#he's so beautiful and he SOUNDS so beautiful GOD

[honeyatsu]

I can't have what I want (but neither can you) | Bob Reynolds

Bob Reynolds x F!Reader

Summary: You don't know how to explain the feeling when you see Bob and Yelena together. You don't understand it, and you don't like it. You think maybe you're not a people person, maybe you're better off being on your own. You take matters to solve this problem your own way, but everyone doesn't agree with your logic.

Stand-alone. One-shot.

"'Cause I know we be so complicated But we be so smitten, it's crazy I can't have what I want, but neither can you"

Warnings: 18+MINORS DNI. Minor spoilers for Thunderbolts! Smut (my first time writing smut deserves a warning itself tbh)

Not proof read/edited. Maybe later. Idk. I hate editing.

a/n: I am so obsessed with this man...I just couldn't not write a fic. He has been rotting my brain since I saw Thunderbolts and I don't see my obsession ending soon lmao....also my first time fully writing smut. I tried.

ao3 | masterlist

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The sound of laughter echoes around the living space as both you and Bob are scrolling through the endless selection of movies, making fun of each-others movie preferences. The light from the city is reflecting through the window glass, it’s a beautiful night and the two of you wanted to spend it indoors while everyone else in the Tower tended to their own business.  

It’s one of those rare quiet and peaceful nights at the Towel. You decided why not take advantage of it, hauling Bob out of his room and inviting him to a movie night (a movie night that doesn’t involve unnecessary commentary or spoilers).

“We’ve gone through an entire collection of romcom’s…do you not watch anything else?” Bob teasess as he nudges your shoulder, a small grin spreading across his face. You roll your eyes, tossing the remote to his lap. 

“Okay, drama queen. You pick.” 

Bob chuckles, causing his knee to press lightly against yours. He’s warm – you notice with every light tough to the shoulder, whenever your bodies lightly brush against eachothers, he’s always warm. Being close to him is no different from wrapping your body with a freshly dried blanket. Months since the New York incident, your downtime has been spent with Bob. You found comfort in him, his quiet smile and haunted eyes enticing you. He was both gentle and strong, it was impressive. Bob was the only person who made this new life you’ve all been pushed into feel like a home. 

After what seemed like endless scrolling, Bob lands on Warm Bodies. “Zombie movie. I think this one’s a winner.” 

“God help us,” you groan. “This is still romance.”

“Sure, but it’s with zombies.” 

You hum in response, sinking your body further into the large couch and glance back at him. You offer him a shrug – accepting the film of the evening. 

The sound of the movie beginning echoes through the surround sound, and it’s all you're able to hear as the two of you focus on the screen in front of you. That is until the moment was interrupted by the elevator door’s ding. 

Heavy footsteps make their way towards the couch, not shying away from being the only loud thing in the room besides the TV. You turn your head as they approach, it’s Yelena. 

“Movie night?” she asks, a grin spread across her cheek. She’s in a grey sweatshirt, her blond hair is pulled back by a headband. 

You turn your head back, nodding in response. 

“Nice,” she makes her way to the other side of Bob, dropping her body next to his. “What are we watching?” 

“Something with zombies, y/n says they fall in love.” he replies, turning to her with a wide smile – his soft eyes gazing over at her, his half-laugh expression you try to believe is just for you. 

It’s uneasy, the feeling at the bottom of your stomach. It’s doing more flips than you do during a mission, your arms crossing quicker than you realize how you’re reacting. It’s completely illogical, there’s no reason for you to feel this bothered.

But you watch them, you see the way she nudges his arm, how he doesn’t pull back. With you, Bob seems almost hyper-aware of his proximity to you, but with Yelena, it’s almost as if physical boundaries don't exist. He is completely comfortable with her. You begin to watch him watching her, how his eyes follow her subtle movements, how captivated he stares at her as she laughs – confident and magnetic. Why did he never look at you like that? The thought sneaks its way to your head, you can feel your heart rate slowly begin to increase. Something is pulling tight in your chest.

You don’t understand it, but you sure as hell don’t like it. 

“I’m actually kind of tired,” you say quickly, standing up before you are able to finish your sentence. 

Bob diverts his attention towards you, “Already?”

You lower your head, nodding sheepishly. The walk to the elevator feels as if it’s a few miles away as opposed to a few feet, each step feeling as if you’re walking in slow motion. 

Behind you, you hear bodies shifting. 

“You sure?” Bob mildly shouts, his voice dripping in confusion. 

When you finally make it inside the elevator, you pretend not to hear him. The sound of your finger pressing the button rapidly becomes the loudest noise – the desperation to be anywhere but the common room being obvious. When the door finally closes, it’s quiet but your thoughts seem to be so loud. There’s a mix of emotions and ideas going through your head, but you're unsure how to make sense of any of it. 

As you push open your bedroom door – it feels heavier than usual. The shallow light of your lamp shining too bright, and your bed looking like the ultimate safe space. 

You’re not used to this feeling – it’s beyond foreign and it startles you. Not even the most dangerous mission can make your stomach churn the way it does when you see Bob watching Yelena. It’s been like this for weeks at this point, your breath becomes shallow when they share an inside joke together. Your heart races more than you’re used to when you see Yelena place her hand on his shoulders. There's a nauseating feeling that takes over when every moment with them, you feel like a third wheel to their friendship. They share a specific bond, and a friendship like there’s can’t be replicated. They’ve been through too much, know each other too well. 

It’s way more intimate than any kind of friendship you and Bob have. 

But you’ve known this. This isn’t new. Their friendship wasn’t some kind of secret, it’s been this way since you joined the New Avengers and it’s been this way since before you were recruited in.

But recently, you haven’t been fine. You try to convince yourself that you’ve been sick, but the feeling of unease only happens when you’re around them. 

You just don’t know why. 

You're settled in bed, it’s dark, and you want to be asleep. You’d do anything to be asleep. The weight of the blanket over you should be comforting, but it just makes you feel too aware. It’s fabric grazing over your skin, the rustle of the sheets whenever you shift in place. While your room is dark, the light from under the door can’t seem to escape your focus. The realization that the movie night you planned is now happening without you. 

You try telling yourself that this is ridiculous. Why did you leave? Exactly what was the problem? Bob and Yelena are close friends, but they’re also your friends. They’re your team and co-workers, you all live under the same roof now – so why was your brain doing this to you? 

A soft tap on your door pauses your thoughts, your name being softly said against the other side. 

Your breath gets caught in your throat, for a few seconds, you actually forget to breathe.

It’s Bob. 

He stops tapping your door before he says, “Can I come in?” 

You don’t respond, keeping your body still. You hope the lack of any sound, any proof that you’re awake would cause him to walk away. To leave you and your thoughts alone. 

“I’m coming in.” 

You make a small noise as you hear the door slowly creak open, quickly pulling the cover over your head. Your body is still as you hear footsteps slowly approach you. 

For a moment, you think of getting up. Explaining yourself and wanting to offer an apology, ending the movie night before it even really started. But you lay there, still and motionless, pretending to be asleep. 

It feels like there’s someone hovering over you, you hear the sound of shifting on the ground. You imagine Bob standing over you, fidgeting as he contemplates whether to wake you or let you rest. Luckily for you, he takes a step back, you hear his footsteps slowly begin to sound further away before he lightly shuts the door. 

A loud gast escapes you, from the breath you forgot you were holding. You kick your sheets off you, releasing the sticky hold it had on you due to your sweat.

You’re unsure what you got yourself into, or how you got there in the first place. You just want things to be as they were, you want to feel normal again.

You have got to do something about this. 

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You don’t mean to avoid him – that wasn’t the plan. 

At least not at first.

You just needed some space, some perspective, some time to breathe and allow yourself to be level headed. 

It was just easier to be all of those things without Bob. And without thinking about how he looks at Yelena, and without wondering if he’s ever looked at you that way (and to you, that’s wishful thinking). But, who cares. They’re friends. You’re friends. You’re all friends, there’s nothing wrong with that. 

And yet, the ache lingers. The feeling you got before sneaks its way into your body whenever you share your space with them. 

It was subtle at first – you skipping out on team meals. You’re not in the common room often anymore, you prefer to spend your evening locked up in your room or training by yourself in the training room. 

And it’s peaceful. 

There’s no aching feeling in your chest, there’s no butterflies flying freeling in your stomach, there’s no feeling of uncertainty or disappointment. You tell yourself, maybe you’re off being alone. Perhaps, you’re not someone who functions well in teams, you’re probably just naturally a lone wolf. 

And no one questions it, you hardley figure anyone even notices the fact that you’ve lightly pulled away. 

Well, at least most of them.

You can’t help but see the quiet looks Bob sneaks at you during meetings. You try to ignore the way his smile lighty drops when you answer him too quickly, or when you look too eager to leave. He stopped trying to sit next to you or stopping by your room when he’s bored. 

It hurt more than you thought it would. 

While you realize that this was the plan, this was your intention, you wanted space and you got it. But it still hurts. 

These days, the only thing that helps is being in your room or the Tower’s gym.

You decide today is one of those days. The world outside was too loud, just like in your head. You needed something to focus on, something to ground your body and allow your mind to be still. 

The Tower gym offered it all – empty, nothing louder than the echo of a weight dropping to the ground. It was the kind of noise you needed, it was the release your body was begging for. This was the place where you could move your way through the internal noise. You could sweat it out. Punch those intense feelings away. 

The current victim of your frustration was the punching bag, each strike against it vibrates up your arms like lightning. You finally felt like yourself again, the feral rhythm of your fists, the feeling of your strength, how accurate all your hits were. It reminded you of how accurate and sure of yourself you always used to be. 

You feel your sweat drip down your chest. Your hoodie was tied around your waist, your sports bra sticking onto you like a second layer of skin. It was incredible – you didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want to think. 

You didn’t want to think of how you managed to fumble your forming friendships. Or about how even being forced into a team, you manage to isolate yourself from everyone. Not about how Bob looked at Yelena like she hung the stars herself. Not about how easy it is for him to welcome her into his embrace, or how unguarded he is around her. You didn’t want to think about how your chest had pulled so tightly at the sight, you felt like you could barely breathe. 

“Woah,” a voice called out from the entrance of the gym, loud and sharp enough to separate you from your focus. “I never want to be on your bad side.” 

You pause mid-swing, averting your gaze to the doorway. You find John Walker leaning against the frame, sleeves pushed up and his arms crossed. He lets out a light whistle, a half smirk spread across his face. 

You wipe off your forehead with the back of your wrist, becoming too aware of your apperance.

“If you annoy me enough, you might become the new bag.” You say, and gratifyingly, Walker lets out a rare laugh. 

“Mind if I join you?” He asks while stepping inside. 

You reply with a shrug, turning back towards the mats. “It’s a free gym.” 

He drops his bag and follows you, silently joining your workout. 

In no time, it led to the two of you on the sparring floor, bodies intertwined and slamming into each other. The first few minutes of the spar was silent, just heavy breathing and grunting surrounding the two of you. It was the kind of silence neither of you mind. 

“Who pissed you off?” and then, Walker spoke. 

You don’t reply, trying to force yourself out of his hold. 

“C’mon, y/n.” he hisses, nudging your knee with his, holding onto you. “Your going at it like this is personal.”

Twisting your body, you manage to escape his hold. You stumble in front of him, landing on your knees. You shoot him a glare, “This is how you make friends?” 

He flashes you a toothy grin, “I mean, it’s working. Isn’t it?” 

You roll your eyes, but a chuckle manages to escape your lips. Walker offers you his hand, helping you up from the ground. 

You stretch your body for a second, rolling your shoulders before responding back to him. “Let’s spar. Talking optional.” 

Walker takes a step back, raising his hands in the air as if he’s surrendering. “Optional? That’s a shame. You have such a nice voice.” 

You scoff at his antics as you stepp into stance. He follows suit, preparing for the first most. You begin to stab at him once, then twice, and he braces it well. His arms are strong and hands steady, not holding back. It wasn’t long before you started picking up the pace, the sound of shuffling feet and strikes drowned out any of the previous spiraling thoughts you had. 

Walker ducks one of your strikes and smirkes as you lightly stumble. “You sure you not training for a match with anyone specifically?” 

“If you keep talking, I might be.” 

His laugh is loud and smile is wide, “Feisty. I like it.”

You can’t help form a grin across your face, and before you know it, you let out a full body laugh. Breathless. Genuine. 

You dodge another playful jab and attempt to shove Walker backward. He managed to catch your wrist mid-shove, and twisted it softly. It messes with your momentum, causing you to stumble into his chest, letting out a quiet yelp. His hand settles at your waist, pulling your bodies closer together. 

“Woah,” he teased. “If you wanted to dance, all you had to do was ask.” 

“I’ll make sure to lead.” you winked at him, pushing him back playfully. 

“So you’re one of those.” 

The two of you laughed, and for a moment, it was nice. This was the first time in weeks you weren’t spending your free time alone. It was simple. Flirty. Harmless.

 It was fun. 

Until the door opened.

The sight makes your stomach drop for reasons unknown to you. 

It was Bob. 

He stood at the doorway, his broad shoulder tense, arms to his sides and fingers lightly fidgeting against one another. Even under the low gym light, he was golden. 

He stood there silently, not saying a word. His eyes were too busy locked on the scene in front of him. 

Your body is pressed against Walkers, his hand still hovering near your hip. Your cheeks are flushed, your in your sports bra, your smiling like before and laughing like Walker was God's gift to Earth. 

Bob’s face was unreadable. He was too still, too quiet. 

“Hey,” you managed to choke out, still a little out of breath. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

Bob didn’t look at you, his eyes still laying on Walker's hand on your body. “Didn’t realize I was interupting.”

Walker shifts, hands still on you. He doesn’t notice your body tensing up or your breath becoming staggered. “We’re just messing around. You want in?” 

Bob’s eyes flicked to you, and for a second, you think you see his brown eyes quickly shift to gold. You can’t put into words the emotion going on behind his eyes, but it isn’t just irritation. 

“No,” Bob says flatly. “I’m good.” 

With that, he turns his body and walks out. 

“Uh…” Walker finally releases you, helping you find your balance as your bodies seperate from each other. “Did I miss something?” 

You shook your head slowly, trying to prevent your body from freezing or your mind becoming a frenzy. The gym that was once your safe space is now added to one of the places you are going to have to avoid. There’s a weight in your chest that is settling like concrete the longer you stand there. 

“I’m gonna shower.” You say softly before leaving to your last sanctuary: your room. 

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The halls of the Tower always manage to feel too long when you don’t want to be found. 

You try to take the short way to your room, quickly leaving the bathroom as soon as you finish your post-workout shower. You try to ignore the uncomfortable dampness of your hair, or the chill spreading through your body under your over-sized nightwear. The only thing you want more than anything is to be alone in your room. You want to shake off the unnerving weight pressing down on your ribs. You feel guilty without having a reason to be. You feel like you did something wrong. You tell yourself that you might just be flustered, Bob just happened to catch you off-guard in a compromising position. It could have been anyone, and you’d probably feel the same way. It didn’t mean anything. 

But then you remember his eyes. How he looked at you (even though he was trying not to). He didn’t just look irritated or disappointed. But something else. 

You managed to finally turn to the last corner – but then you were stopped short. 

He was there, leaning against the wall outside of your room. Your sanctuary. The place that was supposed to be safe. 

His arms are crossed, head down like he’d been waiting on your arrival for some time. His hair caught the soft glow of the overhead lights, casting warm shadows across his cheekbones. You can see his chest rise and fall at a steady pace, like he’s focusing on it. He looks so calm on the outside, but you knew him too well. 

His jaw was tight. His posture was tense. If you didn’t look close enough, you’d miss the slight frown forming from the corner of his lips. 

“Bob..” 

He looked up slowly at the sound of your voice. 

“Hey.” His voice was quiet, but not soft as it was once before. It wasn’t gentle or warm. It was just quiet. 

You shift awkwardly, looking down at the droplets falling to the ground from the ends of your hair. You’re determined to look anywhere but at him. “Did you need something?”

“I think we need to talk.”

You sigh, slowly nodding your head. You slowly go past him, still not looking up. You unlock the door, stepping inside as Bob follows behind you, then closes the door behind him.

The lamp was the only light on in your roon, an amber gold hue shining a dim light around the two of you. You stand near the bed, holding your damp towels awkwardly. Bob stayed close to the door, like he didn’t have permission to come closer. 

The silence seemed to stretch on forever, the two of you sneaking glances at each other, waiting for the other to speak first.

Then, Bob lets out a deep exhale. “Are you mad at me?”

The question hurt. Hitting you like a punch to the gut. 

“No..why would I be mad at you?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs, his voice slowly growing sharper in frustration. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No I haven’t –”

“Yes, you have,” he interrupts. “You ditched me on movie night, which was your idea. You stopped hanging out in the lounge. You sprint out of a room when I walk in. And then today…” his voice trails off, his jaw twitching before he begins to speak again. “Today I saw you. I saw you all over Walker.” 

You swallowed, the feeling of guilt crawling over your body again. “We were just training.” 

Bob nodded slowly, finally looking you in the eyes as if he was looking for answers. “Right. Just training.” 

“Bob…”

“I’m not mad,” he said between breaths, trying to calm himself. His voice is quiet again. “I just..I don’t understand what I did. If I even did anything. Did I bother you or something?”

Your throat tightens. Your fingers fidget against the towel in your hands, finding comfort in squeezing something. “No. It’s not that.”

“Then what?” His voice cracks with something raw, something new. “Was I around you too much? Talk to you too often? Did I..make you uncomfortable? Whatever I did…I…I think you need to tell me.” 

“You didn’t,” You said quickly, trying to ease his mind. You toss the towels in a bean bag not too far from you. You slowly begin to take a step forward. “Bob, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why are you pulling away from me?”

Your mouth opens lightly, but nothing comes out. How can you explain a feeling you don’t understand? How could you explain what you’re going through without shattering the friendship you’ve built? How can you tell him I hate seeing you smile at her like that without sounding crazy? 

While being so deep in thought, you don’t notice how Bob was currently looking at you. Really looking. Like he was searching for answers from your face.

Your silence and worrisome look on your face broke something in him. It’s as if he was finally able to connect the dots that have been in front of him all along. 

“You’re…jealous?” He asks, both you and himself. “That’s what this is?”

You flinch – the word you’ve been avoiding like the plague finally making it to the surface. “I’m not–”

“You are,” he takes a step forward. “You’re jealous of…Yelena?”

Your heart pounds against your rib cage, your ears become hot and you feel your body tense. This isn’t what you wanted, this wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have. 

“Why?” He asked. “Why does it bother you?”

You shake your head. You don’t want to say anything, but it spills out against your will. “Because – because I see how you look at her. How you smile at her. How comfortable you are with her. And I know you care about her. And I know I shouldn’t care, it’s stupid and petty, but I do care. I hate that I care because it really doesn’t make sense and –” 

Your voice broke, eyes widening as you just realized what you’ve said. You press your hands to your face, hoping to disappear. This was all too overwhelming, the adrenaline rushing too fast to know what to do with it. 

“I didn’t..I dont want to feel this way,” you whisper through your fingers. 

Bob was quiet for a second. A part of you hopes he’s so repulsed, so turned off that he just walks away and avoids you the same way you’ve been avoiding him. 

“What way?” He asks softly. 

You dropped your hands, heart in your throat. Your voice is working before your brain is, your thoughts and feelings finally being exposed to both you and Bob. 

“I think I’m in love with you.” 

You said it, quickly and softly. They were barely there, if Bob wasn’t listening carefully, it could’ve been missed. But as quiet as you were, it rang like thunder against the windowstill. 

You see Bob staring at you, stunned and speechless. 

You begin to rush to fill the silence, coming to terms with what you just confessed. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did. I thought it would just go away. I wanted it to go away, or at least for it to stop hurting. But then today, I saw you and you saw me, and God – I'm just so sorry. I dont want to ruin anything –”

“Stop,” he said quietly. 

You froze, afraid and relieved. It was finally out there. You finally admit to yourself what you’ve been going through, and now he knows too. But you were afraid that you would lose him, and that him not knowing would have been better.

Bob takes two steps forward, slowly as if he is waiting for you to tell him to stop. He cups your face, thumbs brushing against your cheeks. His eyes were shining, warmed and in awe at the sight of you flushed in front of him. 

“You didn’t ruin anything.” He says.

Then he kissed you. 

It was slow, as if he’s been waiting to do this forever. Like he’s savoring this moment, wanting to remember how your mouth felt against his. 

You melt into him, hands clutching the front of his shirt, trying to pull him closer. 

Your lips part with a soft sigh, his forehead resting against yours.

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time.” He whispers against you. “I didn’t think you felt the same.” 

You let out a shaky left, still gripping to his shirt. Slight tears cling to your lashes. “We’re both idiots.” 

“Maybe,” he whispered while pecking your forehead. “But we’re idiots together.” 

You kiss him again – this time deeper, more certain, more hungry. His arms wrap around you fully, pulling your body close to his. This time he was less hesitant, less shy. 

Your hands tangle in his hair as he gently backs you towards your bed. There is no rush in the way he touches you, only devotion. It’s as if he was memorizing every breath, every sound coming out of your mouth, every shiver. 

The back of your knee hit the mattress, and he pauses. Slowly parting his lips from yours.  

“You okay?” He murmured against your lips. 

You nodded, breathless. “More than okay.” 

He gives you his soft smile that beams across his face, it makes your chest ache. Oh, how’ve you missed him. 

His hands are careful as they slide under your shirt, fingers brushing up your sides, tracing your skin with feather-light touches. Goosebumps bloom across his skin, finally being able to feel you. He slowly peeled the shirt over your head, slow and unrushed, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“You’re perfect.” he said, his voice low and awed. 

You begin to tug at his shirt in response, “So are you.”

He chuckled at your playfulness, letting you pull his shirt off. 

You take a quick look at him, the way his hidden muscles flex at every movement, the definition across his chest. You can't help but have your hand trace along his chest, adoring evey inch of him. 

You look up to see him looking at you as if you were the only thing in the world he could see. 

You slowly lean back on the bed and he follows, settling over you gently. He braces himself on his forearms as he kisses you – slower, lazier, like he never wanted to let the moment end. 

Your legs tangle beneath him, his hands trace lines down your arms and outside of your thigh. You let out a soft gasp as his lips travel to the edge of your jaw, then the side of your throat, and the line of your collarbone. 

“Tell me when to stop..” he whispers between kisses.

“I won’t” you whisper. “I want this..I want you.”

His breath hitches at your response, his grip around you tightening. His hand trails down your body, before finding your most sensitive area. At first contact, your hips shift lightly, causing Bob to press down slightly firmer. He circles you – slow and soft, the pleasure causing your head to tip back. Bob begins to place kisses ontop of your exposed throat, wet and firm, like he was trying to leave a mark – like he wants to prove to everyone that you belong to him. 

His circles catch up to your moans. Every gasp and whisper results in him pressing harder, circling faster. 

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers into your ear. “You sound so perfect.” Your back arches at his soft praises, there’s a heat building up between your legs. He has you wrecked and he hasn’t even entered you yet, you’re a whimpering mess who is struggling to ask for more. 

Bob places a kiss back to your mouth, it’s sloppy and desperate. He’s moaning into you, your reaction to his touch is making him insane. It’s not enough – he wants you a wreck, he wants you to beg and plead, he wants you to want him the same way he’s been wanting you. 

His fingers dip lower, and he feels you. Soaked, warm, you're throbbing at his touch. It takes everything in him to not choke at the sensation, he focuses on your whimpering to keep him at ease. You arch deep into his fingers, thrusting into him for friction. 

“Oh my g-god…” you manage to breathe out. Bob hisses as your nails dig into his back, his fingers following the rhythm of your hips. Your moans slowly begin to get louder, your pace on his fingers increasing. 

“You can cum for me,” Bob whispers into your ear, as if he’s giving you permission to release. 

And you do, whimpering his name, your hips dropping to the mattress. He is still slowly pumping in and out of you, still pleasuring you as you come down from your high. 

You let out a disappointed sigh when his fingers leave you, but you’re quickly surprised when you see him put his fingers in his mouth – tasting you. He moans as he savours the taste of you, of what he’s done to you. 

He lowers his head, placing a soft kiss on your lips. You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him close, slowly separating your thighs, thrusting up against him. You feel him, he’s hard and his tip is brushing up against you. 

“I want you…” you whisper against him.

“God…you drive me crazy.” he whimpers out.

After trailing soft kisses around you, he slowly begins to ease into you. The world around you shrunk – the only thing existing is breath, skin, and heat. 

It started off slow and tender, his movements careful as if this could end any moment. He begins to murmur your name like a prayer, rocking into you with patient rhythem. He was paying attention to every reaction you had, making sure to keep note of everything he did that felt good to you. 

“I’ve got you” he whispers into you, your moaning against him as his hands grip at your hips, pushing himself deeper inside you. He groans as he feels you gripping him, your slick causing the sound of your skins slapping to echo around the room. 

“You feel so good around me…you feel so good,” his cheeks are flushed. His thrusts begin to stutter, no longer feeling controlled like before. Bob is allowing himself to lose himself into you, gripping you harder and kisses sloppier. “I’m – oh, I-’m –”

You kiss his jaw, rocking your hips in return. The feeling of your clit rubbing against him and his fullness thrusting overwhelming you, causing your second orgasm to approach.  

“Me too…keep going…gonna cum for you,” you manage out, before you whine out multiple “fuck’s” as you cum around him. Feeling you finish while he was inside you was all it took for Bob to cum with a broken gasp, releasing all of him inside of you. He continues to pump into you slowly after you both cum, kissing you through the shuddering aftershocks. 

He gets off of you, plopping himself besides you. You curl into his arms, your bodies warm and hearts full. He presses a kiss at the top of your forehead, caressing your shoulder with the hand that's to your side. 

“I never want you to ignore me like that again, I won’t let you.” He confesses.

You hold onto him tighter, apologetically. “I won’t. I promise.”

And for the first time, the ache in your chest was gone. The endless months of doubts and feelings of uncertainty no longer existed. 

The only thing left was Bob, and finally feeling like you belong.

[mywritersmind]

WIN FOR ME - OP81

summary : In which, you start to realize how much your boyfriend really does respond to praise and test his limits on multiple occasions

listen up : a sweet and sexy request <3 smut!! p in v. praise kink duh! some smau!! hot texts from a hot man. my first oscar fic wowza i hope u like

words : 777

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It started off simple, congratulating Oscar on little things, complimenting his haircut or his shirt… completely normal things for a girlfriend to say.

You noticed his mood shift after a particularly steamy night. Muttering the words, “So good for me…” while you looked up at him from between his legs. He came right then and right there, flushing immediately when he realized the amount of time he lasted.

Oscar thought it was embarrassing, you found it hot.

The second time was when things started to really heat up. You both sat in his drivers room, watching him change with a little too much excitement, knowing he had to go out and drive so soon.

“You've gotten bigger.” Oscar practically falls on his face when you say it, standing up quickly, his fireproof half on.

“Sorry?” He chokes out.

You nod innocently, “Your back. All that time in the gym is paying off.”

He turns to the mirror, flexing his back which is faced towards you as if you’re not already wet. “You think?” He slides his fireproof down, covering the skin you want to mark so badly.

“Yeah. It’s hot.”

He’s on you in seconds, his mouth against yours and his hands grasping at any sliver of exposed skin on your body.

You weren’t lying when you said he was big, he towers over you, your hands grabbing the back of his neck as if your life depends on it.

He holds your hips tightly, pulling you closer to feel him against you. “Fuck Osc- You’re so perfect.” You mumble into the kiss, bringing out a whine from him that goes straight to your core.

You grin against him while he kisses you harder. Oh this will be fun.

⋆༺

⋆༺

He’s in a suit, you’re in a dress. You’re by far the most good looking couple in here. ‘Here’ as in the giant theater where opera performers prance around the stage.

Oscar had been invited and at the time, it felt rude to say no. Now, when the man who invited him disappeared across the room, you felt less bad about distracting your terribly bored boyfriend.

It’s been a few weeks since you started intentionally playing into Oscar’s praise kink and… wow. He’s always been great in bed but shit- it’s like you switched something in him.

Slipping your hand onto his shoulder and leaning in close you whisper, “I can’t stop thinking about last night.”

“Y/n…” He whispers back, not turning his head to look at you.

“I’m still sore.” You bite your lip when you see his jaw clench. “Just couldn’t stop, huh?” He’s still silent, besides his breathing growing heavier. Your hand slips to his upper thigh, covered in fabric more expensive than your rent. “That’s fine. You make it easy to go again with.”

“I know what you’re doing.” He bites out just as a satisfied smile breaks across your face and your palm meets his groin.

“Yeah and you like it.” He grabs your hand and in a second, you’re both exiting the row with no regard for the people you pass.

Oscar looks on, his hand gripping your wrist tighter as you exit the theater. The first bathroom he sees is the one he drags you into.

“Excuse me there’s only one allowe-” a poor worker tries to stop you two but the lock sounds behind you and the feeling of the cold door meets your back.

Before you know it, your dress is bunched around your waist and his hand is down your panties. He loves getting you off, the look on your face when his fingers curl into you is engraved into his memory.

You make that same face now, your head tilting back as you let out a moan. “Osc- I need you. Now.”

“You’re so beautiful.” He kisses your neck while you unzip his pants, “This dress- I knew I wouldn’t make it through the night.”

“Thank god for that.” You say just as he aligns himself with you, pushing in without a second thought. You both moan this time, not caring about your surroundings, just the feeling of skin against skin. “So big-”

“So tight.” He mumbles, moving slowly at first. “Mmm…”

“Please.” You groan as he picks up his pace, his head falling onto your shoulder as he breathes heavily. Nail scratching against his back, your panties ripping, Oscar slamming his hand against the door before moving you to the sink… it’s a blur of pure adrenaline and sex, one that ends with lace in his pocket and you practically limping out of that bathroom.

⋆༺

[valleydolli]

౨ৎ Older Husband Nanami breeding you ౨ৎ

a/n: err this is like practice for me! i’ll try write different smut one shots for each jjk guys :P

You've been married to your husband Kento for a year now, while dating for 2. Before tying the knot, you’ve brought up having children in the past, but you never actually tried. Granted, you’ve been using condoms. Everytime you make love and he cums in your sweet pussy (which is blocked by said condom) he just hopes and prays the condom somehow splits and you fall pregnant. He hasn't mentioned that he’s dying to breed you because you’re young. You started dating while he was 32 and you were 22. You’re now 25 and 35, and he doesn't want to pressure you into motherhood. You still have time, so what's the rush? Even if you eventually say you never want kids, he’ll be okay with that, your body is your own. But tonight his world turned upside down.

“Mmm, take it off, Ken,” you murmur. He’s just slipped into you, ready to make love to you, and you said what? He stills, surely you didn't say that, right? “W-what did you say?” You run your hands up his stomach and smile. “Take the condom off, Kento, I’m ready.”

Oh, you said it, he’s not crazy.

He stares at you for a good minute, praying you'll make it out of this bedroom because he is going to devour you. “Honey, you have no idea what you’re asking of me.”

“Wha- Oh my god!”

His eyes darken, and instantly, your husband pulls you in by your thighs closing the gap between the two of you. He’s tucked into your neck, breathing heavily and mumbling to you.

“I’m going… to ruin you.”

“Huh? What’re you saying?”

He lifts his head from the warmth of your neck and places his forehead against yours.

“I said, I’m going to ruin you.”

Your husband quickly locks his lips onto yours while holding you tight, so tight, almost as if you’ll slip away from him.

And trust, you’re not going anywhere.

You reach your hand down to his cock fumbling to take off the condom. Not even a second after it’s off he slides smoothly into your cunt, moaning loudly against your lips.

“I’ll fill you up baby I promise. I promise I’ll give you a baby.”

Your shared bedroom echoed with the sweet sounds of Kento pounding his dick into your sweet, soaking cunt. A key to its lock. He fits perfectly inside of you. He can’t stop whining against your lips, reminding you about how much he loves you. How much he wants— no needs a family with you. How you’d be the best mother known to man.

“I can’t- can’t stop thinking about it.” He tries to tell you.

You can respond. You’re incoherent. His swollen tip has been prodding at your cervix continuously.

“You swollen with my seed, n-no one else’s but mine, urgh.”

He’s close but he can’t cum yet he needs to saviour this. The first time he’s filling up his wife. He can’t let this last five minutes.

“Come here.” He slips out of you, causing you to whine. He places you on top of him, telling you to rid him.

“I can’t Ken, please,” you slur.

“Yeah you can honey, you’re a good girl aren’t you?”

You audibly moan, you love when he calls you a good girl and he knows it. It gets him a lot of things, so this is the perfect time to take advantage of it.

“Mhm, I’m a good girl Ken.”

“For who?” He moans. You’ve lifted your hips slowly sliding down his thick cock.

“Ughh, you… only you.”

He brings his hands down your body, tightly squeezing your hips.Your hands on top of his chest to steady your balance. You move at your own pace; slowly lifting your hips up and down and up and down. The beautiful sounds of your schlick bouncing through both sets of ears. His eyes fixated on the way your eyes roll to the back of your head.

God, you’re going so damn slow.

“Baby, please, hurry.” He pleads.

“I can’t. I need—.”

Kento doesn’t let you finish, he’ll apologise for his bad manners later, but you can’t do this to him.

He drives his cock into you, roughly holding onto your already sore hips. Your body gives out falling onto his chest.

He hugs you tightly, pounding into you hard digging his feet deeper into the duvet. He’s going to cum and it’s gonna be a lot. You tighten around him, loudly moaning into his chest. “I’m cumming Kento please, please fill me up. I need it. Need it so b-had, baby.” You sob. “I want your cum, please.”

“It’s all yours honey, all yours— I’m cumming, take it, fucking take it.” He groans.

Your mouth drops wide open, letting out a silent scream, squirting all over your husband’s torso. You can feel Kentos cum spurting into your cervix.

“You did so good for me honey,” he’s stroking your cheeks with the back of his hand. “But you need more, we need to make sure it sticks. Can’t take any chances.”

[eraserbread]

makin a movie with your best friend with benefits, suguru ✧

→ afab fem!reader, est "relationship", filming sex, m!receiving oral, getos lethal pillow talk, use of pet names, porn with plot

suguru's standing in front of the tripod, little red light on, he's shooting, smirking into the lens. vaguely, he can see his reflection in the glass, his shirtless body, and loose hair. he's ready for you.

and you're ready for him, posed on the made bed, completely naked and pristine after your shower. coated in expensive perfume, shaved raw, wearing only your earrings, it's the only way you'd agree to make a movie with him.

he is your best friend, after all. it's hard to say no to that pretty face.

"and... action." he stands up, turning to face you. you're sitting up at the realization, smirking devilishly. "think we'll start with a pov shot."

"mm, i like the sound of that." you're crawling on your knees as he grabs the camera, ambling to the side of the bed where you're waiting so perfectly.

"i wish you could see how pretty you look on camera, " he mumbles, long hair falling over his shoulders as he looks down on you. his gaze flickers from the screen to your face, and his smirk turns into a concentrated scowl.

you're working your fingers at his pants, sliding nimble hands into the fabric to pull his cock out of its confines. he's so hard, springing to life and pearling with dribbles of precum. the coldness of the air makes him shiver—geto's eyebrow twitches.

when you're wrapping your lips across the familiar tip, he's breathing out a satisfying sigh, lips quirking into a smile as your prominent lipstick stains the paleness of the skin. longer, manicured nails dig into his thigh, leaving marks in his warm flesh. you're sucking him like you're in love with him, and you think you are.

your devotion is forever etched into this camera.

"yes... suck it just like that, my pretty girl. drool on it, let me hear you." he's purring in a dipped voice, so horny he's shaking. it's something about the way you look right now, staring up at him with watery doe-eyes through a camera and right to his face. He can't stop flicking up and down at it; he's starting to lose his cool.

and you're certainly not helping the situation as you gag and moan over his impressive length, spit falling from your slick lips. you're putting on a show, letting it slide from your lips and press against your face. you're like a different person, using his groans as fuel to suck harder—put more life behind it.

"ah, that's so hot, beautiful. 'm gonna cum, you can't just—can't just look at me like that." suguru's free hand pushes his hair back against his skull, that one determined quirk in his thin eyebrow never fading. it's so counterproductive, hearing him call you hot. you wish you could shovel those praises down his throat, but you're happy and gagged right now. that's enough.

"cum in my mouth, geto-kun. please.” you’re mumbling, wet eyelashes trembling with tears. his breath is deep, shaking in his throat as you kiss up his shaft, tongue tracing the prominent, pulsing vein there.

you can’t see it—the camera’s in your face, but suguru’s expression plummets. “how… god, how are you so hot?” his core is trembling, long fingers tightening over the camera. then, he reaches down to stroke your lips, pressing his cock into your cheek. “kiss it, baby.”

so you do. right there on your favorite vein, next to geto’s thumb.

“fuck it.” he grunts, turning abruptly to put the camera on the bedside table. he doesn’t know what angle this is gonna catch, but he tilts it so he can see your bodies as he pins you down. “you can’t just fucking do that. mmh — gotta cum inside’a you.”

“did you like my acting?” you’re smiling, biting across your bottom lip as he grinds between your thighs, lips at your neck.

“that wasn’t acting. you’re just a tease.” he’s desperate, one hand fishing blindly between your bodies, trying to find its home inside of you. he’s dragging the thickness of his cock through your labia like a tease, face screwing up when he dips inside of you on every upstroke. you're sobbing slick over him, panting moans hot between you as he kisses over your parted lips.

"mm, just put it in." you're not looking at him; can't bear the needy look in his eyes. he just looks so beautiful, your heart is swelling and pushing at your chest every time he peeks at you. at this point, you're bound to say something you'll regret.

but, he's taking it all away—every thought in your mind as he finally, slowly eases that grueling length inside of you. your body reacts before you can, spasming uncomfortably at the intrusion. you suck in a breath.

"you can take it. you got it, baby." he's whispering, nudging noses as he commands eye contact. his hair is hanging over your face like a curtain, blocking the roomlight, trapped alone with him.

it's the closest he's ever been after nine months of non-stop casual hookups. this is the pinnacle.

"feels so good." you give him as... something. trying to hide the look on your face as he tucks his hair away.

"look at the camera." he's sitting up, fresh, cool air wafting over your overheated body as he turns to the bedside. "say it again."

"you feel so good... inside of me. so right. i love y- it."

"you follow directions so well..." he's chewing on his words, long arm reaching to retrieve the camera. his cock hits an angle when he sits up, making your face screw in pleasure. "so pretty... hi, pretty."

"hi, geto." he's over you again, fucking you lazily with the camera at his face. watching you through the screen, you're sucking over the thumb he gives you, breathing heavily into the mic.

"hi, baby." he clears a crook in his neck from clenching his jaw so hard, dripping sweat from his hairline. "turn over. wanna get a good shot of me fucking you." he commands with the sweetest voice, knowing you'd drop everything to press to your stomach. and, you do.

sugu watches as he slips out of you, hissing as he pinches off the base of his cock. he's been edging himself for what felt like hours, though the recording only had a run time of twenty-five minutes.

"like this?" you peek over your shoulder, palms and knees pressed to the sheets. over the camera, he nods, biting his pouty bottom lip.

"such a good shot. love your beautiful body, babe." he's whispering again, sliding his cock between the skin of your ass and his thick palm. "can I cum inside of you, please? promise I'll clean you up so well."

you're nodding, neck straining because you want to see him. even when he's bottoming out inside of you, camera focused on your cunt as it stretches and inflames, you're just looking at him.

"oh, my... ohmy..." he's muttering, stress veins in his neck reddening as he does everything he can not to cum before you. his movie had to be perfect, he had to show your orgasm face—it's his favorite part, the most satisfying ending.

so, he chases it like a wild dog. the camera falls somewhere on the bed once he gets into it, both hands grabbing at your ass. he fucks you like he's trying to cum, all messy and uncoordinated—grunting hot and panting curses into the air. it's what pushes you over to the edge, his presence. the weight he puts on you when he presses over your back. it's so perfect, you're crying again.

something happens, you shriek "—clo-!"

and he takes you by the neck, craning your head over your shoulder as he kisses you to your max. it's mean—heady. unreal. and he's cumming right alongside you, just like he wanted.

fuck the camera, right now. suguru had everything he wanted.

once the high has faded, suguru is lying limp next to you, face pressed against your shoulder, laid out on his front.

it had to have been three or maybe four minutes—long enough for the dust to settle, long enough for you to realize that this round was enough. but the camera's still rolling. you pick it up.

"so..." you start, sliding from under his big body, slowly rising back to your knees. it's odd, being on the opposite side—the one behind the camera, breathing heavily as you bring it to your face.

pointing it right at sugu, you zoom into his flushed face, shot swaying like the breeze. his hair is posed around his face, stringy with sweat, damp with lust. he could be sleeping, but that smirk on his face reminds you that he isn't.

"thoughts on tonight?" you bite your lip, speaking slowly. he laughs, raising a hand to cover his blotchy face. "stop acting so shy, you're hot." you tease, reaching to slap his hand away. but, of course he catches it with those jarring reflexes, holding you by the wrist—he kisses you there. it's soft.

"shouldn't i be asking that?"

"well, you're not a very good director. where's your stamina, sexy?" you're talking slow, lens still haphazardly pointing in his direction. "mm, camera wants a kiss goodbye, too."

"bring that here." he's responding, unsure if he's talking about the camera or you, but the promise has him sitting up on his elbow, swallowing slowly. he reaches for you, snaking his arm over your waist, fingers dipping between your cum stained thighs to feel him making a mess of you. you gasp, he pulls you in.

and as you bring the camera to his lips, he kisses the lens, then turns it back on you. that blurred, smudged reflection he sees on the playback screen has his body reacting.

he mutters as he flicks the nearly hour-and-a-half-long recording off, "yeah... you're dangerous."

[neptunecaptains]

In The Night

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You're finding it difficult to sleep in your new home. Bucky knows how to fix it.

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), oral sex (f receiving; I like a giver), fingering, defiling a kitchen.

A/N: This is from a long time ago... was just going through fics I wrote when I used to love the MCU and came across this one. If there's anyone on here from way back then, it might sound familiar. Imagine this to be set in some multiverse where Steve never left in Endgame and everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. Hope you enjoy!

Previous Fic (masterlist coming soon!)

♡♡♡♡

The clock’s just gone ten past twelve when he feels you slip out of bed.

Bucky shouldn’t know that— the time. He should be dead to the world, asleep in the comfort of his bed with his girl warm by his side, full and sated and happy thanks to good company, good food, and even better liquor that can actually do something to him. Instead, he’s hyper-aware and questioning why you wouldn’t be dead asleep too and, before he knows it, he’s following in your footsteps.

It’s jarring, being awake at this hour in a mostly-empty home.

The halls feel too narrow and you still haven’t put the pictures up so the walls look bare and cold, and the dining table is missing a leg so you had to have dinner on the couch but you couldn’t find the box with the cushions which, now that Bucky thinks about it is probably still at the compound and god that means he has to go up there again— 

“Hey,” he hears, whisper-soft and cautious.

For a moment Bucky feels like maybe you’re the one who woke up to go after him, like how you used to do so long ago, worried about things neither of you could control. But no, it’s him, looking for you.

It’s him, finding you tired and rumpled in front of the stove, the red kettle Nat gave you as a gift steaming away on the burner. With the lights dimmed you look like a dream, but then again you look like that at any time of the day.

Bucky’s hands find your hips easily, skin and metal brushing over soft skin and worn cotton. They slip beneath your sleep shirt, a faded old thing he got as a gag gift some Christmases ago— Sam still asks him about the vulgar print on the front. Bucky tries to forget, but you never let him. Especially not on nights you wear the damn thing to bed.

He finds warmth, the same kind that should be next to him in bed right now, which— “Can’t sleep?”

You sigh, melting easily into the embrace. Your nose is cold, colder than it has any right to be with the heat on, nuzzling against the rough scratch of hair along his jaw. “Feels weird.”

It does— the house. Well, home, now, filled with your clothes and your furniture and the dishes you put in the dishwasher after your friends left a few hours ago because our first meal in our new home can’t be in paper plates, Buck and I already took the glasses out of the box, baby and he’s never been good at saying no. The house feels weird and he can’t wait until it doesn’t, with the pictures up, and the throw blanket on the couch, and those damn cushions he can’t believe he forgot.

“Bet you’d feel better back in bed,” Bucky murmurs, smiles, lips soft against the skin of your neck. “With me.”

You hum, could be a snort if it were any time except almost one in the morning and if you hadn’t spent the whole day hauling boxes and building whatever furniture you could before exhaustion won out. “I just put the kettle on.”

Bucky looks at the offending piece of kitchenware over your shoulder, willing it to somehow set on fire but wait, no. That would be very, very bad. Bucky has a mortgage now, shit.

“Okay,” he says instead, shrugging. “We’ll wait.”

He doesn’t notice the time. Instead, he notices your palms on his cheeks and your thumbs over his cheekbones; the way you taste of mint and something else, something like cloves and honey, no doubt from the sips you stole from his drink during the moving-day-turned-housewarming. He notices the way you sink into his body, held up by his arms caging you against the counter behind you, moaning softly at the wet sweeps of his tongue against the seam of your lips, parting under the pressure.

Bucky grips the countertop a bit too hard, gritting his teeth as he breaks the kiss. “How long ‘til that thing goes off?”

“We’re not defiling our kitchen so soon,” you laugh into his lips, sweet. The hands on his cheeks pull his face further away until you’re squinting up at him, lips spit-slick and shiny in the low light delighted and knowing all the same. “This is where we eat—”

“And I’m hungry,” Bucky grins, wicked, matches your own expression if only a bit dirtier. “Might as well use it for what it’s for, right?”

This time you do snort, forehead resting against his own. The sound settles deep in Bucky’s bones, spreading all over his body in places he didn’t know he had, warm and buzzing like a beehive. “You’re so gross.”

He is. He really, really is and he blames it all on himself and on you and the way you sigh into his mouth when he gets his hands above the swell of your ass, one of his thick thighs slipping between your own, warmth seeping everywhere you touch him. He blames it on those pretty eyes and that pretty mouth, those hands tugging at the bottom half of his hair that’s untied, that sweet voice moaning into the night when he nips at that spot behind your ear— 

“Baby.”

"Bucky," you laugh softly, glancing at him. It’s near-dark, the lights still dimmed, but he swears he can map out the marks on your skin, can count every single lash on your eyelids.

"Baby," he replies in the same tempting tone, watching your eyes with his own, so clear and expressive, so stunning.

You sigh, resigned. Bucky doesn’t even try to hide his grin.

“We’re gonna have to clean in the morning.”

“Guess I’ll have to suffer,” he says, hands warm on your thighs hauling you onto the counter.

He’s gentle as he parts your thighs, takes his time kissing the inside until you’re sighing all breathy and sweet, trembling on both sides of his head. Fingers hooking onto gray cotton, he slides your panties down your legs, bringing you closer to the edge of the counter and towards his mouth.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, eyes so blue when they flick up to your own.

Your hands slide into his hair, fingers tugging gently at the hair tie holding the longest strands back. Your lips part in a smile, wavering slightly at the edges as he ducks in, tongue soft and wet against your heat. He licks a broad stripe along your folds, takes in the way you shake almost imperceptibly— only knows it happens because he’s looking for it.

Bucky drinks you in, picks you apart with his tongue and his fingers, wet along his lips, his jaw, and his flesh fingers. He makes it messy, lets you whine and wail into your otherwise quiet home, grinding your hips onto his face and the two digits plunging inside your cunt, stroking that sweet spot deep inside.

You come apart on his tongue, slowly and quietly, a breathy gasp and the rhythmic clench of your muscles against his fingers the only warning he gets before he feels even more wetness pooling on his tongue, dripping down his palm.

“Oh!”

He kisses at the inside of your thighs, leaves it wet and sticky as you come down from your high. His thumbs caress your hipbones, feeling the slight quiver of your core against his touch, reveling in it.

To his right, the kettle starts whistling.

“Water’s boiling, honey,” he murmurs, nipping at the sensitive skin in the crease of your thighs.

You groan, fingers tugging at the hair tangled in them. “I hate you.”

Bucky laughs, throaty and with his chest, slightly loud at a time where the night seems to stand still. There’s only the rush of your breath and the whistle of the kettle, drawn-out and cut off as he turns the burner off and moves it onto a cold, unused one. He gravitates between your thighs once more, lips on yours like magnets. He kisses you slowly, takes his time and lets you bite at his bottom lip, slipping your tongue against his and pulling those sounds from his throat that play in your head like your favorite song.

“You think you’ll be able to sleep now?”

You sigh deeply, looking up at him from under your eyelashes. “You’re gonna have to carry me to bed.”

Bucky feels it spread from the top of his head down to his toes, fingers on your waist curling into fabric and skin. It’s hot and cold, bad and good. He feels it.

“Anywhere you want, sugar.”

Happiness.

[cap-winter-barnes]

Hangman's Sister (Bob Floyd x Reader)

Y/N is Hangman's little sister - everyone on the Dagger Squad knows she's dating Bob, except for her big brother.

Warnings: mentions of PDA? Little bit of sass from Bob.

The Hard Deck is teaming with Naval personnel when you arrive in the early evening. The drive in gave you enough time to prepare for the onslaught of friendly greetings from the rest of the squad - your friends. Well, first and foremost they are your brother, Jake Seresin's, team and friends. Yet as Maverick's assistant, they welcomed you onto the team as if you were just another Lieutenant.

As it was technically your day off and the weather was overbearingly humid, you'd opted for a small blue summer dress, the colour coincidentally the same shade as your favourite Lieutenant's eyes. As you enter the bar, you make a beeline for Penny, grabbing a bottle of water from her as you ask her how the crowd has been so far. "Nothing too rowdy yet, but then again, Maverick hasn't shown up yet." You both chuckle at her remark before she points out the Dagger Squad over by the pool table. With a brief hug and a smile, you make your way over to the team.

"Hey, if it isn't little Seresin!" Fanboy makes your presence known as the rest of the squad cheer at your arrival. Bob's attention is immediately on you as he takes in how beautiful you look in your dress, smiling as you make your way around the team, greeting everyone with a brief hug - yet your eyes stay on him until you're standing in front of him.

Bob pulls you into a tight hug, breathing in the scent of your shampoo as he does so - he's missed you.

"How's my favourite Weapons System Operator doing?" You make sure to hold onto him longer than everybody else, appreciating the feel of him holding you tightly.

"Better now you're here, beautiful." He never fails to make you giddy with his terms of affection. As you pull away, he presses a chaste kiss to your temple - eyes meeting as you move apart.

"Alright, Baby on Board, I think that's enough physical contact for you." The sound of your brother's voice automatically has you rolling your eyes as he pulls you into a headlock.

"Jake, don't be an asshole."

"Sorry Robert, I didn't mean to offend."

"And yet somehow, you always manage." You can't say you're not impressed at the snide remark comes from your boyfriend. The rest of the team, equally surprised at this comeback too. "You know maybe she likes the physical contact with me?"

The group fall silent at this next remark. Your heart thunders in your chest as you stare, shocked at Bob's face. There's a confidence there that you rarely see, but my God, you'd be lying if you said it didn't turn you on.

"What the hell did you just say?" All playfulness leaves Jake's voice as he lets you go, straightening his body to tower over Bob.

"You heard me, Bagman."

The tension in the Hard Deck is ridiculously thick, an uncomfortable silence slowly spreading throughout the bar. Without hesitation, you throw yourself between the two men, pressing yourself against Bob as he refuses to break eye contact with your brother. His arm immediately wraps itself around your waist, hand resting firmly on your waist, fingers deftly clinging to the material of your skirt. You lean into his touch, "Bobby, please. That's enough." Bob's gaze immediately turns to you, his forehead pressing against your own as he nods.

"M'sorry, darlin'." A small smile graces your lips as you savour the feel of his lips on your skin. All the while, Jake looks like he's going to combust.

"I'm sorry. Am I missing something here?" Both you and Bob chuckle, leaning into each other's touch as you turn to look at your older brother. The smile never leaving your face. With a sneaky glance to your boyfriend. " Do you want to tell him? Or should I?" A mischievous look passes over Bob's face as he moves his hand lower, gently resting it on the curve of your ass. "Nah, let him figure it out."

With arms wrapped around each other you, you giggle moving to pass your brother as he stares dumfounded, his brain trying to comprehend his little sister and Bob being together.

"C'mon Bagman, we thought you were smarter than this."

"Bobby!"

"Sorry, darlin."

**Author's Note: This isn't my best but I wanted to start writing for Bob because I can't get him out of my head...

[sunshinesfreckless]

His Spoiled Babe

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Han Jisung × fem!Reader

Summary: The final and last part of the SKZ boys loving their girlfriends ☺️ Enjoy being Han’s girlfriend.

Warnings: Definitely smut smut smut… Han’s tattoos! (If JYP is reading this 👀)

A/N: THIS IS IT. Done with the Spoiled series.

୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Leeknow ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Bangchan ୨ৎ Changbin ୨ৎ Jeongin ୨ৎ Seungmin

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

She remembered the first time Han Jisung made her feel like the only girl in the world.

It was raining—of course it was. The kind of cinematic downpour that turned city streets silver, where every sound seemed muffled but every feeling turned up louder. She’d just gotten home from class, umbrella dripping, tired and cold and very much not in the mood to be perceived.

But then she heard it.

Music.

Off-key and desperate and beautiful.

And there he stood. Right in the courtyard of her apartment, soaked to the bone. His hoodie clung to his arms like second skin, black curls plastered to his forehead, guitar nearly slipping out of his hands—but God, the smile on his face.

Like he didn’t even notice the rain.

Like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.

Felix was next to him, barely holding up a half-ruined sign made of printer paper and smudged Sharpie.

“I love you, Y/N.”

And Han?

Han was singing.

A song she’d never heard before. Something soft, laced with longing, and rough around the edges. A little like him. A little like the night she fell asleep on his chest and murmured nonsense against his skin—except he remembered every word she said and turned it into a melody.

She thought her heart might fall right out of her ribs.

And that was only the beginning.

Now?

────୨ৎ────

Their matching Vivienne Westwood necklaces were the talk of the fandom. His stayed tucked beneath his shirt, where only she could tug it out with her teeth. Hers sat proudly on her chest. One night on tour, he kissed his before walking onto stage. Cameras caught it. It trended worldwide.

People speculated. People guessed.

But no one knew.

No one saw what was beneath the fabric of his oversized tee—right at the tender dip of his inner upper arm.

Her name.

Tattooed in her own handwriting.

Flawless black ink.

Bold and sacred.

Just above the muscle he flexed when he pinned her to the mattress.

She’d kissed it. Moaned into it. Bit it.

It was her favorite place on his body—because it meant he was hers.

────୨ৎ────

The world called Han chaotic, eccentric, unhinged.

But with her?

He was devoted.

Soft when she was sleepy.

Obsessed when she smiled.

Absolutely whipped every time she giggled into his chest and played with his fingers.

He spoiled her not just with luxury, but with detail.

Her favorite chocolate, flown in from a tiny shop in Switzerland.

A Balmain jacket in his size, because she once joked about wanting one and she liked her Clothes better if they fit him.

Studio dates where he made her sit on his lap while he mixed tracks, headphones pressed to her ears while he whispered, “Tell me if you like this, babe. I only want to make things you love.”

Even her favorite pillow brand—he stocked his studio couch with them just so she’d be comfortable when she inevitably fell asleep waiting for him.

────୨ৎ────

Han Jisung had money, sure. Fame. A wardrobe of Balmain leather and Westwood chains.

But the only thing he ever really wanted?

Was her.

Soft. Spoiled. Sleeping in his bed. Wearing nothing but one of his shirts and the necklace he’d clasped around her neck himself.

And when she looked up at him with those sleepy eyes and whispered, “Hannie, can I wear your jacket today?”

He grinned like he won the lottery.

“Baby,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hair, “you can wear everything I own.”

Han didn’t just spoil her.

He ruined himself for her.

────୨ৎ────

A necklace here. A pair of shoes there. A handwritten letter folded into her passport when she flew out to see him on tour.

But Jisung didn’t do small for long.

One rainy afternoon, they passed by a Balmain store in Gangnam. She paused at the window—just for a second—and tilted her head at a soft ivory dress on the mannequin. Ruffles, cinched waist, delicate buttons like pearls.

She didn’t even say anything.

Just a tiny, thoughtful hum.

He noticed.

And the next day?

The entire Balmain spring collection showed up at her door. Still tagged, perfectly steamed, wrapped in tissue paper that smelled like him. Every piece had her initials stitched inside—just under the label, where only she would see.

────୨ৎ────

He kept her closet full. Not stocked—curated. His stylists begged him to stop flying in racks from Paris every time she complimented a runway look, but he wouldn’t hear it.

“She liked it,” was all he said.

That was enough.

Her playlists?

Updated weekly. With demos he never released.

Love songs no one else heard.

Songs he wrote when she was asleep on his studio couch, breathing softly, curled up in his hoodie with one of her hands in his hair like she knew he needed the grounding.

Sometimes, he’d open her phone, tuck in a new audio file, and wait to hear her reaction the next morning.

The soft gasp. The slow smile. The inevitable text:

Ji, you wrote that for me?

And his answer was always the same:

Of course. Who else would I ever write for?

Han Jisung didn’t care if it was too much. He didn’t care if the world called him impulsive, dramatic, unhinged.

He’d burn through every cent he had if it meant seeing her eyes light up like that.

He’d carve new lyrics into his skin if it meant keeping her name there forever.

He’d give her the world if she even hinted at wanting it.

────୨ৎ────

It was a gift. Of course it was.

Everything was, when it came from him.

He’d had the corset custom-made in London. Cream silk with delicate boning, tiny laces up the back, and just enough ruffle at the top to make his mouth go dry. He hadn’t stopped thinking about how she’d look in it since the designer sent the sketches.

She didn’t know he’d cancelled an interview to wait at her apartment while she unboxed it.

Now, she stood in front of the mirror—hair up in soft pins, the corset hugging her waist like sin. She was still tugging at the ribbon ends when she heard it:

His breath.

Right behind her.

“I’ll do it,” Jisung murmured, stepping closer.

She stilled, eyes meeting his in the reflection. He looked flushed already, knuckles flexing like he was holding back from grabbing her on the spot.

“You sure?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Just took the ends of the ribbon and began pulling—slowly, reverently, into her back.

Her breath hitched with each gentle tug.

Tighter. Snugger. Closer.

“You’re… so pretty, baby.” His voice cracked with how much he meant it. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

She could feel him behind her, not touching—yet—but so close that she could feel the heat from his chest. She watched his hands move down, smoothing the sides of the corset. Palms heavy, thumbs brushing the top of her hips.

“I should’ve made this earlier,” he whispered against her neck. “You look like a dream. A fantasy. Mine.”

She barely had time to answer before his hands slid to her thighs. She gasped. The hem of the corset ended just above her hip bones—and he was already there, already parting her legs from behind.

He dragged her with him, easing her toward the vanity stool.

When she sat, he sank to his knees.

He was kissing up the inside of her thighs. Her reflection was flushed, her eyes glazed. His hands wrapped around her legs, steadying her while his lips found her softest, neediest place.

“You take everything I give you so well,” he said against her skin. “Even this corset—you wear it like it’s made of gold. Like it’s my name wrapped around your waist.”

And in a way, it was.

Because when she came—shaking, gasping, thighs locked around his head—the only thing she could feel tighter than the corset was his hold on her. Hands clutching her hips, arms trembling, heart pounding between her legs as he ruined himself to worship her right.

He helped her out of it later, too.

Lips brushing her shoulder like she was breakable. “Gotta take care of my favorite gift,” he said with a sleepy grin, cuddling her in the aftermath. “You. Always you

────୨ৎ────

And that look in his eyes. That Han Jisung look.

The one that said he was already imagining her ruined. That he wanted her messy and moaning, her lips on the spot that was his and hers alone. Her Name on his Arm. And she loved his Tatto. No one else ever saw it. No fans. No stage lights. Not even the boys.

Only her.

He always said it felt like a secret vow. Something just for them.

And when she kissed it?

God, he lost his mind.

Tonight she straddled his lap on the couch, fingers sliding up his sleeves. His hoodie bunched at the elbows as she leaned in, mouth warm on that sacred spot.

She kissed the letters. Slowly. Softly.

Then—bit.

A light scrape of teeth, just enough to make his breath hitch and his hips jerk beneath her.

“F–fuck,” he gasped, muscles flexing under her touch. “Do that again.”

So she did. Open-mouthed kisses. Teasing licks. Little nips right on the curve of the Last Letter of her Name.

All while his biceps bulged and his honeyed skin flushed under her mouth.

She loved his arms. Loved how he used them to cage her in, to lift her like she weighed nothing, to pull her down onto him like he couldn’t wait another second. And god, when he finally grabbed her hips and thrust up—it was over.

Her fingers curled around his tattooed arm like a handle.

“I got this so you’d never forget,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down her collarbone. “That I’m yours. Always yours.”

“Mm,” she moaned, grinding down on him. “Then claim me.”

And he did.

Right there, on the couch. Hoodie halfway off. Hair clinging to his forehead. His arm flexed and trembling beside her head while he fucked her like the world was ending.

And the whole time?

Her name was right there—pressed to the sheets, kissed raw, marked into his body.

────୨ৎ────

The studio lights were low—just a soft amber glow behind the monitors—and the only sound was the gentle thrum of his guitar as he tuned it, absentmindedly plucking at the strings with those unfair fingers. Rings glinting. Veins peeking.

She was already squirming in his lap.

“Baby,” he drawled, not even looking up. “You keep moving like that, and I won’t get this demo done.”

She barely heard him. Not when his fingers—calloused from years of music, fast from nights of practice—slipped under the hem of her skirt and pressed against her without warning.

“Ji—”

“Shh.” He looked at her then. Big eyes, sharp grin. Dangerous. “You can be quiet for me, yeah?”

She nodded, dazed, but the second his fingers started moving—really moving—all she could do was bite her lip and cling to the edge of the mixing desk.

And he kept talking.

About her.

“You know that Hermès bag you liked?” he said casually, like he wasn’t knuckle-deep inside her. “The new one. Rose tea color. I ordered it. Custom engraving on the charm.”

He curled his fingers just right, and her entire body jerked.

He smirked.

“She’ll deliver it next week. Maybe I’ll make you wear the corset with it.”

She tried to glare, to sass him back like always—but then he slid his thumb higher, slow circles with maddening pressure. All she could do was whimper.

His rings caught the light every time he moved.

Vivienne Westwood. Sharp, elegant, gold and black. One of them was engraved with her birthdate—his “lucky charm.”

“You hear this melody?” he murmured, guitar abandoned now, fingers moving in rhythm against her wet heat, while the demo was playing“I wrote it for how you sound when you fall apart.”

And then—

kissed her.

Not sweet. Not soft.

Just teeth and tongue and hunger, his hand still playing her like an instrument he knew better than his own guitar.

She came with his mouth over hers, her fingers in his hair, hips grinding into his palm like her body was begging.

When it was over, she collapsed against his chest, panting.

“Jisung,” she gasped.

And he just held her, stroking her thigh like he hadn’t just short-circuited her brain.

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” he whispered, grinning. “I still gotta feed you, baby. I picked up those stupid expensive rice cakes you like. And you’re not allowed to say no after I fingered you to my demo.”

────୨ৎ────

The tattoo machine buzzed low in the private studio. Tatto Fresh up. She sat across from him on a velvet bench, legs crossed, trying not to stare—but failing completely.

Han Jisung was shirtless.

Not for attention. Not this time. Just because his artist needed clean access to the inside of his upper arm, where her name was inked in delicate script. Right above the muscle that flexed when he held her close. Right where only she got to see it in full.

He sat there, breathing slow, gaze locked on her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You’re watching,” he said.

She blinked. “Of course I’m watching.”

He bit his lip at that—hard. The needle dragged across his skin and his fingers curled into the cushion, jaw tense, a barely-there hiss escaping his throat.

“Does it hurt?” she whispered.

He looked at her, eyes blown wide. “Yeah,” he breathed. “But I like it. You’re worth it.”

The artist kept working, careful and focused. And Y/N?

Y/N couldn’t stop staring. At the way the lines of her name deepened, darker now. Sharper. Permanent. At the way his other hand gripped his thigh—tense, trembling slightly—as though holding himself back from something. At the sweat that glistened on his golden skin, dampening the curls behind his ear.

The studio was warm. Too warm. And she swore she could feel it in her throat—that slow, sticky kind of want that started somewhere behind her ribs and pulsed all the way down.

When it was done, he stood. Walked over. Still shirtless, the new ink tender and glistening. He didn’t say a word.

Just offered his arm.

“Kiss it,” he whispered.

And she did.

Soft. Reverent. Lips to her name.

Then she bit.

Just a little. Just enough.

And he groaned—full-body, wrecked, neck tipping back like she’d ruined him in that one single second. “Fuck,” he mumbled. “You’ll kill me, baby. You know that?”

She just smiled, smug and sweet.

────୨ৎ────

Later, when they were tangled up in bed—her wearing nothing, him tracing her body like it was the only song he ever wanted to learn—he fed her sweet melon slices and kisses, made her tea and rubbed her feet, and whispered all the things he didn’t let the world see.

“I’d give you everything,” he said once, voice thick. “All of it. My awards, my money, my name—”

“You already did,” she whispered.

“Not enough,” he said, pulling her closer. “I’ll find more.”

And he always did.

She never had to ask.

He remembered everything. From the way she took her tea to the shade of pink that made her glow. From the size of her rings to the day she looked at a dog in a Adoption Center ad and said, “He looks like he wants to come home with us.”

He’d got the dog. Of course.

He filled her days with music, flowers, warmth.

But none of it compared to him.

Because it wasn’t the gifts, or the bags, or even the Vivienne Westwood necklaces. It wasn’t even the way he wrote her into every love song he ever touched.

It was the way he loved her.

All of her. Loudly. Delicately. Unapologetically.

And if she ever forgot it for even a second?

All she had to do was look at his arm.

Right where it said her name.

[jaeyvnie]

ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛ | 18+

— pairing: park jongseong x female reader

— cw: daddy dom!jay, sub!reader, praising, dlrty talk, some spit play, ch0king, implied br33ding

(A/N: i'm a little rusty and a little nervous but omg first cb post kinda nervous 🫣😛)

If there was one thing that made every bit of hard work a little bit more bearable throughout the day, it was the fact that Jongseong knew he'd be coming home to you. He knew you were already waiting for him, all soft and warm, smelling like heaven on earth and ready to give him whatever he craved.

So, when you were kneeling between his spread legs, your beautiful eyes widened almost innocently, he physically couldn't hold back the deep grunt escaping his throat.

"Just like that, baby", Jong whispered breathlessly, his head thrown back as you stroked his thick cock with both of your pretty hands, sending jolts of pleasure through his body in ways only you could do.

"Look at you, what a good girl you are", he grunted and bucked his hips up into your fists. Jong loved the way you almost immediately opened your mouth when the angry tip of his heavy cock grazed those pretty lips of yours.

"Gonna suck me off, baby? Gonna let Daddy fuck that pretty little throat, hm? Ask for it. Use your big girl words", he said firmly and gently wrapped his big, ring clad hand around your throat, making both of you gasp as he mirrored your reactions in an almost mocking manner.

"Please, fuck my throat, Daddy. Wanna make you feel good, have you let off some steam", you replied, your eyes were heavy and hooded, lips swollen from your teeth's abuse and the sight of your chest heaving so unevenly made Jay groan.

You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen and as he gently slapped his cock against your lips, he thought about how only he got to see you like this.

"Good", he tapped his wet tip against your bottom lip before you let your jaw fall open and he gently pushed his cock onto your tongue, "girl. So good for Daddy. God, you're gonna make me come so hard, baby."

"Please", you whimpered, thighs pressed together, one of your hand still stroked Jay's cock firmly when you wrapped your lips around his tip and relished in the sound of his deep grunts and growls, "please, Daddy."

"Keep that up, angel girl. Let Daddy hear how desperate you are", Jong replied and pulled his gock away, stroking it himself before his thumb pulled your chin down and you instinctively stuck your tongue out.

With a satisfied smile, Jongseong spat into your louth not once, twice but three tomes. Each time you swallowed and each time you thanked him before he chuckled in amusement, his beautiful eyes gleaming with desire.

"Goodness, you're so pathetic, baby. You know exactly what Daddy wants. Time for a reward, don't you think? Come on", Jongseong hummed and watched the way you slowly took more and more of his thick cock into your mouth and straight down your throat. Every inch that entered your warm throat made his eyes roll back a little harder and when you started drooling and gagging, he moaned just loud enough for your pussy to clench in utter despair.

"Daddy's good girl. Keep going, maybe I'll even fill you up with my cum tonight", Jong grunted and thrusted his cock all the way down your throat, "make me proud, baby."

(a/n2: if you're new to this blog just know i will talk about daddy and spit a LOT lol)

[warfaredoll]

𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭

[𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐞] 𝐄𝐫𝐢𝐤 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Erik coming home to his sweet wife who can’t help but become a emotional mess

thank u anon for requesting this ‹𝟹, pure fluff, wc 1k, will poulter is husband material

you turned toward the door, the sound of gravel crunching in the driveway. the knock was soft barely there as you looked through the small peep hole of the door

“Who is it?” you called out with a small smile on your lips

there was silence from the other side of the door and then his voice, deeper, rougher than you remembered but it was him

“your husband.” he replied

you didn’t even give yourself time to process it, your hand flew to the knob, twisted, and there he was

Erik stood there in his uniform, bag slung over one shoulder, sun catching the edges of his short buzzed blonde hair, he looked exhausted and handsome all at once

you didn’t let him say a word

you came up to him wrapping your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face in his chest with a shaky sigh of relief. his arms still hovering in the air for a second then slowly, they came down wrapping around your waist

one of his hands slid up to stroke your hair gently, fingers threading through it. “Hey” he murmured, voice soft against your temple

he just stood there with you in his arms, the door swung shut behind him with a quiet thump as he guided it closed with his foot, never loosening his hold around you

you finally pull back just enough to look at him, your arms still looped loosely around his neck. his eyes tenderly looked over you

“God” he breathes,“you look beautiful. even more than I remembered”

his fingers graze the thin strap of your dress, a smile tugs at the corner of his lips a little teasing. “you wore this one for me, didn’t you?”

you can only nod, “I know you like it” you whisper

“I love it” he says, “looks even better now that I’m here to see it on you.”

his hands come up to cup your face gently, thumbs brushing across your cheeks and his gaze softens even more

“I missed you so much. I thought about you every single day.”

your lower lip trembles as you look up at him, a pout starting to form. you bite it back, but the thoughts creep in anyway the thoughts of him in danger, in pain, alone.

he notices immediately. his brow furrows and he leans in a little closer, his thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. “Hey.” he murmurs. “don’t think about it right now. I’m here. I’m okay.”

“I just…” your voice cracks. “I can’t stop thinking about what you went through. what you probably saw.”

he presses his forehead gently to yours, closing his eyes.

“There were hard days. real hard. but you.. you were the only thing that got me through. every time it got bad, I just pictured your face. your laugh. you in this dress.” he chuckles softly, pulling back just enough to look at you again. “you don’t have to understand what I went through, just stay here. be here. that’s all I need.”

you let out a shaky breath as your hands find the front of his jacket, gripping the fabric tightly

but your pout deepens until it breaks completely. the emotions of it all comes over you hard and suddenly you’re crying, messy, breathless, with your face buried in your hands as if you could hide from it all. you hate crying like this, but it’s like every fear, every nightmare, every sleepless night just poured out all at once now that he’s finally, finally home.

“I’m sorry” you manage to hiccup through the tears, voice muffled and shaky. “I just-”

“Shhh, hey” Erik whispers, stepping closer trying to wrap you up in his arms again. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

his hands rub gentle circles along your back, trying to soothe you, to ease the ache he knows he caused by being gone even if it wasn’t his fault. he presses kisses into your hair murmuring, “I’ve got you. you’re okay now. we’re okay.”

the the tears won’t stop. your face is hot, your nose is running, and you’re pretty sure you’re getting snot all over the front of his uniform but he doesn’t care. he just holds you tighter

then he leans back a little, cupping your face in his warm hands, thumbs brushing at your tear streaked cheeks, his brow furrowed with worry. “Come here” he says softly, he bends slightly and picks you up into his arms

you softly gasp through your tears, your arms instinctively going around his neck, and your sobs continue but now your face is tucked against the warm crook of his neck. everything muffled

“I’ve got you” he whispers again, “let it all out.”

and you do

you cry into his neck, your fingers curling into his jacket, letting go of every terrifying thought you’ve held in for months. and he just holds you, walking you slowly into the living room murmuring sweet things into your ear

Erik lowers himself onto the couch, holding you close in his lap, one hand still cupping the back of your head the other wrapped tightly around your waist

you’re still crying quiet now but no less. your face is buried in the crook of his neck, warm tears soaking into his skin, and your fingers cling to the collar of his uniform like you’ll never let go

he doesn’t rush you. doesn’t tell you to stop or try to pull you out of what your feeling. instead, he leans his cheek against your temple and rocks you ever so gently, like you’re something precious

“Breathe baby” he whispers, lips brushing your hair. “I’m here. I’m really here. It’s over.”

your breath stutters, catching on another sob, and he hugs you tighter

“All that waiting, all those nights alone you don’t have to do that anymore” he says softly. “You don’t have to be afraid, you don’t have to fall asleep wondering if I’m okay.”

your fingers loosen just a little as his words sink in. your sobs are quieter now, more like soft hiccups and you shift slightly in his lap to look up at him through wet lashes

“I was so scared” you whisper, voice cracking. “every single day. I just kept thinking what if I lost you”

his face crumples a little, and he leans in to kiss the tears right off your cheeks.

“You did stay strong” he murmurs. “even when it was hard. even when I couldn’t be here. I know it wasn’t fair. I hate that you had to carry all of that all alone.”

he brushes his thumb across your cheek again, swiping at another tear.

“but i’m home now. I’m safe. and I swear to you, I’m not going anywhere. not for a long, long time.”

you nod slowly, another shaky breath leaving your chest as you rest your head against his shoulder. his fingers rub circles into your back, slow and soothing and you feel your body finally begin to relax in his arms

you’re still curled in his lap, legs draped over his

“You’re everything to me” he says quietly, his lips near your ear. “and I’m gonna spend every day reminding you of that.”

Erik shifts just enough to see your face again, his gaze full of nothing but tenderness. his thumb brushes under your eyes, wiping away the last of your tears. then with a small crooked smile he leans in and gently dabs at your nose with the sleeve of his jacket.

“You’re a beautiful snotty mess” he says with a soft laugh, voice warm and teasing but so full of love

you sniffle laughing softly against him “I’m sorry”

“Don’t be” he whispers, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You could cry all over me every day for the rest of our lives and I’d still think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

he reaches down then, cradling your hand in both of his. slowly he brings it up to his lips pressing a kiss to the ring he put there, a promise you both held onto through the longest months of your lives

his lips linger for a moment before he looks up at you again

“I love you” he says simply

you lean forward, and he meets you halfway pressing the gentlest kiss to your lips so full of love

when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. and neither of you moves

you stay like that his arms around you, your hand still held in his

[draft ﾞ✿ ࠬܓ ]

@k-pevensie28 @tenseoyong @ddlydevotion @https-junebug @glassbxttless @samslvrgirl @vinecstasy @f4nfic-lover @meetmeatyourworst @spacec0wgirl777 @bib200 @violetcamryn @illyrianbrat @willowpains @witchywidow97 @illyrianbrat

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 - 𓊆ྀི 𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𓊇ྀི

[mononijikayu]

when twenty year old itadori yuuji told his new found college friends he liked tall women, a tall women with a big ass. well, to be exact he said it the way you would confess about dumb crushes: half-laughing, half-serious, waving it off with a grin.

it wasn’t like he thought the universe was actually listening to him. why would the universe actually be doing something like that? he didn't expect anything out of the universe, especially with his luck.

but the universe had heard him well enough. rather too loud and too clear. and it sent you. you, whom was the tall woman with the big ass. but you were mor than that, he was certain. you were more than the beauty that captured his eyes. and he wanted to know it all. he wanted to know all of you.

he spotted you on a random day across the university gym, standing tall and glorious under the harsh lights, surrounded by weights that would’ve made half the guys in the room cry.

you had on black leggings and a loose tank top that still somehow clung in all the right places. and your ass — good god, your ass — moved with each powerful lift, flexing and perfect.

yuuji froze mid-step, one foot still dangling stupidly in the air. his brain promptly emptied itself like someone had hit the reboot button. you weren’t just tall. you weren’t just strong. you were the blueprint.

and you didn’t even notice him at first. if anything, you were too focused on your form, your breathing, your next lift. it wasn’t until he started hovering nearby (and very badly pretending to stretch) that you finally looked over, pinning him with a curious glance.

caught red-handed all at once.

yuuji panicked. his mouth moved faster than his brain.

you blinked at him, watching the panic happen.

"uh—hi!" he blurted. "you're really strong! like, uh, scary strong! but in a super-hot way! not scary scary, like... cool scary? good scary? shit, i'm so sorry—"

you lowered the barbell with a heavy clang, straightening to your full height. you were tall enough that yuuji had to tip his head back a little to meet your gaze. he gulped, flustered. you were also taller than him. you smirked. a slow, devastating thing.

"are you always this smooth?" you teased, one eyebrow arching up, "or am i just lucky?"

yuuji went brick-red in an instant, maybe redder than the color red. he scratched the back of his neck like it might somehow save him from the crater of embarrassment he was digging.

"uh—depends....." he stammered. "you’re like... really distracting. in a good way! a great way. in an amazing way! fuck, i'm so sorry."

you laughed at his panic. you found it adorable, found him adorable. but all he could focus on was that your laugh sounded so beautiful. it was a warm, rich sound that settled low in his gut, turning nervousness into something electric.

taking a step closer, you leaned in just enough that he caught the scent of your sweat mixed with something sweet, like coconut shampoo. he didn’t know if it was your presence, your voice, or just your proximity, but yuuji could feel his heart slamming against his chest like it was trying to break free.

you tilted your head, mock-studying him. "you lift, too?" you asked, playful. "or are you just here to stare?"

"i—both?" yuuji admitted, laughing a little helplessly. "i mean, i can lift, but it’s...not gonna be as impressive as whatever you just did."

you looked him up and down, slow and obvious, like you were sizing him up from head to toe and whether it was mercy or mischief, you smiled wide enough that it crinkled the corners of your eyes.

"well that's a good thing." you said, mirth beaming from you. "i like a guy who knows when he’s outmatched."

yuuji's mouth suddenly went dry. all of his dignity was long gone, packed its bags and fled the building. all he could do was grin back, dumb and dazzled. all too down bad for you, you who was now the apple of his eye.

"guess i’m about to be your biggest fan, then." he said, flashing that golden retriever smile that made girls melt but this time, it was him who was hopelessly melting for you.

the universe wasn’t just listening. it was setting him up for the best kind of defeat. a defeat he knew that he would accept wholeheartedly. after all, he'll be losing to you and that would be more than worth it to him.

you tossed the towel over your shoulder and leaned your hip against the barbell, giving him a look that was equal parts mischievous and challenging.

"since you're such a big fan of mine, would you mind doing something for me?" you said, voice light, teasing. " how dould you like to spot me?"

yuuji blinked. once. twice. his brain clearly blue-screened for a second. "me? spot you?" he echoed, like you had just asked him to solve quantum physics with a crayon.

you shrugged, casual, but your smile said you knew exactly what you were doing. "well unless you’re scared to do it." you added, sweet and deadly.

that did it. itadori yuuji straightened up immediately, fists clenching at his sides like he was mentally psyching himself up for the battle of a lifetime.

"scared? me? pfft. no way!" he said, chest puffing up in a way that would’ve been hilarious if it wasn’t so endearing. "i’m the bravest guy here. totally ready. born ready. yep."

"good to hear." you said, barely hiding your grin. "then come closer."

he scrambled to obey, practically tripping over a nearby dumbbell in his rush to get to you. when he finally positioned himself behind you, it hit him just how close he had to be. and worse, when you bent down to grip the bar again, your ass was right there.

right.

there.

yuuji went rigid. not because he wanted to. no, his body had officially gone into full emergency lockdown. he was sweating harder just standing there than he had during his entire workout.

he tried to focus on literally anything else: counting ceiling tiles, reciting multiplication tables in his head, wondering if he was having a heart attack at twenty years old.

you glanced back over your shoulder, catching the wide-eyed panic on his face. "you good back there, hero?" you teased, your voice dripping with mock innocence.

"y-yeah!" he squeaked, cracking his knuckles unnecessarily. "all good! super good! best spotter ever, that's me!"

you bit your lip to hold back your laughter and refocused, adjusting your grip. your muscles coiled, tense and beautiful, and then you lifted. it was heavy, controlled, powerful. the bar came up smooth and steady, and yuuji remembered just in time to hover his hands close to your sides, ready to assist if you needed it.

(you didn’t. obviously.)

still, when you finished the lift and set the bar down with a satisfying thud, you pushed yourself up slowly, straightening, and your back brushed lightly — deliberately — against yuuji’s chest.

he made a sound. a tiny, choked-off squeak that absolutely murdered whatever was left of his self-respect. you turned around fully, wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead, and looked him over with a wicked gleam in your eye.

"not bad, huh?" you said, tapping his chest lightly with one finger. "for your first time spotting me, you didn't pass out. i’m impressed."

"i almost did, i think." he confessed immediately, voice wrecked and breathless.

you laughed once again. perhaps even brighter than ever before. perhaps even brighter than the sun. he knew it was a real, bright laugh from you. and yuuji thought he could live in that sound forever. even if he'd just met you. he knew that laugh would be the path to his future. because the future looked beautiful, knowing, hoping, you would now be in it.

"good thing i’m tough!" you said, tossing your towel over your shoulder again. "otherwise you might've had to catch me."

"catch you, yeah....i will." yuuji repeated, dazed. "i'd catch you."

you looked him up and down again, slow and thoughtful. "yeah." you said, flashing a grin. "i think you would."

then you turned and walked away, hips swaying just a little extra, leaving yuuji standing there, absolutely annihilated, red-faced, and head over heels for you and fully, 100%, your newest and most devoted gym groupie.

the universe didn’t just listen.

it gifted him you in absolute permanence.

and he wasn’t letting go of that miracle anytime soon.

itadori yuuji stayed frozen for a solid thirty seconds after you walked away, staring at the spot you’d been standing like he was trying to memorize the very air you’d touched.

his brain was just a loop of she talked to me, she let me spot her, she didn’t laugh in my face, holy shit she smiled at me—he snapped out of it when he realized he was still standing there looking like a confused puppy.

pull yourself together, idiot! he thought, giving himself a little shake.

he started clumsily gathering up some weights, pretending to be busy, stealing glances at you while you loaded a few more plates onto your barbell. he wasn't slick. not even a little. you caught him instantly.

you set the bar down and walked back over to him, casual, like you hadn't just completely rearranged his universe ten minutes ago. "hey, stranger." you said, stopping right in front of him.

yuuji almost dropped the dumbbell he was holding. "y-yeah?" he squeaked.

you smiled at him beautifully. it was a slow, almost lazy smile that made something crash inside his chest. it was everything and more. he just stared at you enthralled for a while as you pulled out your phone, tapped a few things, then held it out to him.

"put your number in, will you?" you said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

yuuji blinked at it, dumbfounded. "you—me—you want my number?" he stammered.

you laughed, like he was the cutest thing you’d ever seen. "yeah, of course!" you said. "unless you'd rather just keep awkwardly hovering and tripping over dumbbells every time you see me."

he flushed scarlet. "no! i mean yes! i mean—i'll put it in!"

he fumbled his way through typing his number into your phone with trembling hands, somehow managing not to drop it on the floor like an idiot. he handed it back to you, standing so stiff it looked like he’d forgotten how arms worked.

you glanced down, smirking when you saw what he’d saved himself as: yuuji (your #1 fan 🐶)

god, he was hopeless.

you quickly shot him a text almost immediately. it was just a simple "hey 👋" because you couldn't think of anything else.

but the little hey was good enough. you watched his phone buzz in his pocket. he immediately yanked it out like it was on fire, staring at your name on the screen with wide, shining eyes.

he looked up at you like you’d just handed him the winning lottery ticket. "this is real, right?" he blurted. "like, you're actually texting me? you're not gonna... vanish or something?"

you laughed, tossing your towel back over your shoulder again. "i’m real." you said, winking. "and if you’re lucky, you’ll get to spot me again. maybe next time, i’ll even let you take me out for protein shakes."

yuuji made a noise that wasn’t even a word, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, and you turned on your heel and sauntered away before he could embarrass himself any more.

he watched you go, still clutching his phone like it was a sacred artifact. he didn’t know what kind of cosmic miracle he had stumbled into, but one thing was for sure: he was never missing leg day again.

[prettybugsinbandages]

Blot!reader Ending -> Whilom and Gone

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental stare or unable to handle darker themes.

A commotion stirs. It begins like thunder in the chest of the crowd, a crack of sound that startles and rolls, desperate hands reaching through bodies like roots seeking water in drought-stricken soil.

Someone is calling your name. Your real name.

Not the title you wore like a shroud. Not the nickname that softened your edges.

Your name.

The voice is frays—hoarse, raw with need. It claws through the noise, a tattered plea thrown into the wind as if desperation alone could stretch far enough to hold you back.

"Please—!" It breaks in the air. A sound meant to tether you, but you're already untethering.

And beside you, the Blot is still.

So still it could be a statue, if not for the shimmer of hope trembling beneath its ribs—tangled tight and thin like a string pulled to its last length. It does not speak. It does not beg. But its silence is louder than any cry.

Maybe you'll cradle it. Maybe you'll turn, take its hand, and flee the way lovers do in myth—gods and ghosts disappearing into the fog.

But you don't. Your gaze is cold—resolute. Winter-steeled.

This is the revenge you swore when you made the pact— The poison laced into your vow. The hurt you promised to deliver as penance for the ache they'd carved into your soul like a name into bark.

They wore you like sacred threat, stitched into their bones, carried you like a talisman. But they never saw the fraying. The single knot at your heart that, when pulled, unraveled the whole tapestry.

You part your lips to speak—to scorch them with words meant to blister. To scar. A final dagger honed in your ribcage for this moment alone.

But instead... You smile. And then you laugh.

It spills from your chest—thick, golden, like honey boiling in a broken jar. Sticky with truth. The most beautiful sound you've ever made—and it isn't for him.

It's for you.

In that moment—between your breath and your burning— They understand.

They understand everything.

The missed chances, the paper-cut apologies never sent, the sins they swore were harmless.

They realize how easy it had been to pretend you'd be around forever.

And now their mouths are full of words they'll never say. Too late. Too full of rot. Too small for the wound.

You watch despair bloom behind their eyes—a crack in glass, delicate and terminal. Your own eyes are distant now. Indifferent. Like a ghost staring out from behind a mirror.

Then, quietly, You turn. And you leave.

Let them sort through the ashes. Let them pick up pieces they never knew they broke. Let them wade through the guilt like a tide they thought they could outswim.

They won't change until you're gone.

Isn't that funny?

He'll pace past his own reflection now; unable to meet the eyes of the person that drove you away.

Back and forth like a metronome wound too tightly, hands busy with a sweater you left behind, folding shirts meant for a person who no longer exists. He replays the old song you used to hum—not quite right, off-key, like a spell recited by someone who doesn't believe in magic anymore.

He buys your favorite drink. Leaves it on the table. Forgets it's there until it rots. He'll search your scent in aisles of perfumeries and candles and find nothing close enough. He'll try to replace it and gag on the synthetic.

He didn't suffer for what he did. But he'll suffer now.

He'll rot from the inside you, choked on every memory left behind. A ghost haunting the life he thought you'd stay in.

And as for you— Your feet know the way before your heart does. Over uneven pavement and broken sidewalk cracks, past the tagged street sign you once pointed out with a laugh. Through shortcuts you forgot had names. Through alleys that only mattered now that they are yours again.

You look insane. Laughing in odd, foreign clothes. Wind-swept and half-feral. A missing person returned to earth, shedding fantasy like old skin.

But for once— You're not a chosen one. You're not cursed or divine. You're not a puzzle to be solved or a prophecy to fulfill.

You are someone whose coffee order is remembered by name. Someone whose favorite flower grows near the mailbox. The boy in the hall knows your favorite color. The girl at the bus stop knows your music taste.

No grand magic. No haunted past. Just faint recognition. Just warmth.

It's enough.

You return home. To the endless hum of a cheap fan, tot he familiarity of old blankets, to warm hands that grip you tight enough to shake. They don't let go—afraid you'll vanish again.

You cry over breakfast. You laugh into leftovers. You fall asleep under the weight of soft, human love—the kind that doesn't demand you perform for it.

Your home smells like that one candle you have and the smell of detergent that you can only notice when you're gone.

A thin, red scar remains on your left ring finger—an echo of a promise, a ghost of a bond once forged in blood. An artifact that once held you upright, that once puppeted your limbs like a marionette of grief. It no longer works here. It doesn't belong.

The Blot once told you the world rights itself. A broken piece returns damaged, yes—but still returns.

And here?

Here, you are whole. Your world cradles your fragile soul and repairs its shattered bones.

Your lungs no longer ache with rigor. Your heart doesn't rattle like an empty cage. You are not a ruin. You are not a corpse.

You are alive.

Let them mourn. Let them remember. Let them scream your name into the sky, scratch it into stone, weave it into stories they'll never finish. Let him wear your voice like a wound. Let your smile haunt every place you touched.

But you—

You won't remember them.

Somewhere, far from your warmth, in a school rotting beneath its golden reputation, your last laugh echoes through empty halls—an unending, unanswered whisper.

Your portrait hangs in the halls of Night Raven College—not as a saint, not as a sinner. As a question. A sigh. A shadow.

Your name is face is drawn in the corner of old textbooks, your name carved under a desk .

And in the stillest hour of the night, he hears you in the quiet— Not a scream. Not a laugh.

A sob.

He hears grief he'd been deaf to before.

And you?

You're wrapped in warm sheets, safe in a world that forgot your sins and never expected your sacrifice.

You're somebody.

Even when no one's watching. Even when you're alone.

[ENDING -> Go Home]

Go back?

Okay.

[ankababy]

A Home (part 31)

Part 1 Part 30

Chishiya x reader x Niragi

Short chapter bc it needed the tragic end.

AN: Sorry guys that this is later than usual. In Another Universe took up my time and I even wrote more of it, so I’ll post another part of that after this is done. Love y’all <3

The Beach’s leftovers jumped at Aguni. One by one, they surged at him. And Aguni—Aguni tore through them.

Chishiya watched it all from above. Motionless. God, how understandable it was. The violence. The grief.

Because now he saw it.

Why you’d always talked about Aguni with a strange kind of reverence. Not loyalty, no. But there was that edge in your voice when you spoke about him. As if he wasn’t a person, but a monument. A constant. Something worthy of surviving. Something bigger.

And watching Aguni now? Yeah. Chishiya finally got it. The man wasn’t just strong. He wasn’t just terrifying. He moved like someone who had already died a hundred times inside. He fought like a man with nothing left to lose—which made him invincible. Unkillable.

Someone lunged at him with a broken bottle. Aguni slammed him down with one arm like he weighed nothing. Another came at his side and got a boot to the chest so hard it sounded like ribs cracking.

Blood smeared the floor like spilled ink. Bodies piled in twisted heaps.

And of course you didn’t fight. Of course you stood there, above it in your own way. Breathing heavy, trembling, lip bitten, hands slick with someone else’s blood—but not striking. Not clawing. Not losing yourself.

You were above it. Like always.

Even in the middle of all this fuck, you looked like something out of a fever dream. Bloody knees, dried streaks of tears on your face.

Chishiya saw it and hated it. Hated how you were still the most beautiful thing in the room. Hated how Aguni, a man currently crushing someone’s collarbone with his foot, got to be someone you once trusted. Looked up to. Loved, even—maybe not in the way you loved others, but deeply.

He watched you flinch when Aguni elbowed someone hard enough to knock a tooth out. He saw how your lips parted when the blood sprayed. And he saw how you didn’t move. No running. No screaming. Just watching. Feeling it. Carrying it. All of it.

God, you were so human.

And Chishiya? He felt like a ghost. Cold and unwanted. Haunting the place where he lost you.

There was too much happening. Arisu trying to stand, all bloody. Tatta’s useless hands shaking at his sides. You—at the center of the world again, torn and tired, and out of reach.

Wrong.

Everything was wrong.

And worse, it was too late to fix it.

Chishiya didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not when he saw you run—stumble—to where Tatta had collapsed. Tatta had been pushed, thrown, maybe grazed by someone else’s fall. It didn’t matter. You were already there. On your knees again, bruised and bloodied. Not caring about the slick floor beneath you or the danger still in the air. All you saw was your friend, and that soft thing in your chest refused to go numb even when everything else told it to shut off.

“Are you okay?” you said, hands fluttering over Tatta like you didn’t know where to touch. His arm, his face, the shoulder he fell on. “Are you—are you hurt? Tatta, look at me—”

Chishiya watched it all from above, and it hit him. You were unreal. Still choosing kindness. Still choosing people. Still bleeding, but more worried about someone else’s cuts than your own.

God, how much Chishiya felt.

It was disgusting.

Because what was he supposed to do with that kind of emotion? Bottle it? He’d already tried that, and it shattered like glass the moment you kissed him in the security room. Or maybe it was before that. Maybe it was when you picked him. Maybe it was when you left.

Whatever the timeline, one thing was very clear now: you were no longer his.

And yet, he wanted to crawl down there and take your hands in his. Check your knees.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Because when he saw your face—wide-eyed, scared, gentle—he also saw the wall you’d built between you and him. It was invisible, but it might as well have been made of reinforced steel. You’d placed it there with purpose. Rage. A sense of betrayal.

Chishiya had no one to blame but himself.

He thought he was playing the long game. Keeping his distance, staying clever, never caring too much—until he did. Until you.

You, with your too-big heart and too-soft voice. You, crying as you helped Tatta sit up. You, shaking as you said, “You’re okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re safe now.”

You were traumatized and exhausted and perfect.

God, he hated how much he wanted to be the one you clung to. He hated that it wasn’t him. That he’d built the steps to lead you closer only to watch you jump off the edge. It was funny, in a sick way.

Then suddenly, that crackling, high-pitched sizzle of a laser slicing through air and then through skull. Of the girl who came with you. That sickening, too-fast drop of a body before it even finishes the sentence. The wet thud on the ground. The way her body didn’t even jerk.

Chishiya blinked.

Fascinating.

It always was. The game master, the higher power, whoever was up there pressing the button—they didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. Not for youth, or fear, or humanity. Not even when someone volunteered to die.

She told the truth.

And it killed her.

Hilarious. Beautiful, even. If you were a sociopath. Which Chishiya maybe was.

But he barely got to savor the morbid splendor of it all, because there you were again.

You’d flinched. Hard. Like the sound of her dying had split something in you open again, and now you were holding your breath, hand clutched over your mouth, eyes wide with a horror that Chishiya couldn’t name anymore. You weren’t shocked because someone died. No, no. You’d seen too much for that.

You were shocked because someone chose it.

And for what? A truth? A confession? Fuck off.

God, it broke him. In the softest, quietest way.

You had blood on your face. Someone else’s, maybe. It didn’t matter. It only made you more human. More you. And still, you hadn’t lost your heart. Still, you gave a fuck. And that was the cruelest part of it all.

Because Chishiya never did.

And now, in the middle of all this, watching a girl’s body slump forward with a burnt-out hole in her skull, the only thing he could think about was you.

How warm you were.

How you spun in that chair in the security room.

How you kissed him.

How your knees were bleeding and you still went to help someone else.

How you left him, and he deserved it.

This was the punishment.

Not the games.

You.

Chishiya never believed in karma. But watching you right now, he wondered if this was what it felt like to finally be on the losing end. To feel everything.

To fall in love too late.

And now, of course, he couldn’t even say it. What good would it do? You wouldn’t believe him. You’d look at him with those eyes, angry and red and disappointed, and maybe you’d laugh. Or cry. Or leave again.

So he just stayed where he was. Silent. Watching.

The girl’s body still warm on the floor, blood creeping in every direction. And you—his heartbreak personified—clutching someone else’s hand. God, was he so unbelievably fucked.

One moment, just movement in the smoke. Then—there Kuina was. Arm slung tight around Ann, who looked half-conscious, dragging her toward the center of whatever was happening.

Ann just told all the people down there that the witch killed herself.

And that was that.

The witch. The answer.

The crowd didn’t cheer. Not really. Some sighed. Some collapsed. One or two cried.

Chishiya didn’t care. Not about that.

Because Kuina was looking at you.

Dried blood streaked your skin, your knees were raw, your mouth parted like you were about to say something but forgot how.

Kuina had no clue.

No clue you’d stood in the crossfire between two men who’d cracked your mind open and ruined you. No clue you’d begged, screamed, snapped, bled. No clue you’d saved people and been betrayed and kissed someone you shouldn’t have and watched another girl burn from the inside out. She didn’t know that you weren’t even standing there anymore. Not really. You were shattered into a thousand invisible pieces.

And Chishiya—

God, Chishiya.

He’d never felt more in his life.

It was unbearable. Almost stupid. He was angry at himself for it. For feeling this much. For letting you crawl under his skin so deep that now even your exhaustion cracked him apart.

Because you were done. Anyone could see it. Even in that crowd, even from this distance, you looked like someone who’d survived something that would never leave. Someone who wouldn’t ever fully go back to the version of herself that walked into the Beach weeks ago. Someone who was changed.

And it wasn’t romantic.

It wasn’t poetic.

It was cruel.

He was part of that change.

It made him sick. And it made him want.

Kuina glanced upward, then. Saw him. Their eyes locked.

She frowned. It wasn’t judgmental. It wasn’t scolding. But it was like a silent, stabbing question. What did you do?

And Chishiya had no answer.

Because he didn’t know.

Because he did.

Because it didn’t matter now.

You had looked up too, just for a second. Not at him. Just at the hallway he was on. And he swore his heart stopped—not because you saw him, but because you didn’t.

You didn’t look for him.

Like he’d already been filed away in your head, locked behind a door labeled “never again.”

That was a death sentence, too.

But no laser came for him.

Only silence.

And the echo of your eyes looking somewhere else.

The crowd had started moving. The girl’s body was about to get lifted. The flames were still burning, everything orange. The fire had spread. No one was watching it. No one was thinking. They were just going.

Gunshots.

Everyone froze.

And from the fire—Niragi. Burned. Shirtless, skin blackened in patches and slathered in a sheen of blood and soot, mouth twisted into something that wasn’t human.

He was holding a gun.

He was shouting. Something incoherent at first. Then words. And then—BANG BANG BANG BANG—shots. Real ones. Screams erupted. Some people got shot. Others fled. The crowd fractured instantly, like glass.

And from above, Chishiya watched.

He wasn’t watching Niragi, he was watching you.

You looked like your soul had been pulled out of your chest by the sheer sight of him. Because even like that—burned and fucked and dangerous—he was still Niragi.

Your Niragi.

And you were still you.

Chishiya’s stomach dropped.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t run. You looked—and for a split second, your entire face collapsed into a portrait of heartbreak so pure, it made Chishiya dizzy. Your mouth opened, closed. You reached out and took Tatta’s hand again.

Chishiya could feel it. Your panic. Your guilt. Your love. Still there. Still rooted, no matter how wrong it all was. And for the first time in his life—first time—Shuntaro Chishiya felt sympathy. Real, ugly, gut-wrenching sympathy.

For you.

For Niragi.

For the complete fucking disaster of everything.

Because look at you.

Look what they’d done to you.

Look what he’d done to you.

It wasn’t fair. It was never fair. You, with your therapist heart and smart mouth and kindness that wasn’t ever performative. You didn’t belong in this.

You were good.

And now you were standing in the middle of a burning building, watching a man who once loved you—still did—melt from the inside out and shoot at anything that moved.

Chishiya wanted to puke.

And still, still, a little voice inside him whispered—You did this too.

He did.

He fucking did.

Chishiya would’ve enjoyed the show. Truly. The chaos, the poetry of the witch hunt eating itself alive. But not like this. Not while you were down there. Not with your heart in your throat.

God, you were his favorite person.

And you were ruined.

Niragi was shouting at everyone and no one. Foam practically at his mouth, fire reflecting in his eyes like hell had made him its messenger. His gun barked with each spasm of his rage. People ran. Some dropped. A few screamed. Most didn’t even get the chance.

His eyes landed in your direction.

His girl.

The one who slipped through his fingers like smoke. The one who left him standing in his own madness. The one who loved him—he knew you did, even if you were too soft to say it now.

Even Chishiya, watching from above, stopped breathing.

Niragi raised the gun and fired in your direction.

Tatta had already launched himself forward, dragging you behind a bar or part of a collapsed wall—he couldn’t quite see. Smoke had swallowed the lower floors. And you—you were gone in the gray.

No flash of your hair. No sound of your voice.

Nothing.

Chishiya stared.

Hard.

Unmoving.

He scanned the crowd again.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Still—nothing.

And that was when it hit him. That was when the stupid, awful, dumbass realization kicked in:

You were out of sight.

No. No no no no no.

BANG.

Another shot.

Then another.

Chishiya didn’t see if it hit.

And he didn’t move.

Because that’s who he was, right? A fucking coward. A too-smart-to-die observer. The chess player on the sidelines. The man who never got dirty. The man who never made real moves.

Lazy fuck. That’s what he was.

Not emotionally lazy, no. That would have implied he had emotion to begin with. But now? Now, there was something in his chest clawing to get out. Like a rat locked in a glass box. Panic? Dread? Something so feral it didn’t even have a name. Something that screamed at him for just standing there as someone he lo— someone he needed disappeared in smoke and gunfire.

And still. Still. He didn’t move. Because Chishiya didn’t do desperation. He didn’t do love. Except, he did now, didn’t he?

God, he hated himself.

He actually hated himself.

You were gone. That was all he could register now. The weight of it settled on his spine like lead.

You were out of sight.

And he let it happen.

~

The witch hunt ended.

The building was still on fire.

It wasn’t urgent about it anymore—more like a slow, rolling burn, like even the flames had grown tired of it all and were just finishing their shift.

Chishiya stood in the middle of the lobby, hands in his pockets, looking like someone had asked him to pick a wine for dinner. Kuina stood at his side, arms crossed. She watched him casually pick up the card from the little table.

“…Have you seen her?” she asked.

No answer.

Oh, okay. So we’re doing the selective hearing thing now. Fine.

Kuina scoffed quietly, shaking her head and stepping back a little. It was always like this with him. “Where is she?” she asked again. She really would’ve let it go, but this was about you. Kuina didn’t play about Y/N.

“I don’t know.”

And that was the truth. (Which is why it felt like a fucking lie.)

Kuina narrowed her eyes at him. “She was with you a hour ago.”

“And then she wasn’t.” he replied. “It’s what people do.” Silence between them, the sound of the flames. “You liked her.” Chishiya said casually, folding the card into his palm like he was tucking a receipt into his pocket.

Kuina blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head. “You liked her. I knew.”

“Oh, go to hell.”

He hummed, looking at the flames licking what used to be the bar. “Probably will.”

Kuina scoffed, crossing her arms.

“You gonna tell me I’m delusional now?” she muttered, still breathless from running and fighting and the unbearable weight of maybe losing you.

But Chishiya only shrugged. “We broke up.”

Kuina blinked. “You—what?”

“She and I.” he said, shifting his weight to one foot, flicking a glance over at her. “We broke up. Tragic, really.”

“You were never together.”

“Hm.”

She stared at him. Hard. “You’re such a dick.”

“Absolutely.”

But Kuina wasn’t stupid. She saw the way he hadn’t stopped fiddling with the card in his pocket. The way his hand shook just once before he locked his joints again. The way he still hadn’t asked anyone else if you were okay—because that would make it real, wouldn’t it? If he said your name out loud and no one answered?

So instead, he deflected. Mocked. Threw little knives at the air to distract himself from the gaping hole in his chest.

He didn’t say that his heart had dropped out of his ribcage when you disappeared. He didn’t say he’d imagined every single worst-case scenario in the span of five seconds, each more vicious than the last. He didn’t say that the sight of you running to someone else—that idiot Tatta, of all people—was enough to make him feel like he was made of glass being stepped on.

No.

Instead, he made breakup jokes about a relationship that had never technically existed. Just to keep his ribs from caving in. Because feelings are optional, apparently. Because watching the girl he might—might—have loved almost die in a hail of bullets wasn’t enough to crack that wax doll exterior.

Kuina didn’t laugh. She just shook her head, the way you do when someone’s too far gone to slap back into shape.

“Idiot.” she murmured.

“Genius.” he corrected.

~

You walked.

The Beach was behind you.

Burning.

And fuck, did you wish it would burn faster.

Niragi shot you in the upper arm. You were wet and warm and sticky with blood that soaked you right down to the ribs. Your knees were a wreck. Torn open, raw, pulsing. Your feet dragged through the dirt and grass like they didn’t belong to you. Because nothing belonged to you anymore. Not your body. Not your mind. Not your fucking heart.

They’d taken that.

He. They. Them.

Chishiya and Niragi, Niragi and Chishiya, two sides of a sick, fucked-up coin, tossed in the air and caught between your palms. You loved them—idiot. Idiot.

You had loved them. Had trusted them. Had been toyed with like some little rubber-band plaything that bounced back no matter how many times they pulled it to the brink.

And the worst part? You’d liked it. You’d liked it. The attention, the heat, the danger, the fucking games. The way Chishiya looked at you. The way Niragi wrapped his existence around you. You’d swallowed it all down, like a masochist.

And it cost you everything.

Hatter was dead. The Beach was gone. You were bleeding, alone, and broken in more places than just your skin.

Your mouth hadn’t opened in minutes. Maybe hours. What the fuck was time, anymore?

But inside your skull?

Inside your chest?

You were screaming.

They fucking used you. Played you like a violin. Pulled the strings, sweet little therapist girl, smart little observer, let’s see how far we can push her before she breaks.

And you broke.

Oh, you broke. Snapped like dry bone. Caved in under the weight of all the things they didn’t say out loud. All the little manipulations. All the conversations you were meant to overhear. All the times you were asked to choose—between them, between yourself, between safety and destruction. And you’d chosen them. Time and time again.

God, what a loser.

Your breath hitched. The pain in your arm spiked and you hissed between your teeth, slapping a blood-covered hand to it. It wasn’t a deep wound, probably missed anything that would kill you. Niragi wasn’t trying to kill you. He never would.

Not his girl.

No. Just shoot near you. Shake you. Rattle you.

See if you’d crawl back like a dog.

And Chishiya? Oh, he didn’t need a gun. He just needed a whisper. A kiss. A little truth dropped like acid in your ear, right when it would hurt the most.

He knew what he was doing.

Fucker.

You stumbled now—legs giving out under you for just a second—and caught yourself on a dead tree, gasping. Breathing so hard your chest trembled. You looked like a corpse with a pulse. Hair matted to your face, sweat and blood and soot all over your hands, arms, collarbone.

Was there anyone left to care?

Tatta. Arisu and Usagi. Kuina, Ann… gone. Everyone was gone.

Even them.

Especially them.

You weren’t their girl.

You weren’t anyone’s fucking girl.

You didn’t even know who you were. Not anymore. Not after what they did to you.

But you would figure it out.

Step by step. Foot in front of the other. Through the wreckage. Through the pain.

You didn’t care where you were going. As long as it was away. Far away from what they turned you into. Far away from the monsters you once loved.

You kept walking.

Didn’t matter that the shoulder was bleeding. Didn’t matter that the joint throbbed, or that the bikini was disgusting with all the blood. Didn’t matter that the knees were both scraped open, rocks digging in, skin shredded. Your palms were wrecked, too. Burned. Cut. One was still shaking from the impact of the door you’d broken down.

But that wasn’t the part that hurt.

No, it was your chest.

Your chest was fucking hollow.

Like someone had carved your ribs open and scooped out your lungs and heart and left behind this—this—this buzzing, empty, furious static that filled your ears and blurred your eyes and made it so hard to even breathe.

You had to throw up.

Your heart was broken in a way that felt unforgivable.

Not “he didn’t like you back” broken. Not “we drifted apart” broken. But betrayed, stomped-on, you were never real to them broken.

You should have known. You did know. Somewhere, deep down, you’d known something was wrong, something was off. The way Chishiya never gave you the full truth. The way Niragi pulled and pulled and pulled on your leash like he thought he owned your fucking spine. And you’d let them. Because you were stupid. Because you thought they cared. Because you thought you were special. Because you thought—fuck—because you loved them.

You should have watched it burn.

You wanted it to burn.

The Beach. The memories. Their hands on you. Their mouths. Their flawless faces. Their whispered, fucked-up, manipulative little games. All of it. You wanted it gone. You wanted every piece of it reduced to ash. Let the smoke take it. Let the fire cleanse it. Let it all go up in flames so you never had to feel their names in your chest again.

You wanted Chishiya to burn with it.

You wanted Niragi to rot in it.

You wanted to be the one to light the match.

You kicked a rock as hard as you could, teeth clenched so tight your jaw ached. The rock skipped once and then vanished into the trees ahead. Your ankle protested the motion. You didn’t stop.

You wanted the earth to split open beneath your feet.

You wanted the whole world to pay.

But most of all…you wanted them to hurt.

You wanted Niragi to feel even one percent of the ache he carved into your chest. You wanted him to wake up in a cold sweat every fucking night with your name in his mouth and his own guilt crushing his ribs. You wanted Chishiya to sit with that little face of his, controlled, until it cracked under the weight of realizing that he lost you. That he chose to lose you.

He had you.

And he let you go.

You clawed at your own shoulder, dragging bloody fingers through the sweat on your neck, trying to pull it together. You didn’t want to cry anymore. Crying was over. Crying was done. There was no room for softness in this body anymore.

You were everything they made you.

Everything they deserved.

They were nothing.

Not compared to you.

You were still alive.

Still breathing.

Still moving.

They could burn.

You wouldn’t.

The world didn’t deserve your footprints, but you gave them anyway. You pressed your rage into the dirt with every step. You carved your hate into the earth.

There was no forgiveness in you.

None.

If there was a god, you’d spit in its face.

You would take everything you were, everything they took from you, and twist it into something worse, something louder.

Now you saw it all.

And you hated.

Oh, you hated.

With every atom in your body. With the marrow in your bones. With the air in your lungs that you didn’t even want to breathe because they had breathed it too.

You wanted them dead.

Not out of revenge.

Not out of heartbreak.

But because they deserved it.

Because they earned it.

And the worst part? The most monstrous, terrifying part of it all? Is that if either one of them reached out for you again…if either of them said your name like it still meant something…you don’t know if you’d slap their hand away or fall into it.

Because they didn’t just break your heart.

They rewrote it.

And now it beat in a language you couldn’t unlearn. Their language. Their lies. Their fingerprints smudged into every syllable of your soul.

You stumbled sideways, half-blind, and crashed against a tree. Your shoulder smashed into the bark first—bad move. Hurt. You cried out, breathless, and your knees followed, they buckled. The dirt met you.

Your body was shaking.

Every breath was a fight, pulled through gritted teeth and a throat raw from screaming and smoke. You were trembling.

Nausea.

Your stomach heaved up into your throat. But you had nothing to give—hadn’t eaten, hadn’t drunk anything that wasn’t tears or adrenaline in what felt like days—so all you had was the gag. The horrible, choking, wrenching sound of your body trying to spill grief that had nowhere to go.

You doubled over.

Gagged.

Dry-heaved.

Sweat mixed with tears. Your mouth tasted like bile and blood and fire. You pressed your forehead to the bark, hands gripping the trunk. Your body seized up again and again, you clawed at the bark, heaving, shaking, gagging so hard your vision blurred.

Nothing came up.

Still, your body kept trying. Over and over. Your throat burned. You choked on your own spit. You tasted metal and dirt and that awful, sharp nothing of being completely emptied out.

And you cried.

Not soft. Not delicate.

You sobbed.

Ugly, gut-deep sobs that racked your whole body. There were no words anymore. No thoughts. Just the sound of your lungs being wrung out and the sharp stabs of betrayal pulsing in your chest with every beat.

You stayed like that for minutes. Maybe hours. No idea.

But something… strange happened, then.

Somewhere in the choking and the gasping and the heart torn wide open—

—you felt beautiful.

Not cute. Not hot. Not the kind of beautiful that came with lip gloss and a smile.

No.

Real beautiful.

You were bleeding and broken and not even sure if you were alive, but god, you’d never felt more yourself.

You wiped your mouth on your sleeve, smearing blood and dirt across your lips like lipstick. The shoulder still pulsed. The knees still bled. But you sat with your back to the tree. Slowly. Surely. Your hands were trembling so hard they barely even registered against the bark. Blood from your palms smeared onto the trunk like paint. Your head thunked against it next, breath coming in ragged, pitiful gasps.

You felt like dying. You wanted to live.

@lizntstoptalking @cherryheairt @fiction-fantasy-folks @monkey4lifer @psychicyouthfox @so-dramatic1 @mypsychoticlove @unhinged-sorcerer @rattymess @mocchii-writes @adanfore @scarlet703 @fluentgoddess @maxinehufflepuffprincess @onyxmango @bluerthanvelvet444 @risingofjupiter @enhasrii @potato-vagina @cherryyserenade @l5byrinth @soaplickerrr @sillyenemyarcade @miellette @sk1ndx0 @stopcallingmeimovedon @4ngeltrumpettt

[honeygrahambitch]

"I heard there's a new victim," Hannibal said after Will sat in his usual place. "Your new serial killer seems to progress fast."

"Yeah, if you know about that then Jack probably complained about me as well," Will replied, smiling quickly.

A mask. Hannibal remained focused.

No, he didn't have to put a mask in front of him.

"He did, in fact. I politely disagreed," Hannibal answered, "You will catch him soon enough."

"No, I don't care about what Jack said, it's just the way he says it. He never tells me I'm doing a bad job," Will explained and let out a sigh he didn't know he was holding, "he likes to remind me who the victims were and how many other families will attend their daughters' funerals during the next week."

Of course, Will was immune to insults but he was not immune to putting himself in other people's shoes. Jack's manipulation technique was probably only meant to motivate Will but instead it ruined him.

"Then you have to empathize with the killers and victims and the families of the victims all at once," Hannibal concluded. "My question is, who will empathize with you then?"

Will parted his lips, about to give an answer but it felt like no words would come out.

Hannibal gave him time to reflect. When Will's eyes filled with tears instead, he tilted his head slightly, as if he was admiring a piece of art in a new light.

"I'm sorry, it's been a long week," Will apologized as the tears escaped, followed by more.

Hannibal got up from his seat, as the view lured him in, almost the same way the songs of mermaids hypnotized the sailors.

He knelt in front of Will and watched him with admiration.

"You can cry in front of me, Will. Always." Hannibal comforted him. The sob that Will let out was followed by more tears.

How grateful and mesmerized he felt by witnessing such a rare view. A side of Will that he only probably keeps to himself.

There was so much beauty and grace in his turmoil. Hannibal was tormented by many contradictory feelings. He wanted to watch him cry yet he wanted to take his pain away and punish everyone responsible for it, like a mighty God. And there was the hunger too.

Seeing Will so vulnerable, so open, like a fresh paper cut, awakened Hannibal's hunger in ways he was not aware of.

"My dearest," Hannibal whispered as he lifted Will's chin with grace, "look at you, you're so beautiful."

It might have sounded like a superficial comment if it hadn't been voiced by Hannibal.

The usual gray-blue orbs seemed now almost turquoise because of the red shade of the surrounding white which was traversed by the finest capillaries.

Instead of wiping away the tear that escaped the corner of Will's left eye, Hannibal leaned in.

Will expected to feel a tender kiss right on his cheekbone but instead, Hannibal's tongue made contact with his skin. He tasted the salty tear the same way he would savour a glass of red wine.

The lick turned into a kiss right by the outer corner of Will's eye. Will did not draw back, nor did he seemed overwhelmed by the intimacy of the gesture. For a second, when their glances met, it felt like Hannibal was waiting for him to approve.

He could have stared into those bright blue eyes for an eternity and it wouldn't have been enough. The shade reminded him of the inviting nature of the Mediterranean sea early in the morning, when no one had yet ruined its perfect surface.

"Beautiful," he repeated.

Elegantly, and somewhat in awe after Hannibal's gesture, Will hesitantly turned his other cheek to Hannibal, as a new tear rolled down.

Hannibal smiled and once again licked the tear away sensually, taking his time, prolonging the contact with Will's skin as long as possible.

Will was not sure if it was the intimacy of it, Hannibal's calming presence or the sweetness of his words that soothed him. Somewhat being appreciated by Hannibal held a certain power.

It made him feel appreciated. In the strangest ways. The simple fact that Hannibal delighted himself with his tears and puffy eyes took away all his previous frustration.

For the first time during that week, he did not empathize with anyone. He felt anchored to his chair, in front of Hannibal's hungry yet soothing glance.

"Now you know I'm not an ugly crier," Will broke the silence, causing Hannibal's smile to widen.

"Quite the opposite, my love. You're divine."

[hrrtshape]

please explain in the beautiful way you explain you things… how does it feel to finally kiss that person? to hold their hand and hum? to smell their hair and hear their laugh and have your knuckles kissed and be held at night?

it feels like giving someone else the password to your childhood email. like letting them see what you named your neopet. or worse, your first draft of a love letter written in comic sans and saved as "final final (2).docx" kissing him is that. that level of mortification. that level of.... okay. fine. you can have it. have the old shame. have the soft belly. have the archive.

you kiss him and suddenly you're fluent in a language that shouldn't exist. your whole life you've memorised things: national insurance numbers, multiplication tables, birthdays of people you barely tolerate. you catalogue, you collect, you file under "maybe relevant someday," and then he kisses you, and you're archiving the wrong things. you're remembering the shade of september sunlight, the exact second his eyelashes close, the sound, god, the fucking sound, of his breath hitching like it's about to leap from something tall.

holding his hand is inconvenient; your fingers were built for restless gestures, for flicking through worn paperbacks and tapping on glass counters and tracing subway maps upside down. your fingers are chaotic, unreliable narrators, yet here they are, quietly cooperating, curling into his palm like the page-corners of a favourite novel, softly creased, inexplicably careful. it's terrifying how naturally this tenderness arrives, unannounced, without clearance.

and his hand is warm. he runs hot. physiologically. and when he holds yours it feels like you're holding a radiator. you're being spoon-fed trust through the palms. maybe this is why humans started holding hands to begin with. not for comfort. but because it's the only place left on the body where skin is dumb enough to still believe in things.

your hand is warm because someone chose to warm it. not because you earned it. not because you begged. but because he did. and keeps doing.

you hum around him, and it's ridiculous because you hate humming, humming is for people who iron bedsheets or believe in vitamins. but he's here, so you're humming, low and tuneless, as if you're inventing religion from scratch in your kitchen. he kisses your knuckles and suddenly they're worth something. which is mind boggling. didn't your hands used to be ordinary? they used to open doors and carry groceries and occasionally throw things at walls, but now they're precious, and they're porcelain, and they're the last copy of something fragile, something out of print.

his hair smells absurdly familiar, a memory you've never quite had but always anticipated. old libraries, autumn in new england, or the inside of a cello case. his laugh is sharp and brief, punctuation rather than soundtrack, and hearing it makes you feel smarter, like you've just decoded some impossible cipher. you start keeping track of things you never thought you'd care about: his sighs at three in the morning, the particular quiet that settles over his shoulders when he thinks you've drifted off.

being held by him at night feels logistical. merging traffic, complicated and necessary. it's not theatrical or cinematic or whispered about over cocktails. it's not even whispered about over bad coffee.

your breathing syncs, but not poetically. you drool. he snores. the sheet is too hot but neither of you move because movement would mean acknowledging this isn't permanent. and that's that. it isn't. and you both know that. and you hold tighter because of it.

it's practical and quiet and essential, knowing exactly which floorboard creaks or the precise way to jiggle the lock when it sticks. it's breathing room, it's small print you happily sign without reading, it's absurdly specific, it's deeply personal, and absolutely, impossibly real.

[mattsbestgirl]

sweet ⟡

౨ৎ - smut. sub!reader x dom!matt. p in v (unprotected). pet names. praise. established relationship.

——————————————————————————

you and matt had been laying around the shared apartment all day—watching movies, snacking, the usual. but as it got later—and you two got unsurprisingly sleepy, it wasn’t shocking how you found yourself lying on the plush blankets of the bed, matt buried deep inside of your sweet cunt.

"f-fuuck baby, feel s’good" he groaned, his hands gripping your hips tightly, pumping his thick cock into you unmercifully. "mmph—! m-matt" pretty whines and mewls were spilling from your swollen lips, as your manicured nails dug gently into his biceps.

"sound s’pretty sweetheart, so fuckin’ pretty" matt breathed out, leaning down pressing wet open mouthed kisses across your neck—the pace of his thrusts never slowing. "take me so good don’t you? such a good girl—my girl" he grunts, feeling your soft walls squeezing his dick deliciously as his tip kissed your cervix.

"feels—mmp, so good matt—close" you moan out, feeling the pressure building in your tummy, the feeling of his kisses against your neck only increasing the pleasure. "i know baby—i know, m’right there with you angel" matt nearly whines at how pretty you sound, his hand slipping between the two of you—rubbing your sensitive bud making you squirm beneath him.

matt grinning at the sight—quickens the pace of his thrusts, applying just the right amount of pressure to your puffy clit. "m-matt!! oh-oh my god!" you whined—head falling back against the bed, as your orgasm crashed over you, your spongy walls squeezing matt’s dick perfectly—eliciting a low moan from matt, as you left a creamy ring around his base.

"shit—s’perfect baby, fuck—almost there sweetheart" he groaned, pace picking up as he worked you through your orgasm—chasing his own as-well. "oh—i love you angel, fucking loveyouloveyouloveyou" matt pants, stilling his movements as he spilled his load into you—paining your walls white.

he stayed laying on you for a moment, catching his breath while lazily mouthing at your neck—leaving behind faint hickeys. "mm—would ya’ look at that sweetheart" he chuckles breathlessly, pulling his leaky dick from your aching hole watching your mixed releases drip out of your cunt.

he bites down on his spit slicked lips at the sight, his fingers moving to push the substance back into you, carefully curling his knuckles into you. "not wasting a single drop baby—fuck you’re perfect" he mumbles smirking slightly as you squirm from the sensitivity.

your big soft eyes stare up at him admiring the sight infront of you, his flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair slightly wet from sweat—he looked fucking beautiful. his eyes soon tore away from your cunt to meet yours, matt gently removed his fingers from you with a grin—staring into your eyes as he brought his fingers to his lips licking them clean of the sticky liquid.

"you taste so fuckin’ sweet—my sweet girl."

©mattsbestgirl

sysy’s note ᢉ𐭩: teehee…long time no see!!!! matt saying i love you while cumming is a personal fav of mine <3

🏷️ - @st6ined @matthewsroses @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @slvt4chriss @chrisspussygang @harls-sturn @slut4chris888 @graciebrams @wastelandzella @wassupleticia @phosphns @courta13 @pixie-sticks-are-good

[edensrose]

·˚꒰ 𝑪𝒊𝒕𝒚'𝒔 𝑺𝒊𝒏𝒔 𖹭 𝒋𝒋𝒌 𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒖 ꒱ ₊˚ˑ

“ seduce, kiss and destroy. sounds about right. ”

͝ ⏝𝅄︶ ͝ ⏝ ⊹ ⏝ ͝ ︶𝅄⏝ ͝

𐔌 𖹭 𝙨𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨﹕˖ ࣪ꮽ˳ tokyo, japan's bustling capital. from neon-lit skyscrapers to historic temples. but what hides in these dazzling lights? masked by the beauties & glamour, the underground bustles much like its city. keep your eyes from the cracks between the dark alleyways. look too long & you might just be pulled in. a world of crime, money & sin where tokyo's districts are split amongst syndicates. there are no gods here. only the blade, the bullet & occasionally — a kiss. ˖ ࣪ꮽ˳cw : violence, death, traumatic back stories

ᡴꪫ. crime syndicate : well organized and structured group with a clear leadership corps, which is involved in different criminal activities.

𐚁๋࣭ there are still characters to be added for this au

𐚁๋࣭ requests are opened for this au

𐔌 character information 𖹭 syndicate information ˖ ࣪✧

˖ ࣪✧ ꘓ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒐𝒋𝒐 𝑺𝒚𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒆 ୧

𐔌 𖹭 𝑮𝒐𝒋𝒐 𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒖 ˖ ࣪✧

𐚁๋࣭ Alias: The Six Eyes 

𐚁๋࣭ Power: kinetic energy manipulation and advanced perception

Leader of the Gojo syndicate, a cocky, flirtatious bastard who has more grins than time for meetings. 

Often leaves people scratching their heads when they first meet him. Surely such a clown couldn’t run one of the most brutal syndicates of Tokyo? Unfortunately for most, underestimation is what Satoru relies on. To see the look of horror and realisation flash before his enemy’s eyes is what truly gives him a kick. 

A combination of powers and weaponry. Prefers guns over most other weapons, particularly his trusty pistols and revolvers. 

Incredibly charming, this is the second face he puts on other than the chaos. The effortless nature is what many come to grow agitated with, another kick of is. Eliciting reactions.

Born the strongest in terms of power, the elders of his syndicate latched onto him despite the other heirs. Satoru was raised under the cruel, strict ways of his syndicate. His older cousin, Enari, attempts to shield him from this as much as possible, as he saw a kind boy who couldn’t fathom the idea of causing harm. At the age of 21, Satoru is given an ultimatum by the elders. Kill the rebellious Enari as his last task to become the syndicate leader. While he pointed the gun at his cousin, Satoru snapped and shot every elder in the room, with repetitive shots fired to their grandfather who long since bled out. Leaving Enari to console him, and the syndicate to their hands. 

While he attempted to change some ways of the Gojo syndicate, it would seem that he is simply too far gone in some aspects. The boy who wished to protect has stained his hands with red, and now has a taste for blood. 

Deep down he does yearn for something normal. Unfortunately, the responsibility is on his head now, and with it comes its weight. This is all he knows.

. ۫ ۶ৎ .

𐔌 𖹭 𝑮𝒐𝒋𝒐 𝑬𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒊 𖹭 original character ˖ ࣪✧

𐚁๋࣭ Alias: White Jasmine

𐚁๋࣭ Power: gravitational manipulation

Co-head of the Gojo syndicate, a pretty, appearance-oriented man whose elegance and bloodshed knows no bounds.

Beauty and grace is what most associate Enari with, but even angels can burn the world around them. While he is often referred to as the more serene of the two, when compared to Satoru, he is anything but.

Enari’s carnage is contained, elegant. There is a beauty to violence, and so he holds his tachi with such.

Ample times cunning, but charismatic and teaming with charm. Many find themselves falling victim to his alluring ways, a fatal mistake on their parts. He can often be considered dramatic to those that know him well. Theatrical, even.

As the eldest of his generation. Enari should have been the heir to the Gojo syndicate. However, when his youngest cousin was born with a technique far beyond his, the title moved to him. Rather than feel envy, Enari worried for Satoru and the pressures he would face at the hands of the elders. Already struggling to keep his other cousins and younger brother above the cruel ways of their syndicate, he found himself exhausted in his efforts. He rebelled the most and protected the others as most he can, often taking blame and punishment. This in turn is what comes back to bite Enari later as the overwork and trauma shatters his mind. When the elders give Satoru their ultimatum, he fully expects his cousin to shoot him. To his horror, Satoru turns the gun on their elders. Leaving him to wretch it from his hand once his cousin repetitively shoots their grandfather. All he can do is hold the boy he promised to protect, now a man with blood on his hands and lost forever.

Enari feels immense guilt for not being able to shield the youngers. As such he swears to keep them safe now, as the co-head. His protectiveness can lead to complications, but they all respect and love him regardless.

Unfortunately, his mind will continue to shatter and splinter. As the point above has him turning into the very people he loathed. He holds himself up with appearances and beauty, when in reality, he is beyond fragmented. By duty and love.

ᡴꪫ. other members: nanami kento, gojo tsukichi, gojo yutaka

. ۫ ۶ৎ .

˖ ࣪✧ ꘓ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝑫𝒂𝒉𝒍𝒊𝒂 𝑺𝒚𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒆 ୧

𐔌 𖹭 𝑮𝒆𝒕𝒐 𝑺𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒖 ˖ ࣪✧

𐚁๋࣭ Alias: Cursed Tongue

𐚁๋࣭ Power: shadow puppetry

Leader of the Black Dahlia syndicate, a silver-tongued conman with serenity in one hand and unspeakable cruelty in the other.

It’s a general rule amongst people in this world to not invoke Suguru’s anger. Many, including other syndicate leaders, fear and respect him. Especially well known for his eerily accurate aim.

While he is known for his intellect and perception, Suguru’s malice is what earns him his titles. His cruelty knows no bounds. It would seem limits are not known to the torturous playground that is his mind. He’s hardly one to forgive easily.

Suguru is one of few known child mercenaries, and was a member of the Crimson Circle. His mother, a member often discriminated against, tried her utmost hardest to keep her boy safe, alas, he was victim to the system and their cruel ways. To him, love became to hit when angry and to threaten when irritated. Through this brutal upbringing, he would eventually come to lose his beloved mother and thus spiralled off into the deep end. Swearing vengeance, Suguru worked his way up the ranks, tirelessly training and breaking an already splintered mind. After many years of planning, blood, sweat and tears, he would slaughter the former syndicate leader along with their higher-ups at the age of 19. The syndicate came under his rule and was renamed The Black Dahlia. Under his rule, the syndicate rose to the top and earned its respect, overtaking the districts Harajuku & Aoyama from the Gojo syndicate; earning them the fear factor.

While Suguru achieved his goal, at the end it cost him his sanity. Many look up to him as an example of determination and prowess without quite understanding the horrors it took to get there. He refuses to be viewed as weak as he was during his upbringing, which births a ruthless sadistic being eager to do whatever it takes to remain in control.

. ۫ ۶ৎ .

𐔌 𖹭  𝑰𝒆𝒓𝒊 𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒌𝒐 ˖ ࣪✧

𐚁๋࣭ Alias: Plague Doctor

𐚁๋࣭ Power: healing, wound manifestation

Blunt and unbothered, even with her cigarette stained in blood. The Co-head of the Black Dahlia syndicate runs a red reputation for beauty and danger.

While she tends to stay out of the public, Shoko’s name hardly leaves syndicate circles. For the few times she is spotted is enough to earn terror. Her uncaring attitude translates especially to her acts of bloodshed.

Some might mistake Shoko as worse than Suguru, with the unhinged way in which she holds herself. Not many can challenge her intellect and often fall victim to her riddle ultimatum. She has a certain knack for mind games and mental rouses. She prefers no weapons, her frightful technique does all the damage she needs.

Cruel is far from what she was, however, Shoko learnt that such means are necessary to survive in the world. After losing her family after a deal gone bad between her father and The Crimson Circle, Shoko was the only one left alive around the age of 14. The syndicate decides to hook the last surviving member into their adolescent training programme, as a testament to her ‘will to survive’. It is here that she meets Geto Suguru, a man she loathed for his willingness to commit to the system. Shoko would soon learn it’s an eat or be eaten world. After discovering that Suguru also lost his mother to this syndicate, she vows to aid him in his goal. His right hand until the very end, she greatly aided the man and earned herself the title of Co-head.

While she considers herself successful, by taking control of the very thing that took everything from her, Shoko suffers with the gruelling realisation that she has lost a vital part of herself. She copes with this by delving further. She is a survivor after all, and so she shall claw her way to a happiness she can never attain.

Emptiness is all she feels at the end. She seeks to fill the numbness with the thrill of fear.

ᡴꪫ. other members: tsukumo yuki, iori utahime

. ۫ ۶ৎ .

˖ ࣪✧ ꘓ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝑺𝒚𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒆 ୧

𐔌 𖹭 𝑳𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝑺𝒉𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒏 𖹭 original character ˖ ࣪✧

𐚁๋࣭ Alias: Sword of Damocles

𐚁๋࣭ Powers: fear observation and illusion

Serenity itself, the seemingly humble leader of the Nightfall syndicate fools many with his calm smile and kind eyes.

Known for his scarily calm nature even in the face of horrors, Shuilin carries himself with his syndicate’s signature: pride. The polite exterior hardly drops as threats leave his mouth. True power is not shown but demonstrated. The red in his ledger spells it out clearly.

Some consider him merciful, a mistake on their parts really. Patience is his true virtue. Through keen observation and careful calculation, one can gain the upper hand of their opponent. Fear is his greatest weapon of all, along with the ability to twist it. Fear is what runs the underground and feeds this serpent.

The second-youngest of his generation, Shuilin was displeased to hear he was the only suitable heir for his syndicate. Everyone does things that they are not proud of. Throughout his life, Shuilin has done several. His attempts at being a good person all ran dry the more he rose in rank. Change the system, is what he sought. Alas, once at the top, he quickly realised it’s simply impossible. He took the syndicate by force, or so he says. His father held the gun to his own head, demanded he pulled the trigger. It was a must, after all. Isn’t this what he wanted? To change the system? All his life he tried to escape the notion of leading this clan. Completely unbeknownst that he proved his father right in the end: he was the rightful heir. The blood on his hands sickens him, but all he can do is lead what he promised himself to.

His guilty conscious is what keeps him going. He promises to uphold his syndicate’s values in the only way he knows how. Should his older siblings attempt to threaten his position, he swiftly reminds them whose hands murdered their father and took the title as leader.

ᡴꪫ. other members: liáng fènhuá, liáng jīnlán, liáng tàixīn, liáng líanlí, shiu kong 

͝ ⏝𝅄︶ ͝ ⏝ ⊹ ⏝ ͝ ︶𝅄⏝ ͝

𐔌 𖹭 next up﹕˖ ࣪ꮽ˳ : syndicate information