#in the way that he doesn’t think there is any

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: implied noncon, break-up, toxic relationship, crazy ex-boyfriend, intrusive thoughts, anger issues

♡ FEM reader

Thinking about gamer boyfriend who doesn’t know what he has before it’s gone…

You told him you were leaving, but it didn’t dawn on him that’s what you’d meant. He was deep in-game—he couldn't pay attention to your whining. He figured you went out to the store or something, but later, after midnight, he realized he was hungry, and you were nowhere. Not in the kitchen making dinner, not in his bed sleeping, and not in the bathroom either. 

Did you go home? He wonders, standing alone in the dark, empty silence—feeling a little put off at the sight of his room—how even in the dim light, it’s a clear fucking mess. You usually tidy up a bit for him, but you hadn’t this time—no, there’s old underwear and socks everywhere, shirts and hoodies too, empty cans and pizza boxes. It’s a bit gross, actually, he admits while scratching his neck. 

The drawer he’d dedicated to you in his dresser is open and empty. Did you take everything to get it cleaned? You are a bit of a neat freak—unlike him. Suppose that would be something you’d do. Weird of you not to take any of his laundry as well, though.

Oh, well. He shoots you a “gn bby” on his phone, then collapses on his bed and falls asleep—smiles a bit as he does so—it’s nice not having you here to tell him to undress and go shower first. Yeah, you can be such a nag sometimes.

He wakes up late in the day. You’re not there. Usually, you come over to wake him with some breakfast. He checks his phone—you didn’t reply last night. It isn't that weird—you were probably already asleep at that point. But why didn’t you answer when you woke up? There’s no way you’re still asleep, right? 

Fuck, he’s hungry.

“gm,” he sends—contemplates asking you what’s up but doesn’t. You must be busy with something not to have checked your phone yet.

The entire day goes by, and you still don’t answer. He doesn’t take it too hard. But he won’t deny being a bit miffed.

It’s when three days go by that he’s well and truly confused. He’s sent you several texts at this point, even called you a few times, getting a little worried something had happened to you before he got the message that he’d been blocked. 

What the fuck’s going on with you?

He thinks back to the last time he saw you. What did you even say? He can’t remember. Something about being tired—something, something—I’m leaving.

He swallows thickly. No… No way, that’s what you meant, right? No, can’t be. You love him. You’re his pretty girlfriend. The one that comes with his food and later comes back for his bowl. The one that sucks his dick under his desk as he goes on a kill streak. The warm pillow he uses when he finally drags his bad posture to the bed and falls asleep.

No. Where the fuck are you? Are you sick or something? Yeah, must be, right? So delirious you’ve managed to block him somehow. You were probably only trying to call him back. You were never so tech-savvy—a fever must have worsened it. He should go to you. He can bring his pc. Or no, he can get you and bring you back here. Yeah, that would be easier.

He calls your roommate, tells her he’s coming, and asks her to let you know to get ready.

“What are you talking about?” she says through a piece of gum—her voice all dull as if bothered to have picked up the phone. Or, rather, she sounds a bit drunk. There’s music in the background. “Girl broke up with you, didn’t she?”

His blood runs cold at that. A lump forms in his throat—a thick, unmovable lump that makes him think he’s about to throw up. “N-no, she didn’t.”

“Hey!” she calls out, not to him, though—she’s covered the mic with her hand. He only hears the muted distortion of voices and bass through it before your roommate comes back to him. 

“Sorry—she’s telling me a different story,” she relays, popping her gum in his ear before sneering—or, at least, that’s what he pictures. “Honestly, how long did you think she was gonna put up with cleaning up after you anyway? I know I wouldn’t last half as long as she has.” The lump in his throat grows thicker, swelling up until it's choking him. “Anyway, good luck.”

She hangs up, and he drops his phone. There’s a crack as it hits the floor. And then something wet on his face. Something hot. Something searing as it tracks down his cheeks and drops off like acid onto the floor. 

What should he do? What do you want him to do? To tidy up? He can do that! He’s not some imbecile like your friend makes him out to be who can’t even do the basics of chores. Of course, he can! And so that’s what he does—hands shaking as he tidies. 

It feels foreign, and he’s not even sure where to start. And it quickly proves to be a lot worse than what he’d thought. Beyond stinky clothes and dirty dishes, there’s trash, rotten food, sticky surfaces, and other things he can’t even put a name to. It’s gross, actually. Downright disgusting. How long’s it been like this?

Even after everything’s put in order, there’s a smell that lingers and no end to the dust he has to clean—cringing at the little insects that come crawling out of their hiding spots. Geez—has it really been this bad?

He falls asleep on the floor at some point—having completely forgotten to eat—then wakes up feeling awful the next day. The kitchen is barren, and so he orders take-out. Eats and then goes back to cleaning. There’s still a lot left.

It’s barely recognizable once he’s done. Nice and bright and tidy and clean. There’s a sum of a dozen large black trash bags in the hallway he needs to take out, but other than that, everything’s perfect—perfectly presentable to have you come over again.

Still, he gives it a couple of days. He knows you. You’re going to change your mind. You’re too sweet to be breaking up with him. Too nice. You wouldn’t just leave him, not like this. Yeah, you’re only trying to teach him a lesson—after a while, you’ll come back on your own. You’ll be ecstatic over what he’s done with the place—apologetic even as you tell him you were wrong about him—and then everything will go back to normal. Make-up sex and everything. 

But you don’t. No. You’re nowhere to be seen or found—even after a week’s passed. You’re still gone. And he’s starting to believe you might just be gone for real.

No. He sees what this is. You’re waiting for the grand gesture, aren’t you? He never knew you could be so petty—but it’s actually kind of cute. Fine then. He’ll play along—come crawling to you on his hands and knees with the best apology you’ve ever heard. And then you can end this whole thing.

And so he finds himself at your place, pressing the buzzer, not knowing if he’s catching you at home—if not, he’ll just try again tomorrow, and so on until he does. He hears someone at the other side of the door—they must be looking at him through the peephole. It takes a while before the locks click and open.

“Hey…”

It’s you. 

“Hi,” he smiles in return, happy to see you. He’s been so nervous, but somehow, your face and voice are enough to calm him down.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

Oh, of course. You weren’t expecting him. Still, it feels weird of you not to gush happily over the surprise and rush him inside. It’s not every day he goes outside—you should be a little impressed.

But no, of course, you’re playing the part of fed-up girlfriend—acting hard-to-get. He’s got you—he’ll play his part, so don’t worry.

“I wanted to apologize,” he announces. “I haven’t been a good boyfriend—I see that now. But I’ll be better from now on, I promise—come over, and I’ll prove it to you.”

As far as apologies and promises go, he thinks that sounded pretty smooth—not too desperate, not too demanding. Pretty slick, if he can say so himself.

And so, why aren’t you smiling? He can understand being nervous—so is he—but why do you look guilty?

“That’s really nice. And… I’m really happy you’re looking better. But…” you start, and his gut’s already wrenching. “I think you need more time for yourself to just… enjoy what it’s like to be independent, you know?” 

No, he doesn’t know. What are you saying? And why are you holding onto the doorknob like that? Holding it steady as if you’re planning to shut it as soon as you can—why?

“Thanks for stopping by. It was nice seeing you—it really was. Take care of yourself, okay?”

It’s shutting—his plans—disappearing right before his face. He knows he isn’t owed a second shot, but this isn’t fair. You can’t be serious—are you?

“What? No, wait—” He stops you, weighing his own hand on the door, keeping it open. “Listen, I’m good now. I’ve pulled it together, you’ll see—I’ll come in, and we’ll talk about it.”

You resist, using both hands to almost push the door back on him. “I have company, so—”

“What’s up?” another voice announces himself—deep and presentful. He comes into view behind you—taller than you, taller than him—looking down his nose at him with a raised brow. “Who’s this?”

You look a bit panicked—no, embarrassed. “Oh, uhm—”

Why are you embarrassed? “Who’s that?” The bitterness in his voice surprises even himself—loaded with the same type of spite he seethes with when players use cheats to win.

“He’s an old friend, but he was just leaving,” you say, but you’re not speaking to him. No, you stroke a hand over the guy’s broad chest, looking up at him apologetically before turning back to him again, voice strict in a way he’s never heard, “Bye.”

“But—”

You shut the door. On him. In his face. 

His skin crawls—goosefleshed and chilled. Was that a date? No, right? You have a brother, don’t you? Yes, must be. No way you’re dating. There’s no way, right? It’s only been a week… no way you’ve moved on in only a week, right?

You looked really nice—wearing that sweet blouse with all the little bows and that cute little skirt you’d always wear out on dates. Damn, when was the last time the two of you went on a date? Must be months ago, if he can’t even remember. 

Come to think of it, the two of you would always have sex when you wore that skirt. Yeah, it’s your fuck-me-skirt. Are you going to fuck this guy too now? On the first date? Is it your first date? No, probably not—who has their first date at home? That’s more like a third or even fourth or fifth date, right? Were you dating him while the two of you were still together? Have you been cheating on him all this time? Laughing at him behind his back—talking shit with your bitch-roommate? About what a pathetic loser he is? About how he’s a slob who can’t take care of himself? How he needs you? Have you!?

He shouldn't be texting you all this from a random number. He knows that, but the full realization doesn’t dawn on him before it’s too late, and he’s sent you over a hundred messages, some small and others at such a length they take up more than what the screen allows. What the fuck’s he doing? He’d bought the new sim so that he could contact you in an emergency, not to spam you with accusations like some crazy ex. 

He starts deleting them—in some desperate wishful thinking, with the hope you wouldn’t see them, but then the dotted line starts beating, jumping in taunt. His eyes are wide as he stares at it, holding his breath. Ten seconds pass before it disappears—no message sent.

You blocked him again. And he can’t blame you.

And yet, he can’t let you go, either. 

He spends the first few weeks hauled up at home—his flat becoming as trashed as ever as he doomscrolls all your socials through a fake account. You’ve deleted all the pictures of him—even the ones of yourself when you’ve been with him. There’s no evidence the two of you were even dating.

How could you do this? How could you erase him like this?

He has questions, and he needs answers. You can’t just do this—the two of you haven’t even had the talk—he hasn’t even got to say his side yet!

He just wants to talk to you—why won’t you let him? He just wants you to hear him out. He deserves that much. But since you’re not giving him any option of contacting you, he’s had to resort to medieval methods—lurking outside your apartment like some creep, eyes peeled on your building’s entrance, waiting for you to show.

He’s there for hours, patiently—refusing to go home—thinking he’ll be there all night if he has to.

But then there you are—coming out of the complex, stepping down the alley, dressed all nice for the night. You seem to be in a hurry—are you on your way to another date? Well, wherever you’re going and whoever you’re meeting, they can wait.

“I need to talk—” he doesn’t get the words out.

You’d noticed him following you and tried to out-pace him—make him lose interest. But the area your flat’s situated in is a sketchy one—at least for girls, and you’d made the decision long ago that you’d never walk outside unprepared. And so, as soon as feeling the stranger's hand on your arm, you whip around to maze him right in the face.

“Argh!” he screeches and stumbles back, hands covering his eyes. “Fuck—ow-fuckin’dammit, shit—what the fuck did you do that for? Fuck—”

You were going to make a run for it, but the familiar voice has you halt—wait a minute…

You call his name, and sure enough, it’s him who looks up at you through the teary redness of your pepper spray assault. 

“Oh my god, shit—I’m so sorry—I thought you were a—” you stop yourself. “Fuck—never mind. Come—” You link his arm with yours and lead him back inside the apartment you just left. “I’ll help you rinse—I’m so sorry.”

You rush him to the bathroom, seating him atop the toilet lid as you wet a cloth and start soaking his face.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see it was you—” you apologize again. “Are your eyes okay?”

“Not really,” he hisses through clenched teeth, though steals himself soon after. “But they're getting better…”

His face unswells after a good thirty minutes, after which he’s able to keep his eyes open again—sore and no doubt bloodshot, yet fine, if not for that. You’ve moved him into the living room instead, having done what you could to rinse off your attack—having provided him with an apologetic glass of water. Now sitting with him, waiting for the effects to wear off.

It feels nice to be with you again despite the circumstances—but it’s awkward how you don’t speak.

“You look nice,” he says—trying to break the tension. It’s not as if the two of you are strangers, and so you shouldn’t act like it.

“Oh, I’m going to a party—roomie’s already there, so…” you say, sitting at the edge of your seat. “If you’re okay, I should probably head out… soon.”

A silence fills his head, as well as the room—a heavy stillness before a single word leaves him. “What?” His face sinks—part confusion, part offense, and something else—something that makes his voice come out accusatory and outraged, “You maze me in the face, and you’re just gonna fuck off to a party?”

Your eyes widen.“Well… it’s—”

“No—what the fuck?” He stands abruptly. His head’s so empty except for the blinding darkness slowly overtaking it—leaving him feeling boiling and all but nuclear. “That’s all I get? Are you fucking serious?” He’s shouting now—and then he’s on you, with one hand fisting your pretty dress and another around your throat. “First, you dump me without warning, assault me like some maniac, give me a lousy apology, and then tell me to fuck off? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

You splutter his name and push, but it’s like fighting a wall.

“Where are you actually going dressed like that, huh? What’s so fucking important? Is it another date? What, with that same oaf I saw here last time? Or is it someone new already? I know how flighty you can be. I mean, fuck, I knew you were a little freaky, but I didn’t know I was dating a fucking slut!”

His strength comes as a complete and utter devastating shock. You’d think sitting in a chair all day would make any muscle obsolete—but the hands holding you don’t right now is more than anything you could hope to fight against.

“Stop! Get off me—” you cry, thrashing hopelessly as he lifts your dress and rips your lace panty down your thighs. 

A growl in his voice and nothing but rage on his face.

“If anyone can get it—I might as well help myself.”

♡ BNHA – Shigaraki, Dabi, Denki, Kirishima ♡ BLLK – Nagi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[poguelandiarafe]

protective | rafe cameron

pairing - rafe cameron x gf!reader

warnings - none (maybe topper and kelce in general...)

summary - you hurt yourself. topper and kelce think it's funny until rafe immediately goes to check on you and snaps at them, shutting them up.

--------

laughter cuts through the room as you stumble over a pair of shoes topper had left in the doorway, immediately falling forward and colliding with the ground.

“shit, you good y/n?” topper teases, nudging kelce between chuckles.

kelce smirks, trying badly to conceal his amusement, “that looked like it hurt.”

a blush rises to your cheeks as rafe rushes over to you, helping you up and noticing the way you won’t put any weight on one foot.

“shut up. she’s hurt herself you assholes.” rafe snaps, keeping his hands on your hips to keep you steady.

topper and kelce’s laughter comes to a halt as they watch how soft and caring he turns within seconds. his expression shifts from annoyance to worry when his eyes meet yours again.

“rafe, baby, no i’m fine. just let me get a drink and i’ll be back upstairs, promise.” you insist, wincing slightly when you stand up properly.

he shakes his head, not convinced, “don’t act like you’re not in pain sweetheart, just wanna check you’re okay.”

“but it’s just my ankle-”

“i don’t care,” rafe interrupts, “topper get some ice or peas or something. then get your shit and leave. you too kelce.”

topper’s jaw drops slightly, really not thinking it was such a big deal. but, when it came to you, anyone who upset you or disrespected you soon became rafe’s enemies, so topper knew better than to anger his friend anymore.

a few minutes later, you’re sat on the couch while rafe kneels in front of you holding a bag of frozen peas to your ankle, soothing the pain.

“leave.” rafe reminds them, nodding his head towards the door.

“we’re going.” kelce says, holding his hands up in surrender.

you give them a smile, a way of saying ‘no hard feelings’. rafe, however, doesn’t even acknowledge them until the front door closes.

“fucking assholes.” he mumbles to himself.

“hey, i’m fine. stop being so hostile.” you sass, before you lean forward to cup his cheek, “thank you for looking after me.”

his shoulders drop and his head gently nuzzles into your hand, a kiss being placed to your thumb as it runs over his lips.

“sorry,” he whispers, “just love you too much. can’t deal with you being hurt.”

“i love you, but really, i’m okay. it's just an ankle."

after confirming you ‘really are okay’, at least another ten times, rafe finally settles into the couch cushions next to you, letting you pick something to watch together.

the sun highlights the blue of his eyes when he stares down at you, loving smile adorning his face. you’re oblivious to his staring until his lips brush your hairline.

“what?” you ask, looking up to meet his gaze through your lashes.

“you’re so beautiful.”

a giggle escapes you and somehow, his smile gets even bigger.

“you’re not so bad yourself cameron.”

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 4 | masterlist

-

There’s nothing else to do but pretend it didn’t happen. 

In the morning, you’re surprised to wake up and find him in the bed next to you, still covered in old sweat and dried cum. You suppose even in your sleep you’d unconsciously expected him to avoid the incident altogether—wake up extra early to shower while leaving you alone in the bed, giving you a modicum of privacy to digest the situation and its repercussions on your own.

He does no such thing.

“Morning, sweetheart,” John rumbles, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Feeling alright?”

Dangling precariously over the edge of oblivion. Some kind of abyss. The kind that says you might not like what’s down here, girlie, but still you sit by the edge and kick your feet. 

“Yeah,” you croak, and Lord, your voice is hoarse. Scratchy and rough, like it’s been dragged over sandpaper. 

“Good.” He lets his hand rest on the curve of your cheek for a second before pulling it away. “Why don’t you get cleaned up? I’ll shower after.”

The bed groans under his weight when he sits up, throwing his legs over the side before rising to his feet. You quickly avert your eyes at the sight of his naked backside, hairy there as well. A bear all over. Even his yawn reminds you of one. And the way that he stretches his arms overhead and every bone in his upper body cricks and cracks, the sounds of age manifold. 

You scrub yourself with shaky hands in the shower, gnawing at your bottom lip when you spread your puffy folds to find his cum still slightly tacky inside of you. Very bad. Scooping as much out as you can with your fingers, watching it run down the drain. Very bad indeed. 

John has breakfast on the table when you come downstairs and it seems, somehow, uncouth to just tell him you want to go home. So instead you force yourself to sit and eat, glad that he at least agrees that it isn’t the time for conversation. 

At the door, he sees you off with a hug, watching you from the door until you reverse out of his driveway and drive off, waving as you leave. 

“This is really bad,” you whisper to yourself on the drive home. “Really, really bad.”

Despite the morning after, the night you spent together is never explicitly spoken about. It’s not a ‘thing’ you discuss by any means. No sit down conversation, no awkward allusions to it, no talking around and around the events until the exchange becomes unbearable. It simply blips out of existence as soon as you change into your old clothes and John walks you to the door, seeing you out. 

You still show up the next day, as usual. Nothing’s changed except everything, but it feels taboo to even mention that things feel different. 

The world hasn’t radically changed since you accidentally slept with John, but it certainly feels that way sometimes. In the few delicate hours after leaving his house, you were sure he’d call at any moment to tell you that your services would no longer be required—that he’d send your last check in the mail before parting ways. So sure of that, in fact, that you’d put your phone on silent for hours before mustering up the courage to check your missed calls later that evening.

Only a few texts from friends. No missed calls from your employer. 

He doesn’t fire you. He certainly doesn’t treat you any differently the next time you come to babysit. You still get paid every week—though, admittedly, the money makes you feel a little weird now after sleeping with him, but it’s not like you can just turn your nose up at making rent—and everything else in your life stays exactly the same. If you weren’t now acutely aware of the feeling of your boss coming inside you, you might even think you dreamt it up. 

Still, despite John never bringing it up or even alluding to sleeping with you, there’s still a sense that he—

The soft, affectionate thanks, hun that he gives you when you bring him a glass of water on the rare day he comes home early to work out in the garage makes you shiver. 

His need to touch increases tenfold, matched only by his proprietariness. He must feel like after what you did together, it’s nothing for him to squeeze your thighs when he tells you that you did a good job with the baby or hug you extra tight when you’re about to leave. 

If you’re extra shy around him, he doesn’t remark on it. 

You’re levelheaded enough to know that he shouldn’t be so touchy with his younger female employee—his babysitter no less—especially after what happened, but it’s not as though he treats you like sleeping with you is a given. When a week goes by and nothing happens, you almost relax. Almost. Enough to let your guard down. 

But—

You can’t stop thinking about it though. It runs through your head every hour of every day, made worse by the fact that you see him six days a week, Sundays excluded. Sundays being your one day off, which you no longer look forward to but rather dread because Sundays mean no baby, no park, and no John Price.

So, you follow his lead and pretend like it didn’t happen. 

You think it’s past you; a terrible mistake that’ll never happen again until it happens again. 

Eight o’clock at night and the blue light from the television has begun to strain your eyes. Baby sleeping upstairs—you put him down a few hours earlier without much of a peep; had to check on him a few times, but otherwise the baby monitor sitting on the end table hasn’t so much as crackled, leaving you no choice but to doze off on the couch. 

When the door opens, it startles you awake. 

“Mr. Price?” you ask, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and clearing your throat.

John’s there when you twist around to peek over the back of the couch, filling out the door frame. Dishevelled after a long day’s work, his beard even more grown out than when he left earlier in the morning. A bit rougher around the edges, the day leaving its mark in the slight dark circles under his eyes and the set of his jaw, which only relaxes when he lays eyes on you. 

“Just me, sweetheart.”

“Sorry, I…the baby’s been asleep for awhile, so I just thought I’d—”

“It’s fine, don’t worry. I know you’ve got it under control.”

“Let me just get my stuff and I’ll be out of your hair—”

He cuts you off with a wave, toeing his boots off at the same time. “No, no, no—you stay there and finish your movie. I’m gonna grab a drink and join you.”

There’s not much more you can say to that. Instead, you watch him take his bag upstairs to put away in the bedroom before you hear the sink turn on. Running water. 

You carefully avoid looking at him when John comes back downstairs, the creaking steps signalling his descent. He heads to the kitchen without stopping by the living room first. The light switches on with a click. The fridge door opens and bottles clinking together when he roots around for something to drink. 

And then you hear him make his way back to the living room. 

The unspoken pact to not bring up what happened the last time you spent any alone time together imbues you with a false sense of security. Part of you expects him to take the single recliner next to the couch, if only to put some distance between the two of you. 

Except when he comes back into the living room, he plops right down in the middle of the couch like always, close enough to you that you’re forced to scoot away, pressed up against the arm of the sofa. You shiver when he cracks open his beer and takes a swig, resting his arm on the back of the couch with the can held in a loose grip. 

“What’re we watching?” he asks, blatantly adjusting himself to get more comfortable on the couch. Even soft, the outline of his cock is visible through his trousers. 

You stare over at him nervously, unblinking. 

“Sweetheart?” John prompts when you don’t answer. 

“Oh, um…” You clear your throat again. “It’s just a Hallmark movie.”

“Cute. Well, we can keep it on. No sense changing it now.”

It’s tense for a little while. You keep your hands folded in your lap like a good girl and your eyes on the television. So you can’t stop inhaling the heady scent of tobacco and vanilla. So you can’t stop blinking your eyes, each blink heavier than the last until they spend more time shut than open. So you yawn and burrow deeper into the cushions, your head tipping back and nearly jarring you awake when you lean too far and topple over the side. 

When you lean the other way and start to doze off on his shoulder, he pulls you onto his lap. You squirm, initially resistant, but he shushes you before you can put up a fuss. 

“Just don’t want you to drool on my shirt,” he teases in a low murmur, smoothing a hand down your side and then it’s lights out for you. 

You wake to a blunt intrusion at your entrance. Half-awake and squirming, you vaguely feel him rub the tip of his cock up and down your pussy, teasing himself. The second you squirm just a little too much, he uses that little bit of movement to push the tip in. It pops in without much resistance; then the slow, methodical press inward, your walls squeezing around the thick length thrusting up into you. 

“Wha—” you whimper, keening when a big hand glides up your chest to squeeze a tit, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

“S’alright, baby, it’s just me,” John murmurs, his voice right in your ear. 

You come to gradually and then all at once, aware of your back pressed to his clothed chest and your legs spread around his, your ankles hooked around his calves. Skirt rolled up and panties pushed to the side, one of his arms locked around your waist like a seatbelt to hold you in place. 

“John, I’m—we c-can’t do it again—”

“Sorry, honey,” he apologises into your neck, kissing the area he just spoke into. “Had to be inside you again. S’all I’ve been able to think about since you came on my cock the other night. Promise it’ll be easier this time, okay, baby?”

He guides you down his length until he bottoms out, slick lips kissing the base of his dick. The pressure is overwhelming; in your belly, in your throat, in your head. Heart beating a million miles a minute. Walls throbbing around his length, thicker and heavier than you remembered. 

All you can think of now is the last time he had you like this, legs spread for him and pussy dripping wet. Taking his cock all sleepy and sweaty under his giant comforter, whimpering into his neck. 

It’s not as frantic this time, no rush to the finish line. He seems to like just burying his cock in you while he plays with your breasts, pinching and plucking your nipples until they’re pebbled and sore. His hands aren’t particularly soft either, callused from years of hard labour. When you whine and try to push his hands away, he shushes you again, not paying your protests any mind. 

“Fuck, these are pretty,” John praises, staring down at your tits from over your shoulder. “No, baby, jus’ watch your show. M’gonna use your pussy for a bit, okay?”

It’s just that it’s—

When he lets go of your breast to play with your clit instead, you melt, any resistance going up in flames. The heat fans over your cheeks, your eyelids too heavy to lift, vision blurring even when you try to focus. 

He helps you grind your hips down on him, big hands like manacles on your waist. Little undulations of your hips. Short, shallow thrusts that keep you both right on the edge, drenching his lap with your juices. When he gets bored of playing with your clit, he switches back to your breasts, pawing at them and then bending down to suck a nipple into his mouth. 

Any time you get distracted by what he’s doing, he stops, holding you down on his cock and coaxing you to focus on the television in front of you instead. 

When he jiggles your clit, you seize up, heart hammering in your throat. 

“Good girl, c’mon—jus’ like that.” John presses a hot kiss to your temple, arm tightening around your front to keep you close. Sweet talks you through your orgasm, all vaguely paternalistic and patronising in the best and worst way.  

He makes you lean forward so he can bounce you on his dick after, your hands braced on his knees to keep yourself upright. 

“Ah, ah, ah, ah—”

“Almost there, honey, jus’—fuck, perfect, yeah, tighten up like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

He comes with a strangled moan, still cognizant enough to keep the volume down even if you can’t. Shuttles you down onto his cock a few more times until you’re filled to the brim with cum. 

In the aftermath, he sits you back against his sweat-matted chest and pushes his cum back into your sore cunt with his fingers when it dribbles out. Ignores your wounded little sounds like they’re just background noise. He even makes you suck his fingers to clean them up, the digits coated in your combined juices. 

“Best fuckin’ girl,” John growls, pressing another kiss to the side of your head. Your fingers twitch feebly in your lap. 

Pretending like it didn’t happen after the second time around doesn’t seem wise, but still you don’t know how to broach the subject. 

Especially since you know it’s going to happen again. 

John doesn’t say it outright, but his actions speak for themselves. An arm looped around your waist casually in line for coffee. Paying for the two of you in any situation, you having your own source of income be damned. 

“It’s my money anyway, sweetheart,” he says when you point that out. “Might as well just pay now.”

And doesn’t that just send you into a tizzy, head spinning and mouth agape. Embarrassingly so. 

Not to mention you still have this strange, sycophantic need to please him, even after everything. The complicated nature of your relationship aside, it still makes your heart flutter to hear him praise you for anything. 

That’s how you end up in his bed on a Saturday afternoon, taking a nap with him after a long day out in the sun. Two hours spent at the botanical gardens, the sun beating down on your head, lathering sunscreen on the baby’s sensitive little arms and legs, and swiping it over his cheeks. John sporting a mild sunburn near the collar of his shirt where he forgot to apply sunscreen and when you have the audacity to giggle, he pulls your baseball hat down over your eyes. 

It’s almost too easy for him to coax you into his bed, even though you’re adamant about keeping it clean. A hand firm on your back up the stairs. Already yawning when you put the baby down for a nap, so why not take one too? Ushering you into the bedroom when you say you can take the couch, but why, he presses, take the couch when you’ve already shared the bed before?

Well, because the last time—

He draws the blinds shut and climbs into bed, pulling you into his chest. 

You wake up to John plastered against your back, bare cock nudging against your cunt while he snores into your neck. You don’t remember him curling up next to you without any clothes on, but he must have taken off his pants in his sleep, now somewhere rumpled at the end of the bed. 

When you try to quietly pull away, his arms just tighten around you more, grumbling in his sleep. The sound makes you freeze, going quiet as a mouse. A few more minutes go by before you feel confident enough to try moving again, carefully trying to slide out from his hold. 

You wiggle a hand out, reaching for the other end of the bed.

The hand resting on your belly dips low, shoved between your legs and feeling you up before you can do more than gasp. The man behind you gives a short exhale, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, rising out of it like a wave now that he feels something wet under his hand.

“Oh, honey…why didn’t you tell me you needed my cock again? You’re leaking right through your panties,” John rasps, dragging your underwear down to mid-thigh. 

A big bear hand clamps over your mouth before you have a chance to protest. There’s nothing you can do to keep his knee from spreading your legs and feeding his cock into your drenched centre with his other hand. As soon as he notches the head against your entrance, it’s a smooth glide in. 

“There we go,” he pants into your neck. “Big stretch—ah, yeah, nice ‘n tight. That’s my pretty girl.”

He keeps your legs spread with a hand on the inside of your thigh. All you can do is moan behind his hand, humid breath blowing back around your face as you pant. So hot for it that you’re almost nauseous. 

You’re a bit too tight for him to fit his cock in you, so he has to work to stretch you out, bullying another inch into you with every thrust. The angle makes it tricky though; means he can’t get more than half of his cock into you. It’s hardly comfortable for you either, your leg already cramping. 

“My leg’s got a cramp,” you whine, unsure of what you want to happen. All you know is that you can’t keep this up. 

He readjusts his grip, but that just makes you hiss, wincing when that makes your leg twinge. Suddenly the world spins, the pillows going from comfortably under your head to right in your face, John manoeuvring you onto your tummy and hiking your hips up a few inches. It lets him get even deeper, the angle letting him slide right to the hilt. 

“Oh god, oh god—John, I can’t—”

“Shh—you’re alright, honey. Much better like this,” he breathes, settling on top of you. It takes him a second to get comfortable, nudging right up against a sensitive spot inside of you the whole time, so deep you can almost feel him in your throat. 

He weighs a ton on top of you, rutting between your thighs like he can’t hold himself back, his self-control snapping like brittle glass. Bristly beard chafing your neck when he buries his head to suck on the tender skin there, smothering you under his weight. Thighs trapping you in place, your memory jumping back to that time at the beach, but now there’s nothing between you. Just a thick cock pounding into you and moulding you around its shape.  

His hips slap against your ass with every thrust, the lewdest sound you’ve ever heard. 

“Gonna make sure it takes this time,” John grunts. “Wanna take care of my baby so bad? I’ll give you a couple to mind.”

That rattles you right to your core; shakes you to the foundations of who you are. You don’t know what to think, what to say—tongue tied and loose lipped all at once. You’ve let him come inside of you so many times that if it hasn’t taken already, surely it will soon. 

It slips out before you can take it back. “D-daddy, please—” 

That makes him lose his mind. Just a bit. 

“Fuck,” he snarls. “Again.”

He wedges his arm under you to curl his hand around your throat, tilting your head out. 

“Daddy—daddy—please, I wanna come—” you pant, repeating the same word until it sounds like nothing, tongue puffy in your mouth. 

His dick slips out at some point and he wrenches himself off you long enough to wrap his hand around himself and slap it against your ass a few times, cum tagging your skin. Your breath catches in your throat, whining when you clench down on nothing. One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s all the way back in, hammering the spot that makes you go cross-eyed and squeak. 

“Make daddy another baby, okay, sweetheart?” It’s not sweet. It’s not doting. It’s growled into your ear like a demand, punctuated by the way his hips snap forward, nearly sending you into the headboard. 

You’re practically an old hat at taking his cum now, squeezing up when you can feel it coming and giving him a nice little treat. He sinks his teeth into the back of your neck when he does, muffling the sound roaring out of him, and it hurts. 

He’s tender with you after though. Lavishes the line of your neck with soft kisses; murmurs sweet nothings into your ear while you cry fat tears onto the pillow. Even twists and turns so you’re no longer on your back but rather splayed across his chest again, urging you up for a deeper kiss with tongue. 

“‘Know you’re tired, sweetie, but this is for your own good,” John murmurs as he wedges a hard thigh between your legs and makes you ride it, grinding your sensitive, throbbing clit down on the muscle. “Can you come, baby? Jus’ like that—that’s good, baby—”

It hurts so good that you don’t even notice when you squirt, the emotions too big for you. It’s like being squeezed too tight, unable to catch your breath or say anything but the same word on a loop. John’s sweet about it though—wipes the sweat from your hairline and upper lip, talking you through it until you slump down on his chest, legs akimbo.   

For a bachelor, you think in a daze, he’d make a good husband.

The days grow colder and the sun sets earlier.

A while ago you thought maybe this babysitting gig would be temporary. That at some point you’d move on—maybe go back to school or apply for a more standard nine-to-five job. That’s how the trajectory of your life was supposed to go, you think. 

But the timing never seems right. Maybe you’ve grown too attached to the baby or maybe the pay is just too good to give up or maybe you’ve just become habituated to someone getting you off at least every other day. Still, it feels a bit weird to get paid for what essentially boils down to fucking a man and taking care of his baby. 

It comes up when you’re sitting out on the porch with him again, this time in his lap in the same adirondack chair, a blanket wrapped around you to keep you warm. John laces his fingers through yours, thumb stroking over your finger, burning a line into the skin.

“Doesn’t it make you feel weird to pay me for…” you say, trailing off with a cocked eyebrow. Surely he must catch your drift. 

He chuckles. You wait for the joke.

Your eyes must be big as moons staring up at him. 

“Don’t think of it as a paycheck, sweetheart. That’s your allowance.”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and swallow. 

“Okay,” you whisper. Then let him reel you back in for another kiss, his thumb resting over your ring finger and pressing.

[fear-is-truth]

˖˚⊹ 𝓙’s note: rafe cameron x pogue!reader who hates his guts but can’t stay away from that d warnings: smuttyyy

the sound of the ocean drifts through the open window, moonlight spilling across your bedroom floor in uneven streaks. kneeling on the mattress, you dig your fingers into the soft, linen sheets, knuckles paling. eyes fixed on the vanity across from the bed, its polished surface cluttered with perfumes and a half-open jewelry box.

you despise him. you hate his fucking guts.

yet, you can’t bring yourself to stay away from him.

“it’s not gonna fit, you pig,” you snarl through gritted teeth, pushing back against him. this earns a rough smack across your asscheek, the painful sting making you flinch. you shoot him a venomous glare over your shoulder.

“no… i think it’ll work,” rafe cameron drawls from behind you, voice dripping with that goddamn condescension that never fails to make your blood boil.

“of course you’d say that, you think everything works in your favour.” you feel the mattress shift again. this time, it’s the unmistakable feeling of his cock sliding between your legs, the ominous hardness, and how you can feel every ridge and vein rubbing against the plush of your thighs.

“yeah well, only ‘cause it does, pogue.”

the last part leaves his lips with such venom, it might as well been a slur. when his engorged tip breached your weeping hole, you tighten your jaw in an attempt to bite back any sound that’ll give him the slightest ounce of satisfaction. as embarrassingly turned on, unbelievably soaked you are, the burning stretch still feels overwhelming. inch by agonising inch, his cock bullies its way past your tight walls—each time when it felt as though it wasn’t biologically possible for you to accommodate any more, that you couldn’t take another fraction, your walls give way, expanding stubbornly.

“tight fit, huh.” rafe observes, rough hands gripping onto your hips, “but don’t worry, we’re gonna make it work.”

“if you think for a second that– mghha— fuck you!”

without warning, he plows right into you with one powerful thrust of his hips. bottoming out, he lets out a deep groan at how hot and tight your cunt felt; squeezing around him as if it were carved to fit the exact shape of his cock.

“tight fit. but i told you, we’d make it work,” he crows in savage triumph, fingers pressing on the faint bulge on your lower abdomen.

“s-shut up,” you hiss, trying to ignore the tingling sensation crawling up from the base of your spine, or the telltale twitch inside you. your palms are flat against the mattress as his hands snakes around your front to grope the soft curves of your breasts. rafe pulls back with a lewd squelch, and relief washes over you as your walls recoiled into its original state…but alas, it doesn’t last long. he snaps his hips forward again, impaling you to accommodate his massive girth.

“you’re so f-full of yourself,” you turn your head just enough to catch his smirk, that cocky grin that makes you want to slap the living shit out of him. bracing yourself, you bite your lip, refusing to let any sort of whimper slip out when he sat back onto his heels, the new angle allowing his cockhead to prod at your g-spot.

“you’re so f-full of yourself,” rafe mimics in an obnoxious singsong, hot tongue tracing along the cartilage of your ear. he punctures the sentence with a sharp thrust that caused your vision to go white momentarily when his tip threatened to push past your cervix. curling his hand around your throat, he thrusts once, twice, before sinking his teeth into your shoulder at the third time as your cunt flutters weakly around him.

“big words from someone who’s stuffed full of my cock,”

[quarterlifekitty]

Just some more thoughts on König with a clingy girl.

He’s not used to physical intimacy by any means. He’s paid for girls plenty of times, have a few flings during different leaves, but never anything sweet. Never a girlfriend.

Before you even get together, you’re clingy. You like hugs. You like leaning on him when you’re sat next to each other, falling asleep on him. Which makes him fall in love so quickly, by the way. He’s addicted to feeling you warm on his skin.

And when he does manage to sweet talk his way into the boyfriend position? He melts under every crumb of affection. Every kiss to the cheek, every nuzzle, every time you park yourself in his lap.

Man is a death grip hand-holder. His height makes him hard to lose in crowds, but he still doesn’t want to be separated. Letting go of your hand is literally like his last resort.

And let it be said. This man wants to fuck you with as much skin to skin contact as possible. Sure, he’ll never say no to a quickie, but his favorite type of sex is when you’re both completely bare and have space to get in every position imaginable. He likes you pressed completely against him— chest to chest if possible, maybe back to chest (especially if a full length mirror is involved).

And then there’s the emotional clinging. He’s very insecure about the idea of wanting you more than you want him, so it always makes him so happy when you’re the one texting, calling, or just coming into the same room as him to hang out. He loves when you contact him for no reason at all— just to check on him. One time when he asked why you called, you said “I just wanted to hear your voice,” and he almost fainted from how giddy it made him. And he doesn’t have so much going on besides work, so he really doesn’t mind if you’re the type to want to spend every hour of every day with him.

The hardest fucking you ever got from König was a few weeks after you first moved in together. He had to be on base for the day, and you had a day off. You meet him at the door— you headed there as soon as you heard the car— and wrap him up in an embrace that he gladly returns.

“So, leibling, what did you do all day today?”

“I waited for you to come home,” you say absentmindedly, just rubbing his back and pressing your cheek to his chest. You don’t notice how he almost starts trembling from your words, his heart feeling like it’s about to burst.

He needs to be inside you— can barely hold it together enough to carry you to bed like a fucking caveman. Starts thinking you need something else to cling to when he’s away… something that can cling to him when he comes home. A baby would suit you both very nicely, yeah?

[luveline]

oh my god Jade I love coworker James!!! can we please see Remus and Sirius actually catching them !:)))

thank you for requesting! fem, 1.3k

James Potter is eating his lunch in peace when you find him in the staff kitchen. It was nice to eat in silence —he won’t get any of that now. 

“Hi, lovely,” he says. 

“Stop,” you say instantly, pulling the fridge door open to extract your lunch. James watches the curve of your shoulder, your arm, even your leg as you bend to grab your Tupperware before straightening out. 

“What are you having?” 

“Can’t we eat in mutual, agreeable silence?” you ask. 

James thinks about it, but when you’re around he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut. “No, maybe tomorrow, though.” 

“Brilliant.” 

You sit down —in the chair next to his, he’d like to point out, and not the one opposite— and open your Tupperware. You have a salad with what looks like diced tofu, grilled and honeyed, salt and pepper cracked over dressed leaves of kale and lettuce. 

“That looks good.” 

“You’re so healthy, I thought I’d outdo you,” you say, popping your foldable fork from the Tupperware lid. 

“You’ve managed it.” James is eating chicken katsu in wraps with a chilli sauce, lettuce, and finely sliced tomato. For his afters, he has three bags of crisps and a tangerine he’s going to share with you, two slices to one.

For a little bit, you both chew and say nothing. After a few minutes he reaches under the table to hold your thigh. A few minutes more and you’re letting your leg fall against him, smiling around bites of salad. 

“Do you wanna come over tonight?” he asks. 

“Maybe you should come to mine?” you ask, a shade of timid. “I know you’ve never been, it’s not nice as yours is, but at least Sirius won’t walk in on us.” 

James wonders if that means what he thinks it does, or if you’re just sick of being kissed and then shot away from. If it means the first thing, he really needs to ask if you want to be his girlfriend. Like, today. He’s worried you’re gonna say no, but he doesn’t want you thinking that intimacy from him is casual, because it really won’t be. 

“We can get dinner first?” he suggests, feeling along your knee gently. 

“Where do you want to go?” 

“Where do you want to, pretty girl?” 

You shift ever so slightly in your chair. “I don’t know. Where’s somewhere nice? Or do you want casual, like, the Chinese buffet by the cinema? It’s quite nice in there.” 

“I wanna go wherever you fancy,” he says. He’s flirting, or not flirting but affectionate, his voice velveteen as he ducks his head. He wants to find your hand and kiss it. He loves kissing the tips of your fingers, but it’s a sure fire way to get you to lean away from him. He knows you like it, evidenced by your smile, and by your willingness to give him your hand again the next time. “Do you think we can just–” he shouldn’t ask here, should he? He does it anyhow. “I want it to be a date. Like, a proper, actual date we own up to.” 

“Like we tell everyone we went?” 

“Not right now, not if you don’t want to. Just between us then. It’s a real date.” 

Something moves in your neck. You bite your lip but let it fall back into place as you say, “Yeah, okay. A real date.” 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah, okay,” you repeat. “I’d really like to.” 

“You would?” he asks softly. 

You turn in your seat to check the door, before leaning into his lap, and pressing a quick, careful kiss to lips, just a little to the side and up, your mouth aligned to the corner of his and the skin beneath his nose. 

“So, somewhere nice, then,” you say as you sit in your seat properly. 

James hooks his ankle behind the leg of your chair and drags you as close as he can possibly get you without yanking you into his lap. “I genuinely don’t care where we go, I just wanna go with you.” He gestures for you to come back, his hand rising to your shoulder. “I could kiss you stupid right here, I hope you know.” 

“That’s not funny,” you say, laughing despite yourself. 

He wasn’t making a joke, but he supposes he’s coming on strong. “I could, but I won’t. I’m too nice and you probably taste like kale anyways, which would be a punishment for me I don’t deserve.”

“Not the most flavourful vegetable, is it?” 

He laughs softly against your lips. One second he’s not going to kiss you here, and the next it’s as though his body decided all on its own. He smiles too much to kiss you properly, but a kiss is a kiss. Kissing you is like electric and fireworks, and honey and sugar, and all manner of cliche things. It’s like a long day ending. It’s like your heart and his are the same, for just those few seconds together. 

“You don’t taste so bad,” he murmurs. 

“You could’ve let me have a drink first.” 

“Where’s the fun in that? Come on, kiss me again.” 

“No, no, ‘cos I don’t like that spicy sauce you put on your wraps and–”

He laughs again, you’re laughing just as loudly, tipping your head to the side as he wades in from the other. 

The kitchen door opens with a whack. You spring apart from one another guiltily, too little too late as the man in the door makes his shock known. 

“Where you just–” Sirius grins like a Cheshire Cat. “You were kissing! I knew it! I can’t–”

“Well you didn’t know it, did you?” Remus asks, giving Sirius a dirty look. “I’ve only tried to tell you ten times that I think there’s something going on with them, they’ve been holding hands. But no, Sirius Black knows everything about James Potter, like I didn’t grow up with you both too.” Remus gives his boyfriend a good glower and makes his way to the fridge.

You immediately fluster, bringing a hand to your eyes as though that might undo what’s been done. 

“We weren’t kissing,” James says. 

“No, then what were you doing, James?” Sirius asks. 

“She was checking my teeth for sesame seeds?” 

“With her tongue,” Sirius says smugly. 

“Sirius, don’t.” Remus pulls his vitamin water from the fridge and remembers himself. “Sorry, Y/N. I’m not trying to embarrass you, and neither is Sirius.” 

“Well, she has nothing to be embarrassed about,” James says, laying his hand on your arm. 

“We really weren’t kissing,” you insist. Then, sighing in defeat. “If anything, James was kissing me and I was letting him.” 

“Yes, because you so often just let me do things to you,” he says, stroking the crook of your elbow with his thumb.

“I knew it,” Sirius says happily, smirking like a fiend as Remus forces the vitamin water into his arms. 

“You did not.” 

“I was just trying to throw you off of the scent, Moony.” 

James meets your eyes, still wide with surprise. “I’m sorry. Uh… They won’t tell?” 

You tip your head. “Someone would’ve found out eventually, right?” 

Right? As in, we would’ve kept going, we’re going to keep dating, and eventually more than that? James will have to buy you a very big bouquet of flowers tonight, lest you not believe him. 

“I’m afraid so. At least that’s out of the way,” he says. 

You bring his hand to your chin. You don’t kiss it, but the action alone has butterflies like hornets bouncing around his stomach. Massive bouquet, he thinks. 

—

more coworker James

[wonryllis]

soft dom!hee with shy!reader maybe? doesn’t have to be virgin reader necessarily, love all ur fics btw

® ❛ WHY ARE YOU SO SHY BABY? IT'S JUST ME.

FEATURING. lee heeseung & fem!r GENRE. smut! they are friends exploring dangerous territory omgg, softdom?heeseung & shy!r WDCT. 970 WARNINGS. SMUT PG18 ofc, bare grinding? humping? yeah. ( D𝒾RECTORY? )

NIE.NOTES ╱ wrote smut after a while, hope y'all like it ㅠㅠ tried to make it as softdom as i could idk .. my freaky ass kept going down the degradation route for some reason.

“what if it's me?” heeseung’s voice is hoarse, his steps carefully calculated as he gets closer to you.

“what if it's me who wants to see you like that?” his breath shaky, hands trembling in his soft grip on your waist and heart running a mile a second.

his eyes bore into yours. what if the one who wants to touch you all over, is me? what if the one who gets to see you moan and writhe underneath, is me? what if the one who makes you cum, is me?

and that's how you find yourself on heeseung’s bed, legs spread and head lolling back onto the pillow. back arching prettily in soft whimpers as his fingers tease you over the hello kitty panties.

god i should've worn sexier panties─

“fuck baby, these panties are so hot,” his eyes focus on the way the fabric rubs against you, wet and slick. the innocent hello kitty print soaked─ drenched like you already fell over the edge once. there was something so undeniably erotic about it; heeseung couldn't pin point, but it made him so hard he could barely think straight or feel embarrassed at all.

his thumb glides over the slit in lewd squelches, groaning at the way you seem to squirm at every slide.

“you're so sensitive─ so responsive. if i knew you were like this earlier i’d have touched you sooner,” heeseung grunts at just the possibility of having you under him this exact way, any more than once. oh how much he regrets not grabbing this chance any sooner, like how was he even going on with his life as just a friend when he could have had this?

your hands reach up to cover your face at his words. utterly embarrassed at the kind of things leaving his mouth, your hot friend vocalizing his hot thoughts about you: it made your skin burn with fervour. craving more but feeling bashful admitting it, especially to your friend.

“don't hide your pretty face baby,” his touch grips daint at your wrists and pries off your hands, holding them down by the side of your head. staring at each and every inch of your flushed face before he sits up to unbutton his jeans.

pulling his cock out of his boxers and jerking it off in a couple of slow strokes. wiping at the tip and smearing the precum across the entire length. his eyes lock with yours as he squeezes around the head once, hissing with pleasure at the way you seem to be so entranced at the sight of him. eyes wide and lips parted while you watch, hauling your body up to rest against your elbows on the bed;

so eager, so needy. the sexual undertones in your gaze gleaming right out despite the nervous and abashed front.

he grabs at your thighs softly, tugging you flush against him, his cock twitching over your damp panty clad pussy. one finger hooking at the side to hold it up just until he shoves his cock in, sandwiched between the wet cloth and your gushing folds.

“fuck,” heeseung chokes on air at the feel of you against him, no barriers, entirely pressed bare right into your most intimate and sensitive part─ it's heavenly. the moan you let out when he thrusts, almost breaks through his self restraint,”just─ let's just try this first─ fuck you feel so good baby,” his voice wavering and breath stuck in his throat.

he paws at your breasts, fondling one as he keeps grinding and thrusting. his eyes dropping to close with the immense amount of pleasure coursing through his veins, but the sight of you under him: clutching the sheets and bucking your hips to chase the high─ he doesn't want to miss even a second of it.

“hee─ it feels so─” moan.

“i know baby, i know,” his fingers brush back the hair sticking to your cheeks, hunching over your body to graze his lips against yours. mouth falling open as he mimics your expressions; albeit out of pure bliss of watching you feel good. of knowing that he's the one making you feel good. so good that you have forgotten all about how shy you were about the whole idea.

the slippery sensation of your panties soaked with precum against the tip and the slick burning heat of your pussy rubbing against the underside of his cock paired with your raw and lewd expressions is too much to bear. the sounds you let out going straight to his balls. tightening up with each little gasp and whine that falls off your pretty lips.

“i'm so─ ngh─” your words die down into a soft whimper, sucking your lower lip in between your teeth in an attempt to suppress the loud moan bubbling at the back of your throat. heeseung barely holds himself back from cumming at the sight.

“fuck me too baby,” he hurriedly grabs your waist, hands squeezing and holding you tight before his thrusts speed up. sliding sloppily, his tip hitting right against your clit each time.

shit shit shit. heeseung feels you pulse against his cock as you tumble off the edge, cumming in whiny chants of his name, your back arching off the bed again. fuck she's so hot. his own orgasm being pulled out of him like a wave of lighting, cum spurting out in jets onto your clit.

it's dizzing. his cock twitching as he watches your eyes roll back and your body slump onto the mattress. chest heaving for breath, skin glistening with sweat and eyes glazed over.

it's gonna be engraved in his mind. it's a done deal. he's never gonna see you normally again. not after knowing how you look.. when you are like─ this.

“see─ it wasn't so bad, was it?”

NSFW taglist 。open! @s00buwu @lilyuwon @pockyyasii @nctislifue @shawnyle @enhastolemyheart @aaa-sia @criminalyun @oddracha @satan-223 @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @jayjw16enxp

[sttoru]

outlaw!toji who initially kidnapped you for money, to rob you from your valuable belongings, eventually forms a strange attachment to you. he can’t help but feel a faint twinge of guilt for robbing a pretty and delicate little thing like you.

so, he decides to let you return to your beloved family in town. though he does not let you go completely.

every now and then when toji is passing by the town you reside in - avoiding sheriffs and other people whom could possibly recognise him from the wanted posters plastered on every wall - he looks for you.

of course, you freak out the first time he sneaked up on you. however slowly yet surely, you let your guard down. the outlaw didn’t harm you in any way after all.

“how ‘re ya doin’, princess?” toji would always greet you with that signature, cocky smirk of his, leaning against a nearby wall with his arms crossed over his chiseled chest or his hands on his worn gun belt.

sometimes you reply quickly, but on other occasions you indulge him and continue the conversation. it’s often at night that he visits you, so you have less of a chance to get caught together.

you don’t know when or how toji found out where your family’s house is. he simply started showing up at your balcony once in a while, just to catch up. after a couple times, you even let him in.

those nightly visits swiftly turned into something more intimate. it feels so wrong yet so right. a dangerous criminal who’s killed hundreds, who had even kidnapped you one day, being invited into your bed— how scandalous.

though you can’t help it. his callused yet warm hands that touch your skin, his burly body that presses you into the mattress just right, his slightly chapped lips that nip at your flesh and leave marks. . . you don’t regret a thing.

especially when you’re both catching your breath after an intense encounter. toji’s muscular body, filled with countless of scars, blankets yours easily. his arms cradle you to his bare chest afterwards and all you can do is relax against him.

“i think i really hit the jackpot with ya, aye? may not have robbed ya of yer stuff that day, but i got ma prize money one way or ‘nother,” the rugged outlaw grins as he lights up a cigar and holds it between his lips.

you can’t even tell him off for smoking in your room. toji’s fingers massage your scalp so good to the point you’re putty in his hands. the scent of tobacco is also comforting. it’s one you associate with him, because he always smells like it. it’s always a combination of tobacco, nature, horses and gunpowder.

toji knows that he has to leave before anyone comes checking in on you, but he can’t leave you when you look so adorable, clinging onto him like a lifeline.

every time he visits, it’s the same exciting story.

when toji is in a more sentimental mood, he takes you out on a ride. he settles you on the back of his horse, speeding off into the sunset, letting you enjoy the view outside of town.

the beautiful freedom that comes with the life of an outlaw. the freedom of seeing nature in all its glory. you get to experience it all.

at times, when you’re out and about, he takes his chance and teaches you how to handle a gun. toji knows you’ve been spoiled rotten by your parents growing up, so you probably haven’t touched a gun a day in your life. that’s where he comes in.

“oi, watch out. yer gonna blow my fuckin’ face off, girl,” toji grunts with a faint chuckle as he notices your clumsy hand gestures while holding his revolver. it’s endearing, truly. he doesn’t yet understand why it warms his heart to see you try and shoot at the targets he set up.

what the outlaw loves more than that, is when you’re both resting against a large oak tree, with his head on your lap. especially after he gets back from a long and successful heist in a far away town.

toji often lets his cowboy hat cover his face while he naps and uses your thighs as the perfect, plush pillow. the gentle breeze only adds to the perfect moment.

when you take his stetson and put it on your head instead in a innocent gesture, he lazily opens one eye and raises a brow in amusement.

“oh? that yer way of telling me y’ want a ride?” toji teases before pinching your cheek. he loves seeing that flustered expression on your face when you’re once again reminded of the cowboy hat rule he taught you the other day.

toji never misses the opportunity, however. he sits up and leans back against the tree trunk, patting his thick thighs which he spreads lightly.

“hop on f’ me then, pretty. show me how good of a cowgirl y’ are, yeah?”

well, briefly said, it’s never a dull moment with outlaw!toji.

[nausicaaandhermouth]

A Kiss For Loyalty

masterlist

young!silco x gn!reader [1.2k][AO3]

summary: You find him after the attack on the bridge, and you're left to figure out how to tread the fragile state of him.

tags: young silco, a few hours after vander tries to drown him, angst, established relationship, hurt silco, not betad

a/n: mid-lecture we were looking at photos of gash wounds and i couldn't help but think of young silco's face fresh after the drowning, so ofc i had to write a comfort fic for him. kinda comfort. it's mostly angst.

Vander couldn’t look you in the eye, couldn’t form a single word. And at first, worry was what overtook you—Silco hadn’t survived, lost in the fight. But the more you looked at the larger man who had returned, the more you recognised something else: the aftereffect when he’d had too much to drink, had raised his voice, had felt guilty. Regret.

You find Silco in your bedroom, curled up on the worn mattress that had held you both some countless nights. It had overheard the visions for your new nation, the sloppy passion of drunken evenings, the quiet rise and fall of breaths during winter. Now it’s witnessing something new.

You’ve never heard Silco cry. Your bedroom shrinks at the sound of it, as if the corners darken and round themselves to hold and hush him. It’s a sharp sting, an undeniably pained cry bleeding into his palm, cupped around his mouth.

When you approach, you’re silent—assessing, investigating, worrying if this isn’t something you can fix. He’s never been so evidently broken. You’re not sure whether it’s about Vander or at the failure of their uprising, both of which had taken a large portion of his heart.

“Silco?” you whisper, taking another step forward.

“Don’t,” he manages, his sobs becoming quieter, but affecting his breath, bubbling out of him in squeaks and chokes. “Please,”

You shake your head, keeping your ground but keeping your eyes on him. He’s refusing to remove his reddened hands from his face, his hair curtaining over his left side, black, wet strings.

“You’re hurt,” you furrow, focusing on the blood down his hand. You rush forward, chest attempting to wrangle in a frenzied heart. “Show me, hey, S—”

“Stop!” he inches away from you, a childlike recoil that makes you freeze.

It’s a foreign behaviour, a desperation he’s never worn, never come close to mimicking. As far as you’ve known him he’s been the opposite. Even in pain, he stitched together a composure so convincing it made others doubt he could ever truly feel the hurt he was raised around.

You suppose that it’s something he’s worked on, refined throughout the years after taking on the responsibility of becoming Zaun’s face, alongside Vander. His ideologies had spilled straight from his heart into your ear. You understood why he worked so hard to maintain a strong face.

That man was gone; he hadn't entered the room this time.

He’s hiding, you see, shielding his face from you. This, you understand, is something he thinks may spare you from even a fraction of the pain he must be feeling. He’s always been so. To hoard the suffering and smile.

“You don’t want me to see you?” you ask, kneeling by the bed and retracting your hands.

Silco doesn’t answer, the chokes of suppressed sobs the only sound from him.

“It’s alright,” with a shake of your head, you turn around, facing the other way and leaning against the bed. “I don’t have to see you. Just… just talk to me,”

You wait a beat, then another, waiting for his voice, willing his voice to regard you again. Anything with a meaning that you could warp into a sign of hope.

“Please,” you add. It’s unintentionally desperate, pleading, giving him the power of controlling where the conversation goes. Something he needs, you suppose, something he’s certain is still predictable.

You hear a sharp breath behind you, then the shuffle of your bedsheets. Your eyes slide the farthest they can without turning your head, attempting to see any glimpse of him.

Then his hand enters your periphery, pale skin against scarlet, fingers twitching and shaking as his forearm rests on your shoulder.

You take gentle hold of his hand, turning it this way and that in search for wounds. But nothing. “Who…” your breath escapes, “Is this your blood?”

“Yes,” he responds, a word that pricks at your lungs sharply.

You see the moment clearer now. A wound so deep that to reveal it is its own pain.

You recall Vander’s face. The shame that distorted his features, how ugly it becomes as you try to piece together the fragmented pieces. 

“Vander did something,” you surmise. Your breath quickens, a sneer creating brackets around your flared nostrils. “Did Vander do something?”

You feel Silco’s breath near the top of your head, but before you’re able to turn, a weight settles over you. Momentarily, you hold, letting the firmness of his muscles process on your body, around your shoulders, his other arm snaking over your bones and holding you backwards to him.

You hear his soft sniffs over your head and slightly to one side, the bone of his cheek pressing against your crown.

There it is again. It’s a spear through your body, the sound of him. It strikes a fissure along your lungs, each sudden inhale a crack veining in your airways, each tremoring breath he takes an earthquake on your skull. Vander, what have you done?

You take his hand and hold it to your cheek, the cool back of his hand against the warm apple of your face. You interlace your fingers, a familiar practice, just as fluid as the locking of legs in the night, or the pressing of palms for a prayer.

Next was the chaste kiss on his index knuckle, for loyalty. Then on the middle knuckle, for liberty. Another on the ring knuckle, for luck. And lastly, a kiss on the pinky knuckle, for love.

It was a silent conversation he and you had made, meeting mouth to bone always easier than devoting a voice to each word.

His other hand wrapped around your wrist, bringing your arm upwards and over your head, your own knuckles meeting his familiar lips. But they tremble.

He breathes a kiss, gentle, on your index knuckle, starting, then failing. His breath falls jagged on your skin.

For a moment he restarts, the warmth of his air hovering over your knuckle. But again he fails.

Your frown deepens. Even more so when he moves your hand and skips to your pinky knuckle, the only promise fulfilled.

“How bad is it?” your voice slightly muffles against his hand near your mouth.

He swallows, clearing his throat. “At the… we were at the river, he—” he grips your hand slightly tighter.

“It’s still hurting?”

His clothes shuffle. “Yeah,”

“Let me look?”

Silence.

You start to think he’ll reject you again, not yet prepared to face you in whatever shape Vander had left him. But he loosens his arm around your shoulders and moves away, his presence at your back fading.

Your other hand remains in his, the anchor, as you shift on the floor and turn.

You look up and your eyes meet. No. One eye meets yours.

You sense his panic by how the one remaining blue jumps between your eyes, tips of his mouth downwards. He brushes aside his wet hair.

The left side of his face had been marred, a trench of exposed muscle, skin, and blood bared at you. The blackened sclera is haunting, a flame moving in tandem with the watery blue of his other eye.

You’re more than certain there’s nothing but indignation gushing through your veins. Yet, Silco remains beautiful. You realised a long time ago it was difficult for him to not be, no matter the state of him. And still now, left eye diseased with the molten of betrayal, mouth frowned by grief, fear in his good eye.

“It’s not over,” he whispers, leaning forward as you reach up and cup the unmarred side of him. “We’ll take back Zaun,”

There he is. No man, no river, could ever kill him. “You’ll show them,” you press a kiss to his index knuckle.

[wcters]

𝗜 𝗖𝗔𝗡 𝗦𝗘𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨

paring: carlos sainz x fem!leclerc!reader

summary: you’re the twin of arthur leclerc . . . and you’re dating your other brothers teammate, though he doesn’t know that

request: carlos x leclerc!reader fic pleaseee! reader is arthur's twin and is secretly dating carlos

warnings: establish relationships, family fighting, jokes of assault | for everyone who sent requests, i am slowly making my way through them, i just have a lot going on so be patient 😚 merci

yourusername

liked by carlossainz55, arthur_leclerc, and 80,321 others

yourusername waiting for the weekend

view all 124 comments

leclerc_pascale ma fille intelligente 😘

↳ yourusername merci maman ❤️

user1 she always slays

user2 cute and smart??

arthur_leclerc what’s got you so excited?

↳ yourusername not telling 🤫

user3 cutie ❤️

↳ yourusername miss you 😔😔 we need to do another study date

user4 what university does she go to?

↳ user5 berkeley. it’s in california

f1gossip

liked by user1, user3, and 132,045 others

f1gossip carlos sainz seen in california over the summer break. any idea who he’s seeing?

view all 132 comments

user1 doesn’t he have friends in cali?

↳ user2 i think so

user3 he looks good ❤️

user4 he’s probably just visiting because he can

↳ user5 i would too if i had a jet at my disposal

user6 do you know where in caifornia?

user7 this is actually so random 🤨

user8 he looks so lost all the time 😭😭😭

yourusername

liked by carlossainz55, arthur_leclerc, and 102,995 others

yourusername weekend you ❤️

view all 145 comments

arthur_leclerc is that a man

arthur_leclerc who is that?

arthur_leclerc y/n

user1 arthur really panicking at the moment

↳ arthur_leclerc yes.

user2 you look so comfy in the second photo

↳ yourusername i was 😌

leclerc_pascale dis-lui que je lui dis bonjour 👋

↳ yourusername fera 🫡

↳ arthur_leclerc maman?

user3 . . . who’s that man?

yourfriend text me asap !!!!!!

poopy 👺

poopy 👺

who was that man

i have no idea what you’re talking about

poopy 👺

yes you do

i’m your post on instagram

there was a man

it could be one of my girlfriends who’s masculine???

poopy 👺

😐😐😐

no it can’t

none of your friends look like that

how do you know that 🤨🤨

poopy 👺

that’s besides the point

why are you hiding this from me? i’m your twin brother

exactly.

charles, lorenzo, and you (especially) scare everyone off

poopy 👺

no we don’t

what about ryan? or jack?

poopy 👺

they weren’t good enough for you

they never are!

maman liked them and i did too and you made them leave

poopy 👺

does maman know about this one?

yes. now leave me alone arthur, i’m happy for once

i’m not letting you guys ruin this

carlossainz55

liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc, and 676,414 others

carlossainz55 quick recharge before heading back for some more racing!

view all 327 comments

user1 why did he in cali the time i’m not there 😭😭

user2 boyfriend material

charles_leclerc ready for another week!

user3 is that a woman???

user4 that is not a man’s hand in that last photo ‼️

user5 wasn’t expecting to see a soft launch today

user6 that last pic is so random but okay

f1gossip

liked by user1, user2, and 141,034 others

f1gossip carlos sainz seen in berkeley, california with a mysterious girl. sources say the pair would very close and cuddled up with the other. any ideas on who the girl is?

view all 157 comments

user1 girl what

user2 really pulling out those dance moves 🕺🕺🕺

user3 that kind of looks like y/n leclerc…

user4 why is it so hot that he’s lifting her up like she’s a feather

user5 this is actually so random

user6 when did this start?

user7 doesn’t y/n leclerc go to berkeley university?

yourusername

liked by arthur_leclerc, charles_leclerc, and 202,537 others

yourusername last photo is us waiting for arthur

view all 176 comments

arthur_leclerc i was not late you guys were too early

↳ yourusername 🤨🤨🤨

↳ charles_leclerc sure…

user1 where are y’all going now

↳ user2 probably the dutch grand prix? where else

user3 is arthur just chronically late?

↳ yourusername yes 😔

↳ charles_leclerc yes

↳ arthur_leclerc lies. all lies

user4 he really be kicking his feet

f1gossip

liked by user1, user4, and 123,084 others

f1gossip carlos sainz seen with the same girl he’d been with in california after the dutch grand prix. the couple was reported to be kissing and holding hands while out.

view all 137 comments

user1 who is she???

user2 they’re very touchy

user3 he looks like he doesn’t know what’s happening

↳ user4 he always looks like that babe

user5 you have to admit they’re cute

arthur_leclerc

liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc, and 351,180 others

arthur_leclerc it’s my twin sisters birthday! lucky to have you as a sister. happy birthday ❤️

view all 221 comments

yourusername i feel exposed and vulnerable

user1 stunnin since birth

↳ yourusername you know it 💅

yourusername thanks ig 🙄🙄

user2 THE GOGGLES

user3 gorgeous babes

charles_leclerc happy birthday little sis ❤️

↳ yourusername i’m still not forgiving you for the 3rd photo

user4 her and arthur were so cute as little kids ☺️☺️

↳ yourusername still are babe

↳ arthur_leclerc what do you mean were???

user5 iconic

leclerc_pascale joyeux anniversaire ma belle fille ❤️

↳ yourusername je t'aime maman ❤️😘

carlossainz55

liked by yourusername, arthur_leclerc, and 907,508 others

carlossainz55 feliz cumpleaños a mi bebé ❤️

happy birthday to my baby ❤️

view all 401 comments

yourusername merci my love ❤️

arthur_leclerc It was YOU?!?!

user1 i’m actually shocked

user2 was not expecting this

user3 my jaw is on the floor

charles_leclerc we have to talk

user4 the leclerc brothers are planning an assult

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru & Geto Suguru

♡ TW: fear, prank, prank gone too far, dubcon-ish

♡ GN reader

“Haha, ‘Toru—nice try,” is all you say to the tall figure, having stood patiently in wait and perfectly positioned to do a jump scare with his silly store-bought Ghostface mask on.

You sigh and go back to your dealings, and he remains as if the gist isn’t up—ever-committed to the task as if you’re suddenly going to forget that it’s him. Like—of course, it’s him! Despite what the movies will have you believe, not a lot of guys have bodies like that.

If he was really committed to tricking you, he should have worn something baggier to hide his perfectly shredded chest. But no—he’s set on wearing his black muscle shirt—probably opting to make you both scared and horny at the same time.

You carry on with what you’d been doing—cleaning up the kitchen. “Oi, quit standing there already and come help me.”

He doesn’t. But that’s not unlike him—he’ll take any excuse not to do the dishes. And right now, the excuse is this dumb prank. But it’s your fault in any case—you’re the one that put him up to it by saying he’d never be able to get a rise out of you.

You sigh and scold yourself for being so short-sighted—should’ve kept my dumb mouth shut. Knowing him, he’s probably going to be this way all through October, the insufferable prick.

He still stands there. Silent. And still. Eerily unlike him. And almost, just almost, utterly unlike him.

But no—don’t be stupid! He’s the same height and the same build, for fuck’s sake! What are the odds of someone with the exact same measurements as your boyfriend breaking in right at the time he isn’t around in something so cliche and dumb as a Ghostface replica? No, it stinks of Satoru—it’s got his goofy antics written all over it.

You scoff again—a little winded this time, a little strained. You have to hand it to him—he is a little scary when he shuts up for this long.

“You can knock it off, Satoru. I know it’s you.” You face him again, hand on your hip, with a frown. 

You sigh again when he still doesn’t answer, insisting on his stupid tactic of psyching you out. And you’re getting pissed that it’s actually almost working.

“Ugh, you’re so stupid.” You start stomping over—aiming to rip that dumb thing off his head and point your death glare directly in his insufferable blue eyes—those insufferable blue eyes you’re actually starting to hope are under there more than knowing without a doubt are there for sure. 

“Tch—it’s insulting if you think some half-assed performance like this is gonna be enough to scare me. At least have the creativity to come up with something somewhat decent–”

You stop in your tracks halfway over. Hair is peaking out from under the mask. You hadn’t seen it from afar, matted against the black shirt he was wearing—but how could you? How could you when it’s not white hair?

You flinch backward. Stumbling. Assessing the dark, silken locks a second time before looking up at the mask again—that soulless white warped skull with pitch-black bottomless eyesockets.

You take another step back. Breath hitching in your throat when the figure takes a step as well—toward you.

Your heart flares. It’s not Satoru.

Eyes peeled, you feel the panic overthrow you in an instant—like a cold rush, reaching all the way into your bonemarrow, making it hard to move, hard to do much of anything without feeling vulnerable to what it might trigger.

But once the figure pulls his hand out from behind his back, brandishing a butcher’s knife that catches the light and glints in the air—you have no other choice but to run.

What a perfect fucking day to wear fuzzy fucking socks! Fucking October cold is going to be the reason you die—stabbed to death in your own house by some cringey Scream fanboy. No—this can’t be the end—not this way! Why isn’t Satoru home yet? Why can’t he ever be where you need him to be?

You make your way through the house—hoping to reach the door, but turning the corner has you slip and fall, and the intruder’s on you—knife raised, poised prettily in the air above your helpless body, clad in your tiny heart-print pj’s—like the perfect hot airhead in any slasher spoof.

You scream and squeeze your eyes shut, “No! No—please! Please! Satoru, help!”

And right as the knife is supposed to come down and puncture your chest, making it spurt out red until you finally bleed out, dead and gone, there’s a bang instead as two palms land flat on the floor on either side of your head.

Joined by a muffled voice, “Are yah scared yet?”

With your eyes wide open again, you look up at not one mask blocking out the ceiling light but two. And with all the pure alarm savaging your chest, you manage to let out a real horror-movie squeal—unlike a sound you’ve ever made before.

And then, of all things, there’s laughter—no, not laughter—straight cackling.

And—fortunately or unfortunately—you’re quite sure you recognize that sound.

The last one pulls off his mask, and you really can’t believe it—pretty porcelain face squished in amusement with tears of joy in the corner of his insufferable blue eyes.

That fucking bitch.

“You should have seen your face!” he chortles—downright heaves. But for all his handsome features, he truly must be the ugliest laugher there is. Or maybe it’s just that the bastard always laughs at your expense, and after one too many times, it’s left a bad taste in your mouth.

Still, you sigh, eyes closed in relief, “I hate you, ‘Toru. You took it way too far, you ass.”

“No, no, Satoru, help~” he ignores you and mocks in a high-pitched moan, showing not a sign of remorse—holding his hand over his stomach as he falls to the floor, struggling to leave room for breath between hooting and howling.

Your eyes go to the original perpetrator. “And you? You proud or what?”

The wearer pulls off its mask and is revealed to be none other than Satoru’s best friend—Geto.

Honestly, you should have fucking known...

“Sorry, hehe…”

You’re upset—you make that clear with your pout, giving him your best guilt-tripping look from where you rest beneath him.

But still, within, your heart eases at the sight of his kind face and that apologetic smile across it—ever thankful to see him and not the cold-blooded murderer you were convinced was going to kill you only a moment ago—even when pinned beneath him in a position that should be making Satoru jealous.

But your boyfriend couldn’t care less, it seems—too busy rolling on the floor and laughing out loud quite literally, even banging his fist against the wood. Prick.

“I’m gonna throw up–” you say as the nerves finally settle. “And when I’m done, I’m gonna kill you. Both of you.”

Geto seems to think that’s fair, still with that sheepish smile on his face, but Satoru is quick to interject—laughing fit over as he shakes his head, “Nuh-uh. You said if I manage to scare you once this Halloween, I’d get whatever I want.”

You swear he can be such a child sometimes.

Oh, who are you kidding? He’s always a child. It’s only surprising he’s managed to rope Geto into all this—a guy who’s usually so mature.

“I don’t remember saying that…” you sigh, laying the back of your hand atop your forehead, still calming your breaths and the pounding in your head—your body not yet caught up to the fact that it’s trepidation over impending death was all just some silly joke played on you by two idiots.

You can’t believe him—you can’t believe either of them.

“Fucking shit, Geto—I thought I was gonna die.”

He still hasn’t gotten off you—the look of worry on his face tells you he’s probably just wanting to stay close to make you feel safe. You appreciate it, though it’s a little awkward lying beneath him like this—it’s not exactly a position you share with just anyone…

“Honestly, I didn’t think it would work,” he says—eyes slim like always, in that charming way. “I always thought you were smarter than to fall for something this stupid.”

You pull a frown at that—taking it all back. He’s as childish and dumb as Satoru is. He’s just better at hiding it. 

“Oh, shut up—as if you wouldn’t scream if someone chased you down with a knife,” you grumble. “Now get off, you prick.”

You begin to lift yourself onto your elbows, yet despite the clear intention of getting up, Geto doesn’t budge to make it happen.

No, instead, he leans further in—fine-kempt raven hair slipping off his shoulders, falling with the same grace as a veil.

“I was told there’d be a prize for the one that got you to crack, and seeing as I’m the one that made that happen—I want it.”

You have to blink—blanched at the sudden demand.

Satoru, as well, a little stunned—looking wide-eyed at the two of you, upside down where he lies flat on his back, long limbs stretched out like a starfish.

“You what now?” both of you ask in unison.

Geto chuckles before repeating, “My prize. I want it. It’s only fair,” as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Satoru rolls over on his stomach to view you both the right way, pursing his lips in thought. “Hmm…” Hand on his chin as if it’s really something to deliberate when the dumbass very well knows what the two of you had bet on and how it very much isn’t a reward you can give to just anyone.

Yet, despite that. “Okay,” he agrees—as if it’s even up to him.

“Hold on now, wait a minute.” You intervene in the almost business-esque dealing they’d somehow held without you. "Not happening.”

“Why not?” they both ask, looking at you. 

And you can’t keep from gaping. The nerve.

Spluttering as you explain, “Because it’s—well, because it was a bet between me and my dumbass boyfriend, and it was very clear what the prize was gonna be, come winner or loser—so, sorry to break it to you, but there is no prize.”

But that doesn’t seem to deter Geto. “Oh, I think there is…” he all but purrs as he leans down further.

“Satoru already agreed. And you’re already on your back beneath me.”

His smile isn’t all so friendly anymore, and still… you can’t help but blush being caught beneath it, holding your breath with fear a little different from the one before but no different in how it makes your heart pound.

“So, if neither of you mind…" he grins slyly. "I think I’ll just take it.” 

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ GETO SUGURU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[gojoest]

“I can’t believe you let that guy hold your hand”

Satoru was upset. Really upset. You could see it all over his face — jaw clenched, brows furrowed, the vein on his forehead so swollen it was threatening to pop any second now.

“You are being ridiculous”, you sigh. He’s been at it for 3 hours now and you no longer have the energy to try and beat some sense into him, he’s not listening to you anyway. “Please stop”, you ask for what probably is the hundredth time.

“Okay”, he audibly breathes under his nose, but surely doesn’t sound the least bit convincing, nor does he look like he’s given up, judging by the way he’s fervently searching up something on his phone, tapping left and right, downloading all kinds of social apps. “What’s his name?"

“You’re not going to look him up now, are you?”

He can’t be serious, you try to reason internally. He’s just being too silly right now pretending to throw another jealousy fit to show you just how much he loves you and how crazy he is about you, you try to convince yourself.

Yet, the look in his eyes refutes all of your hopes.

He has gone mad. He really is after that guy.

“Bingo. Name, please”

“I don’t remember it”, you let out an exasperated whine.

“Fine, I’ll just have Ijichi track that homewrecker down, then I’ll go deal with him personally myself”

“…”, you sigh once again. “And then what?”

“I’ll cut his hand and burn it”, he nonchalantly blurts out, his eyes focused on his phone as he types out instructions to Ijichi, along with a photo attached to the message.

3 hours ago, when things went terribly wrong

As promised, you were showing Satoru your childhood albums.

He was very eager to see how the mini you looked backed in the day. Basking in the sight of your adorable self from the photos, gushing over your chubby cheeks and cute outfits, he was asking about the story behind each shot and curiously listening to you go on and on about the old times and the little you he didn’t know about.

…that was until a certain group photo from kindergarten caught Satoru’s eyes.

“What’s this”, he pointed at it.

“It’s a group pic from kindergarten when I was four, I think? The teachers made us pair up and hold hands for the photo, and I ended up with this boy here”

Silence. Something was off.

Satoru wasn’t reacting the way he was to the other pictures. His smile was frozen on his lips but it was gone from his eyes, and he was unusually quiet too. The aura he was giving off was definitely eerie, and not the least bit loving.

“Yeah?”, Satoru spoke in a dull voice. “And you let him hold your hand?”

“What?”, you blinked twice. “I—, what?”

“You let another man touch you?”

“A man? He was four, and so was I — we were children, Satoru”, you, in complete disbelief, try to laugh it off. There was no way he could be actually upset about and jealous over something so ridiculous (he was in fact very upset and very jealous, and yes, over something so ridiculous).

“It doesn’t change the fact that this bastard touched what’s mine”, he was gritting his teeth.

“I wasn’t yours back then”, and you were pouring oil into the fire.

“Look, just because we didn’t know each other doesn’t mean you weren’t mine. You were always mine, you just didn’t know it. But that guy—”

You cut him off, “Alright”, and took the photo album from his lap, closing it shut and tucking it under your armpit. “We’re done looking at my childhood pictures”

“Why? Are there more guys holding your hand in there?”, he protested in a high-pitched voice.

“…”

“Oh my god?”, he cried out. “There are?”

Yes, there were. And if he kept looking, by the end of the day, he would turn into a mass murderer.

a/n: mind you, the rest of the pictures are all on friendly terms too, purely platonic. but better safe than sorry! AHAHAH

[fierceawakening]

Who’s saying that? What I’ve seen has been “Remember that cults recruit the lonely and the vulnerable. If you think someone you know is being recruited, one way to cut it off at the pass is to give him a safe space to talk about the feelings he fears being rejected for. It might not work, and if it doesn’t don’t harm yourself psychologically for his sake. But if you think it might, talk to him. ‘This isn’t like you.’ ‘I don’t remember you saying this before.’ ‘Do you think that about me, or just Women as an amorphous group? If it’s Amorphous Group, how can you decide what they’re like without considering people you know, like me?’”

I swear some self professed feminists think being nice to a guy who they see is in trouble makes them weak. It honestly reminds me a bit of the fash. “If I seem too nice, people will think I’m not willing to do what needs to be done.”

Yeah, fine, I’m squishy.

I’d rather be squishy than like that, because being like that is culty too and I wasted several years of my life on it and never saw any “drinking male tears” we did improve the social standing of women one iota.

Nooo mutual don’t put that “men fall down the alt-right pipeline bc women/feminists are too mean” post on my dash nooo mutual don’t try to say women need to be nicer when dealing with misogynistic men nooo mutual nooo

[moonstruckme]

And since you're such an angel, I would love some:

snow angels with doctor!remus

Thank you and please hydrate 💧

Awee you're too sweet to me, thanks for requesting lovely <3

cw: blood (not a lot? if that helps), dizziness/lightheadedness

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 686 words

Remus cups your face in his hand, brows woven together in concern. “Did you eat lunch?” he asks you. 

“Yeah.” 

“What’d you have?” He swipes his thumb gently over your cheek before leaving you, going into the nearby bathroom. 

“A sandwich.” You sound a bit defensive, which isn’t strictly fair. You know you gave Remus a bit of a fright when he came home to find you lying on the rug between the living room and the kitchen, too scared to get up. It was perhaps a tad dramatic—you could’ve walked over to the couch if you’d really wanted to, you’re sure—but you didn’t see any point in pushing yourself when you felt so dizzy and shaky on your feet. Remus has taken it as more cause for alarm than you have. 

He comes back with a blood pressure monitor and a couple of other things, setting them on the kitchen table in front of you. “That sounds fine,” he murmurs, taking your arm to slide the cuff up it. You have the sensation of swaying in your seat, but you’re not sure if it’s really happening or only in your head. “And it’s been going on for how long?” 

“Since maybe two.” You lean sideways so your head rests on his chest. Remus’ free hand comes up to hold it there gently, pinkie stroking the baby hairs by your temple as the cuff inflates around your arm. 

“You should have called me, sweetheart.” 

“I was okay,” you tell him. “I didn’t really think I was gonna pass out or anything, I just thought it’d be safer to sit down.” 

Remus’ hum conveys some disapproval, but he doesn’t seem to think it’s worthwhile to continue arguing with you. The blood pressure monitor beeps, and he leans forward to read it. 

“Hm, that’s normal.” He takes the cuff off you with a satisfying ripping sound. You curl and flex your fingers against the odd feeling. 

Remus holds your head to his chest with his free hand while he leans forward, grabbing something else off the counter. He takes your hand, but you pull it from his grasp when you see what he’s holding, sitting up. 

“Remus,” you whine. 

He chuckles at your tone. “Dove, it’ll be quick.” 

You let him take your hand again, but don’t allow him to pull it near that clicker thing. “Is it going to hurt?” you worry. 

“No.” 

You make a low, petulant sound in the back of your throat. Ordinarily you might be embarrassed for it, but you’re feeling rather self-pitying right now and entitled to some sulking. “Really?” 

“Yes, love. Relax.” 

Still feeling mistrustful, you allow him to pull your hand closer. He pricks the pad of your finger. 

“Ow—Rem!” 

“It’s okay,” Remus shushes you. “All done.” 

“That hurt,” you complain, vindicated, as he collects the bead of blood on a reader. 

“I know,” he admits. “It does, a little. But only for a second, yeah?” 

You make your displeasure known through your silence. 

“Look.” Remus takes your finger, kissing the back. “It’s better now, see?” He brings your head to his chest again, and it’s difficult to keep from softening when he kisses that, too. “Sorry, dovey.” 

“It’s okay,” you say, begrudging, only because he really does seem to feel a bit bad. 

“Mm.” He reads your blood sugar. “You’re at ninety two.” 

“Is that good?” 

“It’s normal.” Remus holds your cheek again, looking down at you and stroking pensively with his thumb. You’re not sure if he’s feeling for something or just touching you; you’re happy either way. 

He hums softly. “Do you feel tired as well?” 

“A little, yeah.” 

“Headache?” 

You tilt your head back to see him. “What’s it mean?” 

“I’ll take that for a yes, then.” His lips curve softly. “I’m not completely sure what it means yet, but I’ve got a couple of theories.” 

“Can you fix it?” you ask, though really you have complete faith. Remus always fixes it. 

He kisses your head again like he knows what you’re thinking. His lips make a soft landing just short of your hairline. “We’ll see.” 

[euthymiya]

Sukuna who never was close to his twin brother and never cared about the pipsqueak runt of a kid who’s his nephew.

He doesn’t care and doesn’t want to be associated with that bullshit. His brother doesn’t take the hint ever and invites him to everything. “My sons’s birthday party” this and “my son’s kindergarten graduation” that. What sort of graduation is meant for a kindergartener anyway? That’s a load of nonsense. But Jin is as annoying as ever with insisting on keeping contact and trying to get Sukuna involved and he hates it until by some tragedy out of nowhere, his brother and sister and law are dead. Yuuji’s left an orphan and no one can care for that kid because there’s no one left.

No one except Sukuna.

They ask him, too. The social workers. They turn to him and say some pitiful script about being “the only family left to take custody of him.” He knows pretty well what’s going to happen to the pipsqueak if he doesn’t agree. The foster care system and the possible horrors such a bright (even if annoying) kid could face makes him question saying no for a second. He’s surprisingly conflicted.

And it’s out of sheer impulsiveness alone does he end up as a single, grumpy, begrudging uncle who’s got custody of a child he never really cared to know in the first place.

And then he meets you.

Sweet, bubbly, warm, and so weirdly happy. Dictionary definition of what an elementary school teacher should be. Yuuji’s absolute favorite person on the planet as he waves hello at you enthusiastically every time that Sukuna drops him off and goodbye every time that Sukuna picks him up.

“I heard his new guardian would be his uncle. It’s nice to meet you,” you murmur to him the first day he picks up Yuuji after school, a look of pure melancholy on your face as you stare at him with an unearthly amount of compassion and sympathy. “Yuuji’s parents were wonderful people. I’m really sorry for your loss.”

“Wasn’t that close with either of them,” he grunts out. You look over at where Yuuji’s gleefully playing on the slide of the playground. Too young and innocent to realize that’s been ripped away from him. Too naive to understand what it means to grieve. Too hopeful about the world around him to realize just how cruel it can really be.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding slowly.

He thinks that your unnaturally kind demeanor will finally be broken for a split second of judgement. What sort of heartless bastard doesn’t feel an ounce of grief for his own brother’s death? Instead, however, you seem to look at him with some weird sense of wonder.

“You’re a good uncle for stepping up regardless,” you say softly, “it’s more than what most would do in your shoes.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he clicks his teeth, unbearably uncomfortable with how weirdly sentimental this all is. “He’s just a five year old. How much trouble could he be?”

You raise a brow in amusement, eyeing him like he’s got one hell of a surprise waiting for him. He doesn’t like the vague way you hum, “Yeah. How could such a little human cause trouble, right?”

“I’ve got it under control,” he grumbles, a little annoyed that you seem to think that out of all things, a simple child would be enough to cause Sukuna any issues.

“Let me know if you need anything,” you smile.

Yuuji calls to you from the distance, squealing look what I can do! before he does a rather clumsy spin. Sukuna raises an unimpressed brow. You clap and praise him with an exaggerated gasp of approval.

It’s oddly endearing, he thinks to himself—you, not the kid. The kid’s barely tolerable.

“C’mon, you brat,” Sukuna calls. And then he looks at you and gruffly adds, “And I don’t need help.”

“Okay,” you grin brightly. It almost feels like you’re saying that a little sarcastically. “I’m sure you’ve got this parent thing down.”

Before he can even correct you that he’s an uncle, not parent, Yuuji comes running over on clumsy, short little legs and grabs onto Sukuna’s hand.

“C’mon, Uncle ‘Kuna!”

Sukuna doesn’t miss the way your eyes soften. Weirdly enough, he feels this odd sort of squeeze in his chest that doesn’t make any sense. Maybe he’s just getting old—that has to be it.

[kyeomofhearts]

Yunho x Chubby!Reader Headcanons <3

[☻] I’ve been thinking about Yuyu a lot 💔 so here we are! Made this in 30 minutes so please excuse any mistakes!

[nsfw content after the ‘keep reading’ header] mdni!!

☆ Yunho’s the type to always need some sort of physical touch when it comes to you. Like he’s mindlessly touching you (both sexual and non) whether that be by holding your hand or simply caressing your shoulder. Your physical presence just soothes him you know?

☆ Is not quiet about you at all, as he should. Right after your first date he almost changed his relationship status to ‘taken’ on all of his social media accounts. And now as a happy couple, he makes sure to let everyone know who his gf is and just how much he loves you! He even has a ‘I love my gf’ shirt with one of the very first selfies you sent him.

☆ Laying his head on your thighs is his favorite thing in the world. As soon as your fingers make their way to his scalp he’s gone. He just loves how warm and plush you are.

☆ Loves, absolutely loves, how soft and plump your skin is! Even if you get self-conscious about your stretch marks or cellulite, he will always make sure to show you how much he adores your body.

☆ Loves eating with you. Restaurants, takeout, or homemade… it doesn’t matter. There’s just something about seeing you eat happily that brings him so much joy.

☆ Okay, let’s face it… since Yunho is on the thinner side, he just can’t help but always gravitate towards you. Especially when it’s cold out, you bet he’s soaking up all of your warmth! You’re his personal heater and he will not be letting you go.

☆ Would absolutely not change a single thing about you whatsoever. Which he makes sure to remind you on those days where you feel a bit insecure about yourself. He thinks and knows that you are perfect just the way you are.

☆ Omg and the sex? Absolutely nasty.

☆ Almost loses all self control when he sees your body in its full glory. Absolutely touching everything and anything as soon as he is within arms reach.

☆ Body worship is through the roof.

☆ Yunho is a simple guy, he just can’t help himself when he sees your boobs and ass.

☆ Loves being rough because then that means he gets to see your body jiggling from how hard he’s fucking you. Also loves marking you up, seeing his hand imprinted on your ass just spurs him on even more.

☆ Is down to do any position with you so as long as he can still see your beautiful body.

☆ Surprisingly enough, he can pick you up and manhandle you like it’s nothing. (You were definitely shocked the first time he lifted you off the ground)

☆ Would be honored to die in-between your thighs. There’s no better way to go out than by eating out the love of his life. If he could, he would just stay in-between your thighs for the rest of his life (it doesn’t even have to be sexual!).

☆ Also loves when you ride his face. Despite your apprehension, he will almost always need to make you cum this way first before actually getting down and dirty.

☆ He cannot honestly get enough of how much there is to grab when it comes to you. There’s been a few times where he just wants to stay still and become one with you.

☆ Absolutely spoils you with lingerie! Even know he prefers you naked most of the time, lingerie on your body just does something to him. There’s nothing better than coming home after a long day to seeing you waiting for him in lingerie, it’s like a reward honestly.

☆ Yunho just loves you so much, he doesn’t know what he would do without you being in his life.

☆ Which is why he plans on proposing to you soon. He’s still trying to get the date down but the ring is already hidden away in his drawer. He hopes that you know how serious he is about you when you see the ring, it’s a Darry ring of course.