, hands firm, eyes full of need—until you believe it, too.

the apartment was dimly lit, the only light coming from the kitchen window where you stood in silence, fingers picking at the hem of your shirt. you’d changed out of your mission gear, and now you were regretting it.

the fabric clung to your hips. your bra strained slightly. your stomach looked too round from this angle. and the worst part? you could feel him watching you.

you turned your head slightly. obito stood leaning in the doorway—messy-haired, shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips.

you hated how beautiful he was. his gaze dropped once again to your thighs.

you crossed your arms. “what?”

he blinked. “nothing.”

“don’t say ‘nothing’ when you’re staring.”

he pushed off the doorframe slowly, the bare soles of his feet soft against the wood as he walked toward you. you could already feel the heat rising in your chest.

“you’re mad that i’m looking at you?” his voice had that teasing tilt. the one that made your knees weak.

“i’m mad that i look like this.”

silence.

then he was in front of you—so close, you could feel his breath fan across your cheeks.

“like what?”

you gestured to your body, flustered. “like this. thick. stretched out. not… shinobi-looking, if that makes sense.”

his brow twitched, then he laughed.

you glared. “don’t laugh—”

“no—fuck, baby.” he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you flush against him. “do you even see what you’re doing to me right now?”

his voice was hot in your ear.

you could feel the hard press of his cock against your belly. thick. demanding.

“you walk around in that tiny shirt,” he growled, hand sliding to cup your ass, “with those thighs that won’t quit, and expect me to just… not stare?”

your whole body flushed, heating up in embarrassment.

“you blush like i haven’t had your legs on my shoulders, sweetheart,” he chuckled darkly, tongue teasing your ear. “should i remind you?”

you opened your mouth to protest, but he dropped to his knees so fast it knocked the air from your lungs.

“obito—!”

“shh.” his hands gripped the backs of your thighs as he pressed slow, wet kisses against the meat of them. “let me prove it.”

you wobbled. he steadied you easily.

he leaned forward, lips brushing the waistband of your shorts. “i’m gonna eat this pretty pussy until you forget how to frown.”

“obito—oh—!”

he yanked the fabric down and buried himself between your legs like a man starved. his tongue was relentless, lapping at your folds, flicking your clit, sucking until your knees buckled and your fingers tangled in his dark, unruly hair. every moan you gave, every desperate grind of your hips, fueled him.

he moaned against you. “that’s it. give it to me.”

your thighs quivered around his face. his hands squeezed them tighter, holding you open, keeping you grounded.

when your orgasm hit, it tore through you in waves. and obito—sweet, messy obito—looked up with a glint in his eye, chin soaked, smirking like a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

he stood slowly, dragging his lips up your body, pressing kisses to your belly, your chest, your flushed face.

“don’t you ever talk shit about my favorite body,” he murmured against your lips.

and you melted, because in obito’s arms, you didn’t feel like too much — you felt like everything.

♡ sasuke uchiha

— he doesn’t say much, but he sees everything, much like madara. sasuke isn’t vocal about your body, but his eyes are impossible to misread. they linger. they burn. when you walk across the room in just a shirt, his gaze drops immediately to your thighs. he notices how your waist dips beneath your clothes, how your chest rises when you sigh. even if you’re insecure, sasuke makes it clear—he isn’t. his stare is possessive. and when you catch him looking, all he says is, “what?” like he hasn’t just undressed you with his eyes three times over.

— his touch is silent reassurance. you might not hear praise from his mouth often, but you’ll feel it. in the way he wraps an arm around your waist in public. in how he pulls you flush against his chest when you lie down. in how his hand always settles on your hip, his thumb stroking absent circles over the skin he once claimed was “perfect for holding onto.” sasuke may be quiet, but his touch is loud with meaning, you are mine, and you are enough.

— he has a weakness for your curves, especially when you ride him. sasuke might be stoic, but when you’re on top, knees pressed into the mattress, your thick thighs caging him in—he loses it. his hands grip your hips hard, guiding your movements while his jaw clenches and his eyes flicker red. he watches your breast bounce, watches the sweat roll down your body, watches every bit of you take him like it was made for it. afterward, he barely speaks—just lays there, hand on your ass, breathing hard. ruined.

— he hates when you talk down about yourself, but he doesn’t argue. he proves you wrong; sasuke isn’t the type to argue with your insecurities. he doesn’t reason or comfort with long speeches. when you mumble something about being too soft or not fitting the shinobi mold, he goes quiet. then, he backs you into a wall, kisses the breath out of your mouth, and fucks you like he’s trying to erase every bad thought from your head. “too soft?” he growls between thrusts, “then why do i keep coming back to this?”

— he’s more vulnerable with you than anyone else, because your softness makes him feel safe. your body isn’t just desirable to sasuke, it’s healing. he finds comfort in your softness. in the way you wrap around him, hold him after nightmares, let him rest his head against your chest like a boy again. sometimes, he touches your curves like he’s checking if you’re real. because you, your warmth, your gentleness, your body, remind him that peace isn’t impossible. that maybe, just maybe, he still deserves something good.

you’d been quiet all evening. the mission hadn’t gone badly. in fact, it had gone smoothly. but still—you felt off. wrong in your own skin. too much.

your shirt felt snug across your chest. your thighs rubbed when you walked, chafed and sore. when you caught your reflection in the window, all you could see were the ways you didn’t look like the women sasuke was probably used to. lean. sleek. cut from kunoichi steel.

you sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at your bare legs.

“stop.”

his voice made you jump. you looked over your shoulder. sasuke stood at the doorway—one hand braced against the frame, eyes narrowed. unreadable.

“stop what?”

“thinking like that.”

your heart skipped. “you don’t know what i’m thinking.”

“i don’t need to.”

he moved toward you. quiet, controlled steps. his chakra pulsed faintly in the air—calm, but unmistakable.

when he reached you, he didn’t kneel. he didn’t speak. he simply lowered his hand to your waist and ran it along the curve of your hip, then down over your thigh.

“you’re upset because of your body,” he said.

you bit your lip.

“you think you’re too much.”

your throat tightened. “sometimes.”

he didn’t answer at first. just stepped closer until he was standing between your legs, your face level with his chest. then his hand curled under your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his.

“you know how many times i’ve come home from missions thinking about this body?” he said, voice low. “about how your thighs feel wrapped around me. about how you smell when you’re wet and writhing on top of me.”

you swallowed hard.

his other hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, finding the soft skin of your waist. “you think i don’t notice every time you try to hide? you think i don’t watch your eyes when you look at yourself and hate it?”

your vision blurred slightly. you looked away.

he didn’t let you.

“no more hiding,” he whispered.

then he kissed you.

it wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t rushed, either. it was deliberate. a slow press of lips that said, listen to me. that said, believe me. you whimpered into it, hands reaching to grip his arms, steadying yourself.

sasuke walked you backward, lips never leaving yours, until the back of your knees hit the bed.

“take it off,” he said, tugging at your shirt.

you hesitated. he raised a brow. “now.”

so you did. the shirt peeled off slowly, exposing your breasts, your soft stomach, the fullness of your body in the moonlight.

his gaze didn’t waver. he looked hungry.

“lie back.”

you obeyed.

he climbed over you, letting his fingers map every dip and swell like he was relearning you. he pressed kisses to your belly, your inner thighs, the stretch marks painting your sides.

then he moved up—grinding his hips against yours with a quiet growl.

“you think you’re too much?” he whispered against your neck. “then why do i want to lose myself in you every night?”

his cock pressed hot and hard between your legs. you moaned softly.

“sasuke—”

he didn’t let you finish. he slid inside you slowly, deliberately, until you were gasping, your legs trembling.

he fucked you deep. steady. grinding against your sweet spot with every thrust. his hands gripped your waist like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

when you started to fall apart, crying out his name, he leaned down and murmured, “this is mine. you’re mine.”

and when you finally collapsed, ruined and panting, sasuke stayed inside you. buried deep. forehead resting against yours.

“don’t talk about yourself like that again,” he whispered. “not when you’re everything i need.”

and just like that—you believed him.

[sailornymph]

Could I have Legendary Sannin with a younger fem!reader and they are also maybe their mentor. Love your writing ❤️

marked by the sannin; jiraiya, tsunade, orochimaru

synopsis — as a young kunoichi under the legendary sannin, your future should belong to the village, but under their gaze, it starts to belong to them.

content warning — yandere themes, age gap (reader is 21-23), mentor/student dynamics, possessiveness, jealousy, manipulation, oral, choking, praise/degradation, light dubcon tones

a/n — so sorry i made this yandere 😩 i’ve been into the dark romance books lately. also no shade but i hate when a writer wants to charge commission for their writing and you check their page and everything is ass 😭

♡ jiraiya

— you were serious. focused. the kind of kunoichi who showed up to every mission ten minutes early and trained yourself bloody just to earn the right to stand beside legends like him. jiraiya noticed you right away, not because of your body, but because of your discipline. you never looked at him the way others did and that made him starve for your attention.

— when he agreed to mentor you, it wasn’t out of duty. it was the thrill of getting closer, of watching your face up close when you pushed past your limits. he trained you harder than necessary. longer than normal and whenever your chakra faltered, he stepped in, hands on your hips, his voice low behind you, whispering corrections with the kind of heat that stayed on your skin hours after.

— he never laid a hand on you when you were still just his student but the moment you kissed him, tentative, flustered, so unlike your usual composure. he grabbed your face, kissed you back like he was claiming oxygen, and fucked you against the wall with years of restraint burning off in seconds. it wasn’t sweet. it was inevitable.

— now that he has you, he keeps you close. not just physically, spiritually, emotionally, mentally. your habits are his. your scent stays on his pillows. your weapons tucked beside his scrolls. he acts like you belong in his space because you do. there’s no distinction between what’s yours and what’s his anymore.

— jiraiya doesn’t get jealous, he gets territorial. his hand will be on your lower back the second another shinobi looks too long. if they smile at you? expect his arm slung over your shoulders, his lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “you’re being awfully generous with those smiles, baby.”

— he watches you train more than he probably should. sometimes he offers corrections. sometimes he just stands at the edge of the field, arms crossed, expression unreadable. the moment you look too tired or too bruised, he ends it. “that’s enough. if you’re gonna bleed for someone, it’ll be for me.”

— you still call him sensei sometimes. especially in bed. he lives for it. his grip will tighten in your hair, his voice will drop, and he’ll fuck you slower, deeper, lips against your ear as he whispers, “you’ll always be my favorite student, won’t you?”

— he doesn’t need to be rough to remind you who’s in control. sometimes it’s the softness that undoes you—how he kisses the inside of your wrist, traces your scars with his mouth, lays you down like a promise and says, “no one will ever know you like this but me.” it’s terrifying, and beautiful.

— his loyalty is absolute, but it’s also dangerous. if someone ever hurt you, physically or otherwise, you wouldn’t hear about it. you’d just notice they were gone. no trail. no answers. only the way he kisses your forehead that night like he just saved your life again.

— even in love, he never stops studying you. every sound, every breath, every glance. you’re his life’s most important research now. he’ll spend the rest of his years documenting every way your body falls apart beneath him, every way your heart beats faster when he says mine.

you’ve always been disciplined. every morning starts before sunrise. your gear is sharp, your posture perfect, your chakra precisely measured. even in silence, you hold yourself like a kunoichi should—ready, clean, professional, and that’s exactly why jiraiya wants to ruin you.

not in front of others. not loudly. no—he waits for the quiet. like tonight. the rain outside hums low against the windows. the village is dark. your body is warm beneath him.

his fingers drag along the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent, the same way he reads sacred scrolls. you’re spread open in his lap, legs over his thighs, your back against his chest while he explores every inch of your skin like he’s memorizing it.

he doesn’t speak, not yet. he hasn’t even kissed you. his lips stay on your shoulder, pressed into the hollow just below your collarbone. soft. patient. dangerous in their restraint.

you know he’s hard beneath you, his cock twitching against your ass through the thin fabric of his robe, his breath heavier than usual but he won’t rush. not when he’s like this. not when he’s letting the tension wrap around you both like silk, slow and stifling.

“you’re always so tense,” he murmurs finally, voice low and quiet against your skin. “even when you’re wet for me. like you’re still trying to earn your rank.”

his fingers find your slit. part you, you breathe in—sharply.

he chuckles against your neck.

“you never needed to prove anything to me, baby. you know that, right?”

you nod.

his fingers don’t move yet. they just rest there—against your soaked entrance, your clit twitching under the ghost of his touch. you squirm without meaning to. his hand wraps around your throat.

“don’t move.”

you freeze.

his grip isn’t tight—just firm. grounding. as if to say, you asked for this. now behave.

“good girl,” he breathes, and finally, finally, his fingers begin to move.

slow circles at first. light, teasing, maddening. his other hand stays at your throat while he speaks softly in your ear.

“all those eyes on you today,” he murmurs. “little group of genin whispering as you walked by. even asuma stopped mid-sentence when you passed.” you tense.

his fingers press a little harder.

“you know how many people want to touch you, y/n?”

you don’t answer.

“how many think they deserve to?”

his teeth brush your ear.

“they don’t.”

his fingers slide lower, sink into you—two at once, thick and slow, knuckles deep. you moan before you can stop yourself, back arching slightly into his chest. he keeps you pinned with one arm while he curls his fingers inside you, stroking exactly where it makes you clench around him.

“you train like your life depends on it,” he growls, “and i love that. but you belong to me now. you don’t need to be perfect for anyone else.”

your breath stutters. you try to speak, try to answer, but he’s already dragging his fingers back out and pressing them against your lips.

“open.” you do, how could you not.

you taste yourself as he pushes his fingers between your lips, thumb stroking your cheek as he watches you suck. his cock throbs under you. you feel it. so does he.

he shifts, just enough to position himself beneath you, and suddenly he’s dragging the head of his cock through your slick, guiding it against your entrance while you’re still licking him clean.

“i think you’re ready,” he says, he sinks in.

you gasp sharply, one hand clutching the sheets, the other grabbing his wrist at your throat. he bottoms out with one slow, devastating thrust. doesn’t pull back.

just holds you there, stuffed full, trembling in his lap.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “just like that.”

he starts to move, long, deep strokes, steady as stone. you’re dripping down his cock by the third one, your voice cracking when he grinds his hips up just right.

“you’re mine,” he murmurs, over and over, between kisses to your neck, your shoulder, the shell of your ear. “every inch of you. every breath. they can look. let them. but they’ll never have this.”

your orgasm builds slowly, deliberately. he doesn’t speed up. doesn’t chase his own release. he fucks you like he’s proving something. like you’re a thesis he’s perfecting.

“sensei,” you whisper.

he groans, deep and broken. thrusts harder. rougher.

“say it again.”

“sensei—please—”

he fucks you until you come around him, legs shaking, mouth open, body limp. and only then does he finish too, hips jerking up one final time, spilling inside you with a ragged moan into your neck.

neither of you move for a long time.

your thighs twitch. his hand stays between your legs, pressing gently against your clit like a warning.

“next time,” he says quietly, “you wear less armor to training.”

you breathe out a shaky laugh.

his teeth find your shoulder again. not playful this time.

possessive.

“i want them to know what’s mine.”

♡ tsunade senju

— tsunade didn’t want a student. not a personal one, at least. she’s too busy, too burdened, too aware of what happens when she lets people get too close. but then you showed up—focused, relentless, unafraid to meet her eyes, and more importantly, not desperate for her approval. you didn’t ask her to see you. so naturally, she did.

— at first, she was hard on you—too hard. testing your limits, barking orders, dissecting every mistake. it wasn’t out of cruelty. it was to see if you’d break. you didn’t and somewhere between chakra scalpels, and sleepless nights of paperwork, her chest started to ache when you weren’t near.

— it’s not a confession that turns your relationship physical—it’s proximity. stress. an emotionally charged night where you refuse to back down after she pushes you away again. you say something stupid and brave, like “stop pretending you don’t care,” and she’s kissing you before she even realizes she moved.

— she’s not romantic. she’s direct. she fucks you like it’s a decision, not a performance—strong hands, bruising grip, mouth against your throat so you won’t hear how hard she’s breathing. the first time she comes, it’s with her forehead pressed to yours, whispering, “you don’t get to leave now.”

— she doesn’t say she’s possessive, but you feel it. in the way she double-checks your mission assignments. in the glare she gives any shinobi who dares to put a hand on your shoulder. in the way your uniform gets mysteriously upgraded to include a hidden tracking seal. she tells you it’s standard. it’s not.

— you still call her tsunade-sama in public. she insists on it. not because of protocol—but because she likes the way it reminds people whose you are. and if someone dares make a comment, she shuts it down with a single look.

— she drinks less now, but when she does, it’s only with you. late nights. heavy silence. her hand on your thigh under the table, her thumb tracing lazy circles. sometimes she talks about the war. sometimes she says your name like it’s the only thing that keeps her grounded.

— she trains you to survive her. to be sharp, self-sufficient, strong enough to carry her legacy—but when you come back injured, her rage is nuclear. if someone was responsible, they disappear from the roster. if it was your own recklessness, she takes it out in silence—barely speaking while she heals you, hands trembling over your skin.

— she doesn’t need grand declarations. but she tells you what matters in between orders and quiet touches. “don’t be late.” “come straight home.” “you were brilliant today.” everything is a warning and a promise.

— if you ever threatened to leave—to walk away from her, from the village—she wouldn’t beg. she’d let you go and then she’d bring chaos making sure no one else ever touched you.

you don’t knock anymore. you just let yourself in—quiet, practiced, exhausted from the mission. you close the door behind you and immediately feel the air shift.

she’s at the far end of the room, still in uniform, arms crossed, shoulders tense. a full glass of sake on the desk—untouched. and her eyes are already on you.

you haven’t even dropped your pack yet.

“…you didn’t report in.”

your voice is hoarse. “i sent word.”

“an anbu message doesn’t count.”

you set your things down, avoiding her gaze.

you already knew—this isn’t about protocol. this is about you. gone for three days. out of range. no backup. a split-second decision in the field that delayed your return.

tsunade never liked being left behind.

you barely have time to brace when she crosses the room in one deliberate step, grabs your jaw in one hand, and kisses you like she’s trying to put you back together. not soft, not tender.

like she needs to make sure you’re still here. her mouth breaks from yours only long enough to whisper, “strip.” you obey without hesitation. not because she frightens you.

but because you understand her.

your shirt drops to the floor. then your pants. she doesn’t help. she just watches—eyes heavy, jaw clenched, barely holding herself together under the weight of her restraint.

when you’re bare, she steps in close, her palm flat against your abdomen.

“…you’re not bleeding.”

“bruised,” you say. “that’s all.”

she doesn’t answer. she walks you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed, and then she presses you down, climbing on top of you without ceremony. her robe’s still on. her boots, discarded. she straddles you, fully clothed, and stares down like she’s memorizing you all over again.

her hand brushes your cheek, then your throat. then lower—between your legs. when her fingers slide through your folds, you gasp.

“so easy,” she murmurs. “every time.”

you open your mouth, but she shushes you immediately—two fingers pressing into you at once.

you cry out.

“quiet.” you obey.

tsunade moves with purpose. not rushed—just sure. her thumb circles your clit while her fingers fuck into you with measured strength, her other hand gripping your hip to pin you. her weight keeps you down. her silence says more than anything.

when she speaks again, it’s through clenched teeth.

“you don’t disappear on me.”

you whimper.

“you don’t risk your life to prove something.”

“i didn’t—”

her fingers curl—precisely—and you arch with a cry you can’t hold back. she leans down, nose brushing your cheek, lips just above your ear.

“you’re mine, y/n and i won’t lose anything else.”

you try to speak. she kisses you instead—rough, one hand holding your face, the other still inside you, pumping slow and deep until your hips are bucking and your throat is aching from the sounds you’re too far gone to swallow.

“you want to come?” she asks against your lips.

“please—” she stops.

you whimper, stunned, your body twitching beneath her.

“then you’ll listen next time,” she says flatly. “next time, you wait. next time, you tell me the plan.”

you nod—desperate, flushed, breathless. she kisses you again. this time slower. more steady. like she’s satisfied now. like she can finally breathe and then she moves her hand again.

fast. unforgiving.

you break with a sob—coming hard around her fingers, legs shaking, chest heaving. she doesn’t stop. she fucks you through it, watching you crumble until you’re limp beneath her, clinging to her wrists.

when she finally withdraws, she sighs softly—like she’s letting something go.

she lays down beside you, one arm pulling you into her chest, your cheek against her collarbone.

it’s quiet for a while.

just your heart racing. just her breath against your hair.

then, lowly she spoke.

“…you don’t get to break without me.”

♡ orochimaru

— when he first noticed you, it wasn’t physical. it was intellectual. you were precise. consistent. never loud. never emotionally erratic. you didn’t idolize him or fear him, you simply listened. adapted. improved. and that intrigued him. not because he felt affection, but because he felt possibility.

— he brought you closer under the guise of experimentation. research. advanced elemental theory, biological tests, forbidden jutsu dissection. what you didn’t see, what he never said, is that every task he gave you was designed to measure your loyalty, not your skill. he already knew you were competent. he needed to know you were his.

— he never asked to touch you. he simply did—brushing your hair from your eyes mid-conversation, steadying your wrist during tests, adjusting your collar when it was out of place. at first, it felt clinical. after a while, it felt constant. like every inch of your body was under quiet surveillance.

— when he kissed you for the first time, it was in the lab, lit only by candlelight, your blood still drying on his gloves from a chakra saturation trial. he said nothing. just cupped your face with a reverence you hadn’t earned and kissed you like it was part of a procedure. you didn’t resist. you were too curious.

— he doesn’t love in any traditional sense. but he is possessive, deeply, irrationally so. he doesn’t get jealous; he gets interested. who is this person? what do they want from you? how easily can he remove them? if someone gets too close, they simply vanish from your assignments. or their name disappears from the village records altogether.

— your relationship is quiet. private. his hand on your lower back in passing. your room relocated beside his with no explanation. being summoned to him at odd hours, not out of need, but habit. he doesn’t need sleep, but he needs to see you. even if only for a minute.

— sex is never tender. it’s slow, almost exacting. designed to claim and study at the same time. he touches you like a puzzle, memorizing your sounds, your muscle reactions, the way your eyes dilate when he whispers your name into your throat. he keeps notes on you. physical and otherwise.

— you wear a mark of his, not visible, but embedded. a seal, custom-inked, just beneath the skin near your hip. it’s harmless, he says. protective. you never asked for it, but you didn’t protest either. he smiles when you forget it’s there. you never should.

— you never hear him say i love you. what you hear, “you’re the only subject I trust.” or “your presence has been… stabilizing.” or “your heartbeat returned to baseline when I touched you.” and somehow, that’s more intimate than any confession.

— he would never call it obsession. not even attachment. but if you tried to leave, to sever ties, he wouldn’t stop you. he’d let you go, then he’d follow. not to punish, not to persuade. just to prove that no matter how far you run—you were his experiment from the start.

the lab is cold. not uncomfortably so. controlled. like everything he does.

you stand still in the silence, half-dressed, bandages stripped away, blood from your last mission still faint beneath your skin. he didn’t ask to see the damage—you simply showed him. you’ve learned by now, with orochimaru, permission is irrelevant. things are observed, tested, and taken whether you allow it or not.

he walks a slow circle around you. silent. bare-footed. hands behind his back. you don’t shiver, even when his breath ghosts along your shoulder. you’ve learned not to react unless he tells you to.

“it’s not healing as quickly as it should,” he says.

his voice is low, even, analytical. you nod.

“likely chakra depletion,” you murmur.

he hums in agreement.

a moment later, his hand lifts to your side—bare fingers cool against the bruised skin under your ribs. you inhale sharply.

he doesn’t ask if it hurts, he just presses harder.

“your body responds well to stress,” he says, more to himself than to you. “but you hold tension here.”

his hand trails downward, slipping lower, over the dip of your hip. slow. measured. watching your breath catch.

you don’t speak, you already know what he’s doing. this isn’t seduction. this is observation.

his fingers slide between your thighs. you’re already wet.

“mm,” he murmurs.

that’s all.

no teasing. no praise. he simply drags two fingers along your slit, then pushes them inside with an ease that makes your knees twitch. you grip the edge of the exam table behind you. he doesn’t move faster—just deeper. steady. curious. his other hand settles against your lower abdomen like he’s checking your vitals.

“muscles are receptive,” he notes. “minimal resistance.”

you moan—soft, embarrassed. he blinks slowly.

“does that embarrass you?” he asks.

“…no.”

“good. it shouldn’t.”

he curls his fingers then. purposefully. and the sound that slips from your throat is broken and involuntary.

he finally looks at you—face unreadable.

“lie back.”

you obey without hesitation.

the metal table is cold under your skin, but he moves over you like he’s already done this a hundred times—unhurried, expression calm. he shifts your legs apart with his elbows as he lowers himself between them.

“i want to measure how long it takes you to come.”

you inhale sharply. his tongue drags through your folds, slow and firm, and he hums like he’s tasting something rare.

“don’t hold back.” you don’t.

not when his mouth moves with slow, impossible precision. not when his fingers return, pushing in again while his tongue circles your clit like he’s mapping it. you arch. tremble. cry out without meaning to.

he doesn’t stop.

not when you come the first time. not when you twitch through the second.

only when your legs start to jerk and your voice dissolves into gasps does he finally pull away—licking his fingers clean like it’s part of the experiment. his face is blank.

“less than two minutes,” he murmurs. “i was right.”

you’re barely catching your breath when he unfastens his robes, cock already hard—long and flushed, too perfect for someone so cold.

he doesn’t ask if you’re ready, he knows you are. he pushes in slowly. fully. doesn’t break eye contact. you don’t expect his voice when it comes again—quiet, even softer than before.

“you know what i value most?”

you shake your head, barely able to breathe.

“predictability.”

he starts to move—slow and deep, no rush, no performance.

“every cell in your body responds to mine,” he says. “every twitch. every breath. it’s all becoming… expected.”

his thrusts hit something sharp inside you, something that makes you whimper with every roll of his hips. he doesn’t change pace. doesn’t lose control.

“you’re the only constant in a variable world, y/n.”

you sob once—quietly—and his hand finds your throat.

not tight. just there.

anchoring.

you come around him again, harder this time. shaking. moaning his name and only then does he finally fuck you like he feels something—hips slamming, pace rougher, his hair falling over his face, his hand slipping down to rub your clit once more as he finishes deep inside you with a quiet, broken sigh.

not a moan. just breath. sharp and final. he stays inside you while you both settle. your heartbeat is erratic. he notices.

“i’d like to monitor that more closely,” he says.

and then he kisses your forehead like he’s closing a case file.

[sailornymph]

aaa i’m obsessed with how you write the Bucciarati gang, i apologize in advance for the amount of requests i will be sending you <3

could i request headcannons for the Bucciarati gang (individually) with a writer darling? darling is the type of person you can just *tell* is a writer by observing them. they keep to themself in public, quietly observing and taking in the world around them, always having a notebook to scribble into and only speaking when they absolutely have to. since this reader is a sort of loner type, they only go out to gain inspiration/material but prefer to stay inside their cozy writing space.

tysm <3

quiet type, loud heart; bucci gang

synopsis — they live fast, you live quietly and yet, something about you makes even the most dangerous men of passione want to slow down and linger a little longer.

content warning — possessive/jealous behavior (mild), implied intimacy, reader is a reserved writer with introspective habits

♡ bruno bucciarati

— he notices you before you ever notice him. you’re not flashy, not loud. but bruno sees things others don’t—he always has. he watches you scribble in a beat-up notebook at the same café each morning, always sitting near the window, back straight, eyes tracking people like you’re collecting souls for stories.

“what’s she writing?” mista once asked.

“everything,” bruno answered, without even looking.

— he’s patient in his approach. bruno doesn’t flirt the way others do. he simply… makes himself visible. first with a nod in passing. then a coffee left at your table. then a quiet, “do you mind if i sit?” one rainy morning when all the other seats are “coincidentally” taken. he never asks what you’re writing, he waits for you to tell him.

— he respects your quiet but reads it too. the first time you talk about your work, you downplay it—say it’s nothing. but he doesn’t let you hide.

“i’ve seen the way you watch the world,” he says. “you don’t just write. you record. there’s value in that.”

no one’s ever said that to you before.

— he makes time for you—and protects it violently. once you’re his, bruno starts blocking off sacred pockets of time just for you. no meetings. no missions. just you and him, maybe reading aloud, maybe resting together while you draft. he doesn’t even allow his follow colleagues interrupt.

“don’t ever interrupt her again,” was all he said.

— he becomes fascinated with your inner world. your notebooks become sacred objects to him. he doesn’t read them without permission, but he’s endlessly curious.

“you remember everything,” he marvels once, flipping through pages.

“that’s the job,” you answer.

“no,” he corrects. “that’s the gift.”

— he tells his team to treat you like a queen. you’re not in the mafia, but you are bruno’s. which means narancia carries your groceries, mista runs background checks on anyone you mention by name, and fugo opens doors without complaint. they joke about it—until they see how calm bruno gets around you. then they all start offering you tea.

— you’re the only person who sees his mask fall off. you catch it once, when he thinks you’re asleep. his head’s resting near your thigh on the couch, and your pen is still moving. he exhales, deep. like he’s not a capo. like he’s not a killer. like he’s just a man and you know then—he doesn’t want to be remembered for his power. he wants to be remembered by you.

— you’ve always felt a little invisible in naples. too quiet, too still, a writer in a city of shouting and motion. you liked it that way, until bruno bucciarati ruined everything.

it started slow, like all the best trouble. the man at the café with the impossibly neat hair and the soft voice. the one who didn’t ask stupid questions like, “what are you writing?” or “why do you look so serious?” he just looked. nodded. left you coffee once and one day, sat across from you and said:

“people don’t notice the quiet ones until it’s too late. i’d like to notice you before then.”

you told yourself not to fall for him. but god, how could you not?

bruno doesn’t pry, but he watches. he memorizes your writing patterns—when your left hand fidgets with your sleeve, when you get stuck mid-sentence and mouth the words before they land. he notices how you trace buildings with your eyes like you’re sketching with your pupils.

he calls it your artist’s gaze, you call it survival. he doesn’t ask about the stories until you offer them and when you do, he listens like you’re reading scripture.

you learn slowly what he does, the suits, the codes, the late nights and occasional bruises. he never lies—but he does edit.

“i solve problems,” he says.

you never ask what kind, but once, when a man harassed you in the piazza, he disappeared the next day. you ask bruno if he had anything to do with it.

he only says, “did he touch you?” you shake your head.

“then i suppose he just got lucky.”

his team comes to accept you like an unspoken rule. narancia is loud but sweet, he keeps trying to guess the ending of your current story. mista acts like your big brother, constantly teasing. fugo is polite, a bit distant, but he respects you—probably because you’re the only one who doesn’t flinch when he loses his temper. abbacchio… well. he doesn’t like you, but he tolerates you. you take that as a win. giorno, strangely, treats you like a threat.

but bruno? bruno watches all of them when you’re in the room. he makes sure everyone knows where his loyalty lies.

it’s during one of your quiet evenings that you realize you’ve started writing about him. not just stories. not just metaphors. full scenes, monologues, dialogues pulled from half-heard conversations. he reads one entry over your shoulder and hums.

“am i really like that?”

you hesitate. “you don’t mind?”

“it’s yours to record,” he says. “just… write me kindly, won’t you?”

“i always do.” and you mean it.

because even if his hands are bloody, his love for you has never been anything but gentle. he’s careful with you, but sometimes, he scares you anyway. not with what he says, but with how deep his silence gets.

once, when you mentioned an old friend—a man—you swear you saw bruno’s eyes go cold. he didn’t comment. didn’t question. just wrapped an arm around your shoulder later and kissed your temple with a little too much pressure.

the next time you saw that friend, he was limping. you didn’t ask, you knew better by now.

still, you don’t leave. you stay because bruno never asks you to shrink. he reads your words like prophecy. he carries your books without mocking your sensitivity.

he reminds you every day that your quiet is not invisibility—it’s gravity and that he has already fallen.

one night, after reading to him for hours, you finally ask:

“why me?”

he’s half-asleep, head on your lap but his voice is steady when he answers.

“because the first time i looked at you, you weren’t afraid of what you saw in me.” his fingers trace your thigh, slow.

“you looked like you’d already written the ending… and loved me anyway.” your heart stutters.

“you make me feel real,” he murmurs.

“not feared, not respected, real.”

you don’t say anything else that night. you just close the notebook. kiss his forehead and pray he never gives you a reason to write a tragedy.

♡ narancia ghirga

— he notices your notebook before he notices your face. it’s true. you were sitting on a bench in naples, sun hitting your cheek, head tilted just enough to catch the light. but narancia? he sees the way your pen moves. not rushed. not random. deliberate. like you’re catching something no one else can see.

“you drawin’?” he asks. you shake your head.

“then what is it?”

“…dialogue.”

he blinks. “you mean like… talking?”

“yes.”

he’s silent for only a moment, then:

“can i be in your story?”

— he tells everyone you’re a real author—even if you’ve never published.

giorno: “is your s/o’s writing online?”

narancia: “no, it’s in books and binders and stuff.”

fugo: “so it’s private.”

narancia: “no, it’s IMPORTANT.”

you find out he’s been carrying one of your notebooks around, carefully pressed between a magazine and a piece of cardboard so it won’t get damaged.

“i don’t read it!” he swears.

*“just makes me feel like you’re near.”

— he loves your stillness—but it drives him crazy, too. you’re a quiet observer. you write more than you talk. narancia? he fills space. loudly. sometimes, when you’re too deep in thought, he lies on the floor like he’s been mortally wounded.

“you don’t even notice when i’m DEAD,” he groans.

you glance over. “you’re breathing.”

“…oh.”

but you always put your notebook down after. and that makes him beam.

— he reads your expressions better than anyone else. you never say you’re tired, but he knows. you don’t cry loudly, but he notices the way your pen pressure changes on the page. one time, he showed up at your place with hot food, a blanket, and a new pen. you hadn’t said a word all day.

“you looked like you needed something good,” he said with a shrug.

— he hates when people interrupt your writing. you once got bumped in a café, causing your coffee to spill on your pages. narancia nearly threw hands.

“you don’t TOUCH someone’s words!” he barked.

later, he tried to copy one of your ruined pages from memory, handing you a sloppy recreation written in sharpie.

“it’s not good,” he muttered.

“but it’s what i remember you writing. i didn’t want you to lose it.”

— he doesn’t understand what you write, but he feels it. he doesn’t always get your metaphors. your quiet heartbreaks. your heavy pauses.

but he’ll underline a line and say, “this one made me feel weird in a good way.”

or, “this sounds like something bruno would say, but prettier.”

— he gets jealous of your characters.

“who the hell is ‘dante’ and why does he have three pages of dialogue?”

“…he’s fictional.”

“he’s suspicious.”

you have to kiss him to shut him up.

“you’re the only real one in here,” you murmur, pressing your pen to his chest.

“you already wrote your way into me.”

♡ giorno giovanna

— giorno noticed your silence before anything else. he’s surrounded by voices—loud ones, desperate ones, obedient ones. but you… you said little. eyes tracking every shift of the room, pen dancing across paper like it had a mind of its own. you didn’t speak often, but when you did, your words felt like the final sentence of a powerful story: deliberate. clean. unforgettable. that alone made you impossible to ignore.

— he becomes curious—then captivated. giorno is used to people falling for him. you’re the first person he’s ever wanted to understand. he watches you scribble quietly in public spaces: restaurants, rooftops, once even in the passenger seat of mista’s car. you don’t gawk at him or tiptoe around him like others do. instead, you just observe. and that makes him wonder if he’s already been written into your pages.

— he makes himself available to your gaze. he starts standing closer. speaking softer. dressing in colors you once mentioned liking in passing. he doesn’t say it aloud, but he wants to be one of your metaphors. he wants to see himself in the curve of your sentences—wants to become something you can’t help but document. and when you finally sketch a scene in your notebook that mirrors one of his meetings, he says quietly:

“was that me?” you just smile.

“it was always you.”

— he guards your solitude like it’s sacred. no one bothers you once you’re in giorno’s life. not because you demand it—but because he does. you don’t attend meetings unless you ask. you’re not paraded around. you are, instead, gifted time. space. warmth. if someone speaks over you, giorno clears his throat. if someone teases your quiet, they don’t get a second chance.

“silence is a sign of intelligence,” he once said in front of the whole team. “you’d all do well to practice it.”

— he’s fascinated by what you choose to write down. giorno doesn’t read your notebooks without permission—but when you do show him a page or two, he’s mesmerized. not just by the words, but by what you choose to notice. he’s a man used to commanding attention. but you… you write about the way light hits tile. the way people hold their breath when they’re about to lie. the way he hums, absentmindedly, when he’s healing something.

“you’re not just a writer,” he says. “you’re an archivist of beauty.”

— he finds peace in your presence. he starts working near you. in silence. gold experience flickering softly nearby while your pen scratches across paper. he doesn’t disturb you—he just breathes easier. sometimes, he asks if he can hold your hand while you write. not to distract you, just to ground himself.

“you’re the only quiet thing in my world,” he admits once, eyes half-lidded. “i’d go mad without you.”

— he promises not to become your villain—then asks if he can still be your muse. giorno knows better than to love blindly. but with you, he finds himself hoping. not for power, or glory, or revenge—he already has those. he hopes for softness. for mornings where your head is on his chest and your notebook is in reach. for a life where he gets to read about himself in your prose, not as a tyrant or savior, but as the man you loved long enough to write about.

“can i sit with you?”

not unusual. not inappropriate. but still… strange, coming from giorno giovanna, capo of passione. the golden prince of naples, wrapped in silks and threats and diamond-cut ambition.

you’re sitting alone at your usual café—half-full notebook in front of you, tea going cold. you blink up at him.

“it’s your city,” you reply softly.

but he shakes his head. “it’s your table.”

you gesture to the empty chair. he sits without fanfare, legs crossed, back straight, hands resting calmly in his lap. for a moment, neither of you speak.

“you’re a writer.”

it’s not a question.

you nod. “i am.”

“fiction?”

“sometimes.”

he glances down at your notebook. “may i ask what you’re working on?”

you hesitate. not because you’re ashamed—but because you’ve never felt the need to share. not until now.

“…dialogue,” you say finally. “i collect voices.”

he smiles. slow. approving.

“that’s beautiful.”

you study him then. really study him. the curve of his jaw. the way his hands are too still, like they’re holding back entire monologues. the way his eyes—sharp and ancient and young—keep flicking toward your pen.

he wants to be written.

he doesn’t say it. doesn’t have to. you can see it in the way he leans slightly forward, like he’s trying to earn the attention of your next sentence.

so you write him. right then.

just a line.

“he speaks like he’s already been quoted.”

the second time he finds you, it’s on a rooftop. you’re sketching the skyline in metaphor. something about rooftops and regrets and hearts left open like windows. you don’t notice him until he’s beside you, offering a paper bag with still-warm pastries.

“you write in metaphors,” he says.

“you speak in them,” you reply.

he laughs. not loud. but warm.

“you’ve been watching me.”

“you’ve been letting me.”

time passes in paragraphs. he learns how to move around your silences. you learn how to listen to the weight behind his restraint. sometimes, he tells you about his childhood—not with bitterness, but with the calm detachment of someone who has weaponized every scar.

you don’t ask how many people he’s killed. he doesn’t ask why you prefer fictional pain over real connection. you both already know the answers.

you begin writing about him more. his voice. his shadows. his ability to be both gentle and frightening without ever raising his voice. he never asks to read the entries. he only touches the edges of your notebook with reverence.

once, you fall asleep with your hand curled around it. he kisses your fingers before pulling the blanket over your shoulders.

on a rare night off, you sit beside him in the greenhouse he restored. he brings your favorite tea, asks about the line you underlined three times in your last chapter.

“the most dangerous men are the ones who whisper,” he recites, plucking the words from memory.

“i didn’t write that about you,” you say softly.

he raises an eyebrow. “no?”

“but you fit it.”

he hums, “am i your villain?”

you look up sharply.

“what?”

“in your story,” he says. “am i the villain?”

you close the notebook.

“you’re the one i keep rewriting.”

his expression shifts. something tender beneath the gold of his gaze. he takes your hand.

“then let me be the one who never dies,” he says quietly.

“even if the story ends.”

you nod. you already knew.

he already is.

♡ guido mista

— your #1 hype man. mista brags about dating a writer like it’s the coolest thing anyone’s ever done. he’ll straight up tell strangers: “she writes books, dude. like real ones with feelings and stuff. isn’t that sick?”

— he’s emotionally too invested. he doesn’t finish your stories because every time he gets to a sad part, he starts talking out loud like your characters are real. “nah, that guy didn’t deserve that. baby, rewrite it. rewrite it or i’m gonna find him myself.”

— night owl schedule = activated. when your creative spark hits at 2am, mista is right there — sometimes rubbing your shoulders, sometimes passed out under your desk like a guard dog. the fact that you’re up and focused makes him feel weirdly peaceful.

— his secret little notebook. he keeps a notebook filled with lines you mutter in your sleep, quotes you say while brainstorming, and even dumb little metaphors you toss out casually. he plans to get it printed one day — your words in a real book, just for him.

— kissing ritual; he swears it helps your writing flow. forehead, lips, neck — wherever he lands, it’s mandatory before you sit down.

“you can’t write until you get your kiss. i don’t make the rules.”

— improv king of chaos; writer’s block? mista will recruit the sex pistols to act out the weirdest scenes from your stories. he voices all of them himself. somehow, it actually helps.

— fictional jealousy; you’ve had to explain multiple times that your male leads are not real people he’s competing with. you knew you loved him the moment he offered to shoot the antagonist in your story.

“who’s this guy? huh? ‘amber-eyed, cocky smile, hands that command’? this sounds suspicious, baby. he sounds like he wears cologne and knows it.”

“just say the word,” he grinned, feet kicked up on the coffee table, a meatball sub half-dismantled in his hands. “he hurts your main character again, i’m capping him.”

you didn’t say anything at first. just stared at him, heart pounding a little louder, unsure how to explain what that moment meant to someone like you — a person used to quiet observations and fictional heartbreaks. but guido mista… guido made the world loud again. vivid. obnoxious. alive.

you smiled down at your notebook, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“thanks, babe. i’ll keep you on standby.”

he wasn’t supposed to know your writing habits so well. wasn’t supposed to notice that when you curled your fingers into your sleeves, you were editing something tragic. that when you tied your hair back too neatly, you were gearing up for a confrontation scene. that when you muttered under your breath like a priest at confession, you were untangling plot threads only you could see.

but mista watched you like a hawk. always had. he knew when you’d stop making eye contact during dinner, eyes drifting toward your notebook like it was whispering to you. he never took offense. he just cleared your dishes and left a folded napkin beside your seat with write good shit scribbled in sharpie.

sometimes, he’d fall asleep on the couch with the tv low, pistols curled up like lazy cats on his chest, waiting for you to finish your chapter. you’d find him there hours later, mouth parted slightly, his notebook half-hanging from his hoodie pocket — the one filled with your quotes, little lines he said sounded “like cinema, baby.”

you didn’t even realize how serious things had gotten until he caught you crying in the laundry room one morning.

“hey,” his voice lowered, foot scuffing against the tile as he closed the door behind him. “what happened?”

you held up your phone without a word. it was a one-star review. a bad one. personal, too — “thinks she’s deep. she’s not.”

“it’s nothing,” you said too quickly, wiping your eyes.

mista didn’t read it. he didn’t have to. he crouched beside you and tugged you into his lap, legs folding like it was second nature.

“you’re deep to me,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours.

“guido—”

“i mean it. if the world read your words the way i do, they’d drown in ‘em. maybe that’s why they get mean. they’re scared of going under.”

you hiccupped. “that’s so dramatic.”

“so are you,” he kissed your jaw. “that’s why it works.”

you write best when he’s nearby. not touching you. not bothering you. just… there. feet draped across the desk. twirling a pen between his fingers. occasionally asking, “so how’s our girl doing? did she dump the guy yet?”

it’s always we when he talks about your characters. our girl. our villain. our plot twist. even when he has no idea what’s happening.

you once caught him practicing dramatic monologues in the mirror. trying to “get into character” as your latest love interest. it wasn’t his best work — he broke into a coughing fit halfway through and ended up shirtless for some reason — but you appreciated the dedication.

he makes you feel like your world matters. like your strange little brain is worth sitting through a million rewrites for. he makes the writing feel… lighter.

“why don’t you ever write a guy like me?” he asks one night, sprawled beside you, fingers playing with the hem of your sleep shirt. “like, cool, rugged, little unhinged but he means well.”

you laugh, resting your head on his chest. “because you’d get jealous of him.”

“you’re damn right i would.”

he reads your work aloud sometimes. butchers the accents. gets too emotional during breakup scenes. gasps too loud during reveals. you tease him for crying once and he pretends not to hear you.

“that’s not a tear,” he sniffs. “that’s plot-induced eye moisture.”

you kiss the corner of his mouth. “you’re such a good liar.”

“only when it’s romantic.”

your favorite thing? when he watches you write like he’s in love with you.

not you, even. but the you that comes out in words. the quiet intensity. the way your lips part when you find the right sentence. the creases in your brow. the way you talk to your pages like they’re old friends.

you catch him sometimes — eyes soft, mouth slightly open like he’s looking at something divine. you tell him to stop staring. he tells you to marry him.

“you ever gonna write our story?” he asks once, head resting in your lap, pistols sleeping in a pile of socks at your feet.

you think about it.

“maybe,” you say. “but i don’t think people would believe you’re real.”

he blinks. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“you’re too good,” you murmur. “they’d think i made you up.”

he laughs like it’s the best thing you’ve ever said, then tugs you down until you’re nose to nose.

“well, baby,” he breathes, lips brushing yours, “lucky for them, you make things up for a living.”

and maybe one day you will write him in. not as a character. not as a caricature of love. but as he is.

the mess. the joy. the boy who sat through every breakdown and every rewrite and kissed every page like it was gospel.

the boy who called you genius with his mouth full of meatball sub.

who read your books like confessions, who made even writer’s block feel like a love letter.

♡ pannacotta fugo

— he noticed you before you noticed him. not because you were trying to be aloof — you just… didn’t talk much, but fugo watched the way your fingers curled around your pen. how your gaze stayed lowered and yet felt like it had seen everyone. the first time you scribbled something down after bruno’s meeting, he couldn’t stop wondering what it was. a plan? a poem? an observation about him? (spoiler: it was a metaphor about mista’s voice being “sunlight trapped in a tomato.” he’ll find that out later.)

— your silence makes him anxious — until it doesn’t. at first, he was convinced you hated him. you barely looked at him, never spoke unless prompted, but then one day, you complimented a theory he mentioned in passing — something about psychological triggers in interrogation.

you said, “you’re more intuitive than people realize.” and fugo hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

— he starts adjusting to your presence unconsciously. he softens his voice when you’re near. checks his temper before raising it. if you so much as shift in your seat, he glances up like your movement carries weight.

“you alright?” he’ll ask.

you nod. “just writing.”

and somehow, that means more to him than a hundred conversations.

— he wants to understand your writing process — but it’s alien to him. fugo is academic, structured, methodical. your process is chaotic. messy. strange. you scribble in margins, cross out full pages, rip them, then tape them back in. he watches you for hours sometimes just trying to decipher the logic.

“how do you know when it’s good?”

“when it stops hurting to write it,” you say.

it floors him. absolutely destroys him. he writes it down in his planner under things that made my heart do that thing again.

— he gets shy when he sees himself in your work. you never use names. but the tone is unmistakable. the temper held in check. the boy with guilt tucked into the corners of his words.

“is this… is this about me?”

“if it is?” you ask softly.

he doesn’t speak. just blushes and presses a kiss to the back of your hand.

— he thinks your mind is a better book than any he’s read. this is coming from someone who reads dense texts for fun. but you — you fascinate him. the metaphors you live in. the way you describe pain. how easily you see through people. sometimes he catches you watching the world like it’s an unfinished chapter. and he wants to ask, “how do i look on the page?” but he’s afraid the answer will be more honest than he’s ready for.

— he never knew quiet could be this safe. with you, silence isn’t failure. it’s comfort. it’s shared space. it’s something sacred. when he holds you while you write, forehead resting against your temple, there are no words. just breath. warmth. and when you finally speak — soft, barely above a whisper —

“i think i write better when you’re here.” —he doesn’t say a word. he just pulls you closer, and lets that be the new truth you both write together.

you meet him in a café. not because either of you are there for coffee — god no — but because bruno said it was “a neutral public place for first contact.”

you barely remember the meeting. most of the details were shadowed under the clatter of ceramic mugs and the ambient hum of tension. but what you do remember is how he watched you.

fugo didn’t interrupt. didn’t talk over you. didn’t try to finish your thoughts like so many men with power do.

he just… studied you. eyes dark, intelligent, measuring. not in a threatening way — in the way someone reads between lines. like your silence had depth. like your voice, when you finally chose to speak, might be something worth writing down and somehow, that made you feel more naked than anything else.

he doesn’t speak to you again for a while. he’s not unfriendly. just distant. precise. you admire the way he moves — deliberate, careful, like his temper is always three seconds behind him, dragging its heels and waiting for permission.

you don’t talk much either, but everyone’s already figured that out. it becomes a running joke with narancia — how you scribble in your notebook mid-conversation, how you blink slowly before responding like you’re filing away quotes, but fugo never jokes about you.

he notices your pen first, then your handwriting. then the moment you pause before answering — not because you’re hesitant, but because you’re translating the world into something writable.

“do you write about people you know?” he asks one day, seated beside you on a bench near the sea. he doesn’t look at you when he says it. his gaze stays forward.

you close your notebook.

“i write about what i notice.” he exhales like that was the answer he hoped for — but didn’t know how to interpret.

you scribble again.

he asks, “what are you writing now?”

you glance up.

“your shoulders tense when you feel misunderstood.” his lips twitch. not quite a smile. something heavier. more real.

“…and you notice that?”

“i notice everything,” you murmur.

and you do.

you notice how his hands twitch when he’s trying not to speak. how his gaze flicks between your face and your notebook like he’s desperate to be part of your internal monologue. how when you sigh, he sometimes holds his breath, like he’s trying to catch the same air you let go of.

you start spending more time together. not in a loud, chaotic way. just… proximity. he’ll sit near your window when you’re writing. you’ll brew his tea without him asking. he’ll correct your grammar once and you’ll tell him, “i don’t write to be correct.” he never corrects you again.

sometimes, you’ll read to him. nothing elaborate. just soft prose about longing or grief. you always pause before your favorite lines, he never interrupts. but once, when you finish a paragraph about someone aching in silence, he whispers:

“does it ever stop hurting?”

you look at him, notebook balanced on your knees.

“no. but it starts to make sense.”

and he nods. once. like that’s the closest thing to peace he’s heard in years.

he kisses you after a fight. not with you — with someone else. someone who called your work “cute.” fugo broke a chair over it. maybe a wall too. you’re not sure. you found him afterward, breathing hard, knuckles red, muttering about “disrespect” and “condescension” and “they think you’re soft — they don’t get it. they don’t get you.” you didn’t say anything. just touched his cheek.

he flinched.

but when you whispered, “i’m not soft. i just bruise prettier,” he looked at you like he might combust on the spot.

and then he kissed you. open-mouthed, open-hearted, like he’d been storing up all that fury just to hand it to you, weaponless and shaking.

you didn’t write that night.

you lived it.

he has his flaws. he’s too angry. too volatile. too easily wounded by the world, but he holds you like you’re fragile and powerful all at once — like you could write him into oblivion or salvation and he’d let you, and you’re quiet, yes. reserved. introspective.

but fugo finds fire in your silences. he stares at your lips when you’re thinking. holds your fingers like they’re made of ink and spellwork.

once, you cried during a story. not your own. someone else’s.

he didn’t say a word. just held you and asked, very softly,

“was it beautiful?”

and you nodded.

so he kissed your temple like it was a holy place.

you give him your notebook once, just for a moment. he reads a scene you wrote the night after your first fight. in it, there’s a character with bloodied hands and an apology clenched between his teeth. and another character — unnamed, unreadable — reaching out anyway.

you don’t tell him who it’s about, you don’t have to. he closes the notebook carefully, hands trembling.

“am i that angry?” he whispers.

you nod.

“am i that loved?”

you nod again.

you teach him patience, not because you ask him to — but because loving you requires it.

he learns how to sit in stillness. how to share silence. how to speak less and feel more. he learns that some stories aren’t meant to be fixed — just heard. and some people aren’t meant to be solved — just trusted.

you never ask him to be softer, but slowly, he becomes it anyway.

for you.

he proposes without saying the word, just hands you a new notebook. leather-bound. your name pressed into the spine.

inside, the first page reads:

“write the rest with me?”

and you don’t say yes, you don’t have to. you just open the book. and start.

♡ leone abbacchio

— he noticed you because you didn’t notice him. you didn’t flinch under his glare. didn’t rush to fill silence. didn’t laugh too loudly at mista’s jokes just to be polite. instead, you sat in the corner, sipping tea with your head bowed, scribbling into a battered notebook like the world could wait. abbacchio doesn’t like people. but that? that made him curious.

— he pretends not to care about your writing but he listens. he’d scoff when narancia asked what you were working on, but he’d still listen to your answers. once, you compared heartbreak to a cathedral being condemned from the inside. he didn’t speak for an hour after.

“that wasn’t about me, was it?”

“depends. are you a crumbling church, leone?”he didn’t answer. but he looked away fast.

— he leaves you tea when you forget to eat. doesn’t say anything. doesn’t hand it to you. he just places it by your elbow, walks away, and mumbles something about “don’t pass out on the damn floor.” you know it’s his way of saying he cares. you write it down in a margin like it’s a character trait: gruff but loyal. rough hands. softer heart.

— he starts reading your work in secret. he finds a printed draft one day while you’re sleeping and tells himself he’s just checking for typos. four pages in, he’s sitting on the kitchen floor, cigarette half-burnt, heart pounding over a scene that reminds him too much of himself. he puts it back where he found it. never says a word. you find the corner creased. you smile.

— he doesn’t like when you write about death. he gets tense. irritated. you can feel him behind you, arms crossed, jaw locked.

“don’t romanticize it,” he says once. you don’t answer. just rest your hand over his.

“i won’t. not yours.”

— he keeps his grief private, but your silence invites it out. when he’s sitting next to you and you’re writing with your head tilted and your eyes far-off, he sometimes talks. not much. not loudly. just stories — old ones. broken ones. you never write them down. they belong to him. but you remember every word.

— you teach him how to feel safe again. it’s not a dramatic healing arc. it’s quiet. slow. you fall asleep on his chest one night, ink on your fingertips. he kisses your forehead and mutters, “how the hell did you get under my skin like this?” you don’t wake. but your smile deepens.

and he decides not to fight it anymore.

he doesn’t ask at first, just watches. you’re always scribbling in your notebook, eyes distant, pen dancing across the paper with a rhythm that’s only yours. you sit on rooftops. on kitchen counters. curled up in dusty armchairs no one else touches. half the time you don’t hear anyone call your name. the other half you do, but ignore them anyway.

not him, though. never him. you always look up for leone. he acts like he hates it. he doesn’t.

the first time you fall asleep on him, he doesn’t breathe for a full minute. he should move. get up. complain. instead, he’s still. his arm’s half-asleep. your head rests on his chest like you meant to be there forever.

your hair smells like vanilla and old books. his pulse kicks into his throat. he stares down at you — and that’s when he sees it. the notebook.

open.

he’s never read over your shoulder. he’s tried not to care. but this time… this time, your name is in the sentence.

“he looks at me like i’m the last quiet place in the world.” he exhales. long. slow. wounded.

you shift and mutter something in your sleep.

he closes the book. carefully.

and holds you like you’re already gone.

“you ever write about me?” he asks one day, voice lazy, like he doesn’t actually care.

you don’t even glance up from your page. “all the time.”

“what, like… a brooding bastard with a death wish and a soft spot for people who drink herbal tea and don’t run their mouths?”

you laugh. “i didn’t say it was fiction.”

he smirks. lights a cigarette. “what do i do in the stories?”

you pause.“you stay.”

he goes quiet.

“…that’s unrealistic,” he mutters after a beat.

you shrug. “it’s my story.”

he starts noticing the little things. how your fingers tap when you’re thinking. how you chew the corner of your notebook when stuck. how your foot bounces when you write something emotional. how sometimes, you smile after finishing a sentence, like you just remembered a dream that once felt real and the way your eyes look when you write about him?

he doesn’t even need to read it.

he can feel it.

he comes home late one night — covered in blood that isn’t his, shoulders hunched, jaw tight — and you’re waiting on the couch. cross-legged. lamp on. notebook open.

you look up, but you don’t ask.

you just gesture for him to sit. hand him the tea you made. lean into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t know what to do with that.

not at first.

but he sits and lets you rest your head on his shoulder.

“where do you go when you write?” he asks you one night, voice low, words half-drowned in static from the old radio.

you blink. close your journal. “depends.”

“on?”

“the day. the mood. the person i’m writing about.”

he eyes you. “and if it’s me?”

you smile softly. “then i go somewhere safe.”

he doesn’t say anything.

but his hand tightens gently around your thigh.

he’s never been good at softness.

he knows how to be loyal. how to fight. how to bleed for what he believes in. but gentleness? peace? knowing someone sees you and doesn’t flinch?

it’s terrifying.

but with you, he starts to want it. worse — he starts to believe it could be real.

he reads your journal again once, when you’re out buying groceries. he knows it’s wrong. he does it anyway.

“i think he’s still learning how to be loved. and that’s okay. i’ll wait. i’ll write him soft until he believes it.”

he slams the journal shut.

drains half a bottle of wine and doesn’t speak for the rest of the night.

but the next morning, there’s a new pen sitting beside your pillow. it’s nice. black lacquer. gold trim. clearly expensive.

there’s a note under it, scrawled in messy all-caps:

“IF YOU’RE GOING TO WRITE ME INTO EXISTENCE, AT LEAST DO IT IN STYLE.”

you laugh.

kiss his cheek when he walks by.

he rolls his eyes.

but he kisses the top of your head anyway.

one night, you sit on his lap, your journal open on the table beside you, and say softly, “can i read you something?”

he tenses. “depends. is it romantic garbage?”

“yes.”

he sighs.

“…go ahead.”

you read aloud a piece where the man who can’t say “i love you” shows it by making tea, by guarding the door, by staying up to make sure the one he loves sleeps safely.

he’s quiet.

“you think that’s enough?”

you blink. “what?”

“tea. staying up. guarding doors. all the things i do.”

you study him. “it’s not about the tea.”

“then what is it about?”

“the fact that you care enough to do it.”

he exhales like he doesn’t deserve that answer.

but deep down, he’s glad you gave it anyway.

he doesn’t say he loves you often, but he calls you writer girl in that low voice that always makes your knees feel weak. he checks your favorite pen for ink levels. he buys you notebooks but pretends he found them lying around. he memorizes every time you say a character is based on him — especially the ones who die beautifully and when you fall asleep with your journal open, he reads it.

always.

every single page, because if you’re writing him into your forever, he wants to know what version of him you’ll keep.

the one you keep is the one who stays.

and for you? he always will.

[sailornymph]

Hey!! Hope you are doing well! I was wondering if you could write some angst! with shikamaru were he and the reader are in an arranged marriage but no matter how hard reader tries to create some sort of bond, he only has eyes for temari. And he doesn’t realize his mistake until too late?? Id appreciate if you could write this, if not that totally fine!

when it’s too late to come home; shikamaru nara

synopsis — in a marriage born from duty, not love, you gave everything and asked for nothing. now, seven years later, shikamaru finally realizes what he’s about to lose. but some realizations come too late — and not every goodbye is spoken aloud.

content warning — angst, emotional neglect, arranged marriage, parental miscommunication, regret, implied separation

the day your son says he wants to stay longer at your mother’s house, you say nothing. just nod, adjust the little bend in his collar, and let him go. you don’t tell him his father’s eyes are quietly following from behind the gate. you don’t say what shikamaru already knows, he’s too late.

not in the loud, slamming doors kind of way. not in the way he could cry or beg or argue but in the subtle, still, bone-deep realization that there’s a clock that’s been ticking this whole time and he’s never once looked at the hands. not until now, not until it’s nearly up.

seven years married. it was meant to be political, beneficial. you’d known each other in passing, hardly more than polite nods and shared glances across meetings. you were quieter than temari, less bold, less sharp-tongued — less interesting, he’d once thought. and yet your clans had signed the papers, held the ceremony, raised the toast. a match between strength and strategy. all very official. all very numb.

he hadn’t been cruel, just absent. emotionally, mentally — physically, when he could be. he slept beside you without really turning to you. shared meals without ever really tasting the food you made. you never nagged, never yelled, never pushed. maybe that made it easier to ignore. maybe that made it worse. you tried for a while, didn’t you?

you wore your hair differently. styled it like temari’s, once. tied your sash the same way she did when she visited. he remembers now, too late, how you’d smiled so brightly at dinner that night, asking how his day had gone. he’d given a lazy “troublesome” and changed the subject. you never wore your hair that way again.

he remembers another time, maybe year two or three, when you’d dressed a little bolder. red lips. silk at your waist. and he’d barely looked up. you hadn’t cried, not in front of him. you’d just gone quiet again. a little more quiet than before. then after a night of too many cups of sake, shoya came.

dark hair. your eyes. a quiet, thoughtful thing, just like you and suddenly your world shifted, as it always does when a child enters it. you poured yourself into him. read to him in the afternoons, took him to your mother’s house in the mornings, sang to him in the bath. even when shikamaru stayed late at the office or walked in tired, you always handed him the baby. he’s your father, you’d whisper, pressing shoya into his arms.

he didn’t realize how much that meant. not until now because now it’s year seven. the contract is nearing its quiet end. nothing has been said aloud, but you’ve been spending more time away. always at your parents’ house. your bags stay packed longer. your glances toward him grow shorter.

he notices everything now, how you smile differently with shoya, how you laugh more freely around others. how you’ve stopped trying to win him over — and somehow, that hurts the most.

you’ve stopped trying. he watches your reflection in the kitchen window, pouring tea while shoya tells you a story. the child speaks with animation, gestures wide, and your eyes sparkle with warmth. she’s always been this beautiful, he thinks, stunned at the truth of it. she’s always laughed like that. he never tried to bring it out of you.

his mother asked the other day if you two were happy. he gave a non-answer. his father just looked away. everyone could see it. he’d married a woman who gave everything without asking for anything in return — and he’d given nothing back.

your mother, on the other hand, gave you the only comfort she knew how. sat beside you during one of those long evenings and said, “at least he’s not unkind to you,” with a soft, sad smile. a woman’s way of saying i know it’s not enough, but it could be worse.

that smile sticks in his mind like a blade. shoya runs to him when they pass each other in the yard — “papa!” — and throws his arms around his legs. shikamaru bends down slowly, hugging his son tight and it almost feels like a goodbye.

because this boy… he still adores him. still loves him completely and yet he knows that if you go, shoya will go with you, and the hollow in his chest tells him he deserves it.

he shouldn’t have needed this long to see it. shouldn’t have needed distance to feel the loss. when you walk past him later that night, there’s a faint pause. your perfume is soft, your steps are quiet. you turn, just slightly, to look at him. there’s no hate in your face. no resentment. just tired patience and maybe that hurts the worst of all, because you should hate him, you don’t. you’re just done.

“you’re a good father,” you say gently, like it’s a goodbye wrapped in a compliment.

shikamaru swallows hard, his fingers twitch.

“you’re a good mother,” he murmurs.

you smile, but it’s not for him. it’s for yourself, for shoya. for everything you’ve built alone in a marriage that was meant to be shared.

you turn away and he lets you. the next morning, shoya curls into your lap, sleepily mumbling something about building a treehouse, and you nod along with him, stroking his hair.

shikamaru watches from the hall, something breaking wide open in his chest. he wants to tell you he’s sorry, he wants to tell you not to go, he wants to say i love you.

but he never even tried to get to know you and now, all you have left is time. and he’s running out of it…maybe you’ll stay, maybe you won’t.

but either way, the man who once thought everything was too troublesome is now praying that he didn’t let the best thing in his life slip away with a quiet nod and a packed bag.

and if he did…he’ll carry that with him, for the rest of his life.

[sailornymph]

hihi! hope you’re doing well :)

after reading the platonic yandere headcannons, i started to think about just how much Narancia admires Bruno and it got me thinking about yandere! Narancia himself. do you think there is a difference in how Narancia would treat his own darling depending on if Bruno was also yandere for someone at the same time? like how would seeing Bruno be a yandere influence Narancia?

bulletproof devotion; narancia ghirga

synopsis — narancia ghirga doesn’t know how to love quietly. when bruno bucciarati takes a dangerous shine to you, narancia learns from the best — and the worst.

content warning — yandere themes, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, unhealthy romantic behavior, obsessive tendencies

— you weren’t anyone particularly important — not in the eyes of the mafia anyway. a cashier, a student, maybe a neighbor. but that’s what made it worse. narancia couldn’t stop thinking about how normal you were, and how soft your life looked from the outside. you became a fantasy he couldn’t stop indulging.

— he gets so nervous around you — hands in his pockets, shoulders tense, trying not to look like a thug. “h-hey,” he says, then immediately walks away. the next day he comes back to buy something he doesn’t even need, just so you’ll talk to him again.

— bruno catches on immediately. narancia doesn’t shut up about you. “did they smile at you today?” bruno teases. and then narancia, like a kicked puppy, says: “yeah, but… what if they smile like that at everyone?”

— bruno pulls him aside one night after a mission. says something like, “you want them to look at you like you’re the only person in the world?” and narancia nods. bruno continues: “then show them they are. don’t let them forget you. make them depend on you.” and like a curse, narancia listens.

— he becomes terrifyingly consistent. same time, same way, every day. he walks you home. brings you things he thinks you’ll like. food, souvenirs, items from places he’s been. “thought you’d look cute with this,” he mumbles, cheeks red.

— jealousy sets in fast. a coworker laughing with you? a stranger standing too close? narancia stares so hard they move. he doesn’t start fights — not yet — but the tension radiates off him like heat.

— he starts asking you weird questions. “do you think bruno’s handsome?” “would you still like me if i got hurt real bad?” “if i asked you to run away with me, would you?” he watches your reactions more than your answers.

— he doesn’t hide that he’s dangerous. “my job’s messy,” he says. “but i’m never messy with you.” when you get scared or pull away, he always softens. “i’d never hurt you. ever. i’m not like the people i fight.” but his grip on your hand gets tighter each time he says it.

— he starts using bruno’s lines. it’s subtle at first — “i only get angry because i care,” or “you’re the only peaceful thing in my world.” you don’t know that these words aren’t entirely his. he’s parroting what bruno once said about his girl. but it still works.

— and eventually, you meet bruno again. only twice. both times he’s polite. charming, even. but something in your gut says he’s not just looking out for narancia — he’s making a weapon out of him.

you slam the door behind you a little harder than you mean to. he follows right after, calling your name, arms full of snacks, things you used to like — things he brings you now like peace offerings.

“just let me talk—”

“i said i needed space, narancia!”

“you always say that after you’ve talked to him!”

“who?” you snap, rounding on him. “my cousin? my classmate? my friend who drove me home? what exactly is the offense here?”

his fists clench. “i know when people are looking at you like they want you. i’m not stupid.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re acting like a child.”

“well maybe if you didn’t make me feel like i’m gonna lose you every time someone breathes near you—”

“you’re not going to lose me,” you sigh, trying to pull away. “but you are going to smother me if you keep acting like this.”

he grabs your wrist — too tight at first, then loosens. his voice trembles. “please don’t say that.”

you look at him — really look at him. he’s not shaking out of anger. he’s shaking because he’s scared.

“…you’ve been talking to bruno again, haven’t you?”

narancia falters. then laughs bitterly. “what, am i not allowed to have someone looking out for me?”

“not when he’s teaching you how to keep someone like me,” you say. “i don’t need to be kept, narancia. i’m not a pet.” he’s quiet for a moment.

then he says, “you’re right.”

you blink.

“you’re not a pet,” he repeats. “you’re not some pretty thing to chain up, but i still wanna be the only one who gets to love you like this. i wanna be the one you trust the most.”

his hand trembles as it lets go of yours.

“…i wanna be good for you.”

and maybe it’s stupid — maybe it’s insane — but that’s the line that breaks you. because you know he loves you. you know it in the way he won’t meet your eyes when he’s scared he’s gone too far. in the way he hides behind borrowed phrases because his own voice feels too small. in the way he still takes the long way home just to walk beside you.

you sit down on the bed. “come here.”

he does, cautiously.

you rest your forehead against his. “just… don’t let him change you, narancia. you’re good enough without all of that.”

he lets out a shaky breath, and for a while, neither of you speak. the silence is warm, but unsettling. like a lull in a storm that hasn’t quite passed.

“you’re not gonna leave me, right?” he murmurs, voice cracking.

you brush his hair behind his ear. “not tonight.”

he smiles, leaning into your touch.

not tonight.

[sailornymph]

hello! could i request yandere! Bruno with a darling who is more powerful than him, stand wise and rank wise in Passione? reader is aware of his yandere tendencies and finds them a little cute and charming, while also being genuinely attracted to Bruno, but still puts their foot down when Bruno tries to interfere their work in Passione. how would Bruno be with a darling like that? would he relent or try to use other methods to try and limit how much darling does in Passione? tyty

boss of me; bruno bucciarati

synopsis — it should’ve been obvious that dating bruno bucciarati—the golden boy capo of passione—would come with complications. you just didn’t expect his obsession to be one of them.

content warning — yandere!bruno, work sabotage, possessiveness, jealousy, oral, light dubcon, makeup sex, bruno being so in love it’s actually scary

— he didn’t mean to fall for you, not when you were above his rank, not when your name was spoken in low, reverent tones in passione halls, but he did. the moment he saw you walk into that meeting room—long coat dusted with blood and eyes dead calm—he fell. hard.

— the jealousy started before you were even his. he’d bite his tongue when other men tried to flirt with you, even if he wanted to unzip their mouths shut. his eye would twitch every time you smiled at someone else. and when you started dating? god help anyone who dared look at you.

— he spoils you out of spite, jewelry, dresses, new weapons—whatever you need, whatever you want. even if you’re richer than him, stronger than him, more respected. it doesn’t matter. you’re his woman and his woman deserves the best.

— he hates that you’re stronger, but it turns him on. he dreams about being pinned under you—and dreams of pinning you down harder. your strength is infuriating. your strength is beautiful. your strength makes him want to ruin you just so he can build you back up.

— he absolutely brings you to meetings just to show you off. he’ll lean back in his chair with his arm around your waist, eyes daring anyone to so much as breathe in your direction. you catch him glaring at waiters for saying miss too casually. he’s insane. you love it.

— the gang teases him relentlessly. “so… she wears the pants in the relationship, huh?” narancia says with a grin before flying face-first into a wall via zipper. they respect you. you’re terrifying. you’re hot. and they’re all a little scared of how whipped their boss is.

— he sabotages your work subtly—until he doesn’t. moves things off your desk. deletes an email or two. reroutes one of your lower-tier missions so you’re not in danger, but then he goes too far—interfering with your top-level assignments. missions that could have cost lives. that’s when you finally snap.

— he insists on makeup sex after every argument, even ones he started. no, especially those. he needs to reassert his claim. needs you puffy-eyed and breathless under him, saying his name like a prayer. only then will he calm down. only then.

— you noticed the obsession early. maybe the second week into dating, when a low-level soldier tried to hold your umbrella and bruno “accidentally” zipped his hand to the wall. or the first time he kissed you so deeply you forgot why you were mad. you’ve known. and you haven’t left.

— he doesn’t care what rank you are. you could be capo dei capi, or an actual devil, as far as he’s concerned, you’re just the woman he loves. and you’ll submit to him in the end. you always do.

— he uses strategic manipulation, not brute force. he doesn’t need to overpower you physically. he gets under your skin with intimacy, tenderness, and mind games. he knows every pressure point. every insecurity. every weakness. and he uses them with care.

— he talks about kids and a villa in naples like it’s inevitable. you haven’t even agreed to move in, but he has dreams of putting a ring on your finger, your signature on his last name, and a future soaked in blood and love.

— he’s already halfway living in your apartment. half his suits are in your closet. his cologne lingers on your pillow. your neighbors think you’re married. he wants them to.

— he says “mine” like it’s gospel. not in public, or in meetings. but in bed. when your thighs shake. when his zipper-teeth are buried in your skin. he chants it like a prayer. like a curse. like a truth older than the sea.

— he has no shame. if it means keeping you close, he’ll ruin your career. he’ll cripple your team. he’ll take a bullet. he’ll burn the world down—just to sit beside you as it turns to ash.

you should’ve known he’d be here. he wasn’t on the roster, he wasn’t needed, but the second you stepped into HQ, his cologne was in the air—amber, ruin, and danger.

he’s trailing behind you, black shoes echoing, voice calm, smile fake.

“bella. we need to talk.”

you don’t slow down. your heels click a sharp staccato against the marble, you refused to turn around, to stop — when you know what he’s done.

your door swings open, you step in, and he follows.

“don’t walk away from me when i’m talking to you.”

you feel his hand before you hear his breath—rough and warm as he grabs your wrist, spins you into his chest. your nose hits soft fabric. the zipper on his chest presses into your skin. your fists clench.

“let me go,” you snap, but he holds tighter.

“what exactly did you do, bruno?”

his eyes flash, but his voice stays low. “i moved a few things. you were overwhelmed—”

“you rerouted three of my missions, deleted half my intel, and reassigned my second-in-command without permission. you tampered with my rank-specific intel, bucciarati.”

his last name. you only use it when you’re livid.

he closes the door with a flick of his fingers.

zip.

your back hits it.

his palm slaps beside your head, caging you. “i did it because you never take a break, because you push yourself until you’re half-dead, and i love you.”

you shove his chest, but he barely moves.

“you don’t get to use love as an excuse to sabotage me.”

he smiles like a death sentence. “then what do i get to use?”

your mouth opens—only for him to seize your jaw in one hand and kiss you hard enough to bruise. his zipper unravels your blouse. your bra. your buttons.

“bruno—”

“quiet.” his voice darkens. “don’t interrupt me again.”

your office chair is behind you now. he’s pushing you down into it, unzipping his jacket, kneeling between your legs.

you glare at him. “this is supposed to be an argument.”

“it is.” his lips graze your inner thigh. “i’m proving my point.”

his mouth is hot, his tongue dangerous. he licks up every inch of your frustration, makes you arch against the chair, your hand gripping his hair.

“still mad at me, bella?” you don’t answer.

so he adds two fingers. crooked. slow.

“still stronger than me?” he curls them.

your thighs tremble.

he doesn’t stop until you’re wrecked, undone, clawing at your desk. only then does he rise—hard in his pants, eyes feral—and unzip his fly.

he takes you right there on your office chair, your legs over his shoulders, his zipper belt biting into your hip.

“you belong to me,” he groans against your throat. “i don’t care what your rank is. you’re mine.”

you don’t argue, you can’t, not with your mouth open around his name. he fucks you until the argument is a memory, until you forget what he did, until your voice is hoarse and your pulse is singing.

and afterward—after he’s cleaned you up and kissed your tears away—he lies across your lap, resting his head on your thigh.

“i’m sorry for crossing the line,” he murmurs. “but bella… you’ll always be mine and i’ll always come back for you. no matter how strong you get. no matter how far you try to run.”

you stroke his hair.

“i know,” you whisper.

because you’re not going anywhere.

not really.

not ever.

[sailornymph]

ouuu!! 💕💗 ur writing is LOVELYYY!! I was wondering if u could write ab the founders nd their long hair?? how proud they r to have it, how the reader loves it nd the fact their children have it ...but it gets in way in bed smetimes?

tangled in you; founders

synopsis — falling for the founders of konoha means dealing with long hair, longer nights, and children just as chaotic as their fathers.

content warning — slight sexual themes

a/n — not doing tobirama because long hair where? thank you so much, and i think i went overboard but fuckk i love them both so much 😩

♡ hashirama senju

— hashirama’s hair reaches past his waist — thick, dark, and soft like river silk. he rarely ties it up anymore, it’s his symbol of strength, like a living banner he carries behind him in battle, the only one allowed to touch it freely is you.

— you love his hair just as much as you love him — not just for how beautiful it is, but because it’s how you always know he’ll return home. that long, familiar curtain flowing through the village gates is your sign that peace is still possible. you comb it before bed like a prayer.

— he always smiles when you touch it — even in the middle of a council meeting, even when he’s exhausted from negotiations. the moment your hands meet his scalp, he melts, murmuring, “don’t stop, sweetheart… mmm, that’s it.”

— during intimacy, it’s chaos. his hair gets everywhere, in your mouth, across your chest, tangled in your fingers, even caught beneath your back when he leans in to kiss you harder. he swears he’ll cut it for you if you asked, you threaten divorce if he tries.

— you gave birth to a baby boy named hiroto, and even as an infant, the boy had a full head of thick hair. it grew quickly — wild, long, and powerful. by age five, tobirama says he looked like a miniature hashirama. hashirama beamed like it was the best compliment in the world.

— hiroto is a mommy’s boy, soft-spoken but observant, preferring your lap to anyone else’s presence. but when hashirama’s around, his admiration is clear. “when i grow up,” he once said solemnly, “i want to be like papa… no, better. i want to be hokage.”

— hashirama wept when he heard that. actual tears, hands pressed to his heart, dramatic sobbing that had tobirama dragging him away by the collar. he kept muttering, “he’s so strong already, y/n, so full of hope… just like us once…”

— the clan has taken notice. hiroto, now 10 going on 11, is already surpassing most of the children in chakra control and combat awareness. he hates when anyone treats him like he’s important just because of his last name. he wants to earn everything — and that humility has made the elders begin to watch him more closely.

— hashirama couldn’t be prouder. not only because hiroto is strong, but because the boy is kind. when a sparring partner was injured, hiroto refused to keep fighting. “he’s hurt,” he told a jōnin plainly. “i want to help him, not win.” that night, hashirama told you, “he might already be better than me.”

— tobirama trains hiroto regularly, grumbling that he’s too soft like his father, but secretly investing a lot of time into helping him master high-level jutsu. you’ve caught tobirama smiling after a session when hiroto nailed a difficult seal. “he’s sharp,” he muttered. “stubborn like you, y/n.”

— with hiroto growing older and more independent, you and hashirama have finally found yourselves with time again — and your husband has plans. filthy, sweet, intense plans. “it’s time to start building our army,” he teases as he pulls you into bed. “one down, five to go.”

— he wants a daughter. badly. he imagines her with your eyes and his hair, tugging at his sleeves during long meetings and demanding piggyback rides. “please,” he whines between kisses, “just one little girl… or two… or five…”

— he never ties his hair back for sex. ever. it always spills over your face, falls into the hollow of your throat, clings to your skin when he finishes — and you wouldn’t have it any other way. it’s become part of your rhythm, the way he gathers it to the side just so he can see you more clearly when you fall apart under him.

— he talks about having more children during sex too, breathlessly, reverently. “another baby, yeah?” he whispers as your legs wrap around his hips. “want to fill you up again… give hiroto a little sister. another son with your smile…”

— hashirama’s love is overwhelming, always has been. when he holds you, it’s like a forest blooming in spring — full of heat, devotion, and life. even with the war behind him, his heart never stops sprinting toward you.

— you’re his reason for peace — his root, his anchor, his sanctuary and when he presses his forehead to your belly after a night of soft moans and tangled sheets, whispering, “please, let’s keep building our world,” you know he means it. for you. for hiroto. for all the children to come.

you’re sitting on the engawa of your home when you feel the familiar weight of him — the soft brush of his hair against your back before you even hear his footsteps.

“you’re late,” you murmur, not turning around. “tobirama said the meeting ended an hour ago.”

“it did,” he says, voice low and playful, “but then hiroto wanted to show me a new jutsu. he’s getting stronger by the day.”

you finally look at him, your husband — hair like a river, flowing down past his waist, dark and shining even in the dimming sun. he’s kicked off his sandals already, kneeling beside you like a man returning from battle, which in many ways, he always is.

“stronger than the other kids?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“they’re whispering about him,” he says softly. “the elders. even some of the captains.” there’s something between pride and fear in his voice — a breath caught in his throat. “and he doesn’t even care. he just wants to make you proud.”

you smile, letting your hand rise to comb through his hair — the same way you’ve done since the beginning.

“he’s a good boy,” you say. “and he’s just like you.”

hashirama hums, eyes fluttering shut. “no,” he murmurs. “he’s better.”

later that night, the house is quiet. hiroto is asleep in the room down the hall, limbs sprawled, hair fanned out over his pillow. you’d braided it for him earlier that day — something you do more often now, ever since other clan mothers started commenting on how much of his father’s presence he carries already.

but in this room, it’s just you and hashirama. his hair is still wet from the bath, hanging heavy down his back, the ends brushing your thighs as he leans over you.

“it gets in the way, doesn’t it,” he teases, hovering above you, arms braced on either side.

you grin. “mm, a little. but i like it. wouldn’t be you without it.”

he dips lower, his strands falling forward like a veil, cocooning you beneath him. your fingers lift instinctively, brushing his hair from his face so you can see his eyes — eyes that have seen war, peace, and every curve of your body like scripture.

“you’re the only reason i still have it, you know,” he whispers, voice already thick with want. “i almost cut it once. when we lost kawarama… i thought maybe it was time. to grieve, to change.”

your throat tightens.

“but you said it made me look like hope,” he continues, making you think back to your adolescent days with him, as he brushed your cheek with the back of his knuckles. “so i kept it. for you. and now…”

his mouth finds yours. slow. deep. reverent.

the first time he pushes inside, his hair is everywhere — tangled around your wrists, trapped beneath your back, clinging to sweat-slicked skin. he tries to gather it in one hand, to see you better, but you stop him.

“leave it,” you whisper against his lips. “i want all of you.” and he gives you that. all of him.

he moves slowly, almost sacredly, as if every roll of his hips is a vow — to love you, to build with you, to never let the world take him away again.

“want another baby,” he whispers into the crook of your neck. “want a daughter… with your eyes and your temper. think she’d braid my hair while i’m trying to do paperwork.”

you laugh, breathless, “you can’t even handle hiroto’s hair without asking me to do it.”

“because you’re better at it,” he groans, thrusting a little deeper, “and you always look so pretty when your focused.”

he’s not lying — he watches you with such softness when you’re brushing your son’s hair that it almost breaks your heart.

“give me another,” he murmurs again, voice breaking. “or two, or a whole team… i want a house full, y/n. i want them to look like you, or him, or both of us together.”

your nails dig into his shoulders, overwhelmed — not just by the sensation, but by how much he feels. you’ve always wondered how a man so powerful, so revered, could still be so tender in private, but that’s hashirama.

he builds peace with his hands, and holds you with the same strength. when it’s over, he doesn’t pull away. just buries his face in your chest, hair still tangled, breath still uneven.

“i want a daughter,” he mumbles. “and another son.”

you’re still catching your breath, one hand stroking his hair, the other tracing patterns on his back.

“you really want a whole army of children?” you tease, as he lifts his head, grinning.

“if i’m the god of shinobi,” he says, mock-serious. “i think it’s only fair i create a few more.”

later that week, he’ll cry again when hiroto defeats a genin twice his age in front of the clan elders and that night, he’ll pull you into his lap and whisper that he wants to try for a daughter again.

he’s already thinking about names and you’re already thinking, if he’s always going to come home like this — with his hair wild, heart wide open, and arms full of love — then yes. maybe an army doesn’t sound so bad.

♡ madara uchiha

— madara’s hair is sacred. uchiha tradition teaches that cutting one’s hair is a symbol of defeat — so madara has never cut his. not after a loss, or in grief, not even when the elders once advised him to. his hair, long and pitch-black with a slight blue sheen, flows down to his waist and often falls into his eyes. it is a banner of victory. a symbol of his pride.

— you’re obsessed with it. not just in a shallow way — though yes, you’re guilty of brushing it over your face when he’s on top of you, running it between your fingers in the dark, or biting it when you’re too full of him to moan but you also love what it represents. that he’s never been bested. never lowered his head. it’s like sleeping beside living history.

— he loves how much you love it. madara rarely admits to vanity, but he’s smug every time you ask to braid it or tug it during sex. if you use his hair to pull him in for a kiss, he’ll smirk against your lips. “so greedy,” he’ll say. “for something that’s already yours.”

— your children inherited it. both maemi and masaki were born with that unmistakable mane of thick, dark hair. maemi’s spills down her back like her father’s; masaki’s falls past his shoulders already. madara wouldn’t dare cut it — not even to help with tangles. “let them carry it,” he says. “it’s their birthright.”

— hair care is a family ritual. you often sit with your children before bed — brushing, braiding, oiling — and madara watches with reverence. sometimes he joins in, though he pretends he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

— maemi is a daddy’s girl, from the moment she could walk, she followed madara around like a shadow. she mimics his expressions, folds her arms the way he does, glares at clan elders when they disagree with him. she’s the only one he ever lets interrupt a meeting. and when she says, “tell them, papa,” he does.

— madara is fiercely protective of her. one day she tells you, in a whisper, that a boy from another clan said she was pretty. madara overhears. he says nothing. just nods, calmly, but later that night he sharpens his blade for no reason and mutters about “boys losing their teeth.”

— masaki is your quiet guardian. he’s more like you — observant, patient, emotionally fluent. when you’re tired, he notices first. when you need silence, he brings you flowers. madara respects him deeply — not just as his son, but because masaki sees the world the way you do. he already shows signs of strategic brilliance at only eight.

— the clan respects masaki. some of the elders already whisper that he could lead the younger generation. madara says nothing, but his eyes linger every time masaki speaks. he trains him relentlessly — but brags about him only to you, in bed, when he thinks you’re half-asleep. “he’s not like the others,” he murmurs. “he’s ours.”

— madara refuses to let masaki cut his hair. once, masaki asked if he could trim it like one of the other boys. madara stared at him so long he forgot what he was saying. “no son of mine,” he muttered, “will ever look defeated.”

— madara’s hair gets in the way during sex — and he loves it. sometimes it brushes your thighs. other times it’s plastered between your bodies, warm and soaked with sweat. he lets it spill into your mouth when you kiss, brushes it over your chest as he whispers how good you are for him. when you gasp, he’ll smirk: “my hair bothers you?” and then go even slower.

— he uses it to mark you. one night, he wraps a strand of it around your wrist while taking you from behind. “so you don’t forget,” he growls, “whose you are.”

— you’re in love with his hair as much as him. one time you told him, “if you ever cut it, i’ll cry.” he replied, “if i ever lose a battle, i’ll die before you see it.”

— he wants more children, like an army. after long nights together — when maemi is asleep beside him, and masaki is curled up at your side — he’ll run his fingers over your belly and whisper, “one more. one just like you.”

— izuna is the balance. loyal, sarcastic, emotionally sharp. he teases madara constantly, tells the kids stories about your younger days, and jokingly calls you “the only reason madara’s tolerable.” he helps maemi sneak sweets and trains masaki when madara’s too busy.

— madara pretends not to need him but you know better. when izuna’s away too long, madara gets irritable. when izuna returns, he doesn’t say welcome back — he just asks, “what took so long?”

your husband’s hair drapes over your chest like a dark banner, sweat-damp and tangled from hours of slow, drawn-out worship. his fingers are still laced between your thighs, unmoving, as if the last thrust finished something sacred between you — not just lust, but legacy.

you can feel the weight of him above you, proud, heavy, and satisfied. his face is buried at the crook of your neck. every now and then he breathes, and it comes out like a murmur.

“you looked at me like i was divine,” he says, voice rasped. “even before i conquered anything.”

your fingers drift to his hair, damp and wild across your chest, your belly, your arms. you brush it back to see his eyes — that deep, arrogant fire still there, even softened by love.

“that’s because you were divine,” you whisper.

he hums. the corner of his mouth twitches. “and now?” he asks. “still?”

“worse. now you’re just a spoiled old god with two perfect little clones running around.”

he smirks and it’s wicked — not amused, but smug, like he’s already won something.

“hm. you think they’re mine?” he lifts himself just enough to look at you fully, hair falling forward again like a curtain. “the girl’s more vicious than i ever was and the boy… he’s soft, like you.”

“masaki isn’t soft. he’s smarter than you were at his age.”

“no argument there,” madara says with a shrug, but his gaze narrows. “the elders already respect him. the others—” he pauses, eyes glittering, “they listen. they hesitate. that’s leadership.”

you bite your bottom lip to suppress the pride in your chest. he sees it anyway.

“you like that,” he says, voice lower. “you love that our son commands attention.”

“of course i do,” you say softly. “but i love that he still sleeps curled up against my chest. i love that he braids maemi’s hair in the mornings when she doesn’t want help. that he still calls me mama.” madara watches you closely.

“he’s a mommy’s boy.”

he nods, once. “good. he’ll be a better man for it.”

you run your fingers through his hair again. he watches you, the way he always does when you touch it — equal parts adoration and hunger. then, without warning, he drags the strands across your chest, over your nipples, down your stomach. slowly.

“you love this hair too much,” he murmurs.

“no such thing.”

he lets it spill between your legs — not touching, just teasing — and your breath catches.

“do you think we have enough children?” he asks, casually, as if you’re discussing the weather. “or should i put another inside you? one to match your eyes this time.”

you arch against him involuntarily. “you’re terrible.”

“i’m thinking long term,” he says, still smirking. “they’ll rule. masaki will lead. maemi will make grown men stutter. and the next—” he leans down again, dragging his hair over your hips like silk, “will be born from your mouth when you cry out my name.”

your hand fists his hair. he doesn’t flinch, grinning instead.

later, after your limbs stop shaking and the fire between your thighs settles to a warm glow, madara rolls you onto his chest and whispers, “they have your ears.”

“what?”

“the children. your ears.” he gestures lazily. “maemi has my glare and your earlobes. i noticed last night.”

“madara,” you say, laughing. “what the hell.”

but he’s not joking, he touches your jaw, then your hair, then the side of your face with surprising gentleness. his tone shifts, just a little.

“she’s getting older.” you go still.

“she told me about a boy,” he continues. “an uchiha boy. said he liked her hair.” you wait.

“i wanted to kill him,” he admits, flatly. “but izuna reminded me she’s twelve. so i’m waiting.”

you smile against his chest. “do you think she’ll ever fall for someone?” madara doesn’t answer right away.

“she already has. for me.”

“besides you,” you murmur.

“there is no besides me.” you nod, amused, but the smile fades a little, and you glance over to the door where soft footsteps echo — masaki’s, heading toward the back garden.

madara watches you watch him.

“you still think he’s too gentle?”

“no,” you say. “i think he’s perfect.”

in the garden, masaki is practicing alone — a spinning fire jutsu, precise and elegant. izuna is sitting nearby with maemi, who is braiding flower stems into his hair. he looks like he’s contemplating death.

“what have i done to deserve this?” izuna groans as maemi ties another flower near his temple.

“you were born under a lucky star,” madara calls dryly.

“you’re a coward,” izuna retorts. “this is your daughter. i’m just the babysitter.”

“she said i scare the flowers,” madara says.

“you do.”

you laugh quietly, stepping into the sunlight with madara’s hand still tangled in yours. his long hair is half-tied, barely, and the rest falls around him like armor. he looks half-warlord, half-lover, all yours.

you glance toward masaki.

“he’s good,” madara says. “better than i was. the elders see it.” you nod.

“you, proud?” you ask.

“of him?” madara answers. “yes.”

“but more of you,” he adds. “you gave me heirs. but more than that— you gave me witnesses to my greatness.” you elbow him in the ribs.

“madara.”

“what?”

“you’re disgusting.”

“you’re in love with me.”

“you’re right.”

he turns to look at you — sharp eyes softening — and brushes your hair away from your face, lips ghosting over your cheek.

“i’ll give you more,” he says again. “as many as you want. boys, girls, all of them with my hair and your heart.”

and somehow, beneath the sun and your children’s laughter, that sounds like the closest thing to a vow that madara uchiha will ever make.

[sailornymph]

Your jjba fics are so fire 🔥🔥🔥I love your characterization and prose! I was wondering which of the passione gang you’d consider as your favorite?? (even though its nearly impossible to pick)

thank you so much, it means so much that you all are enjoying these stories and not you asking me to choose when everyone is a 10- it’s bruno tho 😜 face card never declines, body is tea and a nice personality, i couldn’t give a damn about him being a criminal 😗

[sailornymph]

Hello my friend! I just came across your account so I wanted to say that I love your stories and everything! I also wanted to know if you are doing any stories requests or anything? ✨💜🪸😘🐬🏳️‍🌈🍑✨

hi, i am very grateful that many of you have been enjoying my work! request are open, just check my pinned post for my rules 🩷

[sailornymph]

hihi! hope you’re doing well :)

after reading your yandere!bruno piece, it got me thinking about what it would be like if, after meeting Capri reader and seeing their relationship with Bruno & how protective he is, the members of the Bucciarati gang became platonic yanderes for reader? like who would be the most likely to become a platonic yandere? i personally feel like it’s between Narancia and whoever Bruno asks to watch over reader the most when he has no other options and can’t look after reader himself. could i get some headcannons please?

tysm <3

we’re not obsessed, we’re protective; bucci gang

synopsis — after seeing how overprotective bruno is of you, the rest of the gang starts to spiral a little.

content warning — platonic yandere behavior, threats of violence, no one lets you walk alone ever again

♡ narancia ghirga

— it all started when bruno said, “stay close to her.” and narancia took that like an order from god. if she mattered to the capo, she mattered to him. forever.

— he doesn’t think of you romantically — to him, you’re family. sacred. like a shrine he guards with a knife in his boot and a juice box in his hand.

— calls you “big sis” when he’s being sweet, “bruno’s girl” when he’s reminding others not to get cute.

— treats you like a princess, a saint, and an endangered species all at once. you once tripped and he called bruno mid-panic.

— drew an entire comic about saving you from kidnappers. it was 13 pages, color-coded, with a special move called “flaming loyalty uppercut.”

— believes everyone outside the team is a threat. the mailman, the post office, a lady who once asked you for directions — all suspicious.

— cried when you let him hold your umbrella. said he’d never forget the moment. you were just trying not to get soaked.

— once ran across the street and shoved a stranger for saying “hey” to you. then bought you a smoothie like nothing happened.

— bruno once said “she’s under our protection,” and narancia now recites it like a war motto. he will bite people for you.

— 8.7/10 — overly attached little brother energy. feral loyalty. zero romantic confusion. just reverence.

you open your door at 6:48 a.m. narancia is sitting cross-legged on the steps with a backpack, a switchblade, and a bag of corn chips. he perks up the second you appear.

“you’re awake!” he grins. “i brought snacks.”

“…did you sleep here?”

“nah,” he shrugs. “just keeping watch. bruno said to stay close.”

you sigh, motioning for him to come inside. he follows you into the kitchen like a shadow, glancing at the windows, the hallway, the cabinets.

“you know,” you mutter, pouring coffee, “i can handle myself.”

he frowns. “you’re not supposed to. not when you’ve got people like us.”

“like us?”

“like bruno. and me,” he says, serious now. “you’re with our capo. that means something.” you glance at him.

“you make him softer,” narancia says quietly. “happier. and i don’t want anything to mess that up. not just ’cause he cares. but ’cause i do too.”

you soften. “…narancia—”

he digs something from his pocket. it’s a hand-drawn “protection license,” covered in doodles, with your name written in glitter pen and “approved by the squad” underlined in red.

“i made this official,” he says proudly. “no one gets near you unless they get my okay.”

you try to laugh, but he’s completely serious and somehow, that makes it feel safe. ridiculous. but safe.

because narancia may be impulsive, dramatic, and half-feral — but his loyalty runs deep. and if you’re important to bruno, then to narancia? you’re everything.

♡ giorno giovanna

— giorno wasn’t supposed to care. you were just “the woman our capo protects.” another liability, until you smiled at him — not out of fear, not out of obligation, just… kindness.

— he doesn’t love you, not like bruno does. he knows you belong to the capo, and he respects that line like sacred ground. but that doesn’t stop him from building a fortress around you in silence.

— he starts subtle, makes sure you’re driven everywhere, adjusts the team’s routes so you’re always near backup, reroutes danger like he was playing chess.

— keeps files on anyone who interacts with you more than once. the florist, your dentist, a neighbor who waved too long — all categorized. all watched.

— you mention a headache? you wake up with tea and rare herbs on your doorstep. a stalker follows you? they’re gone by morning. no explanation.

— you once told him you felt “safe” around him. he didn’t speak for a full minute. when he did, it was only, “good. that means i’m doing my job.”

— doesn’t smile often, but when you call him dependable, his entire expression softens for half a second.

— respects bruno’s attachment to you — but watches closely to make sure you’re treated like the treasure you are. not because he doubts bruno because he doesn’t trust fate.

— gold experience healed a paper cut on your hand once, and he didn’t let go until he was sure you weren’t in pain. you were just trying to open mail.

— 9.5/10 — surgical obsession. terrifyingly polite. sees himself as your guardian, not your equal.

you wake up to a fruit basket on your balcony. lemons, lavender, honeycomb — everything you’d ever mentioned liking. no note. no name, but the placement is too deliberate to be random. you already know who sent it.

you find giorno later that day, standing beside a fountain, talking business with bruno. he glances at you once, nods slightly — like a prince acknowledging royalty — then returns to his briefing, you wait.

later, alone in the courtyard, you approach.

“the basket was you,” you say flatly.

he doesn’t deny it. “i’ve heard citrus helps with fatigue.”

“you’re not my personal doctor, giorno.”

“bruno entrusts your well-being to all of us.”

“and did bruno also entrust you with terrorizing the delivery man who flirts with me every tuesday?”

giorno looks at you. calmly. like he’s calculating.

“he won’t be back,” he says. “he disrespected you and by extension, our capo.”

“he asked for my number.”

“and he did so knowing who you belong to.” a pause. “i consider that suicidal.”

you fold your arms. “you can’t control everyone around me.”

he steps forward, gently — not imposing, but exact. his voice low. measured.

“i don’t control them for me. i do it for bruno. for this team. for balance. and…” his eyes meet yours, steady as glass, “because losing someone like you would shake more than our morale.” you don’t respond.

he takes your silence as permission.

“besides,” he says, voice dipping softer now, “i’d never take you from bruno. but i will destroy anything that tries to take you from him.”

then he walks away, not looking back and you stand there, holding a lemon from the basket in your hand, realizing you’re protected not by one monster — but many.

♡ guido mista

— the moment bruno told him “she’s under my protection,” mista took that personally. if the capo cared, then she was family. and family? you protect with your life.

— his loyalty to you is loud. affectionate. insanely overbearing. calls you “sis,” “queen,” and sometimes “madonna” in the way you’d address an actual deity.

— he’s convinced no one else is qualified to keep you safe. not even bruno. “our capo’s amazing, yeah, but he can’t be everywhere at once. that’s where i come in.”

— texts you hourly. not even to talk. just to check if you’re alive. if you don’t respond within 10 minutes, he assumes you’ve been kidnapped and begins forming a search party.

— keeps a separate holster loaded with bullets “in case something touches her aura wrong.”

— once tackled a guy for brushing your shoulder in a bakery line. later claimed it was a preemptive strike against “unspoken disrespect.”

— the sex pistols adore you and bicker over who gets to ride in your pocket. they’ve chewed through someone’s shoelaces for making you frown once.

— you once gave mista a casual thumbs-up and he told everyone it was “the best day of his life.”

— bruno had to pull him aside once and say, “tone it down.” he nodded. toned nothing down.

— 9/10 — a loud, clingy golden retriever with a glock. devoted to bruno’s girl like it’s holy law.

you’re trying to make it to your favorite café in peace. it’s a short walk. harmless. but today, as you reach the crosswalk, a hand grabs your elbow.

“yo, slow down! you almost walked into a suspicious breeze.”

you turn. “mista, are you stalking me?”

“‘stalking’ is a harsh word.” he pats your shoulder. “i prefer ‘shadowing.’ sounds cooler.”

“i told you i just needed some fresh air—”

“and i told bruno i’d make sure you got that air without being poisoned, stabbed, or flirted with by men who don’t deserve you.”

you sigh. “you do know i’m with bruno, right?”

he throws his hands up. “exactly! which means you deserve security on par with a vatican treasure. if anyone disrespects you, they’re also disrespecting our capo and that makes it my business.”

“…mista.”

he leans in, lowering his sunglasses. “have you seen how our capo looks at you? the man’s got blood on his hands and sugar in his eyes. i’m not about to let that get messed up by some random loser with cologne and audacity.”

you blink. “that’s… oddly poetic.”

he grins. “sex pistols helped me workshop it.”

you look down. they’re all peeking out of his jacket, waving at you. number five blows you a kiss. number two salutes.

you pinch the bridge of your nose. “you’re all insane.”

“yeah,” mista says, already putting an arm around you, “but we’re your kind of insane.”

and that’s how you end up escorted to the café by a man with six sentient bullets and enough confidence to slap fate in the face — all because bruno said, “look after her.”

and mista? he never does anything halfway.

♡ pannacotta fugo

— bruno’s authority means everything to fugo — and if his capo trusts someone enough to let them into his personal life, that person must be protected. relentlessly.

— he treats you like a diplomatic miracle. he doesn’t flirt, doesn’t touch — he just hovers nearby, watching, calculating. protective paranoia turned full-blown obsession.

— once snapped a pen in half when someone asked if you were single. like didn’t even look up from his book.

— keeps a detailed file on your daily routines. he insists it’s for “security reasons.” it includes your grocery preferences and known food intolerances.

— has absolutely memorized your blood type. “just in case something happens.”

— constantly internally fighting the urge to lash out at people who make you uncomfortable. when he does snap, it’s brutal, fast, and without warning.

— talks to himself about you. out loud. in public. has absolutely scared strangers doing this.

— once had a full-blown meltdown because you got a paper cut and didn’t tell him. he screamed at bruno. screamed at himself. screamed at the knife.

— he doesn’t worship you the way narancia or mista do, he reveres you like a paradox. something warm that makes his mind spin. something too precious to exist near violence, but too important to leave unguarded.

— 9.2/10 — quiet until he isn’t. respects you, fears for you, and would absolutely kill for you if bruno snapped his fingers.

you’re sitting at the hideout’s kitchen table when fugo walks in, holding a mug, staring at the ceiling like it insulted him.

“what’s wrong?” you ask.

“nothing,” he says tightly, setting the mug down with unnecessary force.

“fugo.”

he exhales through his nose like a bull. “someone told me you walked home alone last night.”

“…it was two blocks.”

“two blocks is all it takes for someone to follow you,” he snaps. “two blocks is the distance between safety and headlines.”

you blink. “i didn’t mean to—”

“you’re the capo’s woman,” he growls. “you think we can afford for something to happen to you? what would that do to bruno? to the team?” you stare at him, startled.

he realizes he’s raised his voice. again.

fugo turns away, dragging a hand through his hair. “sorry. i’m just… i can’t focus when i don’t know you’re safe. it messes with my head, everything goes sideways.”

you soften. “i didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“i know,” he mutters, looking down. “that’s what makes it worse.”

you reach for your tea. he grabs it first.

“…let me check the temperature,” he says, suddenly composed again. “it might burn your tongue.”

you narrow your eyes. “you think i’m that fragile?”

“i think you’re that important.” he hands the cup back.

as you sip, you watch him slowly sit across from you, arms crossed, foot tapping under the table — not because he’s angry. because he’s thinking of all the ways the world could hurt you and how many ways he knows how to hurt it back.

♡ leone abbacchio

— abbacchio didn’t like you at first. not because of you, because of what you meant and you made bruno soft, vulnerable, and distracted.

— then you smiled at him, not to manipulate, not to flirt. just… gently and something cracked in his chest like an old door giving way.

— now, he treats you like living proof that something pure can exist in their world. he hates that and protects it like it’s his job.

— has eyes on you at all times. maybe not physically, but definitely through moody recordings and synced patrol routes. he checks in without checking in.

— denies everything. “i didn’t buy her groceries.” “i didn’t follow her to the bookstore.” “i don’t care what she’s doing.” (he does all of it. constantly.)

— speaks about you in third-person like you’re already dead and he’s trying to justify his trauma. “she wouldn’t make it out there without us.”

— if someone so much as glances at you too long, he glares them into submission. you once asked why he was staring at a waiter. he said, “he breathed too close.”

— will sit in the same room as you in total silence for hours just to make sure no one messes with you. calls it “background protection.”

— absolutely refuses to say anything nice directly to you — but if someone insults you behind your back, he’s the first to knock teeth out.

— 8.9/10 — terrifyingly loyal. emotionally constipated. never says it, but you’re the only one who matters besides bruno.

you’re sitting on the hideout balcony, reading, when you hear the chair beside you scrape back. abbacchio sits without a word. no greeting. no eye contact. just… presence.

you blink. “hello to you too.”

he sips from a glass of red wine. says nothing.

“you okay?”

“fine.”

“…you sure?”

“you think i’d be sitting here if i wasn’t?”

you roll your eyes. “no, i think you’d be shadow-watching me from across the street with binoculars.”

he snorts. “not worth the effort. i already know your schedule.”

you pause. “…that’s creepy.”

“that’s safety.”

you look at him. really look. the frown lines, the bags under his eyes, the way his shoulders only relax when you’re in view.

“bruno doesn’t ask you to watch me this much,” you say softly.

“bruno doesn’t have to.”

silence stretches. he finishes his wine. you sip your tea. then he says, low and blunt, “you’re his and what’s his is mine to protect.”

you blink. “so i’m property?”

he glances at you. for once, his voice is almost… gentle. “you’re peace and nothing good lasts unless someone gets their hands bloody keeping it intact.”

you don’t respond, but he doesn’t need you to because when it’s time to leave, he walks one step behind you. not beside. not ahead. just close enough to catch you if something goes wrong because leone abbacchio doesn’t ask to be trusted, he just is.

[sailornymph]

omg, the yandere! bruno fic??? i’m literally gagged it’s my new favorite thing tysm <33

no problem!! i’ve become so obsessed with yandere stories and your request came just in time because god i love bruno, so it was such a pleasure, xoxo

[sailornymph]

Could I get a story of Pain x FTM reader (or maybe with Itachi as well) with the plot being something around CNC if you're comfortable? If you’re unfamiliar with this it’s a kink role-play usually between partners that are both survivors. If not, that's fine. Thank you for considering this request. Have a great day/night. ☺️

heavenly submission; pain

synopsis — you asked for this—not because you’re weak, but because you’re strong enough to surrender. pain grants your request with brutal devotion, but he leaves no part of you untouched by reverence, not even the wreckage.

content warning — cnc roleplay, rough sex, manhandling, face-fucking, overstimulation

a/n — thank you and i do apologize in advance if this sucks. i have only written fem/neutral, so this was very new for me, but i was curious and i wanted to try my best. i did not get much of a plot so this is more smut than storyline to me

he doesn’t flinch when you enter. just lifts his eyes from the scroll in front of him—rinnegan sharp and unreadable, as always.

“you’re late,” pain says.

“you’re alive,” you quip, dropping your cloak to the floor.

a pause.

he blinks once. “…was there doubt?”

you snort. “no, but you brood so much it’s hard to tell.”

you’re not here for jokes. not really. but teasing him is the only way to get through the part of you that’s trembling. his gaze drops to the way you’re already starting to undress. slow. deliberate. he doesn’t interrupt—but the air shifts.

you stand there in nothing but your chest wrap and loose pants, hands fisting at your sides.

“i want something,” you say. he waits.

“i want to be broken tonight. no gentleness. no holding back. not like the other times.”

his expression doesn’t change, but you see it—the subtle shift in his shoulders. the way he straightens like a weapon being unsheathed.

“why?”

“because i trust you,” you say plainly. “and i want to feel it—every inch of being yours. completely.”

you pause, then add, a little lower, a little raw:

“and because when you fuck me like i’m nothing… it’s the only time i feel like everything.” silence. you don’t fill it.

he rises slowly, letting the gravity of him settle over the room. he walks until he’s in front of you, staring down at your face—not your body.

his voice drops, flat but cutting: “safe word?”

“red.”

“limits?”

“none tonight.”

“and what do you give me?” you meet his gaze.

“everything.”

his fingers hook into your wrap. “good.”

he tears it from you like it was never meant to be worn. his hand is fisted in your hair as he fucks your mouth with brutal precision. you’re already crying—spit down your chin, throat raw, nose running—but you never break eye contact.

“don’t look away,” he growls. “you asked for this. now take it.”

your knees ache. your jaw burns. your mind slips under like silk beneath water. his cock hits the back of your throat over and over again, and you let him ruin you.

“pathetic,” he mutters. “kneeling like this. choking on my cock like it’s your purpose.”

you moan around him. he groans, yanks your head back by the roots.

“get on the bed. now.”

you crawl, dizzy and obedient, body stripped and trembling. he follows without a word, dragging you to the edge and flipping you with little effort. he spits on his cock and lines up. doesn’t ask. doesn’t warn. he just slams in, making you cry out.

the stretch is obscene—raw, thick, claiming. you claw at the mattress as he buries himself to the hilt, balls flush against your skin.

“this is what you wanted?” he snarls, slamming into you again. “to be used?”

you sob out, “yes—yes, please—”

he pounds you relentlessly. each thrust bruises something deeper. your body trembles, leaking, wrecked. and still you want more.

“you’re nothing but a hole right now,” he hisses. “a body to fuck. no thoughts, no will, just submission.”

your orgasm builds fast and brutal, a silent scream caught in your throat. you try to hold back. you do. but it hits you anyway—white-hot, shattering, too much—and you collapse into the mattress, crying out as your body clenches hard around him.

he doesn’t slow.

“you came without permission.”

you sob, overstimulated. “i—I’m sorry—sir—”

he growls low in his throat, thrusting harder now, chasing his own end. the words barely reach your ears:

“filthy… disobedient… beautiful.”

and then he fills you—hot, deep, endless.

he collapses over you, both of you gasping. you lose track of time. when your vision clears, you’re in his lap. clean. warm. his cloak is wrapped around your shoulders. your hands are bandaged—he must’ve done it while you drifted. he holds you like something precious. like he didn’t just ruin you five minutes ago.

you blink blearily. “still think i’m pathetic?”

he looks down at you. “no.”

a beat.

“you’re mine.”

you hum. “romantic.”

his thumb brushes your jaw. “you were perfect.”

you lean into his chest, breathing steady.

“you still with me?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“do you know who you are?”

you nod. “your man.”

his jaw tightens—just slightly. not in frustration. in feeling.

he kisses your temple.

“and the only man i kneel to is pain,” you murmur.

he chuckles. you’ve never heard him do that.

you smile, eyes drifting shut in his arms — safe, sore, whole.

[sailornymph]

no thoughts, head empty, just Rohan with an author s/o. i think it’d be extra cute if their stands sort of compliment eachother, like while Rohan’s stand lets him read people like a book reader’s lets them view memories in the form of drawings with the different art styles communicating what sort of emotions are tied to each memory. i feel like the two of them would be that annoying couple in a cafe who talk too loudly and debate artistic things but their conversation is so interesting that you’re glad they’re talking loudly so you can hear it.

would love some headcannons for this sort of reader & relationship, big fan of your work ❤️

lines between the pages; rohan kishibe

synopsis — rohan kishibe never expected to fall for someone whose stand rivals the intimacy of his own. but when an author with a memory-drawing stand enters his orbit, their passion for storytelling turns every debate into foreplay and every argument into inspiration.

a/n — thank you love, i hope you enjoyed <3

“your inking technique is too precious.”

you blink, pen halfway to paper. “excuse me?”

“i said what i said.” rohan leans over your sketchpad like he’s already made himself at home in your mental workspace. “you draw memories like you’re afraid they’ll shatter.”

“because they’re someone’s memories, rohan.”

“yes, and my readers have emotional range. they don’t need coddled illustrations.” you slam your sketchbook closed.

the café goes quiet for exactly 0.7 seconds before rohan loudly sighs and throws his hands up like a man burdened by mediocrity.

somewhere behind the espresso machine, the barista mutters, “they’re back again.”

you met rohan kishibe by accident. or fate. or, more likely, because heaven’s door pulled apart your manuscript notes during a book signing and he decided your pacing was “amateurish but salvageable.”

“you write like you’ve never seen real darkness,” he said. “but your structure’s impressive. rewrite this scene with less internal monologue and more consequence.”

and for some godforsaken reason, instead of suing him or storming off, you asked if he’d read your next draft.

you’ve been circling each other since—rival artists, loud debaters, and now something else entirely. a pair. a couple. or as koichi once called it: ‘two ink-stained nightmares who probably flirt by critiquing each other’s soul.’ he wasn’t wrong.

your stand, chronosketch, lets you see memories in illustrated panels—the style shifting based on emotion. someone’s happiest moment might appear as soft watercolor. their deepest shame: harsh charcoal scratches. your brain reads trauma and joy in brush strokes and visual language.

it compliments heaven’s door, sure, but it annoys rohan to hell that your stand tells stories in ways his doesn’t.

“i write emotion,” he mutters one night, flipping through your sketchbook without permission. “but you… render it. like it’s some tragic little painting in a museum.”

“jealous?” you smirk.

“i’m above jealousy. i’m simply stating that your art style romanticizes memory. you illustrate heartbreak like it deserves pity.”

“and you illustrate it like it deserves punishment.” you lock eyes. the tension sharpens like ink on wet paper.

then he kisses you. like punctuation. like a perfectly placed panel break.

at the café, your argument over a minor side character’s motivation spirals into full-on artistic war. rohan is mid-diatribe about panel pacing when the couple next to you turns around and says, “sorry, but—are you two, like… famous or something?”

“no,” you say at the same time rohan says, “obviously.”

you shoot him a glare.

“they’re just loud,” the barista explains flatly, refilling your mug. “but weirdly educational.”

rohan raises an eyebrow, smug. “you’re welcome.”

you stab your fork into your croissant a little harder than necessary.

he doesn’t say it often, but rohan watches you draw like it’s a divine experience. when you sketch a stranger’s memory using chronosketch, he gets unnervingly quiet. not the arrogant kind of silence. the worshipful kind.

you know the way your fingers tremble when rendering someone’s moment of grief. how the lines stutter. how the ink thickens in places you didn’t expect. your stand doesn’t lie. it exposes your own heart just as much as theirs.

one night, after you sketch an old woman’s memory of her dead husband—portrayed in soft graphite and fading linework—rohan sits beside you for a long time. when he finally speaks, it’s barely audible.

“you drew her longing. you didn’t judge it.”

you look at him. “would you have?”

he doesn’t answer. but his hand brushes yours under the table. that’s answer enough.

dating rohan means learning how to navigate his genius and his ego—and recognizing when it’s a shield. he doesn’t compliment easily. when he does, it sounds like:

“this piece was… acceptable.”

“i didn’t feel the need to annotate your last chapter. impressive.”

“your dialogue didn’t make me want to rip my eyes out.”

and yet he notices everything. the way your handwriting changes when you’re nervous. the fact that you always hesitate before drawing a childhood memory. the way your stand leans toward softer media when you’re with him. he’d never admit it, but your presence makes him draw more tenderly, too.

— you both talk too loudly in every public space.

museums. cafés. bookstores. one time, someone tried to record your fight over whether flashbacks in manga are a lazy narrative crutch, and it went viral. rohan hasn’t stopped referencing it.

— rohan secretly draws you into the background of his manga.

once, as a rival character with your hairstyle. once, holding a sketchbook. koichi noticed. you’ve never let rohan live it down.

— you once used chronosketch to view rohan’s memory of finishing his first serialized chapter.

the style was manic. bold strokes, vivid reds. so much pressure. when you showed him your sketch of that memory, he stared for a long time. then told you the eyes were slightly off, but kept the drawing tucked in his nightstand.

— he hates when your work gets published before his.

“it’s not jealousy,” he claims. “it’s just that your editor clearly has no understanding of proper pacing.” (it’s jealousy.)

— your stand once accidentally revealed a childhood memory of his, an insecure one.

he didn’t yell. he just stared at it for a while, then quietly said, “no one’s ever drawn that the way it felt.”

— you bicker during intimacy.

“that’s not how you hold someone’s face in a romance scene.”

“we’re not in a romance scene, rohan—”

“we are now, idiot.” kiss.

rohan doesn’t change easily. he’s still blunt. still obsessive.

but he lets you rest your head in his lap while he inks panels. he lets you criticize his layouts. he reads your drafts without turning a single page into paper confetti.

he even—on occasion—lets you win an argument. (or so you think.)

when you curl up next to him at night, sketchbook open, and chronosketch starts revealing the memories of the day—today’s joy in watercolor, today’s irritation in sharp ink—he watches the panels unfold like scripture.

“do you ever draw me?” he asks once, offhandedly.

you glance up. “what makes you think i don’t?” he smirks.

“i’d like to see how you remember me,” he says. “what style you choose.”

you laugh, closing your sketchbook with a dramatic thump. “you? definitely avant-garde. chaotic lines. oversaturated. and a ridiculous amount of ego in the eyes.”

he leans in, mouth brushing your cheek. “drawn like a god, then.” you kiss him without denying it. because he’s right.

just… not for the reason he thinks.

[sailornymph]

hihi! hope you’re doing well :)

i imagine that bruno, even when he’s a yandere, is very attached to his gang and would want to foster a relationship between darling and his gang since they’re basically like his children. i’ve read a few fics with that scenario, but i was wondering if you could write a sort of role reversal where the bruno gang, seeing that yandere bruno is down bad for a fellow mafioso operating in Capri (he partially hid Polpo’s treasure there so he could have an excuse to see darling), decides to try and help out Bruno to varying degrees of effectiveness. i don’t mind if it’s in headcannon format or a drabble/oneshot, and if you have more ideas for a non yandere bruno i’m chill with that as well!

tysm <3

sweet ruin in capri; bruno bucciarati

synopsis — when bruno reroutes mafia operations just to be closer to you, his obsession doesn’t go unnoticed. but once you finally give in to the fire between you, it’s not gentle—he worships, devours, and claims with quiet devotion and dangerous need

content warning — yandere themes, possessive behavior, toxic love wrapped in silk, sexual themes, controlling tendencies

— bruno says he met you during a turf dispute in capri. he doesn’t mention how he volunteered for that mission. how he carefully rerouted himself to be the one you had to meet. how he watched your file for weeks before it even hit his desk.

— when he saw you? calm, sharp-eyed, laughing like the world couldn’t touch you? he was gone. he never believed in love at first sight. not until you threatened him with a smile.

– no one noticed at first. but when polpo’s treasure needed to be secured, bruno suddenly suggested half of it be hidden in — you guessed it — capri.

— he said it was “strategic.” giorno saw right through it. fugo said nothing. narancia called him “down bad. mista started helping him scheme.

– yes. helping. the boys saw their capo spiraling over some stunning mafiosa with a knife in her boot and nothing to lose. and instead of teasing him (well, not too much), they decided: he deserves her. and more importantly — he needs help.

– the fake “peace talk.” the setup. the dinner. the wine. you weren’t oblivious. you knew something was off. but you liked the way he looked at you. like you were a sin he was ready to confess to. and when you became his — officially — bruno felt the obsession settle. no longer chaotic. now directed. dangerous in a new way.

— nothing about his love fades after you say yes. if anything, it sharpens. intensifies. quiets. like fire behind glass.

— he doesn’t say, “i love you” often. he says:

“you looked beautiful at that meeting today.”

“you were in my dream again last night.”

“i had to make sure you were safe. you understand, don’t you?”

— he shows love through complete control. you don’t get missions anymore. not real ones. you don’t hear from your direct superior. bruno becomes your superior.

— you notice your contacts stop responding. enemies stop showing up. people respect you more — or fear you — but you’re not sure why.

— it’s all him. he handles your threats before you hear about them. clears your name off lists. reassigns anyone who gets too close.

— and the worst part? he never lies about it. he just never tells you until you find out.

— it happens slowly, little patterns.

“i didn’t request that assignment.”

“why did this guy back down so fast?”

“wait… how long have i been off duty?”

— and then you catch giorno and fugo talking, about capri, about the treasure, about how it was all to get you near bruno.

— your blood runs cold, not because he manipulated the situation, but because it worked, because you fell for him. because he managed to make his way in your bed, your heart, your life.

— you confront him and for the first time — bruno doesn’t have a composed answer.

he just says:

“i loved you before you knew i existed. i moved the world to keep you in it and i’m not sorry.”

and that’s when you realize he’d give you the world if you asked, but if someone else tried to? he’d burn it before he let them.

you don’t speak as you storm into the bedroom. you’re not even sure what you’ll say. but you know you’re not letting this settle under your skin like all the other quiet lies men have fed you in this life. bruno follows, silent and composed, his jacket is still on.

the moonlight bleeds in from the terrace doors behind him. it makes him look like something holy. or damned. you turn to face him. arms crossed. voice low and shaking.

“you sent the treasure here.” his eyes don’t flicker.

“you rerouted my missions.”

“i did”

“you orchestrated the dinner.”

“yes.”

“you interfered with my career—”

“i protected your life.” your mouth snaps shut. he steps closer, slow, measured — eyes dark, voice calm.

“i never once tried to change who you are, but i did change the world around you,” he stops in front of you. doesn’t reach for you.

“because i couldn’t stand the thought of losing you to a job. a bullet. or a man who didn’t know how to worship you.” your breath catches. rage and heat mix in your chest.

“that wasn’t your decision to make.”

“you’re right.”

you blink. “what?”

his voice dips.

“you’re right,” he repeats. “it wasn’t my decision, but i made it anyway.”

“so you admit you lied—”

“i didn’t lie,” he says. “i moved quietly, like i do with anything i want to keep.”

you hate how that lands, how it settles behind your ribs, how it thrills something inside you. he steps into your space now. doesn’t touch you, but it’s close. too close. his voice softens into something dangerous.

“if you asked me to stop, i would. i’d pull back. i’d give you the world on a leash and never tug.”

he finally lifts his hand. cups your jaw, gentle, trembling.

“but i wouldn’t stop loving you. and if the world threatened to take you again…”

he leans in, whispering it against your lips.

“i’d burn it without regret.”

your fingers tighten in his shirt. your heart’s pounding. you shouldn’t want this. you shouldn’t crave this. but god — he looks at you like he’s never going to survive losing you and the worst part is, you don’t want him to.

you crush your mouth to his — it’s messy, desperate, too hot, too much. he groans into the kiss, grabbing your waist, pinning you against the edge of the bed like he knew you’d forgive him with your body before your words.

he kisses like a man who’s memorized your breath. like he’s tasted your anger before and knows exactly how to turn it into hunger.

“you’re still angry,” he mutters, kissing down your throat.

“you think?”

his hands are under your shirt. dragging it up. slow.

“then let me make it up to you.”

you scoff, but it melts into a gasp when he bites gently at your collarbone. his hands are reverent — gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish mid-touch.

“bruno—”

“i’ll always tell you the truth,” he says, voice thick. “even if it’s ugly.”

your shirt hits the floor.

“i loved you before i knew if you’d ever speak to me.”

your bra unclasped with ease.

“i needed to be near you. any excuse.”

he lowers you to the bed. kisses a path down your stomach.

“you made me lose control,” he says into your skin. “and for once, i didn’t want it back.”

you writhe beneath him. thighs clenching. breath catching.

he kisses the inside of your knee.

“you can hate me.”

he kisses higher.

“you can curse me.”

his fingers tease the edge of your panties.

“but you’ll still come for me, won’t you?”

your back arches.

“say it,” he growls. “say you’re mine.”

“i’m yours.”

he pulls your underwear down slowly. reverently. like he’s unveiling art. then he lowers his head between your thighs.

and worships.

slow. deep. relentless.

you cry out, fisting the sheets, and he groans like it’s his name on your tongue that’s driving him mad. his hands pin your hips. his tongue moves like he’s writing apologies into you. you finish with a gasp, legs trembling.

he crawls up your body, face flushed, lips damp. you grab his tie and pull him into a kiss that’s all teeth, want, and ruin.

“you’re a bastard,” you whisper against his mouth.

“i know,” he breathes. “but i’m your bastard now.”

and you believe him because no man who kisses you like this, could ever belong to anyone else.

[sailornymph]

I'm LOVING with the amount of new docs being posted, I love your writing! 💕

thank you!! I hope you all enjoy, literally the last week i have been seriously trying to catch up while make up for my absence — so i am beyond satisfied that you all enjoy so far