#and i calculate the time when i can send it so it doesn’t look like I’m trying to find excuses to talk to him

[software-instxbility]

I hate that i can’t go more than 1h1/2-2h without him

He’s my everything and i actually feel like I’m dead if I’m not talking to him and it is NOT fun (and if not dead, empty and nonexistent) (he’s my anchor to this realm frfr)

On the other hand though it’s good bc it means i love him intensely and will never be the one who’ll break up 😎 (bc I’d kill myself without him) (/hj) (unless…)

[ja3yun]

Stretch it Out | P.SH

instructor!sunghoon x ballerina!reader warnings: smut (mdni), unprotected sex, cream pie, fingering, mirror sex, pet names (sweatheart, good girl), bad ballet references bc idk what i'm talking about, slight mention of self doubt, not proof read, anything else lmk! wc: 7.4k REQ: ballet intructor!sunghoon helping ballerina!reader stretch and you know where the rest leads to 😼 a/n: hi! i took this request and shuffled it around to make it this! hope this is okay anonnie and i am also so sorry for the late posting of it! i've been working on so much lately and with my little break i didn't do much writing. as always, comments, reblogs, and likes are all welcome!

Applause echoes through the spacious studio as one of your fellow dancers finishes receiving her critique from Mrs. Yang. Her routine was strong, though it seems she needs to work on her turnout - something you hadn't noticed. Perhaps it’s because your nerves are clouding your perception; after all, it will be your turn once she's finished.

The Annual Exhibition is less than two months away, and this will be your first time presenting your completed routine for approval in front of an audience - especially Mrs. Yang, who is more than just an instructor to you; she’s your role model, the person you’ve looked up to throughout your entire ballet journey.

Throughout your high school years, you dedicated your evenings and weekends to ballet school, working tirelessly just for the chance to apply to the National University of Arts and audition in front of Mrs. Yang. For months leading up to this moment, you poured everything into perfecting your pliés and pirouettes. Blisters marred your feet, and exhaustion settled deep in your bones, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was proving yourself worthy.

“Y/N, you’re up,” Mrs. Yang’s voice echoes through the studio like a haunting ghost. 

Following her words, you get up and shake off any nerves you have, all too aware of the impact performing badly will have; she could cut you from the exhibition or tell you to scrap the routine entirely, and both of those are not an option for you.

Now, as you step forward to take your place at the centre of the studio, the weight of the moment presses down on you. Every muscle is tense with anticipation, and your heart races as you prepare to dance.

The music begins, and you launch into your routine. At first, the nerves are overwhelming - each movement feels too stiff, too calculated. But as you glide into an arabesque and sweep through a series of pirouettes, something shifts. The familiar rhythm of the dance takes over, and your body begins to move almost on its own, flowing through each step with a grace you didn't know you possessed.

You’re hyper-aware of Mrs. Yang’s presence, of her eyes following your every move, but instead of faltering, you find yourself sinking deeper into the performance. Each développé stretches to its fullest extent, each sauté feels lighter than air. Your breathing steadies and the tension in your muscles transforms into power and control.

As you close the final sequence with a grand jeté, landing with a precise yet delicate touch, you can feel the room holding its breath. You finish in a graceful reverence, chest heaving but mind calm. In this moment, all the hours of hard work, the pain, and the sacrifices feel worth it. You've given everything you have.

But as you glance at Mrs. Yang, it doesn’t look like she’s as satisfied with your performance as you are. Her face is stoic, unreadable, but you’ve been in her class long enough to decipher even the subtlest of her expressions. The slight raise of her right eyebrow sends a wave of dread crashing through you. That’s never a good sign. Her eyes cling to you with the intensity of an unwanted gaze, leaving an uncomfortable knot twisting in your stomach.

She remains quiet for a few minutes, the silence stretching unbearably as though she’s gathering her words. When she finally speaks, her tone is clipped, measured. “It’s good, modern, and meets the criteria.”

You brace yourself, knowing that a ‘but’ is coming.

“But,” she continues, and you wince slightly, “you are not sharp enough. I mean seriously, Y/N, how many times do I need to pull you up for this? Do you not want to improve?”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You don’t want to disappoint her. You gave everything you had in that performance, even though it was just a run-through. But it’s clear that it wasn’t enough.

You bow your head, fighting to keep your voice steady. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Yang’s irritation sharpens. “Then for the love of God, can you listen to me this time?” She stands up, her movements precise and deliberate as she walks over to you. Her voice is firm, tinged with exasperation. “This exhibition is crucial to your future career. It’s what sets you apart from the others, and yet you seem to lack such basic skills. Even the first years are forming lines better than you.”

Her words slice through you, each one a reminder of the standards you’ve failed to meet. The sting of her tone is almost unbearable, but you know deep down that it comes from a place of faith. She nitpicks because she sees potential in you, potential she wants to help you realise. Each six-month review she’s had with you, she’s made it clear that she believes you can make it far in this world.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Yang,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Apologise to yourself, not to me.”

A chorus of snickers drifts from the edge of the room. You glance over to see a group of girls, giggling and holding in laughter, their eyes full of condescension. The sound pierces through your already fragile self-belief, making you shrink into yourself, every snicker chipping away at whatever confidence you had left. Doubt begins to creep in, gnawing at the edges of your resolve. You start questioning whether you’re truly cut out for this, whether all the sacrifices you’ve made have been for nothing.

Before you can spiral too deeply into your own thoughts, Mrs. Yang’s fingers press firmly against your cheek, gently but insistently turning your face to meet hers. “You can’t do this on your own, so I’m assigning you a coach.”

“But you are my coach,” you reply, your voice tinged with confusion.

“Yes, but I don’t have time to give you hours of one-on-one training,” she says, rolling her eyes as if that statement should be obvious. She strides back to her seat, preparing to evaluate the next girl in line. “I have someone in mind. They’re very fluid and pointed in their gestures. They should whip you into shape. I’ll book you an out-of-hours studio for the foreseeable.”

The words hit you like a ton of bricks. You stand there, rooted to the spot, unable to fully process what she’s just said. Sure, she’ll still be your instructor during scheduled lessons, but this means that on top of your gruelling 12-hour days, your endless rehearsals, and the constant pressure to perfect every move, you’ll now have to spend extra time with a new coach.

It’s overwhelming. The thought of adding yet another layer of intensity to your already packed schedule makes your head spin. Your body, already pushed to its limits, protests at the idea of even more hours in the studio. Your heart sinks as the reality of the situation sets in. How will you manage it all? How will you balance the expectations of not one but two demanding mentors?

You want to succeed, to rise to the challenge, but a part of you is terrified that you’ll crumble under the weight of it all. The path ahead, already steep and treacherous, has just become even more daunting.

As Mrs. Yang calls out the name of the next dancer, you force yourself to step aside, the familiar sting of exhaustion settling into your bones. 

You can only hope that this new coach makes it worth your while.

_____

The long day of classes has left you drained, every muscle aching with the residue of endless rehearsals and critiques. The last thing you want to do is spend more time in the studio, yet here you are, trudging down the empty hallways of the performance centre with your gym bag slung over your shoulder. The familiar scent of rosin and sweat lingers in the air, and you can't help but feel a pang of dread at the thought of more practice. Your mind buzzes with the memory of Mrs. Yang’s words earlier this week, her disappointment, and the pressure of living up to expectations weighing heavily on your shoulders.

As you push open the door to the studio, your eyes fall on an unfamiliar figure - a boy standing with his back to you. He’s tall, strikingly so, with broad shoulders that taper down into a lean, athletic frame. His dark hair is tousled, falling just above the nape of his neck, and he’s dressed in loose joggers and a fitted white tank top that highlights the sinewy lines of his muscles.

You hesitate in the doorway, momentarily taken aback by his presence. The studio had been booked for you, and the last thing you want is a confrontation with a stranger. You clear your throat softly, hoping to catch his attention. “Um, hello?” you say timidly, your voice barely above a whisper. You hope that a gentle approach will encourage him to leave without any fuss.

The boy whips around at the sound of your voice, and your breath catches in your throat. His face is nothing short of breathtaking; sharp, elegant features softened by a small, almost shy smile. His eyes, a deep, captivating brown, seem to sparkle with quiet intensity as he takes in your appearance. For a moment, you’re struck by how impossibly beautiful he is, like a sculptor’s masterpiece brought to life. He seems too perfect, too unreal, and you feel a strange flutter in your chest as you meet his gaze.

“Hi,” he says, his voice smooth and warm, like a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. He’s still studying you, and you can’t help but take the opportunity to do the same, noting every detail of his flawless face - the way his lips curve slightly upwards, the sharpness of his jawline, the softness of his eyes.

You blink, trying to regain your composure. “I don’t mean to be rude,” you start, hoping to keep your tone polite, “but my teacher booked me this room for a few hours.”

He raises an eyebrow, his small smile never fading. “Four hours to be exact, yeah. She also booked you…me.” The confusion must be evident on your face because he adds, “I’m your coach, Sunghoon.”

“You?” The word slips out before you can stop it, and you instantly regret how incredulous you sound. The last thing you want is to offend him, but the shock of the situation has thrown you off balance.

“Yeah, me. Why?” His tone is still light, but there’s a hint of defensiveness in his voice, and that sends you into a mild panic. You quickly shake your head, trying to salvage the situation.

“No, no, I’m not trying to say anything negative,” you stammer, holding up your hands as if to ward off any misunderstanding. “It’s just… I’ve never seen you around the performance centre, let alone the ballet corridor.”

He nods, seeming to understand your confusion. “That’s because you’ll find me in the sports centre.”

You take a moment to size him up, your mind racing as you try to figure out what sport he could possibly play. He’s too lean to be a rugby player, his legs too slender to be a footballer, but he’s tall enough to be a basketball player. You consider the possibility of him being a rower or maybe a gymnast, but nothing quite fits. He’s a mystery, one that piques your curiosity.

As if reading your thoughts, he interrupts your internal questioning. “I’m a figure skater.”

The revelation surprises you, and you can’t help but blurt out, “Oh.” You pause, trying to piece together why a figure skater would be chosen to coach you in ballet. Placing your bag to the side of the room, you turn to him again. “So why are you coaching me?”

“Why can’t I?” he counters, his tone holding a subtle challenge that makes you feel slightly defensive. “Mrs. Yang said you’re having trouble looking elegant and punctuated in your movements. Skaters have the same problem.”

You nod slowly, but a part of you is still sceptical. “But you guys have ice and skates. I have a wooden floor and ballet pumps.”

A laugh escapes his lips before he quickly covers his mouth, a look of apology flashing across his face. “Sorry, it’s just…what does that have to do with anything?”

You frown, still not entirely convinced. “You guys have blades to move you. I have to coordinate my legs to move me. You guys can think about fluidity and movement.”

He crosses his arms, his expression becoming more serious as he regards you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. “Do you know how ridiculous you sound? We have to balance on a tiny blade and have every chance to slip or crash from a jump.”

His words hang in the air, and you suddenly feel a bit foolish for your assumptions. Of course, figure skating requires immense skill and precision - maybe even more so than ballet, given the added challenge of balancing on ice. 

“Okay, fair point,” you admit, feeling a bit sheepish. You also hate it when people underestimate the skill and energy it takes to perform ballet, and yet here you are doing it to him about his own sport. 

He steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours, and you find yourself holding your breath under his gaze. “I know you were expecting some ballet genius to help you but our arts are similar. It’s about control, balance, and grace,” he explains. “On the ice, every movement needs to be both powerful and delicate. The same applies to ballet. You need to find that balance between strength and elegance. That’s where I come in.”

You nod slowly, beginning to understand his perspective. The way he speaks, the passion in his voice, makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, this might actually work. “And you think you can teach me that?”

“I know I can,” he says confidently, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “If you’re willing to put in the effort, that is.”

There’s a challenge in his words, one that you can’t resist rising to. You’ve always prided yourself on your work ethic, and you’re not about to let anyone doubt your dedication.

“I am,” you reply firmly, meeting his gaze with determination.

Sunghoon starts the session by having you go through your routine. His eyes are sharp, missing nothing as he watches you move across the floor. You’re acutely aware of his presence, the way his gaze seems to weigh on your every step, every turn, every jump. It’s unnerving at first, but you push through the discomfort, focusing on executing each movement with precision.

When you finish, he steps forward, nodding thoughtfully. “You’re good,” he says, and the praise sends a warm flush of satisfaction through you and a blush to your cheeks. “But you’re too tense. You’re overthinking every move, and it shows. Ballet is as much about feeling as it is about technique. You need to let go a little.”

You frown slightly, not entirely sure how to do that. “Let go?”

“Yeah,” he says, moving to stand beside you. “Your muscles are too tight, your movements too calculated. It’s like you’re afraid of making a mistake, so you’re holding back.”

You look down at the floor, his words hitting a little too close to home. You’ve always been afraid of making mistakes, always felt the pressure to be perfect. It’s something that’s been drilled into you since you first started dancing, and it’s hard to shake.

He must sense your hesitation because he steps closer, his voice softening. “Hey,” he says gently, and you look up to find his eyes full of understanding. “I get it. But if you keep holding back, you’re never going to reach your full potential.”

There’s something in his voice that makes you want to trust him, something that makes you feel like maybe he understands you in a way that others don’t. You nod slowly, taking a deep breath as you try to let go of the tension in your body.

“Good,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “Now, let’s try something different.”

_____

For two hours straight, you push your body to its limits, executing each movement with precision and determination. Sunghoon’s voice fills the studio, giving you sharp, pointed instructions that you follow without question. But as the minutes tick by, the atmosphere begins to shift. The calm, encouraging demeanour he started with fades, replaced with a growing tension that seems to coil around the two of you, tightening with each correction he makes.

“Extend more,” he snaps as you move through a series of arabesques. His tone is snappier now, the softness from before replaced with something harsher. “You’re still too stiff.”

You grit your teeth, focusing on stretching every muscle to its fullest, making sure each line is as precise as possible. But no matter how much you try, his dissatisfaction only seems to grow.

“Again,” he commands, his voice laced with frustration. You try to push your discontent down, channelling it into your movements, but the more you try, the more his critiques seem to cut through you.

“You’re losing focus. How are you going to perform on stage if you can’t even manage this in practice?”

The sting of his criticism hits you deep, and you can feel your confidence waver. Are you really that bad? You’re hitting the moves correctly, focusing intently on your lines - the very aspect of the performance Mrs. Yang had criticised you for. You’re doing everything he’s asking, so why is he still so frustrated? Shouldn’t he be pleased that his coaching is starting to take effect?

You execute a pirouette, landing with precision, but the instant your foot touches the ground, Sunghoon’s voice cuts through the air. “No,” he says sharply, shaking his head. “You’re not following through. Where’s the energy? The intention?”

“I’m trying!” The words slip out before you can stop them, frustration bubbling over. Your chest heaves with exertion, and you meet his eyes, desperate for some sign that he understands how hard you’re working, how much you’re giving.

But his expression remains hard, unreadable, and that only fuels the growing tension between you. “Trying isn’t enough,” he snaps back, stepping closer, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You need to do more than just hit the moves. You have to feel them. Right now, you’re just going through the motions. There’s no passion, no fire.”

His words cut deep, and you feel a flare of anger mixed with hurt. “I’m doing exactly what you asked,” you retort, unable to keep the edge out of your voice. “I’m focusing on the lines, on the form. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yes,” he says, his frustration palpable, “but you’re missing the point. It’s not just about form; it’s about bringing the movements to life. Right now, you’re nothing more than a marionette, moving because you’re being told to, not because you’re actually feeling the dance.”

The comparison stings and you can feel yourself reaching boiling point. You’ve been working so hard, pushing yourself beyond what you thought you were capable of, and yet here you are, being told that it’s still not enough. A part of you wants to shout at him, to tell him that he doesn’t understand how hard this is, how much pressure you’re under. But instead, you swallow the words, letting the irritation simmer beneath the surface.

Sunghoon’s gaze softens, just a fraction, but it’s enough to make you feel the weight of his expectations even more acutely. “I know you can do better. Mrs. Yang told me you’re one of her best students,” he says, his voice gentler now with the content, though no less intense. “That’s why I’m pushing you. I need you to push yourself. You’ve got so much potential, but something’s holding you back. What is it?”

His question hangs in the air, heavy and probing. For a moment, you’re at a loss for words. Why are you holding back? Is it the fear of failing? Fear that you’ll never be good enough? Or maybe, deep down, you just don’t believe in yourself.

The silence between you stretches, thick with hostility. Sunghoon steps closer, his presence almost overwhelming, the heat radiating off him nearly suffocating. You can feel the intensity of his gaze, a challenge flickering in his eyes, daring you to shatter whatever invisible barrier is restraining you.

He’s so close now that you can see the tight set of his jaw, the way his eyes blaze with a fire that sends a shiver down your spine. The frustration is palpable, a tangible force crackling in the air, making it feel electric, charged with something both exhilarating and frightening.

With a firm but gentle touch, Sunghoon places his hands on your shoulders, turning you to face the mirror. He steps in behind you, closing the space between your bodies. “Look at yourself,” he says, his voice low and resonant. “See how tense you are?” His large hands slide down from your shoulders, tracing the line of your body. “Every muscle is knotted up. You can’t perform at your best unless you loosen up. Stop overthinking. Just…let go.”

Your eyes meet his in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, and in that instant, the world seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you, close enough to feel each other’s breath. Then, almost instinctively, his fingers press into your sides, firm and commanding, gliding up your waist and torso with deliberate slowness. The sensation sends a wave of heat through your body, and your breath catches as he lifts your arms, stretching your upper half with a fluid motion that leaves you feeling vulnerable and exposed.

“Feel this,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the nape of your neck, sending another quake over your body. He holds your wrists above your head with one hand, the other pressing into your lower back, making you hyper-aware of the heat emanating from him. “See how good that feels?”

Using his knuckles, he circles the bottom of your spine, dissolving any knots and doubts from it. You resist the urge to moan but your eyes roll to the back of your head as you push your hips into him, aching for more of his magical touch. Out of all the massages you have ever had, this tiny glimmer of one beats them all.

His breath spreads over your skin, and his fingers tighten slightly around your wrists as he holds you in place. Once you bring your eyes forward, he locks in with yours in the mirror. His piercing stare is intense and your heart quickens, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. 

“You like that?” Sunghoon asks, the smirk plastered on his face as he feels you grinding onto his growing boner. He can see you wanting to let go in the reflection of your eyes as well as the neediness in your breaths, giving him all the consent he needs to take this further.

As he releases your wrists, his hand trails down your shoulders and back to meet the other. The heat of his touch seeps through the fabric of your top, firm yet tender. His fingers glide along your spine, coaxing your body to arch into the movement, a soft sigh escaping your lips. His touch is skilled, knowing exactly where to press and where to ease, melting away the tension in your muscles, leaving you pliant under his hands.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispers, the edge in his voice betraying his awareness of the effect he’s having on you. The connection is almost too intense to bear. But you can’t look away, drawn to the magnetic pull between you. He slides his hands over your sides and across your lower abdomen, fingers digging slightly into your muscles, the pressure both soothing and intoxicating as he massages your belly and hips.

You instinctively begin to lower your arms, the proximity making it difficult to concentrate on anything else. But his grip tightens around your waist in warning. “No, keep your arms up, sweetheart,” he says, his tone demanding, the instructor in him resurfacing.

Resting his hand flatly on your stomach, his fingers spread as he pulls you flush against him, your back meeting the solid expanse of his chest. The contact makes you acutely aware of every point where your bodies touch, your heart hammering in your chest as your breath catches. His hands linger at the waistband of your leggings, before slowly, his hands dip down, fingers brushing against your skin, exploring with deliberate, teasing slowness. The sensation sends a jolt of electricity through you, your skin tingling under his touch.

His hands move lower, the anticipation building with every inch he covers. You can feel your muscles trembling, your arms still stretched above your head as he asked, but the effort to maintain the position becomes increasingly difficult with every passing second.

His fingers find your folds, slipping between them with an agonising slowness that leaves you gasping. The sensation is overwhelming, your body instinctively moving with his fingers, but he’s quick to remind you of his control. “Keep your arms up, be a good girl and listen,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a quiet authority that leaves no room for disobedience.

The smirk on his face is unmistakable as he watches you struggle to comply, the tension between following his instructions and giving in to the intoxicating pull of his touch almost unbearable. His fingers continue their slow exploration, teasing and tormenting you with a skill that leaves you trembling, your resolve weakening with every passing moment.

Impulse begs you to let your arms fall, to collapse into his embrace, but his gaze holds you in place, that smirk still playing on his lips as he watches you battle with your own desires. The contrast between his command and the sheer pleasure he’s coaxing from your body is dizzying, leaving you on the edge of surrender.

Yet, despite the intense need coursing through you, you force yourself to keep your arms raised, stretching above your head, the effort only adding to the thrill coursing through your veins. His fingers move with deliberate intent now, pressing deeper, his touch sending waves of pleasure through your body that make it almost impossible to think, to breathe.

Sunghoon’s fingers expertly play with your pussy, two of them circling your sensitive nub with a maddening precision that leaves you dizzy. “Do you feel how exhausted your arms are?” he asks, his voice tinged with a hint of smugness, as though expecting an answer despite your obvious distraction.

Nodding, you squeeze your eyes shut so tightly that white spots dance behind your lids, a kaleidoscope of fleeting lights against the darkness. The burn in your arms is a sharp contrast to the way your hips instinctively move, undulating in perfect sync with his skilled fingers. It's a delicious torment—the strain in your muscles somehow amplifies the pleasure coiling low in your belly, turning every sensation sharper, more intense.

Suddenly, his lips are on your neck, a gentle press of heat that sends a shiver cascading down your spine, threatening to unravel you completely. The warmth of his mouth on your skin is your undoing, and before you can stop yourself, your arms give way. You collapse forward, hands scrambling to find purchase, seeking him instinctively as if he's the only thing keeping you grounded. Your fingers dig into his arms, nails biting into his skin as you cling to him, desperate for stability in the storm he's unleashed within you.

"See how loose you feel?" His voice is a murmur against your neck, each word a hot, teasing caress. "How your body wants to move on its own, to give in? That’s how your performance should be."

As if to punctuate his point, his fingers slide inside you, the sudden, intimate invasion tearing a sharp gasp from your lips. Your hips buck against his hand, craving more, driven by the need he’s ignited in you. His other arm tightens around your waist, holding you close, anchoring you to him as his fingers continue their relentless rhythm, each stroke designed to push you further, closer to the edge.

The atmosphere around you thickens, every breath heavy with the electric tension between you. The heat radiating from his body seeps into yours, an overwhelming presence that consumes you, making it impossible to think of anything but the here and now. The scent of him - musky, intoxicating - fills your senses, making you feel lightheaded, dizzy with desire. You can feel the hardness of his arousal pressing insistently against your lower back, a solid reminder of his own need, adding fuel to the fire already burning within you.

His pace quickens, fingers plunging deeper, more urgently, more demanding. "Even your pussy is so tight," he murmurs, his tone more observation than criticism. "Do I need to open this up too?"

Your laboured breathing is your only response, mingling with the slick, rhythmic sounds of his hand moving inside you. The coil of pleasure in your core tightens with every thrust, winding tighter and tighter, the pressure building until you feel like you might shatter from the intensity of it.

Your hands clutch at his arm, desperate, seeking something solid to hold onto as your legs threaten to buckle beneath you. His fingers curl inside you, finding that perfect spot that sends your vision spinning, a raw, needy moan escaping your lips. The feeling of his hard length pressing against you, coupled with the masterful way his fingers work you, has your entire body humming with sensation, alive with the need to surrender to the pleasure he’s offering.

Sunghoon’s mouth returns to your neck, lips brushing over your sensitive skin, his teeth grazing lightly as he sucks, sending another jolt of arousal through you. "That’s it," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low, rough command that vibrates through you. "Let go. Feel it. This is how you should be."

His words wrap around you like a spell, breaking down the last of your restraint. Your body moves with his, falling into the rhythm he’s set, lost in the heat and desire pulsing between you. Every stroke, every touch, draws you deeper into the abyss of pleasure, until all you can do is let go and let him guide you.

“Fuck, Sunghoon,” you manage to mewl, your voice trembling, breathless, as you throw your head back, letting it rest against his chest.

A low, rumbling chuckle escapes him, the sound reverberating through you, adding to the fire already blazing in your veins. His lips trail up to your ear, his tongue flicking against your earlobe, a playful, teasing nip that sends another shiver racing down your spine. “That’s it,” he whispers, his voice thick with a mix of amusement and desire. His fingers curl inside you again, hitting that spot that makes your entire body jerk in his hold, another gasp torn from your throat. “You like this, don’t you? You’re such a perfect student, so eager to please.”

All you can do is nod, biting down on your lip to stifle the moans threatening to spill over. He hums appreciatively, his hot breath brushing against your ear, the sensation sending another ripple of pleasure through you. “Good,” he purrs, his voice low and commanding, like the instructor he is. “You’re a quick learner when you want to be. You respond so well to guidance.”

Without warning, his hand shifts, thumb finding your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your hips jerk involuntarily. Your vision blurs, stars dancing before your eyes as the pleasure crashes over you in waves, each one pulling you deeper into the sensation. His fingers move with expert precision, relentless in their pursuit of your release, pushing you closer and closer to the brink.

In the mirror before you, Sunghoon’s eyes lock onto you, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he relishes in watching the pleasure contort your face. "You’re moving perfectly, not overthinking, just feeling how you should," he murmurs, almost to himself, pride evident in his voice. 

Just as you feel yourself teetering on the brink, he slows his movements, dragging out your pleasure, keeping you suspended on the edge. You whimper with need, the desperation in your voice only making him grin wider. His lips brush against your ear, his voice a dark, seductive whisper that sends your brain into orbit. "You’re going to cum for me, aren’t you? Be a good dancer and let go, show me how well you can perform."

It’s not a question; it’s a command. And with one final, skilled stroke, he pushes you over the edge, sending you spiralling into a climax that tears through you, leaving every atom in your body shaking with intensity and your muscles instantly tensing, just to relax once again.

As the tremors subside, you feel his hands shift, fingers hooking into the waistband of your leggings. “We’re just getting started,” he murmurs, a hint of something dark and promising in his voice. Slowly, he pulls them down, the fabric dragging against your skin, heightening your sensitivity. “You’re still tight,” he observes, voice low, almost thoughtful. “We need to work on that.”

He positions himself behind you, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the cool air against your bare skin. Pushing his joggers and boxers down to his thighs, he lets his hard cock spring free, your body shielding it from the mirror in front of you, but as he drags it along your folds, you get a sense of the thick, long shaft he is about to impale you with.

His hand moves to your hips, guiding you, adjusting your stance, and your hands find home on the mirror in front of you, fingers splaying across the cool glass. “Arch your back,” he instructs, voice firm yet gentle, as if this were just another rehearsal. “Relax into it…let me in.”

With a measured, almost calculated precision, he enters you, the sensation of him filling you completely making you gasp. In the mirror, your reflection catches your eye, your mouth falling open as you watch him disappear inside you. “Oh god,” you moan, the image of your bodies coming together, the way he stretches you, only intensifying the sensation. “Sunghoon…”

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet, wrapping around you, pulling you deeper into the moment. “Look at yourself,” he commands softly, his breath hot against your ear. “See how your body opens up when you let go? When you stop fighting and just let the movement happen? That’s how you get perfect lines.”

His pace is slow at first, methodical, every thrust a deliberate stroke meant to coax your body into submission. Your eyes lock onto your reflection, the sight of his hips moving against yours, the way your skin flushes with arousal, captivating. “Fuck, your pussy is sensational,” he breathes, a hint of strain in his voice as he pulls back slightly, only to push deeper. “Almost as good as your allegro.”

You let out a broken moan, your gaze flicking between his intense expression in the mirror and the way his muscles are contracting in his arms as he firms his grip on your waist, focusing on pounding into you with fervour. “Sunghoon… more… please…”

Each movement of his hips is like a masterclass, each squeeze from his hands and twitch of his cock only making your body ache for more. “Don’t hold back,” he whispers, his grip on your hips tightening, pulling you closer. “Let your body respond to mine.”

Your eyes widen as he leans forward slightly, the angle allowing you to see more of him in the mirror, his jaw tightening with every thrust. “Feels so good,” you manage to gasp out, your voice breathy, desperate as you push back against him, trying to take him deeper. “Please, don’t stop…”

The mirror reflects the sheen of sweat forming on your skin, the way your body arches into his touch, how every line of your form matches the rhythm he’s set. Your body moves with his, every thrust pushing you closer to that edge again, every word sinking deeper into your mind. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers finding your clit once more, adding that extra layer of stimulation that has your legs shaking. “That’s it,” he coaxes, voice rich with approval. “Give in to it. Let your body move the way it wants to…the way it needs to.”

“Sunghoon… oh, god… I’m gonna-” Your words cut off in a whimper as his pace quickens, the pace he sets becoming more intense, more demanding, each thrust designed to unravel you, to push you past your limits.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs into your neck, his gaze flickering up to meet yours in the mirror, watching how your breath fogs up the glass in front of you and your fingers claw down the flat surface in an attempt to grip onto something tangible. The sight of you coming undone in the reflection only seems to spur him on, his hips snapping against yours with renewed vigour.

“Sunghoon, I-” you try to speak, but the words dissolve into a moan as he thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur and stars dance before your eyes, the bell of his cock kissing the sensitive spot inside your walls.

“Show me,” he commands, his voice like a conductor’s baton, directing the crescendo. “Show me how beautifully you can fall apart.” 

Sunghoon’s arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling your trembling body back against his chest. The new angle allows him to thrust even deeper, the motion sending shockwaves of pleasure through you, each stroke of his cock searing itself into your memory. You feel completely filled by him, the sensation overwhelming as your reflection quakes, your body obeying every demand he silently makes. Your muscles clench around him, and as your head falls back against his shoulder, you cry out his name.

The mirror captures every detail - the flush of your skin, the arch of your back, the way your mouth opens in a silent scream as another intense climax rips through you. This one is even more powerful than the last, leaving you utterly undone, your body shaking in his arms as he holds you steady.

As the waves of pleasure begin to ebb, your eyes lock onto the mirror once more. You see yourself as Sunghoon sees you raw, vulnerable, but also strong, capable of surrendering and finding beauty in letting go. For a moment, all you can see is the perfect dancer he’s crafted, the one who’s learned to trust the rhythm and fall apart beautifully.

Chasing his own release, he begins to buck his hips in a fast, sharp manner, aware that two orgasms on your end could make you extra sensitive. Your pussy milks his cock as he cums deep inside of you, his nails scratching your hips and down your ass, as he moans out your name, chanting it like a hymn during confession. 

His chest heaves against your back and he kisses anywhere he can on your neck and shoulders to ground himself in the present, bringing himself down from his high.

As he slowly slides out of you, his arms never leave your body, keeping you close. He gently lowers you to the ground, sitting you down and holding you against him. Your body feels like jelly, completely spent, but his embrace is comforting. He presses soft kisses to the back of your head, his breath warm against your damp skin.

"You did so well, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice tender, full of pride.

You tilt your head back slightly, looking up at him with a small, exhausted smile. "I don’t think I’m supposed to be this relaxed when I perform at the exhibition," you manage to say, a breathless giggle escaping your lips.

Sunghoon chuckles along with you, the sound vibrating through your body where you're pressed against him. He shakes his head, brushing a few strands of hair away from your sweaty face. "No, you should have some feeling in your bones," he agrees, wiping the moisture from your brow with the back of his hand. "But do you see how, when you let yourself do what your body wanted, you felt a million times better?"

You nod, the memory of the intensity still fresh in your mind. "Yeah…I did. It felt different…freer."

"Exactly," he says, his eyes softening as he gazes at you. "That’s how ballet is supposed to be. You can’t bring emotions to an audience if you’re too busy concentrating on getting the next move right."

"But Mrs. Yang always talks about perfection," you counter, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "She says, ‘You need to be perfect to achieve perfection.’ She repeats it all the time."

Sunghoon sighs, a look of understanding crossing his features. "It’s the same for us," he admits, his tone tinged with a mix of disdain and resignation. "Every skate has to be better than the last, or else you’re a failure." His voice carries the weight of someone who’s heard those words too many times, who’s internalised them and yet knows there’s more to the story.

"But perfection isn’t something you learn from a textbook. It’s not something you can force." He pauses, looking down at you, his expression thoughtful. "You need to find your own colour, your own style. That’s where true perfection lies - when it comes from within, not from trying to meet someone else’s standards."

You hold his gaze, the truth in his words sinking in. For years you have tried to live up to Mrs. Yang’s expectation that you lost your real love for the art. Or maybe, not lost the love, but rather buried it under the weight of being perfect. 

"But…what if I never find it? My colour."

Sunghoon’s lips curve into a small smile, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing over your flushed skin. "To be honest, you’re better than most. You’ve got the skill, the technique, but you’re holding yourself back because you’re so focused on being perfect." His eyes bore into yours, sincere and encouraging. "You need to let your posture breathe, stop worrying about being flawless, and just…dance. That’s what’s holding you back - then you’ll find it."

His words resonate deeply within you, stirring something that’s been buried under layers of self-doubt and external expectations. "So I just need to let go?"

"Exactly," he says, his voice firm but gentle. "Let go, trust yourself, and let your body move the way it’s meant to. Just like we did there."

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight on your shoulders lift just a bit. "I’ll try," you whisper, the words carrying more determination than you thought possible.

Sunghoon smiles, a warmth in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, a gesture so tender it nearly makes you melt. "That’s all anyone can ask for," he murmurs, his voice reassuring.

You nod, feeling a newfound resolve build within you. As you sink deeper into his embrace, the world around you seems to blur, leaving behind the certainty that you’re ready to let go, to embrace the dancer you’ve always been meant to be.

After a moment of quiet, Sunghoon pulls back slightly, his hands still resting on your hips, grounding you. "How about we get you cleaned up, and then we run through it again?" he suggests, his tone light yet purposeful.

You smile, the idea of starting fresh with this new perspective sparking a sense of excitement in you. "Yeah," you agree, your voice steady. As Sunghoon helps you to your feet and fixes your outfit for you, you feel your heart burst with determination and adoration, both for ballet and the man in front of you.  

You’re going to have to thank Mrs. Yang for this by giving the most passionate performance at the exhibition.

Maybe Sunghoon can keep coaching you until then. You do need to work on your flexibility after all…

---

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[ilyyoomi]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ taste — kageyama tobio

kageyama tobio x gn! reader

kageyama is oblivious to everything and anything that’s not related to volleyball— he eats, sleeps, and breathes the sport like his life depends on it. some of his friends would even say he lives under a rock because of it. they say this because he doesn’t understand the pop culture references they make during water breaks, the memes they send in the group chat, or when girls are hitting on him during classes.

he’s hopelessly oblivious, and he carry’s it into his relationship with you.

in the beginning it was impressive how oblivious he was to your not so subtle hints at your feelings for him. the risky pick up lines you sent resulted in him sending you many question marks and a screen shot of a google search of your pickup line, and the hearts you’d draw on his worksheets somehow went unnoticed despite how many you drew.

with time he’s gotten better— he winks (tries) back at you instead of offering a tissue for the dust he thought was in your eye, and glares at the girls flirting with him when you’re next to him because he knows what flirting is (thanks to you). though there were times where all his progress goes back to square one.

you were in the front seat of the car with kageyama, snacking on treats picked up at the convenience store. once a week you both try some sort of new snack there, this time it was cookies and cream pocky sticks. the snack was pretty good, but they were so dry that you had to keep taking sips of water which washed off your lipgloss.

“hey tobio, can you pass me my lipgloss?”

“sure.” he reaches over and grabs the product in the front compartment, he even unscrews the cap off for you.

you smile taking the product then start applying a few layers on your bare lips. kageyama watches you the whole time, his midnights tracing over the outline of your fresh glossy lips. your heart flutters whenever he’s watching you— he has that look, it’s the same as when he’s on the court calculating his next move and it makes your knees feel weak because it’s like he’s thinking what to do with you next.

“do you wanna taste it? it’s cherry flavoured.” you ask, hinting at a kiss.

kageyama raises his brows, then reluctantly nods.

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the feeling of his hands cupping your face to kiss you— but it doesn’t come. instead when you open your eyes you see kageyama leaned over towards the lip gloss applicator literally tasting it like it’s some sort of treat.

“uhm. this doesn’t taste very good…” he sticks his tongue out disgusted and disappointed.

“tobio…”

“yeah?” he asks like he didn’t just miss what you meant earlier.

“i meant this.” you lean over to plant a kiss on the corner of his lips leaving a shimmery kiss mark.

kageyama’s face burns as bright as the stop sign a few roads ahead of you— not just from the kiss but from his embarrassment of not getting what you meant by ‘taste.’

“oh— that’s what you meant. i’m sorry.” he apologies with so much embarrassment and sincerity that it makes you melt inside.

“hey it’s okay.” you place your hand on top of his and give him a reassuring squeeze. “wanna make it up to me?”

and the disappointment from his lips not on yours earlier disappears, because this time he gets what you mean and kisses you— tasting you along with the cherry flavoured lipgloss.

kageyama is oblivious, but you adore this boy so much that you wouldn’t have him any other way.

authors note: i wrote this based off a tik tok i saw abt a girl being oblivious to a guy wanting to kiss her when she was putting on lip gloss HAHA (i can’t find it anymore) i hope u enjoyed!! reblogs or comments are appreciated <33

[carmenberzattosgf]

My brain is rotting with the concept of Carmy sending you a video of him jerking off ( @wtfsteveharrington is to blame for this)

Currently, Carmen is in New York for a chefs conference. He can’t get you off his mind, and he’s missing your warm body in bed next to him. It doesn’t help that he just woke up at 2am with a massive hard-on.

“Fuck it,” he mumbles to himself, reaching for the switch to the lamp on the bedside table. He grabs his phone next. With shaky hands, he opens the camera app on his phone, switching to video mode. He clicks the start button.

Carmy’s lower half is still underneath the blanket as the video begins. He’s breathing heavy as he trails his right hand from the top of his sternum to the waist band of his underwear. He kicks the blankets off, exposing the growing bulge in his briefs.

Carmy’s not going to let himself get camera shy now, so he acts like he’s talking to you. “W-woke up like this—“ he breaths. His keeps his movements slow, letting his palm drift down to his covered dick. He applies gentle pressure, which makes his hips twitch.

“I wish you could have come here with me. Know you’d take care of this.” He grips himself harder, forcing a choked groan to leave his lips. Carmy can’t keep this up; he needs to get a hand on his throbbing cock. His thumb hooks into the waistband of his underwear and pulls them down. The camera angle shakes while he shoves them down his hips.

When the video steadies and focuses, it’s on his exposed cock. Carmy breaths deeply as his cock twitches, precum oozing from his tip. “Shit—I’m already leaking. See what you do to me, sweetheart? Just thinking about you gets me hard like a fucking teenager.”

Carmy’s hand disappears from the frame for a moment, but it’s obvious from the sound of spitting what he’s doing. Once his hand enters the frame again, now covered in saliva, he wastes no time and grabs his cock.

Honestly, he probably doesn’t need the extra lubrication with how much he’s dripping, but Carmy wants to replicate the feeling of your soaked cunt as best as he can with his hand. “W-wish I was with you. Know you’d be so fucking wet and warm around me.”

Carmy starts with a slow and calculated pace. His palm grips his dick as tight as possible without it being unpleasurable. On each up stroke, he applies additional pressure to make the pre drip down the head of his cock.

He’s making the most erotic sounds, a mix a raspy groans and needy whines. His abs flex while he pants, desperate for air. “Shit—baby. Miss you, pretty girl.” He fists his cock quicker, now, barely able to keep his hips on the bed. Carmy gives in and lets his hips work in tandem with his hand. “M’gonna fuck you so good when I get back—just-just like this—shit. You won’t be able to walk straight—“

It’s borderline hedonistic, the way his hips roll into his hand. Carmy’s completely unabashed. “S’good f’me. Feels s’good,” he mumbles like you’re actually there with him and not hundreds of miles away. The veins in his forearm clearly bulge out from the effort. There’s no telling how obscene the look on his face is right now.

It’s clear he’s nearing his peak from the way he’s whimpering. Small sounds and gasps leave his lips incessantly. His palm moves at a rapid pace, growing more sloppier by the second. A sharp, wanton whine escapes him before he murmurs. “Mmm, baby. Close—fuck. So fucking close, baby. Shit—gonna— m’gonna cum for you. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

His cock pulses as cum spills all over his abdomen. Carmy’s hips continue to fuck his hand through his orgasm as he whimpers with every spurt of cum. There’s no coherency to his sounds; only carnal moans escape him.

He continues to fist his cock until he’s milked himself dry. Carmy’s painted with cum; it’s all over him. His white-covered abs rise and fall rapidly while he catches his breath. Finally, he lets go of his cock with a groan.

Carmy looks at himself through the video on his phone and chuckles lowkey. “Made a mess didn’t I?” His hand falls to his stomach. He traces out your first initial in the pool of white before letting his palm smear the cum across his abs.

After a moment, he spreads his fingers in front of the camera, showing the ropes of cum sticking to his hand. His voice is gravelly as he speaks.“Fuck. Guess I need to go hop in the shower. See you soon, baby.”

[arieslost]

i have an oscar thot 😋

imagine oscar fucking reader in front of a mirror as "punishment" for being a tease all day and he's being all "look at the mess you're making of yourself", maybe a little overstim 🤭🤭

(ignore this if it's a bit much i'm just feeling self indulgent rn, maybe it's that new photoshoot lmao)

anon this was delicious. thank u for sending this in, i went feral for this and wrote it all in one sitting at midnight so i hope it’s good 😩

18+ content (smut & one instance of choking) under the cut, MDNI!!

© arieslost 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

mirror | op81

you knew exactly what you were doing. every teasing touch, whether to your boyfriend’s biceps encased in his suit jacket or up the expanse of his thighs under the table, was calculated; a means to an end that would hopefully leave you gasping for air at the end of the night. yet when oscar finally grabs your arm and drags you to the car, your heart still begins to race.

he keeps his grip on you all the way home, all the way through the door, all the way down the hall to the bedroom. you’re quick to sit on the bed, leaning back on your hands and pushing your chest forward to entice oscar more than you know you already have.

you expect him to stalk towards you, rip your clothes off, and do whatever he pleases with you. it’s what you want; you know it, and he certainly knows it. instead, he takes his time closing the distance to you. he takes far too long to turn on the bedside lamp, giving you a coy smile the whole time. he takes his time maneuvering himself between your legs and cupping your face in his hands before leaning down and placing a searing kiss on your lips that only escalates as he reaches behind you to unzip your dress.

he gets you naked with practiced ease, shedding his jacket and white button up as you make yourself comfortable against the pillows and let your eyes slide over every inch of his newly exposed skin like you’ve never seen him naked before. he completely bypasses your lips when he joins you on the bed, moving directly to your neck, lightly biting and sucking marks into your delicate skin.

the only warning sign of your impending punishment goes mostly unnoticed— you go to put your hands in his hair, and he doesn’t let you. he disguises it well, though; he simply laces your fingers with his own as his lips continue their downward descent before finally reaching their destination between your legs. that thoroughly distracts you, and he knows your body so well that he has you on the edge before you can comprehend the fact that he’s being so nice to you.

“oscar, ‘m close, don’t stop—” you’re saying, and then he’s doing the exact opposite, retracting himself from you entirely.

he’s being so surprisingly romantic about this that when he’s gone, your eyes fly open to stare at him in disbelief. he simply licks his lips and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before fixing you with a look of faux sympathy.

“oh, i’m sorry, did you think you were getting rewarded for the shit you were pulling all night?”

there it is.

your breath gets caught in your throat as he stands up and walks to the corner of the room where your full length mirror that you always use for fit checks stands. he picks it up and places it against the wall directly across from the bed before he turns his attention back to you. “cat got your tongue, honey?”

“i- i’m—”

“don’t waste my time. hands and knees facing the mirror, now.”

you bite your lip, heart knocking against your chest in anticipation. he’s never fucked you in front of a mirror before, and while you’d rather look at him than yourself, that’s how you know that your mission was successful.

you situate yourself on all fours like he told you, looking down at the way your hands are spread over the duvet as he gets back on the bed behind you, hands sliding down your back and over your ass.

“think you can just get away with being such a tease?” when you don’t answer, he reaches up to fist your hair and tugs harshly. “answer, or i’m going to leave you here all needy and desperate.”

“no, don’t wanna get away with it.” you say immediately, and he scoffs.

“oh, i see. so you want to be punished.” you try to nod, and he pulls your hair again. “god, you’re such a brat.”

“‘m your brat, though,” is all you can think to say, and luckily he seems to like that because he loosens his grip on your hair and leans down to press a kiss between your shoulder blades.

“fuck yeah, you are. now pick your head up.” he instructs, pointing towards your reflections in the mirror. “i don’t want you looking anywhere but right there. if you look down once, i’m stopping. got it?”

“yes,” you reply, pushing yourself back against him. “please, oscar—”

“behave,” he warns, before he’s pushing into you without any notice and your mind just goes completely blank.

you almost look down immediately, nearly unable to keep your eyes on the mirror when he feels so good inside of you and you finally have what you wanted since you saw him looking nothing short of tantalizing in his suit. neither of you have ever been fans of all the fancy events, but you’d happily go to a million more if the night always ends like this.

oscar doesn’t hold back at all, immediately setting a blistering pace that has you gripping the sheets even harder than you already were. you chance a look at him in the mirror, and you can’t hold back the moan that escapes you when you see how good he looks behind you. the longer strands of hair sticking to his forehead, the slight flush of his cheeks and chest from exertion, the way his eyes meet yours in the mirror and a breathless laugh escapes him when you tell him you’re close again.

“go ahead, baby, let go f’me.” he says, and you do with a cry of his name, fighting against your instincts to collapse as your legs shake and his hips slow, helping you ride it out.

but this is still a punishment, so he only gives you a few moments reprieve before picking right back up, making you yelp.

“no, no, too sensitive, please,” you manage to say, and he reaches forward to wrap a hand around your throat and pull you up so your back is flush against his chest.

“what did you say?” he asks, and when you open your mouth to respond his hand tightens just enough that you can still breathe, but you can’t get words out. “that’s what i thought. just take it and keep your eyes on the mirror.”

you obey silently, wishing that you weren’t blocking him now because he looks beautiful even when he’s disheveled like this and you… well, you look like a complete disaster. oscar seems to come to the same conclusion, because he keeps talking, lips brushing against your ear as he continues to rail you within an inch of your life.

“look at the mess you’re making of yourself,” he whispers, free hand snaking down your front and slipping between your legs. “what happened to my pristine, put together girl from earlier, huh? posing so prettily for all those pictures. now look at you.”

letting out a whimper at his words, you have no choice but to look. you’ve never watched yourself get fucked, but you know you’ve never looked this out of it before. your vision is blurry from tears of pleasure, but you can see the mascara running down your cheeks. your hair is a mess from oscar grabbing it, and your jaw is completely slack. you bring a hand up to curl around his wrist so he doesn’t let go of your throat. if he wasn’t holding on to you, you’d be face down and too out of it to care about his threat of stopping.

and maybe you like having his hand there too.

“oscar,” you say, voice hoarse from his grip. “i-i think i’m—”

“fuck, i feel it.” he grits out when you clench around him. “you can give me one more, yeah?”

“mhmm, for you,” you moan out, head falling back against his shoulder.

he doesn’t even care, a higher pitched moan escaping his mouth that tells you he’s not going to last much longer. “that’s right, all for me, all mine. my little fuckin’ tease.”

his words send you over the edge again, and you feel all your energy leave your body as your second orgasm takes everything out of you and leaves you slumped against his body as he follows suit, falling forward and barely holding himself up above you when you fall limp onto the mattress. you can feel his heavy breaths against the side of your face as he pulls out of you and rolls to the side so he can lay face down as well and get his eyes on you.

he flashes his polite cat smile at you, and you smile back, finding it hard to comprehend that this cutie with the side of his face smushed against the mattress is the same guy that just had you seeing stars mere seconds ago.

“still with me, honey?” he asks softly, reaching out and running his fingers down your spine.

you shiver at his touch, nodding slowly. “the mirror?”

he has the audacity to blush. “caught my eye when we first came in here and i went with it.”

you touch his flushed cheek, brushing his hair out of his face. “i should tease you more often.”

he tries to give you a menacing look, but with half his face squished it doesn’t work very well. you both dissolve into giggles, and as he kisses you softly, you start thinking about what you can do next time to make him get the mirror again.

word count: 1,611

masterlist — join my tag list here!

note: i apologize for nothing unless there’s something poorly written here because by the time i finished writing it i was at a reasonable level of delirium. n e ways…

requests are OPEN, and my inbox is always open for comments, criticism, and conversation! feel free to pop in!

reblogs are always appreciated <33

dividers by @/saradika

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[cherrycolored-punk]

walking distance - E.M x fem!reader

Part of Stranger Prompts directly from the twilight zone organized by: @bettyfrommars, @allthingsjoeq and @somnambulic-thing

“You step into a hole-in-the-wall bar for a drink and suddenly find yourself in a different decade.”

-

author’s note: this was so damn fun 🖤 I’ve always wanted to do one but was worried my writing wasn’t up to par. I hope you enjoy :)

w/c: 2.6k

warnings: none

‼️ THIS IS AN 18+ BLOG, MINORS DNI ‼️

The sun beats down on you, intense and overwhelming. Adding to the frustration you feel as you stare down at the guts of your car, watching steam billow from beneath the hood and unsure of what you’re looking at.

You let out an exasperated growl and reach for your phone, hurried fingers scrolling for your best friend’s name.

Her wedding was in two days, and you were supposed to be the maid of honor. You couldn’t afford the plane ticket from New York City to Indianapolis and decided to road trip it, hoping to the gods that your shitty Honda Civic would make it. But of course, it would betray you when you were nearly there.

There was a weekend of festivities planned, maid of honor duties you needed to attend to, and there was no telling when you’d be there now.

She answers on the second ring, and you waste no time.

“Hey, I’m going to be late,” you grumble, pushing away from the car and pacing in front of the bumper.

“What happened?” She can hear the thick annoyance in your voice.

A heavy sigh escapes your lips, and you point an absent hand to the car as though she can see it.

“My piece of shit car broke down,” you glance around at your surroundings. At the dense rows of trees and open fields.

“And in the middle of fucking nowhere!” Sweat trickles down your chest, and you wipe it away quickly, trying not to lose your shit.

“Where are you?” She asks, and you already feel bad that you’re bothering her with this. You turn the phone in your hand and place the call on speaker, switching the screen to the GPS app you’d been using.

“Says I’m in some town called Hawkins? About two hours out,” your shoulders deflate as you try to calculate the time it will take to even get this to a mechanic to look at. Three hours for a tow, however long for a fix, and you’d be lucky to make it in time to watch her come down the aisle.

“I’m so sorry, Jess.”

“We’ll get you here. I need you here,” she practically pleads, and you can already picture how her soon-to-be mother-in-law is driving her insane.

“Get somewhere safe and send me your location. Matthew will come pick you up with his tow.”

Her brother, the mechanic.

“He’s not gonna like that,” you chuckle, kicking a loose rock away from your path.

“It doesn’t matter, I’m the bride,” she enunciates the word dramatically, and you can’t help but laugh. She was far from a bridezilla, but she was willing to be one for you.

“Thank you,” you say sincerely and scroll on the map for a nearby restaurant or bar. Desperate for a drink after the road trip turned debacle.

“I’ll be at some bar called The Hideout? Closest thing to my car, about half a mile up the road,” you forward her your location and take her off speaker, pulling the phone to your ear.

“If I end up getting kidnapped by some inbred psychos like in Wrong Turn, you better not let them make a 20/20 episode out of me,” you joke as you reach for your purse and grab your keys.

“But what if I promised only the good photos?” She goes along.

“As long as you don’t say I lit up every room I walked into.”

“Why would I lie?” She teases and you can’t help the shocked laugh it elicits.

“Asshole,” you say affectionately, closing the hood of your car and pressing the key fob to make sure it’s locked.

“Can’t call me that on my wedding weekend,” she reminds you, and you roll your eyes.

“Yes, I apologize, oh mighty one. I will only be a humble servant,” you exaggerate your voice to be meek and small, keeping up the charade.

“Shut up,” she giggles, and you can feel the roll of her eyes.

“Let me know when you make it,” she orders.

“Of course,” you promise and disconnect the line, legs picking up pace.

The road to the Hideout is much the same as the road to its city line; flat fields and rows of corn seemingly stretch on for eternity until they hit the tall evergreens in the distance. From the looks of it, that’s all Hawkins is: a stretch of corn and towering trees. It’s different than what you’re used to, quieter. You hadn’t heard a silence like the one that you felt now.

It would be peaceful if it didn’t feel so eerie, and you couldn’t explain why you felt that way, why the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, or why it felt like you were being watched. 

A set of eyes you couldn’t locate watching your every move.

Your legs move faster, heart leaping when you see the building come into view. The sign bearing its name a little worse for wear but it was like a beacon on the long stretch of road.

The building itself is a little dilapidated and in major need of an overhaul. Its brown wood faded by years in the sun and slightly rotted in some spots. If the open sign didn’t glow, you’d assumed it was abandoned.

You swing open the door, a chill running through your back as the cold manufactured air hits your warm, sweat-slicked skin.

Faces turn toward you, curious gazes shifting over your frame before turning away from you.

A smoky haze fills the bar, the stench of tobacco and weed filling your lungs as you breathe in.

The interior is out-of-date; the red vinyl seats of the booths are cracked, their yellow stuffing overflowing. Records line the wall, and dollar bills hang where they are tacked sporadically to the ceiling. A red Coors Light sign glows in the distance.

You swat the air, trying to find a clean patch amongst all the smoke as your eyes dance around the bar suspiciously. Was it decades night?

Everyone is dressed in something you’ve seen in a John Hughes film. Big hair, bright blush, tight jeans. Some were dancing to a Madonna song playing on the jukebox in the corner of the bar. Others sat quietly along the bar.

You’re still staring as you slide onto the barstool, forearm pressed into the sticky wood of the bar.

“What can I get you?”

The bartender’s sudden appearance makes you jolt, and you place a hand on your chest as you turn toward the voice.

“Something other than the heart attack you just gave me,” you exhale loudly and meet his gaze. Doing your best to contain your shock.

He’s pretty, the kind of good-looking that leaves you a little breathless. It’s the curl of his hair, the line of his jaw, and the freckles pressed along his nose. It’s the way his cheeks are growing red the longer you stare and the cocky grin that slots into place when he notices you are.

“I can do that for the pretty girl,” he laughs, raising his eyebrows expectantly, and you shake your head of your reverie.

“Just a Dos Equis, dressed if you can.”

“Dressed?” He repeats.

“Yeah, uh, salt on the rim. Lime?” You move your hands in demonstration, miming the movements of prepping your drink, and he chuckles. Shaking his head at your display.

“Best I can do is a bottle of Bud Light,” he places a toothpick between his lips, and you swear it’s to torture you.

“Guess that’s what I’m having then,” you shrug, smiling sweetly, and tap your fingers against the bar.

“Coming right up,” the bartender turns his back to you, and you check your cell phone. 

No service. Of course.

You groan and look up, eyes instantly running over his back appreciatively.

His black shirt fits him snugly and you can see the muscles of his back, the contours of his biceps bulging against the tight sleeves. The black jeans he wears fit him just right, showcasing the curve of his ass and the swell of his thighs. God, they didn’t make them like this in New York. Is it something in the water?

He turns back toward you with the bottle of beer. The glass already wet with condensation when he slides it toward you.

“How much do I owe you?” You reach for your wallet, and he shakes his head.

“Money’s no good here,” he dismisses you and leans against the bar. Closer to you. His gaze crawls over you, tracing the length of your legs and the flare of your hips before meeting your eyes.

“Well, I can at least tip you,” you pause, waiting for his name and trying to hide how his gaze affects you.

“Eddie,” he grins, toothpick sliding from one side of his mouth and to the other.

“Thank you, Eddie,” you repeat and slide the five-dollar bill towards him.

His eyebrow quirks, and you tilt your head curiously, following the direction of his gaze. It’s fixated on the money you slid him.

“What is it?”

He reaches for his wallet and pulls out a bill, placing it next to yours.

“Your money looks funny,” he pushes them towards you so you can see.

Your eyes dart between the two. His money looks brand new but bears little resemblance to the more colorful one you’d given him.

“You trying to give me Monopoly money or something?” He teases, and you roll your eyes.

“You just have an older bill,” you point to his money, giggle, and sip your beer. The malty, amber liquid slides across your tongue and settles into your empty stomach.

His gaze roams over your features again.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” He gives a crooked smile, one that makes the dimple in his cheek deepen.

“What gave it away?” You chuckle and take another drink, eyebrow quirked as you wait for his response.

“Definitely don’t look like the girls around here,” he shakes his head and points his hand towards you.

“Oh?” Your brows push together. Not sure whether or not that’s a compliment.

“In a good way!” His words come out rushed, the suave demeanor he had faltering just a little.

“How is it good?” Your eyes squint in suspicion as you take another drink. Enjoying the way he squirms, maybe a little too much.

He glances over your form once more and then back at you. 

“The clothes, the hair, fancy money. Gotta be one of those California chicks, huh?”

“Not even,” you shake your head, but a grin tugs at your lips, “I’m from New York. Just passing through for a friend’s wedding.”

Eddie lets out a low whistle.

“City girl,” he smiles and inches a little closer, “lucky me that you’re passing through.”

“Lucky you?” You repeat, trying to fight the smile behind the rim of your drink.

“Yeah, not every day we get a pretty face in here,” his voice lowers, “I usually see the same five drunks.”

His brown eyes dart to your left, and he eyes the older man sitting on the stool a few seats down. You almost choke on your drink and shake your head, but the man’s appearance reminds you of your surroundings. You glance around the bar.

“So, is everyone always this committed to the decades night?” You look back at him.

His face twists, puzzled, an absent hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“What do you mean?”

You point the mouth of your bottle absently towards the room.

“It’s like straight out of an eighties movie in here, feels like I’m in St. Elmo’s Fire or something,” you chuckle and look back toward him.

Eddie’s face is still contorted, confusion evident in the scrunch of his brow and the twist of his lips.

“That movie just came out, like, three years ago,” he chuckles but gives you a curious look as he wipes a rag against the counter.

“More like forty years ago,” you shake your head. They were really committed to the bit here.

“Got an interesting way of perceiving time there, sweetheart,” he shrugs incredulously and changes the subject.

“I know my way around a car if you want me to look at it,” he offers.

“Oh, it’s half a mile back. It’s okay,” you wave him off, but he’s already shaking his head.

“We can take my car. All my tools are in there anyways.”

“Are you sure?” You can feel the guilt twisting in your gut at the thought of accepting his offer. It’s mixed with the worry of getting into the car with a stranger—your earlier comment about 20/20 ringing in your head.

“‘Course,” he tilts his head towards the other bartender, “Brett can watch the bar while we’re gone.”

But there’s something about Eddie that doesn’t scream serial killer, a softness in his gaze that relaxes you. Has you nodding your head before the words come tumbling out.

“Yeah, okay,” your head bounces eagerly, and you chug the rest of the beer before hopping off the stool.

It was an opportunity to get to Jess’ wedding festivities sooner, though, now you kind of wanted to stick around. Wait until Matthew finally makes an appearance so you can spend a little longer getting to know Eddie.

He meets you around the bar, taller now that he’s standing beside you. The smell of his cologne warm and a little hypnotizing. He swirls his keyring around his finger and points toward the door.

“Lead the way.”

You grin up at him, taking a step in front of his tall frame and push open the doors.

The warm summer air greets you, the sky no longer a vivid blue but a deep indigo. You look around, confused. Headlights approach you, breaks slamming when the passenger window passes your fram. You recognize the truck, Matthew’s tow truck.

His work boots slam against the pavement, and he takes long strides in your direction.

“Jesus Christ! Where the fuck have you been?”

“W-what?”

“I’ve been calling you for half an hour, going up and down this goddamn street. Called you like forty times.”

You reach for your phone and stare at the screen, its face filled with notifications. Missed call after missed call and several texts.

“I was just getting a drink, didn’t have signal in the bar,” you point an absent thumb behind you, “Eddie here was going to help me get my car started.”

“Eddie?” Brett’s face screws in confusion.

“Yeah, Eddie,” you repeat and turn around. But no one’s there. The bar behind you silent, empty. Abandoned.

“What are you talking about?” The older man’s voice is laced with concern, “This town has been abandoned for nearly forty years since some major earthquake practically ripped it in half.”

“B-but I was just sitting in there talking. I just sat down,” you say with more conviction. You can still smell Eddie’s cologne, still hear his laugh, and taste the beer you were drinking. Your mind is reeling, trying to make sense of it.

“Think the heat got to you,” he laughs and shakes his head, “get in the truck, I’ll take you to Jess’.”

Your feet move towards the truck hesitantly, face turned towards the bar. It looks more run-down than before. The entry covered with cobwebs, stools toppled over, the bottles that lined the back wall of the bar cracked and broken.

The same eerie feeling settles over you, like you’re being watched. Like maybe you weren’t alone.

You climb into the truck and settle into the seat, staring absently out the windshield.

“I swear I was just in there drinking a beer,” you point a finger out the window and turn to him.

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s encountered a ghost in Hawkins,” he shrugs and starts the car before turning back to you, “stranger things have happened.”

[cinnbar-bun]

first off— I LOVE UR WORK!! i think i just went thru and read everything you have for one piece LOL. second!!! i saw hc / drabble request open !! i have a silly idea that i feel like you can make come into reality.

recently i’ve been watching isekai’s so…imagine. reader getting isekai-d into the one piece world!!! (more specifically, interactions with the cross guild!!!)

A/n: Thank you very much nonnie!! I really appreciate you taking the time to read my stuff. Please enjoy this <3

Getting Isekai'd Into Cross Guild!

Rating: SFW

Relationship: Cross Guild x Reader

Notes: GN!Reader, a bit crack, short and sweet. No relationship is defined so you can assume it to be platonic or romantic <3.

The wonderful Truck-kun granted your wish of getting isekai’d by sending you straight to the One Piece world! How wonderful! 

Except, you quite literally fell on top of Buggy just as he was trying to argue his case to Crocodile and Mihawk. 

Now, they have no clue what the hell just happened but Mihawk already agrees with whatever that just was. 

Buggy is about to scream over the fact you just fell on top of him and Crocodile is wondering how you managed to get here. 

Crocodile assumes a Devil Fruit, Mihawk assumes you snuck in, and Buggy assumes you’re the devil. 

It takes a moment for things to settle down as they demand you tell them what you’re doing here. You explain that well… uh… you’re not really from here. 

Crocodile almost plans to kill you right away because he doesn’t have time for stupidity like that, but you show whatever you have on hand to prove otherwise. 

They’re all immediately entranced by your phone, but they have something they’re also interested in too. 

Crocodile: Your credit cards and money. When you explain how a credit/debit card functions he’s amazed. Tempted to start a bank and overhaul the current financial system. Also loves the excel spreadsheets. The fact this “machine” will calculate all of this for you and put it in a neat list… well… mark him down as interested. 

Buggy: The shiny games on your phone that are colorful and fun. The fact he can “Google” anything and look up new material. 

Mihawk: EReaders and, this will sound hilarious, but text messaging. He doesn’t care to talk, but he thinks that sending texts would be so much more effective and efficient than having to haul himself around the sea or, god forbid, answer a phone call. 

Okay so you did manage to prove you’re not from this world (or that perhaps you were an alien freak but that’s okay) and Crocodile and Mihawk are pretty much entertained. That’s it. You can go. Bother someone else. 

Buggy however, holds you close and pouts. “Can we keep them? Can we keep them pleeeeeeeease???” He begs as if you’re a little puppy. 

Crocodile is against this but Mihawk shrugs and agrees. Whatever. This could be interesting. 

Buggy still doesn’t understand you’re not some circus animal and rambles about what he should have you wear and perform for his show while Crocodile cuts him off. 

Frankly, if you’re telling the truth and have nowhere else to go, you gotta earn your keep. Crocodile just makes a new position for you that shouldn’t be too hard after you said you have 0 combat skills or training. 

You’re basically just their assistant and do menial work that no one else really wants to do. For now at least. 

Buggy is actually… kinda happy you’re so nice to him? He’s used to either worship from his crewmates or abuse from Mihawk and Crocodile, so you quickly become his new favorite person. He’s pretty shocked you’re as nice as you are considering how crappy this situation is, but he’s grateful. Softens up to you right away and loves having your attention. 

Buggy likes to do silly tricks to make you laugh whenever he can, mostly as a way to be the “flashiest” guy in your eyes. He really doesn’t like when others try to take you or away or interrupt his time with you, since he’s a brat and finds you entertaining. 

Crocodile and Mihawk are tougher nuts to crack. Neither of them trust people, but they find you interesting, even though you are incredibly weak compared to others. 

Crocodile always tries to see what you may/may not know about him since you made a few offhand comments that were a bit too… knowledgeable… so he often tries to get you to slip up more or confess to something. He hopes to see if you know something useful that can be used (but also deep down is afraid you know too much). 

Mihawk on the other hand finds you amusing. Plenty of things are similar to your world, but it’s quite clear you’re not used to many aspects of this one. He forms a habit of just watching you or actively messing with you to see your reaction. It’s a bit funny to him, admittedly. 

Of the two, Mihawk is the first to somewhat let his guard down and be a bit protective of you. He figures even if you were hypothetically “dangerous”, he could easily kill you so what does he care? You do your job, you’re entertaining, and you don’t give him a headache. 

Crocodile only lets up when you “prove” time and time again that you are reliable and not trying to go after them or sabotage them. He does think it’s a bit weird you’re eager to help them, considering what they do and what you know, but hey, who is he to complain? 

To sum it up: Crocodile cares the most about you being isekai’d, Buggy cares the least (except when it comes to his perception. He wonders if he’s also got a following there).

Buggy likes showing off his new tricks or discussing silly hypotheticals with you. 

Crocodile likes when your eyes grow wide whenever he drops an expensive item on your desk as a token of his appreciation to you. 

Mihawk likes when you talk him to normally and share deep discussions with him. 

It is a bit strange that there’s some “normal” person with these three villains, but you’ve become important to them. You’re unique and special, practically one of a kind in this zany world. They show their feelings towards you in different ways, but the way they’ve grown attached to you and try to protect you show that you’re valued in their life.

[httpscomexe]

Forbidden Secret Desire

Summary: You just can’t seem to find yourself in this stupid school for freaks, but just when you’re sure no one cares anymore, a man with adamantium claws disturbs your groaning with a promise. Except he forgot to mention everything good comes with a price.

(Find What I’m currently writing by checking my pinned post)

Parings: Logan Howlett x Reader

Warnings: (Individual warnings per chapter) Anxiety, hints to violence, loneliness, I guess angst, manipulation (The reader is helpless and will look for anything to make her happy), some hints towards suggestive material near the end, bad language word use, pet names.

Word Count: 3523 (Find all chapters here) Chapter 2

P.S. If you’d like to be tagged, ask in the comments, you also have permission to send an ask, but make sure it is NOT anonymous, so I know your username, don’t worry, I’m scared of confrontation too. But this is a SAFE SPACE where I will not judge. Thank you again.

Xavier's Mansion.

Also known as the school for “Gifted Youngsters,” or simply for what society prefers to call, “Freaks.”

You’d been there for a few months. You have a very unique power, something even Xavier himself doesn’t understand how to control.

You get these looks all the time when you're walking in the halls of the mansion. You notice it when people cover their mouths to whisper about you and you can’t not notice it when you seem to create a bubble around you as some of the kids try to keep a distance.

Yea, it hurts. You couldn’t deny that either. Sometimes you’d even have to find a restroom really fast to cry to yourself in one of the stalls, but even that hurts when some of the students quickly flood out of the restroom after you enter.

Nobody knew how much it hurt you, nobody even knew what powers you really had. If they did, you would’ve already been sent to the ice box, but luckily, you didn’t know how to use your more dangerous powers. You figured Xavier probably knew about them, considering he can read your mind and he knows just exactly how powerful you really were, but he didn’t know if you knew about them. And what you don’t know, can’t hurt you.

The hardest part was going to class. While everyone else had a table of four people, you sat alone. You did every project alone, with high soaring grades by the way, and you never got to speak to anyone during discussion or free time before the bell rang.

Sometimes you wish you were just… normal.

Of course, you weren’t the only person that was avoided. There were a few other students and even some of the adults that were always avoided. The only true friend you seemed to have was Hank McCoy. Everyone used to fear him, thinking that he couldn’t control the “Beast,” so he knows how you feel. But sometimes it only felt like he tolerated you because you were smart, and you were the only student that could aid him in building anything related to tech, and nanotech, and coding, and all that good stuff.

“Have you figured out why it isn’t working?” Was the first thing he asked you as you walked into his lab. Not a good morning, no how’s class, and not even hello. “I was thinking it had something to do with our maths, that maybe we calculated something wrong but I’ve looked over it again and again and couldn’t find a single thing wrong with it.” He tells you, picking up his notebook which you could see was now full of mathematical equations and random scribbles which seemed to radiate with frustration.

“I don’t think we got the maths wrong, I’ve checked it about a thousand times.” You say quietly, then gently put your bag full of books down under one of his desks so it wasn’t in the way. “Pretty sure it just needs to be smaller. Nothing really about maths though. Other than that, the fibres need to be smaller.”

“So it is the maths?”

“Eh, kind of.” You groan a little and stretch before grabbing a small, delicate pair of tweezers. “This is still too big.” You tell him, placing a sample of part of your tech down under a microscope, strong enough you’re surprised it couldn’t see atoms. “See, this is about as thick as a piece of hair, which is about the size of…” You sigh, looking back at your maths. “It’s about 50,000 nanoparticles, so not a lot, but we need it to be a little smaller.” You tell him, then look away from the small bit of tech to look up at him, his eyes squinted in your direction as is he was trying to understand what you were saying. “Okay I’ll dumb it down. It’s about as thick as a piece of hair right now, we need to numb it down to about… only one hundred nanoparticles, so it should be about as thick as graphene.”

“What’re you two nerds going on about now?” Another voice cuts into your explanation. It was none other than the gruffy voice of Wolverine.

“Oh hey, Logan.” Hank abandons the workstation to go over Logan who was making himself some coffee. “Just figuring out something about nano…”

“Nanoparticles.” You finish his sentence.

“Yea, that.” He says plainly, not bothering to look at you as you turn away from their conversation and look through the microscope.

“Now how do I make you that small…” You whisper to yourself, gently lifting the particle string with your delicate tweezers and examining it through the microscope. “Hmm…” You hum to yourself.

“Y/N!” Hank calls for you, and you turn around. “I’m going out to pick up some lunch for the both of us. What would you like? I’m getting Mexican.” You tell him what you would like, and he takes a moment to clean his work area and stuff his wallet in his pocket before he finally leaves. Leaving you to stand by your desk, doing all the work that has to do with nanotech, but also leaving the Wolverine with you.

“So what exactly are you two working on?” You hear his voice behind you, then you see him next to you.

“Teleportation. Not as complicated as you think, it’s just the fear that gets to everyone really.” You look away from your work, and your eyes land on him. His arms crossed as he leaned on a nearby table, showing enough respect to not sit on your working table.

“Seems complicated. What could possibly be scary about it though? It's just teleportation.”

“Well. If you think deeper into it. Your body and every single atom and particle of your body has to be completely broken down into an uncountable amount of smaller pieces and then your body has to rebuild itself in the secondary location, you just have to hope that it rebuilds you correctly. Or the next thing you know half your right arm is also half of your left leg with toes for fingers.” You say without taking a breath, taking a deep breath after letting it all out. Staring back up at him, his eyes were now squinted in confusion.

“I don’t think anyone is scared of that except you. I’ve never even thought about that.” He shrugs, taking a sip of his scalding hot black coffee.

“Yea well… I’ve had a lot of time to think about a lot of things.” You tell him through gritted teeth, mumbling before grabbing your notebook.

“You know…” He pauses, placing his hot coffee mug on another table away from your work before walking back up next to you, placing his palms on your table where there wasn’t electronic junk lying around. “You aren’t the only one.”

“The only one?” You question, turning and grabbing another tool before looking under your microscope, turning the string around to try and figure out how to break it into a smaller piece, without actually breaking it.

“The only one that’s feared.”

You stop what you’re doing, still looking into the microscope but not actually paying attention to what was right in front of your eyes.

“I’ve seen the way some of the other kids look at you, bub. Like there’s something wrong with you. I know how it feels to not fit in.” He crosses his arms as he leans against your table, attempting to get your full attention. He clears his throat before speaking again. “I’ve seen you in the halls. Your name is Y/N, right?” You nod, his eyes and yours locked onto each other. “Logan.” He says, reaching his hand out to shake yours. Your hand basically gets engulfed by his as your soft hand meets his, which were rough and still yet soft, that surprised you, considering… “Hank talks about you a lot also. Not like he loves you or anything, he just tells me you’re smart. Like really smart.” He shrugs.

“Hm…” You hum a little. This is the first conversation you’ve had with someone in this school where they’ve actually treated you like a real human.

“Considering the way you explain this stuff, I’d say he’s probably right about you being smart.” He nodded towards the nanoparticles still sitting under your microscope, it was hard to see from even a foot away considering it was the width of a single piece of hair. “So what exactly is a nanoparticle? Or nano…”

“Nanoparticle" is correct. It just like a piece of tech or anything made of tech like certain fibers that can be visible to the naked eye but they’re very small. Just this one piece is the width of 50,000 nanoparticles.” You carefully pick up the string, and gently put it in it’s container.

“And what was that other thing you mentioned earlier?”

“Graphene?”

“Yea.”

“It’s made of about 50 to 100 nanoparticles, and it can be seen with the naked eye through a refraction of light in a mirror or clear substance that has a bend in it.”

“I’m not completely sure what any of that means. But I trust you know what you’re doing.”

“Yea, I’m kind of a nerd.” You chuckle awkwardly, then reach down to pull your bag over your shoulder, your social battery is pretty much near zero for the day, or maybe week. This was you first time ever speaking to Wolverine and you just nerd out on him? What were you thinking?

“Alright, I got food. Where are you heading?” Hank finally comes back, a bag full of boxes with the three of your foods in them in his right hand as he enters the lab, letting the metal door close behind him.

“I’ve got a bit of a headache, I was gonna go back to my room.”

“Well you know the rules. No food in the rooms.”

“Yea, yea. I know.” You sigh, setting your bag back down as he hands you your box of food and you hop onto one of the clean counters to sit down as you eat your food.

“Have you seen Xavier today?” He asks Logan, handing him his food also.

“No, he’s out on some special mission with Mystique right now, won’t be back for about another week.”

“And what does he have you doing? You never leave your room so I’m assuming he's’ got you doing something?” Hank stands next to Logan as they both talk back and forth.

“He has me teaching his third class and fifth class. I guess that one is the anger management class and the other is meditation.”

“Ah, so he’s got you teaching the two classes you used to fail in.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?”

After working in the lab, a lot shorter than usual, you actually head back to your room. You hate to admit it, but you’ve been ecstatic to meet Wolverine for years, and when you finally get to have a conversation with him, you just geek out on him about nanotech?

As you hang your bag on the wall and remove your jacket only to throw it on the back of your desk chair, you can’t help but want to just smash your head on a wall until you’ve forgotten about everything that’s happened today.

You mope as you walk into the centre of your small room, stopping and staring at the mess on your desk, a bunch of full notebooks covered in little pen markings of maths and science that no one else in the school would understand.

You walk to the desk, take one of the notebooks in your hand that had some free space left, and drop down on your bed. Reaching behind your head, you pull your sweater over your head and discard it on the floor before leaning against your headboard and clicking the back of your pencil until the led is at your desired length.

As soon as the tip of the led touches the paper, your mind wanders. That was so embarrassing… You realise, scribbling random maths into your notebook. I can’t believe I just made a professor hate me too… Not only had you dissociated, but you also completely nerded out. You talked about nanoparticles as if it was the only thing you cared about. You care about more though. You care about the family that was so scared of you they sent you off to this stupid school, calling you a freak and breaking all ties with you. No, you don’t care about them. But you care about your friends so much! You don’t have any friends. Hank is very special to you, he holds a space in your heart. A very, very small space. Yea he doesn’t care about you, you’ve just been able to make about a thousand breaks in his experiments. Then of course he would take all of the credit when he would show it to Professor X.

Why do you even try? I guess working with Hank is the equivalent of the other students going out to the mall with their friends. The only difference is he wasn’t your friend.

You take it back, you had one friend. If you could even call someone you only text cause you’re too scared for actual confrontation, a friend. Nightcrawler- or Kurt. The one guy who’s ever made an actual effort to try and be your friend, he’s just always out on missions. Or so that’s what his actual friends tell you. Maybe you should send him a text and actually verify whether he hates you or not… You get up from your bed and unzip your bag, sticking your hand into the pocket where you always shove your phone, but it’s not there. What the fuck? You take your bag off it’s hook and search the rest of the pockets, and still no phone. You go to your bed, searching under the covers and getting on your knees to check under the bed, still no phone. You check your desk, your discarded sweater, and you sweep the floor with your eyes looking for it, thinking it might’ve just fallen out of your pocket. You hate seeming desperate for a simple device that rots your brain to default, but God that phone is your escape.

“Hey, is everything alright-?” A voice cuts into your messy search as you turn around and your door is cracked just enough for him to stick his head in.

“Sorry, Mr. Howlett, I just can’t find my phone.” You chuckle awkwardly, standing in the centre of your room as he peeks around your room at the mess you’ve created.

“Again, you can call me Logan. I don’t mind it, I prefer it actually. Do you mind if I step in?”

“Yea, it’s fine. Sorry for the mess, I haven’t really had time to clean it.” You nervously link your fingers together in front of you and let your thumb pick at your skin as he comes in, closing the door gently behind him.

“It’s not a mess, just a sweater on the floor and notebooks on the bed.” Sweater on the floor. Of course. Yea, you were standing in the centre of your room, in your shorts and a black fucking clasp on bra. Now you suddenly feel naked standing in front of him, so you cross your arms, hoping to hide at least some of the embarrassment.

“Well uh, what’s up?” You try sounding cool but immediately cringe.

“You left this in the lab.” He tells you, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out your phone, handing it to you backside up, so you could see the glittery phone case, adorned with pink sparkles. “Was gonna give it to you in class but you kids go crazy over your phones.”

“Oh I wouldn’t go crazy…” You tell him, humour in your voice as you awkwardly look around your room, the sheets halfway off the bed and your pillows tossed in the middle, the result in the crazy search for your phone. “Would just be a little annoyed…”

“So is everything okay?”

“Yea, why do you ask?”

“I was knocking on your door and sayin’ your name. but you didn’t answer.”

“Oh,” You laugh dryly. “Sorry, sometimes I get lost in my head and kinda just block out all sounds and sometimes I’ll block out what’s in front of me."

“Oh I see.” What do I say to respond to that? “What were you working on?” Why is he still here?

“Honestly, I don’t know, I was just scribbling.”

“Had enough maths for the day?” He jokes.

“Had enough maths for the month.” You mumble, but then he laughs. A short laugh. But a laugh nonetheless. Isn’t he annoyed by you? Why is he still- “What would you be doin’ if Hank didn’t have you doing all this brain stuff?” Oh.

“Well uh, nothing probably.”

“Not one for hanging out with your friends?”

“Friends? Hah!” You laugh with sarcasm, then walk over to your discarded sweater, bending over to pick it up, deciding to distract yourself with cleaning. “It's not easy for a freak to make friends.” You mumble to yourself, hoping he wouldn’t hear, of course, he did.

“You’re not a freak.” He crosses his arms as you look over your shoulder at him.

“Yea sure. Everyone in the school would so easily disagree with you on that.” You say back, folding the sweater before tossing it into your dirty laundry basket. “Professor X won’t even let me leave the school because he doesn’t trust me. I’m sure you’re no different.” Shit that was supposed to be said in your head. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You’d smack yourself right now if it wouldn’t make you look stupid, if he wasn’t in your room still.

“So you think everyone’s the same?” He asks, more of a statement.

“No I- I don’t mean it like that. I just-” He clears his throat.

“Come here.” He demands, looking into your fucking soul. So of course, with a gaze as threatening as his. You stand right in front of him after you walk up to him like Bambi in a traffic headlight. Wobbly, and frozen. “Good, now look at me.” Oh, you forgot that part.

You looked away from his shirt, and tilted your head back to look up into his eyes and for a man who’s so adept at killing his eyes were so soft, and broken…

“If you didn’t randomly blank out, you would’ve also heard Xavier when he told you the only time you could leave, is if it’s with someone else in case there’s an emergency.”

“Emergency from what? Me losing my temper?”

“Exactly that.” Is what shuts you up. “When I said I know how you’re feeling, I meant it.” His voice softens, and you feel your throat knot as you hold back embarrassing tears. “It wasn’t easy for me to make friends either, but honestly I prefer to be in a small crowd. Normally I’m not the one to comfort a student, but you just don’t seem to want to talk to anyone. Why’s that?”

“I’ve tried talking to people. They just give me a look and then walk away.”

“Does that actually happen? Or is that just what it feels like?”

Shit. You hate to admit it, but he makes a point.

What the fuck. Was your next thought as his hand moved up and he gently placed his hand on your cheek.

“I know you hate everyone at this school from the fucking bottom of your heart, but I’m gonna have you try to refrain from hating me. We can strike a deal by letting me take you out of the mansion. I’m sure you’d love to get out, can’t remember the last time you left.”

“Never have.” You whisper, shrugging your shoulders. Your voice is only quiet so your tears aren’t cascading down your face.

“Well if you can just promise to behave, and tell me when you’re getting stressed, then I’ll supervise you like Xavier wants.” He tells you, promising some sort of freedom. “I’m not saying I’m scared of you. If anyone is scared of what you can do, it’s you. Am I right?” You nod. “Use your words, bub.”

“Yea…” Your voice cracks as you barely mutter an entire word.

“Hey, hey…” He says softly, then he suddenly pulls you into a hug. “I’ve got you.” He gently rubs your back, which by the way is still bare since you never got to throw on another shirt. “Just cancel your plans with Hank, I can help you more than he ever will…”

He promises. His fingers gently run over the metal clasps on the back of your bra as you loosely wrap your arms around him, embracing his hug and you nod, not able to formulate any more words as you cry quietly against his chest, your tears wetting his shirt as you both stand there in silence. A quiet smirk on his face as he holds onto you…

[chiscaralight]

I saw on your Masterlist (I need to make one😭🤣) that no one has requested Star Rail from you, yet. So allow me to be the first. I don't really ask people to write requests for me, but 👀

Bondage and degrading/teasing praise with Aventurine. Creampie. Cumming inside someone who is all delicate and tied up for him would be a very intimate and deep experience for him, I feel. And whatever other kinks you want to put in.

💜 Hearts and flowers for you.

u guys dont understand how much i love seeing this username on this app. anything for u bae😖and take your time with the masterlist! i just wanted to have one cus I like keeping my work somewhere I don't have to search for it everytime lol. and here we go!

nsfw!aventurine x reader, creampie, reader is kinda overstimulated the entire time. emotional aven, they’re just soft and in love 😞 he cries too

you’re such a sight to behold. wrists bound up to the posts of the bed, completely at mercy to the man above you. the sweetest part is that you let him. you’re allowing him to have him like you like this. even as your eyes are closed and his lips drag slowly down between the valley of your breasts, over your belly button and stopping just above your dripping cunt, he still thinks you’re the most wonderful thing that’s happened to him.

he makes sure that you know, too. when he’s not using his tongue to abuse your pulsating hole, he uses it to spill every word of praise he knows. aventurines hands are tight against your thighs, holding them apart to give him just enough space to duck his head back down into your warmth. it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, and your sweet noises cause him to moan into you. it’s almost torture that you’re not able to touch him, but your mind is clouded by the pleasure he’s so ready to give you.

and he kisses up the same path with the same love he did the first time. his lips are soft against yours and your taste is still heavy. it’s not like you care, you’re just glad he’s this close again. you can feel his erection rubbing against your belly as his tongue slides over yours again. you pout as he pulls back, so he graces you with one final peck.

he’s drawing off the top of you so he can align himself with your slit. he’s calculated and slow with the way he pushes in. he doesn’t want to hurt you, he’d never forgive himself if he did in any capacity, even if it was just a mistake. your eyes open with a gasp and meet his. they’re watching you closely, so you smile. that beautiful smile that has him falling in love all over again.

you’re so beautiful in every way. his hand holds your face as he starts to move, and your voice is just as gorgeous as you call out his name. aventurine is pressing soft kisses against your shoulder as he rolls against you. but it’s not enough.

“aven, please-please. i wanna touch you.”

he groans. who is he to resist his darling like that? so he’s reaching up to let one of the ribbons slip. you’re so quick to pull your hand away from the frame and wrap around him; to draw him closer. if this was all he was going to give, you’re going to take it. you’re moving your face close to yours, and you can feel every breath. the heat from his mouth, the rising and falling of his chest. it’s so overwhelming, so perfect.

his hand is resting strongly on your thigh that’s settled on his waist. his grip is tightening now, and his breath is getting erratic and you can tell he’s about to cum. so with the space you have, you shift to press your lips against his. it’s an action he welcomes with open arms, and it sends that feeling straight down as his orgasm comes hard. he’s almost whining into your mouth as he ruts into you. he doesn’t stop, and you swear you can feel a certain wetness against your skin.

so you whisper for him to let your other arm go. he can’t even look up to you as he does. your second arm is stroking his hair. his cries are a little louder now, but he’s not sad. he’s happy, so happy it’s you. when he finally does pull back to see your face, your expression is so full of love that he starts to tear up again. this time he’s the one tightening his hold around you.

[aaizawashouta]

Don't Blame Me

pairing: aizawa shota x fem!reader

word count: 1.8k

summary: aizawa indulges himself in you after a rough night.

warnings: smut (18+ minors dni) oral (f receiving)

a/n: this took on a life of it's own. sorry not sorry

The office is silent. Your fingers tapping along the keyboard and every tick of the clock the only sign of time passing. That it’s just you here. Every moment that passes stresses you out. Images conjuring in your mind of the disaster that was last night. It’s okay. He’s okay. Your eyes glance at his office door. He’s never late. 

It’s almost two in the afternoon when he walks in. Your eyes track him. Every movement is slow and calculated. As if he doesn’t want to waste more energy than he needs. Your brows dip into a furrow, relieved that he’s here but concerned nonetheless. He glances over at you, finally feeling your burning stare. 

“What?”

“You look like shit.” 

He blinks, unaffected. “I didn’t sleep last night.” 

“I know. I watched the news this morning.” His shoulders tense at your words. “You did good, you know.” 

He doesn’t say anything more. You keep your smile to yourself as he walks into his office but keeps the door open. It’s an invitation if you ever saw one. Only a few minutes pass before he’s looming over you, dark hair almost tickling your cheeks from how close he is. He’s staring down at you, a mixture of disbelief and what you can only describe as well hidden affection. His hands grip your desk, knuckles white. The air around the both of you is intense—so thick you can cut it with a knife. Slowly, you let your breath go, sending his hair into a flurry around your face. 

“You didn’t have to do that.” He says staring down his nose at you. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“No?” One hand raises, lifting to the back of your neck before threading through your hair. Slender fingers tangling into the roots and pulling tight, forcing your head back. Your breath catches, thighs squeezing together. “Where are class 1-A’s assignments?” 

You swallow around the large lump forming in your throat, doing your best to ignore the blood rushing in your ears. “Graded and filed back in their folders.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I want to take care of you. I want you to be able to rest. I want you to not have to worry when I know I can help.”

He groans at your words, fingers digging into your scalp. “So good to me.” You whimper at the action, causing his eyes to flare to life. Whatever energy he’d been saving when he walked in, it’s pulsing through his veins now. “Always so good to me, such a sweet thing. But do you know what I really want?” 

“What?” 

“My name on your pretty lips.” 

“Shota,” you whine. 

“There it is.” 

His office door is shut and locked. You’re bent over his desk with your head resting on your forearms while he’s rucking up your skirt. Calloused hands push and pull at your newly exposed skin. You can barely hear his praises over the blood rushing in your ears. You know how to push Shota’s buttons, of course you do, but you never expected this. It has you on edge if you’re being honest. 

“Shota,” 

He pauses in his movements, eyes meeting yours. You don’t miss the way he swallows, gaze sweeping over you before his hands squeeze tightly. He knows you, can read you like a book. When you’ve been working together for as long as you two have—and dating for just as long—he knows you’re wanting an explanation. His eyes break from yours, looking at anything but you. Sighing, you push back and stand to your feet. A gentle hand cups his cheek, thumb tracing the scar that runs under his eye. Was it something like that? You can’t help but wonder. That had been bad. When the students had been attacked, only him and Thirteen were there to protect the kids. You’d never been so stressed in your life. 

“You’ll have to forgive me if I’m being a little indulgent.” He states, warm fingers wrapping around your wrist. He brings your hand to his mouth, lightly kissing each tip of your fingers. “There was—it—a brief moment last night where I wasn’t sure if I’d come back to you.” 

Your heart drops. Breaks right through your ribcage and shatters. God, you’d already come so close to losing him. What do you say to that? He already knows. He’s a pro hero. You knew exactly what the stakes were when you started dating. There’s no going back. You can only move forward and be thankful for everyday that you have with him. 

“Shota,” 

“That’s what I thought of,” he says, cutting you off with a soft smile, “I thought of my name on your lips.” 

Your head tips forward so you and him are resting forehead to forehead. The tenseness is his body slowly melts away with each of your mingled breath. A warm hand has worked its way back up your skirt, toying with the hem of your panties. They’re lace, his favorite. Meeting his eyes you scoot back so you’re sitting on the desk. Both of you ignoring when a picture frame falls, glass breaking. 

“So good to me,” he mutters, pulling the lace down. “Never have to worry about you.” You whine as he kneels in front of you, shoving your underwear in his back pocket. “Are you going to be a good girl for me?” 

“Yes sir.” The answer comes out breathless, chest heaving as your fingers find their way into his dark hair. 

“That’s my girl.”  

Taking a chance you look down at him and his gaze is searing. You’re being burned and scarred from all the stars and galaxies that hide in the depth of his dark eyes. You could get lost trying to chart the constellations. 

A gasp cuts through the silence when his thumb pulls your lip free. You blink, mind hazy. How is he doing this? Just his presence is making you feel completely fucked out. There’s something about Shota Aizawa that you’ll never get used to. 

You’re so weak. God, you’re so weak for this man. 

Shota hums, pulling his hand away from you. Like you’re something delicate and he didn’t want to break just yet. 

“My good girl,” he repeats his words. His voice is deep, ran through gravel, but something about the words is dripping in honey. “Can I have a taste?” 

“Ple—” 

He’s smirking in between kisses that lead further up your leg. Teeth nipping at the soft skin of your thigh. “I haven’t even touched you yet, sweet girl.” The pet name has your head falling back. 

“Needy are we?” He questions, hands moving up your legs, thick fingers digging into the tender flesh. 

He runs his nose over your center, taking in a deep breath. His hands tighten on your thighs, as if he’s stopping himself from diving right in. You shudder, squeezing your thighs together only for him to pry them apart. 

You swallow, breathing shallow, taking him in as his large hand lifts one of your legs to rest on his shoulder. You’re a pathetic pile of putty in his hands. You can’t help but wonder if he knew he could mold you into anything he wanted. He could straight out ruin you and you’d thank him. 

His hand trails up your leg, rough calluses catching on your skin. There is no buildup, his finger running through your folds, a hum as he collects it before sticking the digit in his mouth. 

“You're soaked,sweetheart. Fuck, you taste sweet. But I bet your cunt is absolutely heavenly, isn’t that right pretty girl?” 

“Yes, sir.” It comes out in a sigh. 

“Shota.”

He gives nothing else before diving in. You moan, your head falling back, breaking eye contact. Only to lift it when he smacks your thigh. 

“Eyes on me,” he warns. 

You simply nod, biting back your whimper. His tongue is flat as it makes its way through your folds. Thinking about Shota having thoughts about face fucking you makes you clench around nothing. Your nails dig into the palms of your hands. 

“Shota,” you murmur, hips lifting to roll against his face. 

“Sweet girl.” He replies voice thick with amusement. You squirm at the feel of his breath against you. His thumb rolls your clit in circles as his tongue parts your folds. He slips a digit in before replacing it with his tongue. 

You grind yourself on his face, barely catching the feel of his nose against your clit. You whisper his name, a chant, a prayer. He holds you open and licks up the seam of your sex, you jerk, knee barely grazing his cheek. 

“Easy, now sweetheart.” 

He strokes and teases your pussy. Switching off between his thick fingers and his tongue. He has you quivering, your lip bitten raw from how hard you're trying to not draw too much attention. The sounds of you clenching around his fingers, his tongue are obscene and he fucking loves it.  

You feel like you’re out at sea. Every crashing wave grows higher and higher building a tsunami that can’t be stopped. You move with every flick of his tongue. Heel digging into his shoulder when he sucks your clit into his warm mouth. It almost sends you over. 

“You taste fucking devine. The best nectar I’ve ever had.” 

You can’t help but laugh. You’re on the edge. Just a push. A simple push and—you bite back a sob, tears pricking at your eyes as he draws figure eights with his tongue. The perfect pressure and you're flying. 

“Oh my god,” 

Shota groans against you, feeling your release. You clench tightly on his tongue as he fucks it into you, wanting to take everything you’ve got to give. He keeps up his pace, helping you ride it out. As your hips slow down he replaces his tongue with his fingers, his mouth going back to your sensitive nub. 

“No, no. It’s too much.” 

“Come on, be a good girl. I know you’ve got another one for me.” 

A chronic people pleaser, you bask in praise. His praise is far and between. Hardly given to anyone who doesn’t deserve it, and it shoots straight to your core. You’re desperate, small whimpers falling from your lips, your cunt pulsing and aching. It’s all burning heat before it melts into pleasure. 

You're dripping down your thighs. You know it’s all over his face. He catches your eye when he pulls away, a grin tilting his lips. A gift just for you. He’s shining with your release. Leaning forward he catches you by surprise and kisses you. Thrusting his tongue into your mouth, you moan at the taste of you. As quickly as it started it was over. 

He swiftly stood, pulling your pants back up. You watch him in a heady daze as he fixes your skirt. You don’t miss how he keeps your panties. Eyes trailing down you catch sight of the bulge in his pants. His thumb hooks into your chin. 

“Later. I do have to work.” 

You smile, watching as he goes to the office door and unlocks it. He leaves it open and that’s an invitation if you’ve ever seen one. You can wait until later. When you’ll have all the time in the world to show the man you love just how much you love him. 

[cloudcountry]

I need Jamil with a male crush who is kinda impossible to embarrass with teasing.

Like if Jamil teases him, he'll respond by:

A. Bluntly responding in a literal manner (ex: "Aw, it's almost as if you love me" "of course, to me you're the most sublime creature in Twisted Wonderland")

B. A witty/teasing reply

C. He'll go very pink but he won't hide it and has the biggest smile on his face

Basically, the reader makes no effort to hide how much he absolutely adores Jamil. How does Jamil go about flirting and asking him out properly?

SUMMARY: male!reader takes great pleasure in watching jamil squirm (lovingly <3)

COMMENTS: so many jamil requests woooow hes so popular!! isnt his birthday coming up. am i crazy.

Jamil doesn’t understand how one boy can send him into hysterics. Well, not exactly hysterics, as he seems put together to everyone else. Rest assured, on the inside, you have him confused and calculating his next move.

He doesn’t know what your next course of action will be or if you have an ulterior motive or not. You’re clearly not trying to reach Kalim, he notices how quickly you ditch Kalim for him every time you see him around.

He ignores how satisfied that makes him. He is not reveling in your attention even a little bit. Maybe it would be reassuring if you had some angle that you were working, but he’s sure you don’t because you’re just not that kind of guy. He’d be able to tell if you were someone like him.

He still remembers the first time you pulled something on him, smiling so kindly and giving him praise after he’d made a meal for Scarabia. You’d offered to help too, but he’d shut you down immediately out of instinct.

Throughout the night you kept finding ways to talk to him, playing various board games with him and cracking jokes to make him laugh. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, not for you, but then you said he looked so nice when he smiled.

It was unexpected. Such a simple compliment and such a lovestruck gaze were all it took to have him freezing in place, unsure of how to proceed. He finally manages to get out that your smile is lovely too (a compliment for a compliment.)

You don’t take the compliment and leave it alone, no. You start raving about how pretty his hair is, and how his eyes are the most gorgeous color, and how it’s lovely how he’s so competent and wow he’s so smart...

“Careful,” Jamil warns, “If you keep flattering people like that they’ll start to think you’re after something.”

“I’m only after one thing.” you lean closer, a stupid grin on your face and for a second Jamil takes you seriously, “Your heart.”

Ever since that day, it’s been like a competition between the two of you. Jamil makes a smug remark and you hit back twice as hard. Sometimes you’ll laugh to yourself and he can tell you’re flustered from your body language alone.

His flirting can come off as a bit awkward or even frustrated if you can read him well enough, but that’s only because he’s trying to get a leg up on you and you’re not giving him anything to stand on.

Like, come on. Do you have to be such a genuine, good-hearted guy that you just say what you mean? There’s no game for Jamil to even play?

Eventually it all comes to a head one day when Jamil pulls you aside, more exasperated than he’s ever been. He isn’t aiming to confess, but the way he talks about all of your interactions and how frustrated he is about not being able to pin down your character makes it obvious.

So obvious, of course, that you start smiling and giving him that lovestruck look again! He’ll get even more agitated, demanding that you spit out whatever you’re trying to do and just get this over with because he is at his wit’s end—

“I just love you.” you say. And that’s all you say.

Ultimately, I don’t think Jamil would confess first. I think he’d be way too far into his own head because of your way of approaching him to even think of it. Jamil is playing mind games and you’re just openly adoring him!

TAGLIST -> jamil's jewels . . . @vivigoesinsane @identity-theft-101 @dove-da-birb

[probably-writing-x]

I’ll love you in the morning

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: Being in a relationship with Rafe meant arguments were a regular occurrence, a day didn’t feel normal without one. But the thing with you and Rafe - you never went to bed angry at each other

Warnings: Cursing, jealous rafe, fluffy as heckkkkk

Author’s Note: Been binge watching OBX for the thousandth time so it only felt right to write about it now :) Please send me any requests you might have, there is a masterlist on my page of everything else I have written for before, but am happy to take requests for anything and I’ll see what I can do x Have a lovely day angels <3

Not my gif

You weren’t sure why he was mad at you, but it seemed to radiate in the space between you. It was obvious in the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes wouldn’t meet yours, the way his jaw clenched when he heard someone mention your name. It was midsummers tonight, and he’d invited you as his date - making you one of the only Pogues here. The two of you had been dating for a little under a year, and your anniversary was coming up in a few weeks. He’d hated you at first, he just knew you as John B’s sister, a Pogue through and through, and that was enough in itself for him to have a bad opinion of you. But, a year ago, you’d both got drunk at one of the parties on the beach, and he’d argued with you over which can of beer was his, and then you’d woken up the following morning next to him on the beach. Though, when you’d gone to leave, he’d asked you to stay. And that seemed to be the basis of the start of your relationship - Rafe asking you to stay. And you’d agreed.

“Hey (Y/N),” It’s Sarah that walks over to you, looking seemingly fed up of the Kook atmosphere already.

“Hey,” You try to smile back, pulling your eyes away from Rafe.

“Everything okay?” She frowns, standing beside you at the bar.

“Your brother,” You roll your eyes, resting your chin on your hands in front of you.

“When isn’t he the problem?” She laughs, “What’s he done this time?”

“I don’t think he’s done anything, I think he’s mad at me but I don’t know what I’ve done,” You shake your head, “He won’t even look at me.”

Before you can say anything else, JJ and Kie come over to the two of you, JJ dressed in his full server outfit - convincing everyone but you guys that he might actually work here. You’d been friends with JJ since he’d met John B and you spent basically all of your life with him.

“Please tell me this will be over soon,” Kie groans, shifting the material of her silk dress over her torso, “I hate this.”

You were wearing a dark green dress that Rafe had picked out of the three options you found in Sarah’s closet of unworn clothes. It hugged your figure and sat perfectly around your chest, flowing down in silk over your shoes.

“I don’t recognise you when you look like this (Y/N),” JJ points out, taking your drink and finishing the rest of it, “Very… kook.”

You roll your eyes and hit at his chest, “Grow up JJ, I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve seen you in proper clothes ever.”

He grabs your hand when you push him and pulls you in as if he’s about to twist your arm. But an all too familiar voice cuts between you.

“Hey, waiter,” Rafe shouts, “My drink’s looking close to empty, get me another.”

JJ drops your arm and looks at Rafe with a clenched jaw, “Get it yourself.”

“I don’t think you want to talk like that to me here,” Rafe lets out a laugh, the kind that comes from deep in his chest, “These are my people, not yours.”

“Rafe stop it,” You sigh, trying to step between him and JJ before this escalates further.

“So why don’t you get the fuck out of here, and leave my people, and my girlfriend, alone?” Rafe’s words are cold, calculated, separate from so much of what you knew of your boyfriend.

You push JJ back and stand between the two of them, turning your body to look directly at Rafe, but his eyeline falls above you and looks over at JJ still, “Rafe, leave it out.”

He doesn’t look at you, walking away with that tension in his shoulders that didn’t seem to leave.

“For fuck’s sake,” You mutter under your breath, “I’m sorry JJ.”

He laughs, dragging a hand through his hair, “Come on (Y/N) we all know you’re the only Pogue he doesn’t hate, that’s not going to change.”

You take a deep breath and look towards the direction that Rafe had just stormed out to, “I’ve got to go, I’ll see you guys later, okay?”

“Let us know if you need anything (Y/N),” Sarah calls out from behind you, the only one of any of them that was somewhat close to being able to understand Rafe.

~~~

You know he’s back at the house, and you’re thankful he’s thought enough to not lock the door behind him. It’s dark in the mansion and it’s eerie when you’re alone like this. You follow the steps upstairs towards his room, relieved when you catch the sight of the light on.

“Rafe?”

“Get out (Y/N), go back to the party,” His voice is cold, harsh.

“Rafe what the fuck have I done?”

“Nothing, just go back.”

He still won’t look at you.

“Nothing? You won’t talk to me, won’t touch me, won’t look at me, you haven’t since we got to that fucking party. You asked me to go and then spend the whole night ignoring me? What the fuck is this?” You’re raising your voice without thinking about it, the anger fuelling the fire in your veins.

“Just leave it (Y/N), I’m fine,” He tugs off the tie from around his neck, “I’ll talk to you later.”

“So that’s what this is now? We don’t even fight it out?” You scoff, “I’m not doing this with you Rafe. I’m not having you make me feel like shit all night, ignore me completely, embarrass me in front of my friends, and then tell me you’ll ‘talk to me later’.”

You try to stop your lips from wobbling, stop your hands from trembling, stop your burning desire to fall into his arms.

“(Y/N), don’t act like you don’t see how people look at you,” He shakes his head.

“No, fuck you, Rafe,” You shake your head, letting the tears bubble in your eyes, “You want to talk about people looking at me? Maybe people were looking at me because you were ignoring me all night!”

“You fucking love it, it’s like all eyes on you, and you don’t do anything to stop it!”

“Are you kidding me? Are you taking the fucking piss Rafe?” You’re fully yelling now, “Who do you think you are? No, who do you think I am?”

He’s quiet.

“I’m not dealing with this,” There are tears spilling over your cheeks now, staining them with the running of your mascara, “If you think I love other people looking at me so much, maybe I should go to one of them, because they certainly wouldn’t spend an entire night ignoring me.”

“(Y/N)!” He calls, watching as you turn on your heel to walk back out of the house.

As you’re just reaching the front door, his scream rips through the house, enough to make you flinch. Your heart is forcing you to go back, but you defy it, closing the front door behind you and walking back out into the dark.

~~~

You’re not sure how long you’ve been down by the beach, listening to the repetitions of waves over the sand, the hum of Midsummers still going on behind you, the silence that always remains after a fight.

In all of the arguments you’d had, it never ended with you storming out. You’d argue, and yell, and disagree, until eventually you didn’t. You would meet in the middle, admitting when you were wrong, and explaining when you knew you were right. But it worked both ways and, that was the thing, it always worked. You’d be mad at each other until he told you he loved you and you told him you’d love him tomorrow, he’d laugh and know that you meant it, that you’d always forgive him.

Today felt different. Rafe felt like he was arguing with himself whilst he was arguing with you, and you weren’t going to listen to him accuse you of things he knew you’d never do.

You pull your knees up to your chest and wrap your arms around yourself as the chill starts to pick up a little over the beach, sending a shiver through your skin.

That’s when you hear him, stumbling steps over the sand until eventually they stop beside you.

“Can I sit?”

You take a deep breath and nod, still looking out over the water to avoid falling into the gaze of his eyes. Rafe takes a seat in the space beside you, so close that his arm brushes yours. Without a second thought, he pulls the suit jacket from around him and wraps it over your shoulders, his hands lingering there for a moment. You instinctively pull the material around you, breathing in the scent of his his aftershave that clung to the lapels.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N),” He sighs, and you’re sure you can hear a tremble in his voice, “I didn’t mean what I said back there. I’m not saying I didn’t think it, but I shouldn’t have said it the way I did.”

“Why did you think that though, Rafe?” You shake your head, still not looking at him directly.

“It’s not because of you. It’s everyone else. I see the way they look at you, it’s like as soon as you’re there, they all look at you like prey,” He clenches his jaw, “And I hate it, and then I see them and I think why isn’t it them that you’re with.”

“Is that why you started on JJ?”

“I shouldn’t have done that, I know,” He nods, “I’ll apologise to him.”

You can’t help but laugh, “No you won’t.”

He laughs too, and for a moment that’s all there is.

“I don’t want to lose this (Y/N), but the more I think of that, the more I convince myself that I am going to lose it, and that terrifies me,” He drags a hand through his hair, “I get if you’re still mad at me, I’ll walk you home if you don’t want to stay.”

You take in a deep breath and exhale, moving your head to rest on his shoulder, “The problem is, Rafe, I’m the only one that can put up with you.”

As if he is worried you’ll slip away, he wraps an arm around your waist and grips you tightly, his head turning to breath in the scent of your hair, “I love you, (Y/N).”

You hum in response, nuzzling your head into his neck more, “I’ll love you in the morning.”

He kisses the top of your hair, once, twice, three times, letting his lips linger on the third, “Do you want to go back to mine?”

“No.”

You can feel the panic coarse through him, like he’s worried this time is still different than the rest, that he’d be going to bed alone thinking of everything he shouldn’t have said.

“I want to stay here,” You mumble, snuggling into the warmth he seemed to radiate, reaching your arms around him.

Rafe laughs and it rumbles through his chest against you, pulling you as close to him as he can get you to be.

~~~

The following morning, you wake up to the sun. Rafe’s jacket is still draped over you, your head resting on the rise and fall of his chest. Your legs are tangled in his, and his arms are gripping you tighter than ever, his eyes still shut.

You reach up and press a kiss to his jaw, the closest to his lips that you can reach from this angle. He looks so peaceful when he sleeps, so innocent compared to what everyone else thought they knew of Rafe - because nobody else got to see him like this, like you did.

He hums against your touch, his body waking up before his eyes have the strength to open. When he can just about muster the strength, he pokes one eye open to look at you, stretching one arm away from you and tucking it under his head, “Do you love me now?”

You laugh, kissing his jaw three more times, “I do.”

[loveandleases]

ANOTHER ASK - KEKEKEKE

What class and/or occupation would each of the ROs be in a fantasy world? And let's say MC is just a random commoner who gets tangled into a bunch of trouble and just wanted to live a peaceful life after being jilted by their fiancee and ostracized from their family? (Except their Aunt, who is the whole reason why MC could start a new life with her in a nice establishment, like an inn or shop!)

Curious how Cam would interact with MC upon his first meeting - but feel free to add the childhood friend factor 👀

😂 Yeeees, this is probably my fav question. You always send good ones! (I just have such an urge to do something fantasy) ❤️ Cam - Rogue! All the way, he's already got practice. Eventually join a thieves' guild and become one of the higher ups before ya know it.

💙 G - Cleric. Probably one of the most prickly cleric's. Would get so pissed when people get hurt, say they deserve it. Then heal them and just mumble the entire time.

💚 Kara - Spellcaster, mainly because she thought the whip was cool. Then she actually began to excel at it.

💛 M - They would be an Arcane Storyteller. With a focus on romance/horror spells.

💜 Isaac - An alchemist! They would be pretty successful in a fantasy setting. Isaac would be a relatively good one, probably doing better than some of the other RO's honestly.

🖤 Ardent - Berserker, a blood thirsty one. Likely has a vendetta against the thieves' guild.

So if Cam and MC were childhood friends, they eventually lost contact growing up. Especially given Cam's initiation into the thieves' guild. Gonna put it below break because long!

Shit, shit shit shit.  

“Get him you dolts. How many fucking times has he made you look so pathetic!?” The man yells, as they try to keep up with the redheaded rogue.

Cam tore down the street, feet smacking against the cobblestone as he made his way around the throngs of people in the market. The guards were hot on his heels, as usual when they get a sight of that red hair. Who can blame them? He placed in the top three for best looking among the thieves’ guild. That thought alone causes his cheeks to flush, as he scratches his cheek. Now is definitely not the time to think about that.

They were getting closer, and he needed a quick way out. His eyes searched the crowd, looking for anything to help with his escape. He didn’t plan on getting caught, especially not today. The item in his pouch could easily fetch 300 gol to the right seller. Enough to cover the medicine for the kids at the guild, enough to put some food on the tables for over a week. With just enough leftover to pay off his tab at the inn.

A few feet away he spotted a fabric merchant’s stall, perched atop the tabletop, swaying precariously with the wind rests several stacks of colorful cloth. A myriad of colors and textures. Some he would never even dream of coming into contact with, well until now. With one calculated move, he slammed himself into the stall, the fabric falling into the dusty street. All except the pale green fabric he quickly grabs and uses to cover his hair. The merchant’s cries of protest cause the slightest pang of guilt. But he doesn’t look back- he knew the guards would be delayed momentarily.

He quickly ducks into a nearby alley, narrow and slightly overcast from the buildings on each side, winding his way through the labyrinth of back streets. The sounds of the bustling market, cries of the fabric merchant and guards fade behind him. The alley growing tighter in spots, the tall buildings cast deep shadows which Cam could easily use to his advantage if needed. As he rounded a corner, his escape was suddenly blocked.

His body collided with that of another, jarring them both. Cam staggers back, his eyes locking on the person before him. A brief flicker of recognition passes over their face, but not enough to make him stop what he was planning. Before either could speak, Cam grabs them. The guards’ steps closer now thanks to this little mess up.

In one quick motion, he grabs them pulling them tightly as his hand yanks out a dagger from his belt. The cool metal pressed close against the neck of the person before him. “Sorry,” he whispered, “I need to throw them off, and you just happened to be in my way.” Their eyes widen, not in fear, which Cam had expected. As the guards rounded the corner, their metal armor clinking loudly, MC with surprising speed, twisted around and slammed their forehead into Cam’s nose, with such force that sent stars dancing in his vision. “Fuck! What the hell, are you stupid. Ow-shit that smarts!”

Both stumbles back, blood pouring from their noses. Cam’s grip on his knife loosened, falling, and his would-be victim shoves him away, glaring at him with such anger it causes Cam’s skin to heat.

Shit, why do they look pretty all bloodied up?

Before he could stop himself, his hand slid up with intent to wipe the blood from the other person. Then it dawned on him…this has happened before. Well not nearly slicing the neck of someone while escaping from guards. But this person had headbutted him before, causing their noses to bleed. So very long ago.

“Red.” He whispers, watching as his former childhood friend looks him over.

“Cam!?”

The guards stand at the mouth of the street, taken aback by the sight before them. The rogue and supposed victim both stand bloodied. The confusion on the guard’s face was all the time he needed. Cam shoots a grin, vicious as blood seeped into his mouth, that which he spits on the cobblestone. “Tsk, listen I would like to buy you a drink before I take you back to my place, for old times sake. But we don’t have time. So, let’s catch up, ey?” He quickly pockets his knife, grabbing MC’s hand and begins sprinting down the alley.

[eilidh-eternal]

Ok so like, ngl? Nasty Man™️Johnny when he's jealous got the brain worms goin. Like the worms are WORMIN. Specifically for the Ghost bit.

Ok, so what if, hear me out what if like Ghost gets off to it and sends a video of him getting off to it to reader, right? And it just...spirals into a weird thing of Soap trying to prove something to you like constantly. Like, it's a constant cycle right?

Gaz and Price are just standing there like 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️ and having a conversation of their own about the thing and Gaz just drops the "Soap and Ghost really should just fuck each other at this point." bomb.

but it's nothing like that. at least to reader, but then Gaz explains his view point and reader is just like "huh maybe a quick fuck would help."

and then Gaz & reader plot to get Ghost and Soap to just get the tension between them done and over with and it happens, but the videos? They continue to get sent back n forth bc hey, Ghost has a nice dick and its kinda hot to record videos. 🤣

I put too much thought into this at 6:45 AM. Blame the worms.

From here on out, may I be 🪱 anon?

- 🪱

Hi 🪱!

YOU’RE LIKE IN MY HEAD?!?!?!? This is exactly the dynamic I saw for all of them when I was thinking about that Nasty, Jealous Man.

Nasty Pup Johnny ft. Handler Ghost????

As overly territorial as Nasty Man™️ Johnny MacTavish is about you, Ghost is like that with him—in a way. Johnny is just too in love clinically obsessed with you to notice how Ghost pays attention to him.

Ghost 1000% did not balk at the first video. Definitely got off to it. He maybe also probably without a doubt got off to Johnny stroking himself in the barracks while he watched you on the cameras 🫣 And when the videos keep coming? Oh, this is going to be a fun little game for him, his Sergeant and the pretty little thing keeping him in line at home for him.

The next time you’re on base is to pick up Johnny, fresh off the tarmac from whatever undisclosed location they were mucking about in this time, and you notice when they deplane how Ghost sort of… herds him. Stands at his back and trails him down the ramp. Pushes him in your direction because Ghost immediately has you in his sights while Johnny is busy fussing with a strap on his pack.

“Fuck’s sake Johnny… stop fuckin’ with the bag and get your girl.” He shoves him forward, big gloved hand on his lower back making him stumble. He doesn’t have much time to ponder it, and all the other touching Ghost had suddenly taken to with him, because you’re already on him, arms wrapped around him in a vice and your face buried in his chest, and all he wants is to be wrapped your warmth.

Johnny doesn’t see the way Ghost lingers at the edge of the hangar, watching you look him over and fuss over the cut on his brow, the stitches. Is too blinded by his infatuation with you to see the hunger in his eyes as you lead him away to the car.

Their next op is a tedious thing. They can’t brute force their way into the target compound the way they usually would, armed to the teeth and scaling walls and buildings under the cover of darkness. No, because this is a bunker, and blasting through the only door, their only exit, isn’t an option.

It takes days for Laswell's Cyber Operations Officers to comb through each and every checkpoint in their systems, to comb through the code and brute force the data needed to create a key card that they can use to bypass the locks. And all that waiting makes Johnny antsy. Restless. A grenade with a pulled pin waiting for the strike lever to fall.

He's done his best to occupy himself. Spent hours in the gym, running until his legs shake and lifting until he's red in the face. Methodically oils and cleans every rifle, every pistol he can get his hands on. Checks and rechecks his calculations for the cocktail of explosives they'll need for this op.

And still, he paces. Bounces his leg at meals and meetings. Taps his fingers erratically on the table tops.

Ghost knows that at home when he feels like this, he goes to you. Focuses all that pent up energy on you to keep himself level-headed and in check. But you're not here, and Ghost can't have his Sergeant dancing around tripwires on this op. He's going to have to redirect that energy himself.

Later that evening, sitting on the couch, sipping wine and watching a movie, one of Johnny's favorites, you get a text from an unknown number.

Had to teach the pup a lesson. Needs more patience. 📎 IMG_449.MOV

You hesitate.

Johnny never told you much about what he does, but he told you enough to prepare you for the possibilities of things like this. Messages from strangers. Videos and pictures of him. That no matter what you see, what they tell you, you shouldn't believe them. Don't give them what they want.

But this... this doesn't feel quite like the things he told you about. So you open it.

It's a video of Johnny on his knees, hands tied--belted--behind his back, eyes watery when they look up into the camera, and his mouth stuffed with a thick cock. There's a gloved hand in his hair, fisting loose strands of mohawk and holding him in place while the length of their cock pushes down his throat, familiar skeletal pattern printed on the back.

"Good pup, just gotta sit nice and still for me," Ghost's roughened voice purrs through the speakers, and Johnny moans, low and sweet for him.

And God if that isn't the prettiest you've ever seen him, taking a cock down his throat and blinking tear filled eyes up at his superior, panting and choking, drool dribbling down his chin. His eyes go a bit wide when Ghost fucks his throat in earnest, and it sends warmth flooding straight to your core, wetness gathering embarrassingly fast in your panties.

Ghost's moan is a broken sounding thing when he comes, hips stuttering and yanking Johnny down to the base of him, grunting praises as he swallows around him. When he finally loosens his grip on Johnny's hair and pulls away from him, his lips make a little 'pop' sound, cum and drool a mess on his face. The camera moves closer and Ghost tilts his chin up between surprisingly gentle fingers.

"You'll get yours when we're back. Copy?"

Johnny nods, and when Ghosts grip tightens on his jaw he says, "Copy, sir." And that's where it ends.

You save Ghosts number in your phone and drain your glass of wine.

Think he'll still be well behaved when you're home?

Doubt it.

[satocidal]

𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ * ࣭ 𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ “Behave” — JJK Men

Synopsis:- They’re all gentlemen, at least they try to be, but then, just what can a man do when you’re literally, asking for it?

— A/n:- because chemistry sucks ass and rather than calculating the pressure of some random ass monoatomic has, I’d rather get scolded by a man🤭

— Word Count:- 0.9k

— Warnings:- smut!!MDNI!!Geto + Gojo + Nanami x reader (separately); brat taming; slight humiliation (just a bit mean sided); hints of oral (male receiving); spanking (very light?); hints of edging; idk rest just yea<3 (not proofread!!); sir link with Geto; name calling

Suguru Geto:-

Suguru Geto holds the patience of a priest, quiet simply, and punishes like the God Complex he’s built himself around. Nothing ever truly goes unnoticed by him, watching intently as he counts each strike—it’s true, often he’ll punish you in spite of it—but more often than not (because you’re a decent brat too) he finds himself giving all that you perfectly deserve.

“How many do you deserve?” he murmured against your skin, hands bound with the pretty handcuff, the one he insisted upon buying—face shoved deep into the white sheets and ass up and facing him.

Fingers playing with the loose sheets, you smirked, “20?” You reply was short, almost sweet and innocent.

Suguru didn’t budge, he knew it—a smirk he adorned too, “I think that’s a lot doll let’s do a little less than half of it, ok?” A sharp slap landed on your rear—a rough squeeze.

You whined simply, in response—he knew however, spankings weren’t all so much a punishment for you as much as the pleasure it passed you.

And he wasn’t having it tonight, not when you were audacious enough to insult him in front of his friends.

“That’s very less su’- ah!” A squeal you let out when another sharp slap crashed upon—“Sir! That’s far too less sir,” your correction amused him still.

“You think 8’s less doll?” And just something about the edge in his voice alerted you, “Last time you were crying and writhing when I edged you 5 times—but if that’s what you want…”

A smirk and a whine let out together.

Satoru Gojo:-

Satoru Gojo is all by himself, the embodiment of a brat—so to seek out ways to thin his patience is almost stupid. But stupid is as stupid does— a challenge shouldn’t go wasted right? Satoru doesn’t need reasons to punish you, at least, that’s what he makes it seem like, but he remembers and he remembers well.

Back pressed against his chest, you nuzzled deeper—aware perfectly of the uncomfortable hard-on your almost bare ass, pressed against his crotch, caused him.

A whine he let out- hands groping your breasts roughly, kneading and pressed together, “Don’t fucking tease me,” he muttered against the sensitive skin of your neck, you grinned.

“Awh, poor Toru’ can’t take it?” And you were sure you almost head a purr at that, “don’t push it princess,”

Another whine, when you pushed your ass against his dick further, “Push what Toru?” The little pout your lips held drove him crazy as that.

“That’s it,” he growled right there—“you asked for the punishment,”

An amused look you offered, “Because you can’t control your dick? What are you 12?” You knew your words only tipped him more, but he was just always worse at the game than you ever could be, “For cumming and soiling those pretty panties I bought you, especially when I wasn’t home,” you eyes went wide, and his smirk—not one thought sprang your head, how did he know that?

“Or for those shorts you wore when Nanami was over, wanted him to check out this sweet ass angel?” You squealed as his hand pinched your ass.

“Maybe for the nudes you kept sending me during my missions hm? But the real question is, what should I even do hm?”

Before anything could even register inside your head, he had already manhandled you between his legs, kneeling on the bed as he sat legs wide.

“Go on,” he grinned, “Only I deserve the pleasure tonight yeah?”

Nanami Kento:-

Nanami Kento is a man of few words and perfect ideals—you almost knew what you were getting into, except, you didn’t. Kento wasn’t exactly strict, he let you as you pleased- he liked it feisty, but there were moments of his own. And sometimes, he just couldn’t help the sudden flare of anger bubbling up.

Your head bobbed along the length of his shaft- your mouth was getting sore for that was how he’d kept you for the past 15 minutes, kneeling under his table, your warm mouth keeping him occupied while he worked—all so because you couldn’t help your need for attention.

A glare he passed when you let out a whine, eyes flitting onto the door handle, making sure no one would enter and suddenly, he pulled out—making you whine all the louder.

“Just don’t fucking get it, do you?” His words were harsh, so contrasting to the usual Kento he offered in your gaze, “Just wanna be fucked in front of everyone like a slut,” his fingers gripped your jaw tight, “that’s what the slut wants hm? For everyone to see just how good your mouth takes me?”

You loved it, the intense gaze in his eyes, the rough embrace he offered and mean words—he knew you loved it.

“Tongue out,” he ordered, and you did as he pleased—an amused smile tugged at his lips.

Plap-plap-plap—he slapped the tip of dick against your tongue, it felt so filthy this way—“good pet,” he murmured, “gonna have you hold it 15 more minutes, this is the only way you’ll learn to hold your tongue yeah?”

All of this work is entirely original and my own—please refrain from copying or reposting.

Reblogs and likes highly appreciated!

[cheqorb]

not soulmates after all.

Being the ever productive human you are, you download a cringey love calculator app for fun. Too bad the result is disappointingly low.

featuring. blue lock cast

notes. worst feeling is when you want to write but can’t be bothered to, this has been sitting in my drafts for a HOT minute. small drabble before i die of heatstroke, enjoy (or don’t).

You’re lounging on your couch, aimlessly scrolling through your phone when you stumble upon the greatest app you’ve ever seen. Like, this must’ve been the reason why the internet was created. Your entire life was for this one thing. The name alone, Love-o-meter 2000, sounds like it was invented by a 13 year old writing fanfiction for the first time.

But hey, you’re bored and there’s something about the heart emojis, pink sparkles and the promise of ‘definitive proof of true love’ that speaks to you on a personal level. Maybe this is why people think you’re an easy target for scammers.

You download it — disregarding basic internet safety 101 of not downloading shit from suspicious websites — and the app’s interface is exactly what you’d expect: glittery, over the top with a soundtrack of what can only be described as weirdly romantic elevator music. Okay, so, enter your and your darling’s name and the Love-o-meter will calculate your love score (and possibly decide the fate of your relationship).

Pure, unadulterated pseudoscience.

It’s perfect, it’s everything you’ve ever wanted and it’s definitely not bordering on insanity.

You send a quick text to your beloved partner who’s literally just in the other room informing them of your very smart decision. The message is ambiguous, designed to intrigue or confuse them as the evil mastermind you are. “Going to a fortune teller to see if we’re destined to be together. Let you know how it goes xx.”

────

Rolling their eyes and sighing like the single mothers they are. Just what the hell have you got planned this time? They’ve been a victim of your schemes for the past few (what feels like) decades you’ve been together and are skeptical any time you message them out of the blue. Do they really want to know? Absolutely not and they refuse to engage in whatever witchcraft you’re trying to achieve.

Option one, they leave you on read.

Option two, they send a text with "Whatever you say, babe" for their own safety.

Rin, Sae, Post WC! Kunigami, Kaiser

Chigiri, Barou, Karasu, Raichi

────

Confusion flickers across their face as they stare at the text for a minute. They debate on sending a message asking what you even mean by that, but delete it at the last second. Is it worth the risk? No. So they opt for the safe, more loving response because they adore you enough to deal with all this. Ignoring the fact that you’re both at home, they text back, "Oh okay, you have fun with that. Love you :)"

Be careful with some of these people though; if their overthinking habits kick in, they’ll start to panic over if you’re (hypothetically) unhappy with the relationship.

Isagi, Pre-WC! Kunigami, Hiori, Nanase, Kurona, Niko

Reo, Ness, Tokimitsu

────

Immediately curious when they see the message and out of excitement, rush over to the room you’re in. They plop themselves down beside you, squishing their body against yours whilst peering over your shoulder to look at your phone. You can’t just say something like that and expect them not to want in on it! The pair of you are like kids at a sleepover for the first time with no adult supervision.

"If it doesn’t show up with 100%, this app is a scam and we refuse to listen to its lies, okay?" they add on, because as much as believing in this type of nonsense is fun; they don’t really feel like losing their partner today.

Bachira, Shidou, Aryu, Lorenzo, Charles

────

At a loss on what to do and (whether out of general inexperience with these types of things or sheer laziness) send a lacklustre "k" before putting their phone down to finish something else. Well, if it predicts something really awful, then they’ll…figure it out when the time comes. With you helping, of course.

Nagi, Gagamaru, Otoya

────

You type in your name first then pause to think (unheard of). Do you use their full name or some obscure nickname you gave them that one night which somehow stuck? Like, would it mess up the results? If you’re truly meant for each other, it shouldn’t matter. “Eh, better play it safe. Full name it is.”

You hit the heart-shaped submit button and wait eagerly. The screen flashes and you got…

Almost dropping your phone, you audibly gasp as you stare at the percentage. Four percent?! Okay, you might disagree with each other on some things but certainly not so much to be described as ‘Completely Incompatible’!

Obviously, you’re flabbergasted and the stupid thing has the audacity to play sad trombone music as you read through the description.

“You should think over this relationship a bit more. Maybe you didn’t notice the signs that were there through your rose-coloured glasses, but don’t give up on love entirely, there are plenty of fish in the sea!”

You have to stop yourself from shedding a tear and how on earth could you confess this to your beloved? They may not have taken you seriously the first time but suddenly texting them (or saying), “Yeah, this isn’t going to work between us </3 I’m sorry…” is sure to give them a scare. Cue them immediately responding and asking questions. Do you not love them anymore? Is it something they did?

…did you seriously go to a fortune teller?

Feeling kinda guilty for worrying them, you then send them a screenshot of the result/show them on your phone in person.

────

More annoyed at you if anything, don’t scare them like that again. Especially not over a result of a game, and they tell you as much. Some of them are actually a little bitter over it though, because, who does this app think it is? You are soulmates and even if you’re annoying sometimes (most of the time), you’re still theirs.

Post WC! Kunigami, Barou, Raichi, Rin, Sae, Karasu, Kaiser

────

Laugh it off but secretly thanking whatever gods blessed them because those few minutes of silence, just blankly looking at your text message were possibly the worst minutes they’ve ever been through. Genuinely had to get up and go to you in person to see if this was another one of your jokes or if you were being serious — with you, it’s hard to tell.

Isagi, Reo, Hiori, Nanase, Kurona, Niko, Lorenzo, Otoya

────

Cry, chuck their phone to the floor, and basically slam the door open to see you. Tears are streaming down their face before they even say a word. You’re not leaving right? Don’t you love them? Please don’t end everything here…Oh it’s just an app?

Still, they’re not forgiving you (lie) for that stunt unless you reassure them that you love them and would never leave them.

Ness, Tokimitsu

────

Gasp, out of shock more than anything. Most of them are the ones who came to you in the beginning — meaning they know exactly what you were doing — but it doesn’t matter to them. Disregarding what they said before, they take full offence to the result. They’re already prepared to leave 156 bad reviews on it just for this act of treason. Or they just get pouty for a bit until you comfort them.

Bachira, Shidou, Aryu, Charles, Kaiser (if he’s in a mood)

────

Didn’t get what you were trying to do to begin with, and maybe still don’t, but they’re glad you’re not actually breaking up with them! It’s barely noticeable unless you watch them like a hawk, but they make the effort to spend more time with you afterwards. They’re not too sure why themselves, thinking it just feels right.

Nagi, Gagamaru