#japanese profanity | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cami040405 · 8 days ago

Note

Since you have officially become my like, number one slasher writer for my manzs Michael and Bo:

Could you pretty pls do Michael, Bo, and whoever you would like to write for with a fem!s/o that looks and acts like a ‘sweetheart’ in a (non republican lol) 50’s housewife type of way but cusses constantlyyy if that makes sense? Like, think Bree from Desperate Housewives with Gordon Ramsay’s profanity, so really sweet but just aggressive about it (I’m sorry if it doesn’t really make sense and feel free to not do it :))

Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Charles Lee Ray with a S/O who's a Sweetheart but Swears a Lot

Summary: Imagine Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Charles Lee Ray with a S/O who’s very cute and a sweetheart, but has an explosive temper and swears a lot.

A/N: As always your ideas are great, sorry for the delay in responding to requests, this week has been crazy, thank you for always sending requests, I'm always happy to write them.

Michael Myers

“Oh sugar, could you hand me that fuckin’ chainsaw?”

You were a contradiction wrapped in satin gloves.

The first time Michael saw you, you were standing outside your little retro house at the end of a quiet suburban street. The morning sun hit your lemon-yellow dress like a halo, and your lipstick was cherry red — perfect, untouched. You were watering your garden, hips swaying to some old doo-wop song playing faintly from a vintage radio inside.

You looked like you belonged on the front of a Betty Crocker box.

Until you dropped the hose, stepped in the mud, and muttered loud enough for God and the birds to hear:

��Goddamn motherfucker, not these heels again, Christ on a fuckin’ cracker—”

And then, sweet as pie, you looked up and waved at your neighbor with a sunny:

“Good morning, Mr. Owens! Hope your prostate’s treatin’ ya better today!”

Michael stood there in the bushes, frozen. Not stalking you — yet — just... watching. Bewildered. You were both doll-like and chaotic. Sugar-laced thunder.

He kept watching. Days turned into weeks. You vacuumed in heels. You baked cupcakes with little fondant pumpkins on top and left them on porches. You told the paperboy to “be careful on that shitty-ass bike or I’ll be scraping your spleen off the sidewalk,” with the voice of a lullaby. He was obsessed.

You didn’t even flinch the first time you saw him up close.

You came home from grocery shopping to find a six-foot-tall man in a boiler suit and mask standing in your hallway. Most people would scream. You? You just exhaled like you were annoyed and dropped your bag of produce.

“Jesus tapdancin’ Christ, you scared the goddamn soul outta me. You one of them freaks from next door? If you’re gonna kill me, do it fast, I’ve got a roast in the oven and it’ll burn to hell if I don’t baste it in the next twenty minutes.”

He didn’t kill you.

You made him dinner instead.

From that point on, you just… accepted him.

You’d hum old love songs in the kitchen, apron tied tight around your waist, pearl necklace shining against your throat, muttering about the broken mixer like:

“Piece of shit sounds like it’s possessed by a meth head raccoon…”

And Michael? He just loomed in the doorway, silent as a shadow, following the scent of cinnamon and soap and that one perfume you always wore — something old-fashioned and soft. You never demanded anything from him. You didn’t cry, you didn’t run, you didn’t try to “fix” him.

But you did talk to him constantly.

“I made your favorite today, sugar. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The potatoes are fluffier than Satan’s ass cheeks, swear to God.”

“I put some more knives in the drawer for you. Good ones. Japanese steel, sharp as hell. Don’t say I don’t treat you right, you giant homicidal marshmallow.”

“If that little bitch Laurie peeks over my hedge one more time, I’m gonna march my ass over there and shove my spatula up her perky little nose.”

Michael never responded. But he stayed. That was his answer.

You weren’t scared of the mask. You even joked about it.

One day you got up in his face while adjusting his collar and whispered,

“You ever wanna try a pastel pink one, baby? I could match it to my oven mitts.”

And then you cackled like it was the funniest thing in the world while he just… stared.

And yet, somehow, your softness reached him. The way you’d gently rub circles on his hand when he sat at the kitchen table. The way you left him little notes like

“Gone to the market. Don’t kill anyone in the living room. ”

You swore like a sailor, but loved like the 1950s housewife you dressed as. Tender, thoughtful, present.

You patched up his wounds without hesitation, gently dabbing antiseptic and muttering,

“Jesus Christ, who put a fuckin’ meat hook through your shoulder? I’m gonna find that bastard and slap ‘em so hard they piss alphabet soup.”

Your touch was gentle even when your words were vicious.

The day he killed someone for you, it was the neighbor who kicked your cat.

You weren’t mad. You just sighed and kissed his jaw, eyes bright with a kind of knowing warmth as you said,

“Aw, baby… you didn’t have to. But hell, that guy was a dick. You want lemon bars?”

And he nodded.

In the end, you became the calm in his storm — even if you swore like the thunder itself. Michael never needed words, and you didn’t need answers. You just needed someone who let you be exactly who you were:

A loving, doting, cupcake-baking, vintage-dressed, profanity-flinging badass with a heart of absolute gold.

And he needed someone who didn’t flinch when he got blood on the floor — someone who just sighed and muttered,

“That better not fuckin’ stain. I just mopped.”

Bo Sinclair

When Bo Sinclair first laid eyes on you, he thought he was hallucinating.

You were standing outside your charming little home just outside Ambrose — watering the flowerbeds, your pastel yellow sundress cinched at the waist, matching heels digging into the gravel as you shifted your weight. A vintage kerchief held back your curls, and a string of pearls hugged your neck. A picture-perfect 1950s vision — you even had a cherry pie cooling in the window.

He was halfway through imagining how to flirt with you when you turned, looked him dead in the eye, and called:

“You just gonna stand there like a goddamn creeper or you got somethin' to say, sugar?”

His jaw damn near hit the dirt.

You smiled so sweetly it gave him cavities. The kind of smile that made men forget what day it was. But the voice? You had a tone like a shotgun — all honey and gravel.

Bo didn’t know whether he wanted to date you or put you on a leash.

Bo, being a man of his own… colorful vocabulary, finds your style hilarious and magnetic.

You’ll bake him biscuits, hummin’ along to old vinyls in the kitchen, your frilly apron hugging your curves — and then you burn the second batch and shout:

“MotherFUCKER, I knew I set that damn oven too high, son of a BITCH!”

Bo leans in the doorway and just watches you — beer in hand, shit-eating grin on his face.

“You kiss me with that mouth, darlin’?”

“Damn right I do, sugarplum. You love this fuckin’ mouth.”

He does.

He likes to walk into rooms just to hear what’ll come out of your mouth next. It’s like a sport to him — poke the bear and see what kind of filthy poetry you’ll spit.

You’ll talk about needing to clean the curtains and insult Lester’s entire lineage in the same breath. You’ll lovingly rub Bo’s shoulders while telling him he’s your “big, sexy bastard,” then flip off a tourist from the porch with a fresh batch of lemonade in hand.

You don’t let Bo get away with being a temperamental shit. And that’s what really draws him to you — you challenge him, but in that sexy, playful, Southern-goth way.

“Bo, if you slam that fuckin’ door again, I swear on my mama’s ashes I’ll superglue your dick to a car battery.”

“You gonna wear that sleeveless shit in front of company, darlin’? Or are you tryin’ to start rumors?”

“Boy, I love you more than pie, but if you touch my ironing again, I will throw hands.”

Bo isn’t used to that. He’s used to people being scared of him, tiptoeing around his moods. You? You threaten to shove a wrench up his ass and then kiss his cheek and ask if he wants sweet tea or whiskey.

And what’s worse? It works. He actually listens to you. (Sometimes.)

You're fiercely loyal, despite your loud-ass mouth. If anyone — anyone — says anything sideways about Bo, they’re gonna have a whole lot more than tooth decay to worry about.

You’ve absolutely cornered some poor soul before like:

“Say one more fuckin’ word about my man’s scars and I swear to God I’ll take that spork and carve my name into your eyeball.”

Bo just stands there, arms crossed, biting back a proud smirk while you defend him like a rabid chihuahua in heels.

You're not just sass — you're his protector in your own unhinged, mother-hen way. You patch him up after fights, rub his shoulders when he’s tense, and kiss his jaw like it’s sacred. You tell him he’s handsome even when he’s covered in motor oil or blood.

“You look good, baby. All sweaty like that. Like a filthy mechanic Calvin Klein ad.”

“You need Jesus, sweetheart.”

“What I need is you to bend me over the fuckin’ sink after dinner.”

He chokes on his beer often thanks to you.

Living in Ambrose with you is chaos in pearls.

You clean up the Sinclair house — which Bo doesn’t even realize is possible — in floral gloves and heels, all while calling the dead bodies “inconvenient little fuckers” and the flies “Satan’s tiny bastards.”

You paint the walls pastel and cuss out the wiring.

You host a tea party for yourself, Bo, and Vincent once — complete with scones and the most aggressive table manners known to man:

“Vincent, sweetheart, pass the cream — and Bo, if you scratch your balls at the fuckin’ table again I will knife you in your sleep.”

Bo’s never laughed harder. Vincent hasn’t stopped blinking.

Bo never knew he needed a woman like you — sweet enough to charm anyone, but savage enough to start a war. You keep him grounded, even when you're threatening to “gut-punch God himself if the washing machine breaks again.” He thinks you’re the hottest thing in heels, and no one — no one — gets to talk shit about you without losing a tooth or two.

Bo loves you because you’re wild, loyal, gorgeous, and completely yours.

And when he sees you fixing your lipstick in the mirror, muttering about “those damn tourists ruining your front lawn with their crusty-ass footprints,” he leans in, smirks, and says:

“You’re somethin’ else, sugar.”

“Damn right I am, baby.”

Charles Lee Ray

From the second Charles laid eyes on you, he was in love — or as close to love as a scumbag soul trapped in a plastic body could get. There you were, standing in your sunlit kitchen with checkered curtains, a powder-pink apron cinched over your dress, red lipstick perfectly applied, and a frilly headband keeping your victory rolls in place.

It would’ve been a Leave-It-To-Beaver wet dream if it weren’t for the fact you were scrubbing blood off your floor with a mop and muttering:

“Fuckin’ hell, I just waxed this floor yesterday. Asshole couldn’t have died somewhere useful, huh? Like the goddamn backyard?”

And then, as if the universe wanted to seduce Charles specifically, you turned around, smiled at him sweet as peach pie and said:

“Well hey there, sweetheart! You want lemonade, or are you just here to stare at me like a constipated jackrabbit?”

He burst out laughing. Loud, genuine, amused-as-all-hell laughter.

You didn’t flinch. You even giggled, because you knew what you were — a contradiction wrapped in satin gloves and peppermint-scented rage. Charles was used to blood and chaos. What he wasn’t used to was someone matching his energy while wearing kitten heels and pearls.

You were affectionate, sweet, doting — calling him things like “darlin’,” “my little firecracker,” and “handsome devil” while simultaneously using language that would get you banned from network TV. You’d make him a sandwich and say:

“Here ya go, baby. Don’t eat it too fast or you’ll choke like a goddamn dumbass. Love you.”

He adored you. Couldn’t get enough. He never knew whether you were going to kiss him or insult his life choices, and honestly? That was his favorite part.

You had this voice — soft, airy, almost sing-song — and everything that came out of it was horrendously explicit. You’d read cookbooks aloud while replacing every measurement with swear words:

“Two goddamn cups of that floury bullshit… half a fuckin’ teaspoon of baking soda — NOT powder, unless you want it to explode like my ex’s tiny-ass ego…”

Charles would just be there on the counter in doll form, cackling, kicking his little feet while watching you flounce around like a pissed-off Stepford Wife.

You and Charles were murder soulmates. You looked like the type who’d faint at the sight of blood, but no — you were the one snapping the guy’s wrist while Charles stabbed him in the neck.

And every time, without fail, you'd pause mid-murder to scold someone:

“You absolute dickweed — who the hell tries to run in heels? You're making me chase you in my good apron, and I swear to Christ if you get blood on my fuckin' blouse I’m gonna give your corpse a goddamn makeover and parade it around like a prize hog at the county fair.”

It was poetry. It was obscene. Charles would be doubled over laughing while also violently stabbing someone. It was romantic, really.

You kept your home pristine. Pink appliances, floral curtains, vintage everything. But the second something went wrong — toaster didn’t pop, radio signal cut — the cussing started.

“This stupid, limp-dick, crusty-ass bread ruiner of a toaster is testing my goddamn patience!”

Chucky: “I love you so fucking much.”

You once threatened to strangle a Jehovah’s Witness with your phone cord because he insulted your dress length. Another time, you told a nosy neighbor:

“Oh honey, if you spent half as much time worrying about your own pussy as you do about mine, you wouldn’t be getting cheated on every weekend. Want some brownies?”

Chucky was so proud he cried. Actual tears (okay, blood, but still).

What stunned Charles most was that underneath all the murder and swearing, you were incredibly level-headed. You kept him grounded. You could disembowel a guy and still remind Charles to take his medicine or brush blood out of his hair before bed.

You kissed his scars. You never judged the way he looked — even as a doll, you’d sit him on your lap, stroke his fiery red hair, and say:

“You’re my cute little bastard. Don’t care if you’re plastic or not. You still get me wetter than a hurricane, baby.”

He blushed. Chucky actually blushed.

You helped stitch him back together after a fight with Tiffany (who lowkey respected you but also wanted to fight you for being too hot and fun). You two would get drunk together and throw knives at moving targets, taking turns insulting each other:

You: “You throw like your dick’s on backwards.” Chucky: “You flirt like a grandma with dementia.”You: “Still sucked you off better than she did.” Chucky: “...Okay, fair.”

Charles never expected to be happy — truly happy — until you. He was chaos incarnate, a murderer, a soul in a broken doll. But you? You were delightfully unhinged, dressed like a Disney character but cussing out reality like it owed you rent.

And the weirdest thing?

You made him feel safe.

You didn't just tolerate his psychotic tendencies — you embraced them, matched them, outpaced them, all while baking cherry pies and yelling about flaky crust like it was a war crime.

He never stood a chance.

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kawoala · 1 month ago

Text

LAST SEEN WITH:

LIKE A HIGH SCHOOLER, ATSUMU MIYA

DESCRIPTION: apparently, you know nothing about your best friend. apparently, she’s friends with nearly the whole national japanese volleyball team. she gets tickets and, oh, she’s inviting you?!

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION: profanity. pro vball player!atsumu. uni student!reader. ooc!yachi, probably. love at first sight if you squint reeeeeaaally hard.

word count: 2,072.

“yachi. yachi, yachi. yachi, what do you mean you have tickets for the fucking olympics?”

the blonde girl in front of you glances to the side, gauging the reactions from the nearby people in the coffee shop. “um,” she hesitates, letting out a little giggle. “i went to high school with some of the team? i was the club manager- haven’t i told you this before?”

“i mean, probably, but!” you shake your hands, obviously frazzled. you can’t wrap your head around the fact that you’re about to go to the olympics. “you never told me that they made it to the national team!”

she shrugs and takes a drink of her tea. “it never came up.”

two weeks later, you’re sitting in one of the front rows at the japan v. germany volleyball game, popcorn in one hand and a soda in the other. yachi sits next to you, decked out in merchandise from some players—a hat with bokuto koutarou’s number on it, a jersey with kageyama tobio’s number on it, and a large sign with a baby picture of hinata shoyo.

“this is insane,” you note, leaning forward to get a better look of the court. it’s huge, bigger than anything you’ve ever seen. “i mean- holy shit, yachi, we’re at the olympics.”

she laughs and nods. “i know, y/n. wanna know something even cooler?” you look at her and tilt your head. she leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “you get to meet the team after this.”

your eyes go wide, mouth dropping open to say something, but loud music erupts from the speakers and both of your heads snap to the court. from a door in the far corner of the arena, a crowd of men enter. they’re wearing red jersey’s and you realize it’s the japanese team. cheers sound from everyone around you, including yachi. when the german team walks out of the same door, you don’t pay attention; your gaze is stuck on your team, eyes roaming over their faces, trying to see who looks familiar.

hinata shoyo, bright orange hair; kageyama tobio, tall and bored looking; bokuto koutarou, loud; ushijima wakatoshi, intimidating.

you don’t recognize anyone else, but there’s a head of blonde hair that entices you to no end. he’s rough housing with one of the other players, laughing and smiling wide. and, even from your spot in the bleachers, you can tell he’s handsome. the kind of handsome that people only see in movies.

“who is that?” you point down at the court, turning to yachi. “number eleven, the blonde one.”

“uh.” her brows furrow and she follows your direction. “oh, that’s atsumu miya. he and shoyo are really good friends; they played on MSBY together. bokuto and sakusa, too.”

you don’t ask who sakusa is—you don’t care. you direct your gaze back to the blonde and are surprised to find him seemingly staring right at you. in fact, four or five of them are staring directly at you and yachi.

“yachi!” hinata yells from the court, waving his hands wildly.

you look at her just as red begins to creep up her cheeks. she sends a wave back at them, smiling nervously. it hits you that he’s not staring at you, he’s staring at yachi. disappointment fills your stomach and you shove a handful of popcorn into your mouth.

of course, japan wins. it’s a close call, germany tries their best, but to no avail. the aftermath is crazy—cheers from your side of the arena, groans and complaints from the other side. yachi is losing her mind, screaming at the top of her lungs, shaking you aggressively. you’ve never seen her like this, but, with a laugh, you decide you like it.

she drags you up by your hand, gracefully maneuvering through the crowd of people until you exit into an almost empty hallway. you’re not sure where you are—you’re not sure how yachi knows where you are—but anxiety thrums through your veins.

“uh, yachi? where are we going?” she’s still leading you by your wrist. “are we lost?”

“what?” she glances back at you, laughing. “no, we’re not lost. we’re going to wait outside the locker room.”

you blink a couple times at the back of her head. “w- won’t they have to, like, talk to the press or something? and- and sign stuff? kiss baby’s on the forehead?”

again, she laughs. “yes, they have to talk to the press. we’re going to wait until they’re done and then we’re going out for dinner.” she comes to a stop in front of a door and you nearly bump into her with how abrupt it is. she looks at you and smiles widely. “are you nervous?”

“me, nervous? just because i’m about to meet the entirety of japan’s national volleyball team? of course not!”

“perfect.” she rolls her eyes playfully, ignoring the sarcasm. there’s a pause and then she wiggles her brows at you. “not even nervous to meet atsumu? i saw the way you were ogling him.”

your head doesn’t leave its position, but you look at her out of the side of your eye, glaring. “that’s so not funny,” you say monotonously. “i wasn’t ogling him. what am i, a high schooler?”

she just hums, rocking back and forth on her heels.

after forty-five minutes of small talk and teasing from yachi, the door to the locker room opens and a gaggle of men all rush out, talking loudly to each other. your veins go ice cold, a stark contrast to how sweaty your palms get.

“yacchan!” a large man shouts—bokuto koutarou, you recognize. he rushes to the girl and sweeps her up in a hug, spinning her around. “we got gold, yacchan! did you see my awesome spike at the end? i totally won the game for us!”

he seems to have no volume control, and yachi doesn’t seem to care. “bokuto! yes, i saw! good job, you guys all did so good!” a couple other men walk over, parting from their team. hinata, kageyama, atsumu, a tall brunette man, and a curly-haired man.

you cross your arms over your chest and take a step back, hitting the wall. you want to give them time to visit, time to catch up. she regards them all by their names—suna and sakusa, the two men you didn’t know. they talk for a small moment before yachi turns to you, surprising you when she introduces you.

“this is y/n, she’s my best friend.” when you don’t move, she raises her brows. “say hi, y/n.”

you press your lips together, narrowing your eyes, then turn to the men and bow lightly. “hello. it’s nice to meet you all. you played a very good game.”

without meaning to, you let your gaze drift to atsumu. god. he’s still slightly sweaty, his hair sticking to his forehead just a bit. now that you’re closer, you realize that, yeah, he’s hot. he smiles at you, wide and unabashedly, and you look away immediately, choosing to look at yachi again.

“nice to meet you, y/n!” hinata exclaims, pushing through the crowd to approach you. he sticks his hand out to you, presumably for you to shake, and grins. “i’m glad you could come and support us.”

you shake his hand, giving him a small smile. this is so overwhelming. yachi clears her throat, like she can read your mind, and claps her hands together. “all right, who's hungry?”

the restaurant is barren. you later learn that yachi had rented the entire place out, then briefly wonder how much money she makes to be able to afford that.

you’re sitting at the end of the table, yachi on one side, hinata on the other. atsumu is sitting across from you, sparing you quick glances every so often. he’ll look at you, smile, cover his face with a hand, then look away. if you’re being honest, it’s freaking you out.

you pick at the skin around your nails under the table—a habit you’ve never been able to get rid of. yachi leans forward, talking to bokuto, who sits next to atsumu. you haven’t said a single word, too nervous to join the conversation in fear that they’ll think you’re weird.

“so, y/n,” bokuto looks at you. the use of your name scares the crap out of you and your knee jerks up reflexively, hitting the table. he laughs and you feel your face heat up. “where do you work? with yacchan?”

you shake your head. “oh, no. i wouldn’t even know where to begin doing what she does. i barely know how to work photoshop.” it earns a laugh out of a few people and you exhale, feeling your nerves dissipate. “i work at an animal shelter, for now. i’m studying kinesiology at university though. i want to be a physical therapist.”

“no shit?” atsumu chokes out, setting his water down on the table with a clink. he coughs again and wipes the side of his mouth, cheeks getting red. “jesus- i mean, really? the team is looking for a physical therapist.”

“oh, well, i don’t have my degree in anything yet.” you shake your head, letting out a nervous laugh. “and i don’t think i’m quite experienced enough to work for the national team, y’know?”

he hums, putting his chin in his hand and leaning forward. his eyes bore into you, seemingly staring straight into your soul. the energy is so charged, so tense. you’re not sure how you should feel. you turn to yachi for help, but she just laughs quietly and returns her attention to bokuto.

“do you like school?” atsumu’s voice is quiet, barely audible over the chatter of the table. you meet his eyes—his beautiful brown eyes.

you swallow hard and shrug. “it’s okay. a little stressful, but, hey, i can handle it.” you laugh, hoping to calm yourself. “um, what about you? do you- do you like volleyball?”

“yeah,” he laughs, nodding, “it’s alright. i’ve been playing since middle school.”

suddenly, it seems like no one else is at the table with you. atsumu talks to you, his voice low and just raspy enough and—god, you’ve never felt this way when meeting someone for the first time. time flies by quickly, talking about family and high school and anything under the sun. before you know it, it’s 10 o'clock and sakusa is paying for everyone’s dinner. you all walk to the parking lot, talking loudly, as usual, and laughing. you walk next to atsumu, peering up at him as he recalls one of the many pranks he and his twin brother pulled in their childhood.

“—and she didn’t even see it, ran right into it,” he says, barely able to finish his sentence because of how hard he’s laughing. the story isn’t even that funny, but you can’t stop the laughter that bubbles out of your throat. “god, we terrorized that poor old woman. we got in so much trouble.”

you laugh again, covering your mouth to try and be quiet, but it fails. he looks at you and, for a moment, it’s quiet again. you arrive at the passenger side of yachi’s car and a pang of disappointment shoots through you. is this it? you talked all night, but is it just going to end here? you look up at him and smile, tight-lipped.

“you’re real funny, y’know,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. the rest of the team is clambering into different cars, saying their goodbyes, promising to text yachi more.

you duck your head, smiling. “you’re funny too, atsumu.”

the car beside you rolls down its window, revealing sakusa, stone faced. “atsumu, hurry up. i will leave you here.” the window rolls back up and both of you laugh.

“can i–” he cuts himself off, taking a deep inhale. “god, that makes me sound like a high schooler. can i get your number?”

so that’s not it. he wants to talk to you again. you reach for your pocket, fumbling for your phone, before unlocking it and handing it to him. he punches his number in, then hands it back. “it was really nice talking to you, atsumu,” you say quietly, reaching for the door handle.

he smirks, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “yeah, it was nice talking to you too, y/n. i’ll see you around.”

“see ya.”

#kawoala #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #atsumu miya #atsumu miya x reader #miya atsumu #miya atsumu x reader #atsumu #atsumu x reader #haikyuu atsumu #haikyuu atsumu x reader #haikyuu!! atsumu #haikyuu!! atsumu x reader #haikyuu atsumu miya #haikyuu!! atsumu miya #haikyuu atsumu miya x reader #haikyuu!! atsumu miya x reader

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meolia · 1 month ago

Text

. *. ⋆ twisted wonderland: how dateable are they? (heartslabyul ver.)

a/n: so. back in 2022/2023 i vaguely remember doing this on an old blog i had and i thought, since im obsessed with this game again i should redo it with newfound knowledge el oh el / oh and feel free to debate me on this i just need people to talk to 💔 . also i apologize that the cons have more words than the pros because i have a lot to say about them BYEHEYE

cw: profanity, troubled teenage boys, no sugarcoating, involves content from the vignettes, main story & events from the eng server, involves SOME headcanons.

1 (extremely undateable), 10 (extremely dateable); im also kind of biased but i swear to remain neutral💔💔💔

SAVANACLAW | other parts tba.

HEARTSLABYUL

Riddle Rosehearts

PROS: hardworking, determined and adaptable. we've seen this guy study so hard ever since he popped out of the womb and it resulting in him coming out on top, and he could've easily skipped a few grades because of how smart he is academically and magically. he's also able to remain coolheaded in stressful situations, oftentimes coming up with (usually) rational solutions. he's also really cute when it comes to cakes/tarts. he'd get mad on your behalf, he'd also be kinder towards you, he'd offer to tutor you on subjects you don't understand and tries to be patient, just for you. chronically offline (thats a good thing yes)

CONS: well. first, he's got some serious anger issues he needs to work on; it's not his fault per se, but with how unpredictable the bursts of angers are will probably be tiring. he takes offense to a lot of things and admittedly, he's better post OB but he's still got a long way to go. second, his obsession with the queen of hearts' rules are INsane. there's been instances where he expects outsiders that aren't even in heartslabyul to abide by her rules which is,,, haha lol ermmmmm. he'd probably expect you to do the same. just because youre his partner doesn't mean he'd let you go scot-free if you break any one of them...! again, he's better post OB but still. third, his mother and overall tense family relationship. he's probably this way because of his mother's influence and insane expectations of him, so it won't be very surprising if his mother has a LOT of opinions on you. lastly, he lacks joy and whimsy. he literally never watches movies or play games etc., deeming them unnecessary which is insane????????? HOLY crap im surprised hes still intact

MY FINAL VERDICT: 7/10 — he would make a decent boyfriend. me personally i probably wouldnt date him people like him stress me out but each to their own! he needs to sort himself out before even thinking of dating though

Trey Clover

PROS: he's very big brother like, the kind that's reassuring and makes you feel safe whenever he's near. he rarely gets mad, and if he does, he wouldn't resort to yelling or act irrational. mature, maybe overly so for a guy his age and surrounded by the people he's around, but that's a plus for him. CAN COOK AND CAN BAKE. his family owns a bakery too so you'd probably get discounts because you're dating him. also, his love language is probably acts of service so you can probably expect him to carry most of your stuff, help you with organizing spaces etc. gives in easily... could be both a pro and con. soft-spoken teeheeHEE... he didn't make it into the top 30 of male characters japanese women want to date for no reason.

CONS: that god awful fucking obsession he has with cleaning teeth. OH my god the way he was all like "im the only normal one here omfgggg" during twisted halloween part 2 and then when sebek mentions that his father is a dentist he immediately starts smiling WIDELY and kept pressing him for more info about his dad's dental work like that scene of shrek signing a contract by that little man. whenever he mentions "brushing your teeth" it's going to sound like a threat even when he doesn't mean it that way. going back to gives in easily; it'll become a problem because you know damn well he'd go "umm... nevermind" very often.

MY FINAL VERDICT: 8/10. deducted two points because im genuinely terrified of his cleaning teeth HOBBY. otherwise id say he'd make a really sweet boyfriend. would date, probably.

Cater Diamond

PROS: he's chill, laid-back and easygoing (are there any differences between those three words im sobbing). he plays mediator during tense situations, and he offers peaceful resolutions (most of the time). perceptive, and he's got some nice intuitions. his psychic abilities are cray craaay... I just stared at what I typed for a full minute. I'm never doing that EVER again. he's usually optimistic, and he's also really cheerful so if you like some rainbows in your life, he's your guy. i KNOW he's good at photography since he posts on magicam so much & probably has a decent following. he would take the most godly pictures of you if you wanted. i think he'd break his back and knees to get that angle for you.

CONS: The way he incorporates hashtags in almost every single conversation will kill me. youd be talking about something horrid that happened to you that day and he'd say some shit like "oh no! that's hashtag #diabolical!" (double hashtags since the game does that... ik they dont mean it like that but i just feel like that'd be funny). apparently has a death glare so terrifying it'd kill a man on the spot? you'd either be wetting your pants or be more attracted to him. either way, if you guys ever get into a heated argument and he pulls that out umm bless you i think? and he maybe posts on magicam. too much. it'd be something insignificant and not very worth journalling but he'd take a picture anyways and post it online with some long stupid hashtags like #DelightfulFurry #HotPinkBangin #OneWithTheCrowd with an image of heartslabyul freshmen wearing pink and feeding the flamingoes. but i guess that's part of his charm...?

MY FINAL VERDICT: 7/10. he's handsome and he's a cool guy but the way he talks in hashtags and how he lives on magicam will be a big fat turnoff for me. if you like it, good for you! cay-cay would make me decay-cay!

Ace Trappola

PROS: he'd get mad on your behalf (see to when he punched riddle in the face because he insulted mc). cares for you even if he doesn't admit it outwardly, but will do stuff in the background to help you, even if just a little bit like that time in the halloween event where he and deuce personally went to ask the ghosts to make a costume for mc and grim so they wouldn't have to miss out. playful, there wouldn't be a day that's boring when with him.

CONS: got an extremely loose tongue that got him into trouble loads of times. can't really shut up which is very bad...! he sometimes doesn't think before speaking so ahaha. SO irresponsible sometimes he can fight grim on that. remember when he ran from his punishment at the start of the game? yeah. also is really embarrassing sometimes i have to turn my phone off to ponder about life whenever he says some stupid crap that WILL come back and bite him in the ass later on. also will probably get bored of you? like that one time he ghosted his middle school girlfriend because he doesn't wanna do it anymore... eeeeyikes.

MY FINAL VERDICT: 6/10. the honeymoon phase will be the best, and the rest you just gotta hope he doesn't pull an average teenage boy.

Deuce Spade

PROS: so so so extremely sweet. is willing to do almost anything to make it up to you if he ever wronged you. is willing to change, like how he decided to try and become a model student because he saw his mom crying about him being a delinquent, so if he has any flaws/bad habits that make you uncomfortable he'd try to be better. brave, like stupidly so. was ready to fight malleus in malleus's sr lab coat vignette even if it meant he'd die LMFAOOO. he's also someone who'd get mad on your behalf, but even more than ace. dude WILL get into a brawl with ten people for you. passionate. he'd also be so gentle and kind towards you like how he treats mc in game, never raising his voice at you and if he inadvertently does it he'd apologize immediately. his determination is amazing too. his love for eggs is also really cute... sorry im just rambling now i just really love him bye

CONS: oblivious and very gullible. there's been SO many times where he agrees too fast or just believed everything without a fact check. like in glorious masquerade where azul was talking to him about taking his UM he just went "okay!" without asking why. would probably get into a lot of unneeded trouble for this fact alone.

MY FINAL VERDICT: 10/10. this is a bias on my part but he'd make the sweetest and most amazing boyfriend EVER. he's trying!!! he really is!!! i think he's charmingly idiotic gahahahha hhahaa

HEARTSLABYUL MOST DATEABLE TO LEAST DATEABLE:

DEUCE > TREY > CATER > RIDDLE > ACE

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heavenbloom · 26 days ago

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🇵🇸 BEFORE YOU READ: DONATE • BOYCOTT TLOU

⚭ — 𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒊𝒏’𝒕 𝒎𝒆, 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒆 | 𝒆.𝒘.

song: it ain’t me babe — joan baez and posing for cars — japanese breakfast

summary: you had always wanted to marry ellie williams, and if the ring on your finger meant anything, she wanted to marry you too. but your reveries of marital bliss are crushed when the words leave her lips — it isn’t the right time.

warnings: 18+ mdni. ANGST. modern!au, fem language and she/her pronouns used, profanities, heartbreak, confrontation, allusions to joel’s death and depression, mentions of grief, bittersweet ending. not proofread.

wc: 2.2k

a/n: i got all the ellie photos off of pinterest. i couldn’t find the exact creators but credits to all the people who took them nonetheless!! this was mainly dialogue practice but i think i botched it lmao

Dawn outstretched its sunlit fingers to the earth. Gold, warm and ripe, trailed through the white lace curtains that were draped across the window. The light spilled over the chipped wooden table and streaked the desolate mug sitting on top of it. It turned the glass cupboard kaleidoscopic and made the dust floating around the room visible. Above your head, spinning, spinning, spinning.

This scene was a thing too tender for the grief that bellowed in your gut, that clawed at the back of your throat, that pinched the flesh up your spine.

Domesticity, the simplicity of morning come. The absence of a person, a loved shape, hollowing your chest and letting the lonesome place gape.

You were dimly aware of the ring burning a hole in your robe pocket. Her ring. The one you had given to her in the hush of a green, vacant field. You had traced its fern etchings a hundred times over, felt the warmth of her skin seeping into the shining silver.

You slipped your hand into your robe pocket and you felt it now; cold. Abandoned at your door with little more than a sorrowful gaze.

Something rose to your throat, a scratched-raw emotion that climbed its way free.

The loss was knife-shaped now, a gutting. You couldn’t help it when you stumbled to the table, tears scattering over the wood in endless droplets as a gasping sob ripped past your lips. You clutched your chest, as if the action was a balm to keep you good and whole.

The sunlight caressed the tears over the wood, making them gleam. A winking, shimmering mockery. You swiped them away with quick fingers, but it couldn’t erase anything. Not your pain, not the aching and unfathomable chafe of loss.

They kept falling, and falling, and falling.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

The house was hushed as the night creeped in, the coolness of it settling bone-deep. Only the silvery beams of full-moonlight illuminated inside. No lights warmed within.

Items were packed haphazardly into a box, while others were strewn across the table. You weren’t obligated to sort her things, but you had wanted to make the process swift, to be done with the humiliation and anguish that welled up over and over like lifeblood from unhealed wounds. But it wasn’t so simple.

Things like this never were.

How could you pack away a promise, a now bitter what-if? The dread of it coated your tongue, too grief-thick to swallow.

Most of her things bore your gentle mark on them. The sketchbook you leafed through with your face woven throughout. Her dear hand-painted mug that depicted your favourite flower. Her clothes, smelling of your favourite fabric softener and folded in the same way as yours.

This was it, then. Here, in the darkened home, you feel your future being snuffed out like a flickering flame, pinched between numb fingers. Your dreams existed now only in the confines of this little kitchen, in the intertwinings of two once-loving souls. The warmth had long left the remnants of what once was.

Your shaking fingers skimmed over a sweater slung over the back of a dining room chair. It was a deep forest green, the colour you adored most on her. It was soft beneath your hands, the wool moulding to the pressure of them. Your hands trembled as you lifted it to your face. Inhaled, long and slow, the lingering smell of her.

It was silly, wasn’t it, to mourn like this? She wasn’t dead, after all. But her absence was a wraith, clinging to you with a hooked, unyielding grasp. Something has died here, and the stench of it loiters. Joy, bliss, love. They all decompose at your feet now, ashes of a connection, of a life.

A shiver races up your spine as you hear the lock of the front door slowly slide open. There is an uncertain pause, silent as a windless day. She doesn’t stay at the threshold long, though. You hear her hesitant footfalls, tracing a familiar path into the kitchen.

You feel Ellie’s presence hovering behind you, but you’re not quick to turn to her. She approaches you like one would a wounded animal, muted and light on the balls of her feet. You know this silence and how she sees you right now. Unpredictable, pitiable. Will you snap your jaws or will you just lie there and bleed?

You take a deep breath and lower the sweater back onto the chair. That same prick of misery pierces you through, but this time it’s solid like a blow to the gut. The hopelessness of it stabs the roof of your mouth and dampens your swollen eyes.

You pivot, vision blurry as you face her in the rich dark, and you feel what little left of your heart sag, struck down by her own bleary-eyed gaze. If she wanted this, why did she look so upset? How was that fair?

You lodge your tongue behind your top teeth in order to suppress the ugly, jagged thing that lurches at the base of your throat. You would be civil, though you had every right to rip her apart. You wouldn’t make this worse than it was.

Instead, you clear your throat, your head bobbing to the box on the table. “I started– I started to pack your things, but I couldn’t finish the job. Sorry.”

The words were a whisper, your voice frayed and withered from the lonesome hours spent crying. There was a twitch to Ellie’s body at the shape of its sound, an impulse to comfort, but the moment flickered as quickly as it came.

“It’s okay,” she speaks, words gentle as a susurrating forest. “It’s really okay. I’ve got the rest.”

You nod once, backing away from the table and letting her softly press past you. The brush of her jacket against your shoulder, the fist-tight constriction of your chest at the subtle contact. Don’t let this be it.

Her back was now away from you, her short auburn hair sticking up in places as she bent her head down to view the contents splayed about. Your hands shifted at your sides, tugged by a phantom thread. The memory of smoothing those stubborn strands down danced in your memory, sweet and sentimental and useless.

“Ellie?”

Her name left the tip of your tongue before you could force it down, more a tentative question than anything else. You watched as her neck straightened, the pearly glow of moonlight sweeping over her in the swirls and patterns of the curtains.

A reluctant hum of acknowledgement, green eyes sliding back to look at you. There wasn’t any cruelty in them, nor was there irritation. There was only the gut-curdling nausea of anticipation. She could evade it no longer.

“Please… I can’t do this– not without a reason why.”

Her gaze immediately faltered, nervous hands distracting themselves with a comic book on the table.

Her voice was small, barely a mumble. “It's just… it’s not the right time–”

“Not this bullshit again, Ellie!” There was a blade sheathed within your voice now, sharpened where only desperation laid prior. “We know each other better than that, and I… I can’t stop you from leaving but you don’t just get to walk out of here without telling me why. Why isn’t it the right fucking time?”

Even with such little light, you could see the bow-tight tension in her shoulders snap. They slump as she faces you, her body propped up against the chair as if all strength has been leached from her bones. She never was very good at avoiding the truth, but this was one she especially wanted to. It was a stubborn bruise of a thing and she wasn’t sure she wanted it poked at.

But you’re right, of course. She owed you honesty, even if it hurt like a noose closing tighter around her throat. Her eyes met yours a second time, overbright and brimming.

“Why?” you prod again, taking one step closer, but not overstepping. “Were you… unhappy with me? Was it because of me? I want to know, Ellie. I-I want to know if I’m the reason.”

The words settle over her, a veil of suffocating smoke and her eyes flutter shut. “No, Jesus… it’s not because of you.”

“Then why?!” you agonise, hands flailing about in the air between you. Her dark brows furrow, a deep intake of breath drawing into her constricting lungs.

“It’s– fuck. I’m just not right for you anymore,” she says through gritted teeth, the skin around her closed eyes crinkling. Her hands twist in the confines of her jacket as she says this, the aged leather crackling from the movement. Joel’s old jacket.

Your demeanour softens around the edges, lips quivering. “Did… did I ever make you think that?”

“No,” she whispers, breeze-like. “Never.”

“Then what is it, Ellie? If it’s not me, then what is it?”

There’s a pause, weighted as her eyes open to slits. Her lashes are wet with tears and her lips are pressed into a sullen, crescented line.

“I’m not the same girl you fell in love with.” Her eyes flit from the tiles to her jeans to the yawning kitchen just beyond you, anywhere but your face. As certain as the sun rises, she knows the sight of your tear-stained cheeks will break her anew. There’s only so much heartache a person can carry in one lifetime, and she fears she’s exceeded her load.

“What I mean to say is… I… I’m so different after what happened,” she mumbles. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t love you, or that I still don't love you. It’s the… the act of loving itself. Something in me’s– it’s gone. I can't.” A tear falls as the last few syllables tumble upon themselves, a piece of pent-up sorrow carving a path down her cheek.

Memories of the past few months flurry around in your skull, of sleepless nights and deadened days. The permeating silence besides the swish of the washing machine and the insistent buzz of the refrigerator. And the warm ghost cozied up at your side, eyes the hue of wilted leaves.

“Oh, Ellie,” you breathe as glacial pity stabs your gut. Your hands move instinctually as they grasp for hers. “That doesn’t mean you’ve changed. You’re just hurt. We can work it out, okay?”

Her head shakes frantically, but she makes no effort to move. “It’s not that simple. I’ve been trying and I just can’t. I love you, but I can’t keep pretending that everything about this life doesn’t remind me that Joel’s fucking gone. He won’t see us married, and I’ll spend every day thinking about it if I stay here.” You pull away as if singed. Her grief for Joel was the one thing too buried within her to dig out and hold to the light. She was so protective of it, though it was a thorn in her side. You couldn’t get close, especially not now.

A cold palm comes to rest at your cheek, smearing the streaks of dampness that gather there. When you look up, a shadow of a smile passes over her lips. It is a soft look, almost sweet in its vulnerability.

“There’ll be someone else,” she whispers, dipping her head to catch your gaze. “They'll cherish you more than I ever could and you’ll be so head-over-heels that you’ll forget all about me. This won't be the end of your life, I swear.”

Don’t you understand? you wanted to say. I wanted it to be you. It was supposed to be you.

But deeply you understood that there was no use fighting for it when you could feel the flames of your upset already cooling. She had given you an answer. Your relationship belonged to a sliver of peaceful bliss, and that time was over. Divergence was the only path forward, and the fact of it settled over you serenely like honey.

“Put out your hand.”

Hesitance rippled through her, but she complied nonetheless, outstretching her slim fingers towards you though they slightly trembled.

You hadn’t taken the ring off since she had slipped it onto your finger. It protested, gripping your flesh as you tugged on it, but eventually it came free. Your skin felt foreign without its constant swaddling. The aquamarine stone glinted like the ocean beneath a somber, moonlit night.

“Keep it,” you urged quietly as you placed it in her waiting palm. “Give it to the next girl you love if you think she’ll like it. Treasure her enough so that she wears it for the rest of her life.”

Her breath hitched in the back of her throat as she caged it between her fingers. The metal was still warm, comforting. “Thank you…”

Salt-drenched lips came to her cheekbone, feather-soft as they pressed a single kiss there. One last act of affection. A farewell befit for such a kind love.

There were no words left to say after that. You let her pack in peace and helped her load her things into her car. You watched as she drove down the street she once called her home, breezing beneath familiar street lamps like a moth fluttering from one light source to another.

You continued to stare until she rounded the corner, melting into the quiet of the night. Only then, you let your fingers wander to your pocket. You traced the twinings of silver-etched leaves, a silent wish drifting away on the wind.

Some things are better left unsaid, you think.

It's better this way.

#subpar compared to what i usually write but it feels good to post smth again!#ellie williams angst #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams #ellie williams x you #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou #ellie x reader #tlou writing #tlou fanfiction #tlou2

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mitskicain · 10 months ago

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navi | m.list

. ⁺ . ✦ the doghouse — ken sato x reader

synopsis: date night; you talk about dealbreakers and what you want out of life, and each other.

content warning: cursing and profanity, suggestive, innuendos

word count: 1.4K

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003: play date

He arrives fifteen minutes early, with Indian, Chinese, Italian and Japanese takeout.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” he says, letting himself in and kicking his shoes off by the door, setting the bags on the counter. “So I got a little bit of everything.”

You stare at the food with a bewildered look in your eyes. This would last you the whole week. What the hell is this guy—made of money? Well, okay, granted his apartment and how he didn’t even ask you for the 400 bucks back suggests maybe, but christ, doesn’t he have other things he should be spending this on, like supercars or thousand dollar clothing?

Your train of thought is interrupted by him shoving you a greasy tub of butter chicken, alongside some garlic naan with a side of udon noodles. Interesting combo. You take your seat on the floor, setting the food on the shallow coffee table that’s littered with unopened mail and receipts.

“Do a lot of shopping?” He asks, mouth full of lasagna—he’s already chowing down on the food without as much as waiting for you to have taken your first bite. What a gentleman.

“No, well, not for me,” you reply, pushing around the food on your plate, “it’s for them.” You point towards your two dogs that are eyeing him keenly from behind the screen door, their eyes a flash of light in the dark. From a stranger's perspective, they must look absolutely vicious, but to you they were just Lassie and Strauber—from childhood, from the old days.

“Mm,” he hums, taking a sip of his Diet Coke. “Not much of a dog person, I’m afraid.”

You make a face.

“Date’s over, eugh,” you say, “dealbreaker.”

The both of you laugh, faces cracking up and all teeth—a flash of canines, again—something in your stomach churns.

“Seriously?” You ask, looking over at Ken who’s still hunched over, trying to stifle his laugh. “How could you say no to dogs?”

“I got chased by one as a kid, I guess it stuck.” he says, scooping up another mouthful of lasagna. He motions over to the two, “they bite?”

“Hard,” you grin, reminded of the time you asked him the same question. “When they bite, they don’t let go.”

He grimaces a bit, imagining the bloody, messy scene. You dip the naan in the curry, mopping up all its goodness. Ken devours his plate, and reaches for more—it’s a disgusting sight, like he’s been starved for days—but there’s something fulfilling about it too, like watching Strauber absolutely demolish a serving after you run an extra mile with her.

“You’re a mess,” you say, leaning forward and wiping a sauce streak away from the edge of his lip. You see the surprise on his face when your finger meets his skin, like he doesn’t expect it—didn’t know you were capable of being tender. Part of you didn’t expect it either.

Silence for a moment; the atmosphere still. The two of you realize you barely know anything about the other. You were just two strangers sharing a meal in your apartment.

“I read some of your stuff from the dayplanner,” he says, clearing his throat, hand on the back of his head. “It’s really good, I mean—you’re a writer?”

You give him an incredulous look, and laugh, shaking your head.

“No, not me, well—” you set the plate on the table and reach for your drink, some Indian rose milk he picked up that actually tasted really good, “not yet, at least. I’m hoping to make my big break soon.”

Silence, again—just for a second.

“You’ll make it,” he says, voice soft, looking over at him. His head is resting on the cushion of the couch, hair messy and cheeks slightly warm. Did he run on the way here? From restaurant to restaurant, trying to figure out what you would like before deciding: fuck it, and getting everything? You feel his fingers twitch slightly, inching towards yours. You turn away and wrap your arms around yourself.

“Don’t do that,” you struggled to pinpoint the feeling—the twisting, the churning—it made you feel sick, like you wanted to puke. The world seemed to spin. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you believe in me,” your voice falters. “It’s cruel, you know—giving false hope.”

He presses his lips into a thin line. He reaches for your hand again, this time you turn to look at him.

“I do mean it.” He says.

God.

You tear your gaze away from him—it’s too much, all of this. You can’t possibly comprehend it. His fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. You reach for his hand and look up at him—his eyebrows furrowed, gray irises shimmering in the low light, mouth slightly open.

“Hey,” he breathes, voice just barely above a whisper.

“Hey,” you reply.

“Am I still just a one night stand?” He asks, and your stomach sinks. You frown a little.

“What does it matter?” You ask.

“Because I want to be more than just that,” he says, quick and easy. He sucks in a breath, as if preparing himself. “I want you.”

Your shoulders fall, and you lean forward into him, his lips finding the sensitive skin on your neck; nibbling and sucking. You squirm underneath his touch.

“Please,” he sighs in between kisses, his breath hot against your ear. “Please.”

His teeth sink into your flesh, followed quickly by his tongue rubbing soothing circles, then a kiss—like apologizing. He does this throughout the entirety of your neck, from underneath your jaw all the way along your collarbone. Your skin is slick with saliva and sweat, face red from the heat. Your hands find their way up his neck, when they grab a handful of his hair—you hear him moan.

God, the way he sounded.

“Please,” he says again, begging. Breathlessly. Desperately. “Please, I’ll be good.”

You whine, and push him away, trying to catch your breath. He falls back but catches himself by his arms, biceps flexed and straining underneath the black shirt he wore. It’s tight enough that you can make out the rouse of muscles underneath. His face is flushed, eyes half lidded, mouth open—breathing shallow. What a sight.

God.

He’s about to lean forward to reach for you again when he knocks over the half full cup of rose milk all over you, splattering all across your legs and the floor. His face twists into a look of panic, and he frantically grabs a fistful of tissues, trying to dab away at the mess before you change your mind or yell at him.

“Stop,” you say, and he freezes in his tracks, looking up at you. You tilt your head, gauging his reaction—the way he looks up at you with wide curious eyes, arms still frozen in position, so eager to please—like a dog.

“You said you’d be good, right?” You murmur, leaning back, “then clean this up.”

He tries to wipe at the mess but you stop him again, making a sharp ‘tsk’ sound with your tongue. He stops, perplexed gaze fixed on you, trying to figure out what you mean. You smile at the sight and raise a pointed foot, his hands instinctively reaching for the flesh of your calves.

“Lick,” you command, a glint in your eye. He stays still for a moment—breath hitched in his throat—before leaning down, eyes still fixed on you, and kisses the skin of your legs. His tongue is warm, gliding over you in slow strokes, sending shivers up and down your spine. You can feel the soft, velvety texture of him as he moves upwards, savoring every inch of you. The sensation is both soothing and electrifying. A mix of gentle pressure and lingering heat.

You lean forward, and push him back again, his back against the couch. He’s surprisingly lenient, not struggling when you climb onto his lap and straddle his hips. You trail your hands on his chest and you feel his heart, thundering against his ribcage. His hands feel up the milky skin of your thighs, resting on your waist.

“Please,” he says again, so close you can feel his breath on your lips. “Please, I want you.”

You grab his hands off your thigh and pin them by his side, a gasp escaping his lips. Your other hand grabs his face roughly, forcing him to look at you before you turn his head to press a wet trail of kisses up his jaw. He shivers and moans underneath your grasp.

“Mmm,” you hum into his skin, pulling away to whisper in his ear. “I love it when good boys beg.”

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author’s note: Lassie and Strauber watching you make out with him from out the backyard be like 👁️👄👁️ HAHAHAHAH i love men when they beg and yearn like 💥💥 need him crawling, sobbing on his knees 🫡🫡‼️‼️‼️ my favorite genre of men is when they’re a little bit pathetic HEHEHEH🤭🤭🤭🤭 BUT ALSO‼️‼️ I wanted to ask: do you guys have any specific dealbreakers when it comes to dating? Like for me I absolutely can’t stand when they’re rude to staff like waiters or salespeople 😭😭🙏 or when they’re messy eaters—what about you guys?? feel free to share them in the comments, and as always, thank you for supporting my work ‼️‼️‼️‼️ MUAH MAUHHH👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

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#Spotify #ultraman #ultraman: rising #kenji sato #ken sato #kenji sato fluff #ken sato fluff #ken sato smut #kenji sato smut #kenji sato x you #kenji sato x reader #kenji sato x y/n #ken sato x you #ken sato x reader #ken sato x y/n #mitskicain’s works #mitskicain

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sofs16 · 1 year ago

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let you break my heart again —5

sof speaks ! i’m alive.

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♫ right where you left me - taylor swift

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yn.yln Sometimes things just work out 🧡

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ynslover MOM’S FIRST DAY!! ❤️‍🩹

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kylie_yln ❤️❤️❤️

user1 ORANGE FOR PAPAYA? ⤷ yn.yln I am not biased ⤷ landonorris Sureee

user27 what the fuck

march 26, 2018

liked by 372,373 others charles_leclerc Ciao Melbourne ! P13 today in the race. Very happy about our first race of the season, and had a lot of fun with the 3 overtakes on track. Huge amount learnt and we maxed out what we had this week-end. Can't wait for Bahrain to keep improving in the same way! p.s. second photo was my first race❤️

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user1 IS THAT YN YLN IN THE 2ND PIC AT THE SIDE?

it had been 17 out of the 21 races that season and surprisingly, no interactions between you and charles.

the japanese grand prix changed that. charles, frustrated with his dnf, saw you in the paddock and a small smile started to form at the comfort you brought. he walked your way but halted when he heard two male voices, ones you could clearly hear yourself.

“she’s nothing but a slut, she doesn’t deserve to be a presenter” one laughed, glancing your way as you fiddled with your paddock pass and minded your own business. “yn probably slept her way here, pretty face tough” charles was already fuming “pretty is an understatement; she looks like one of those por-“ charles spun the man around, landed a punch on him. a little dramatic on his end, but he couldn’t contain the anger and disgust from the words he was hearing.

the other guy grabbed charles by the shirt and landed a good punch, his ring making a cut in his forehead.

you turned around with a gasp, sparing no time to get charles away. this could go worse if he stayed there. you grabbed his hand and dragged him to his driver’s room, turning back to see the reporter already cursing profanities very loudly to everyone.

charles gave you directions in to his driver’s room in alfa romeo, ignoring the looks they were both getting in the garage. a tv reporter dragging their rookie driver, who had a bruise forming, by the colar.

after getting the first aid kit, you got him sat down on a chair. charles was mustering up the words to say; he hadn’t exactly planned this to be the scenario where he’d first talk to you. “it’s your rookie year and you got into a fight because of me” you spoke first, inspecting the damage and grabbing a pack of ointment “yes” he replied simply, rubbing his fist softly.

“you cant do that charles” you scolded, grabbing one of the cold coca-cola cans and placing it against his fist. an all too familiar bracelet hanging just above his hand. “i did it for you, no one should say those things about you” your moves flattered “it’s not the first time” you chuckled, licking your lips.

“it shouldn’t be” you held the ice bag to his forehead and looked at him properly. you wouldn’t and couldn’t do this again. he stared at your necklace that spilled out from your blouse. the same necklace he had given you all those years ago.

you followed his eyes and stepped away, tucking the necklace back inside your shirt. you cleared you throat “don’t do this again. if you break your hand…” you paused and scrunched your face at the thought “you wont be able to drive, charles” you sighed heavily and he just continued staring at you “i’m going to get a clinic here.” and the door shut, leaving charles with a tight chest, wishing he said more.

— texts with gigi

october 7, 2018

gigi🪬🤍🫧

damn

Is it true Charlie boo got a 10 grid penalty for punching that reporter?

ynn 🎧🎀⭐️

unfortunately

gigi🪬🤍🫧

why unfortunately

ynn 🎧🎀⭐️

because now i feel like i owe him something and he got hurt, got a cut

gigi🪬🤍🫧

it’s not like you asked him to punch, right?

RIGHT?

ynn🎧🎀⭐️

YEAH I WOULDNT ASK HIM????

sometimes I contemplate going back to vogue. they told me if i stayed a little longer i’d secure a job.. forever…

gigi🪬🤍🫧

aren’t you happier there

ynn🎧🎀⭐️

yeah but this is all because of him. f1 is like.. him. i know the more time we spend together all the moving on i did will wash away

gigi🪬🤍🫧

is he single?

ynn🎧🎀⭐️

GIGI

gigi🪬🤍🫧

WHAT

It doesnt hurt to ask 😜

ynn🎧🎀⭐️

I think he is..

But it doesn't matter. He doesn't like me like that and I need to accept that.

gigi🪬🤍🫧

Did he message you after you left?

ynn🎧🎀⭐️

Good question…. I maybe changed my number..

gigi🪬🤍🫧

🫥

october 23, 2018

ynn🎧🎀⭐️

gigi🪬🤍🫧

WHAT THE FUCK

IS THAT FROM??

ynn🎧🎀⭐️

Yes. 😭

gigi🪬🤍🫧

he does have moves 😎

ynn🎧🎀⭐️

This isn’t funny, Gigi!!!!! What do I dooooooooooo

gigi🪬🤍🫧

IS THERE A CARD?

IF YEAH WHAT DOES IT SAY

ynn🎧🎀⭐️

“loving you is never a mistake. never let anyone make you think that. you are perfect either way :)”

Has significance by the way

gigi🪬🤍🫧

Righttt. The letter you left him. I say send him flowers back

ynn🎧🎀⭐️

He just followed me on Instagram again

gigi🪬🤍🫧

i say follow him back

yn.yln

liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris, and 2,583,181 others

yn.yln 🏎️

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user1 charles in the likes????

user2 charles throwing a punch for her😭😭😭😭

user3 are charles and yn dating

landonorris you’ve got something on your face

⤷ yn.yln thanks! it’s my beauty ❤️

⤷ landonorris I mean you’re not wrong ⤷ user4 👀

october 8, 2018

f1gossipb

liked by 6,373 others

f1gossipb okay but HEAR ME OUT! view all 273 comments l4ndolov3r “i mean you’re not wrong” 😭😊 SORRY YNCHARLES, I SAY YNLANDO

october 8, 2018

MON, OCTOBER 8, 2018

charles_leclerc

Hello, Yn 👋 Just wanted to ask if you received the flowers I sent you.

yn.yln

Hi, Charles :)

I did get the flowers… I’m sorry, I was going to thank you, but I got busy.

You really didn’t need to get me them or anything

I should be the one sending you something for the trouble you got in

Sorry for the penalty you got…

Thank you for the card by the way

I really appreciate it

sorry for the spam… good night

TUES, OCTOBER 9, 2018

charles_leclerc

Don’t apologize for the spam of messages, I like it. Nor the penalty, I would do it again without a second thought.

Not get the penalty! I meant punching that reporter who talked about you.

And I’m glad you got the flowers and card; I really mean what I put there. I missed you.

yn.yln

I missed you too

charles_leclerc

Would you like to go to this Harry Potter exhibition with me this Thursday?

I know you like those movies

yn.yln

I’m a little busy, Charles. Maybe next time?

charles_leclerc

Of course:) See you tomorrow

#f1 fanfic #charles leclerc #f1 imagines #formula 1 #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc imagine #social media au #charles leclerc 16 #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc one shot #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines

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stillness-in-green · 5 months ago

Note

do you have thoughts about the way MHA431 went?

Sure, I'll bite. Let's have a

Chapter Thoughts - Chapter 431: More

Some of this will be a rephrase/expansion on stuff I said in Part 3 of the fascism essay, particularly the section about how Heroes view the prospect of long-term peace, but it’s all worth saying here as well.

Hit the jump for some roughly ordered thoughts primarily about Ochaco’s counseling program, the romance stuff and how it’s facilitated, some stray character observations, and some Stillness-typical complaining about the handling of Villains.

O It was nice to see Ochaco’s program in more detail than the jaw-droppingly bad handwave it got in 430, but I still think it didn’t go anywhere near far enough. To wit, what we see is a nice introduction to a program that could well be effective at finding some people with behavioral, familial, or quirk-based problems, but the depiction is badly lacking an illustration as to what will be done regarding people with problems that can’t be helped by a tiny bit of encouragement and support. As it’s with Toga in mind that Ochaco undertook this whole project, it seems fair to ask: How would Toga have fared in it?

If it had been young Toga Himiko in the scene instead of Shy Mining Helmet Boy, Ochaco offering her a little anti-gravity boost would have gone exactly nowhere because no amount of manuevering would have changed Himiko’s basic inability to participate in the activity. It would have clued Ochaco into Himiko having an issue, though, and perhaps that discovery could have led, with further interaction, to uncovering her feelings of repression and, critically, her problems at home. Great! That stuff absolutely needed to be uncovered!

But—then what? When Ochaco’s program turns up Himiko, a girl with a problem so severe that no amount of welcoming class play is going to resolve it, what’s the next step? Recommend counseling for her parents, too? What if they’re resistant, resentful, or they outright refuse? Do you then remove Himiko from the home? Let’s switch the lens over to a different kid for a second: Shimura Kotarou. As evinced by his massive unaddressed abandonment issues, the alternative child care system clearly did him no favors! And he didn’t have a taboo quirk[1] to add on top of the perception of his being an “unwanted child”!

So if you haven’t improved the state of Japan’s alternative child care system—and there’s no specific evidence that anyone has[2]—have you done much but kicked the consequences down the road a few years or slightly changed the color of the problem at hand? Would Himiko really fare so much better in a group home or orphanage? Would the views of the people in charge be significantly different than those of Himiko’s previous counselor? Or would they just be, as Tomura described his family doing to him, rejecting her kindly instead of cruelly?

1: And “taboo” is honestly putting it lightly. Shinto beliefs about the spiritual pollution of spilled blood being what they are, Toga’s quirk would actually be profane to a devout adherent—if the reader is familiar with X-Men, think about the kind of nastiness that periodically gets thrown at Nightcrawler by particularly militant Christians. There’s no indication that Toga’s parents are more devout than the average Japanese person, of course, but values embedded in the culture are going to be embedded in the culture all the same.

2: All we have in that direction is Uraraka enthusing that the program has a lot of support and does very thorough work, and noting that Hawks does negotiations with the Ministry of Education and other (non-specific) organizations, which we see him framing as “investing in young people.” While this could be indicative of efforts being made somewhere, by someone, to improve the situation for children in alternative care, that read is undercut by Uraraka following up with the note that all this work has done a lot to improve “the quirk education environment.” This falls far short of specific evidence for improvements to any given other aspect of child welfare.

While I’m sure we’re intended to read Ochaco’s program as one that will be meaningfully helpful to children like Toga—and I don’t even think that it categorically couldn’t be!—what we see directly on the page simply does not prove that case. Encouraging a baseline kid with an emitter quirk and age-typical shyness does not prove that The Problem of Toga has been addressed. So what was even the point of showing it to us?

What Himiko really needs—if you’ll pardon my MLA Stan coming out here for a bit—is a complete reevaluation of what quirks are and how people can use them. She needs a world that’s willing to throw out its old ways of thinking, to update its “notion of normal” to something that will allow the Toga Himikos of the world to live without suppression. For all the good I'm sure it will do, I don’t see Ochaco’s program doing that.

O It’s so hilariously telling that we got that whole shpiel about updating the Billboard Charts such that non-professional Heroes can be recognized for their efforts, only for the last chapter to give us jack shit on any non-Pro Heroes charting at all. And like, I’m willing to be generous here: I always assumed that Hawks wasn’t talking about adding non-Pros to the charts verbatim, but rather creating a brand-new chart for the recognition of Civilian Heroes. But we don’t get anything like that at all—and Deku being a teacher and public speaker gives us a perfect opportunity to indicate such a chart’s existence! But then, maybe he can’t count because he does Hero work on the weekends, which leads me to my next point.

O Ochaco and Deku should both have just retired, and Shouto should be on sabbatical. Seriously, if Horikoshi really had the courage of the convictions he was putting to paper, and if it were really true that the Villain emergence rate was down and Heroes were beginning to have more free time, then Ochaco and Deku should both have decided to prioritize the work they believe is more meaningful and helpful than Professional Heroics, and Shouto should feel free to take some time completely off for his self-exploration. That none of this happens suggests that Horikoshi either didn’t believe or didn’t trust his audience to accept his idea that there are meaningful ways for these characters to be heroic without them also having to be Heroes.

O Ochaco musing about Toga still existing somewhere inside her, and especially all the junk about the dead bisexual teenager being used to encourage the exhaustingly hetero endgame, really just makes me want to read the actual ghost story where Toga is literally haunting Ochaco. Toga still loves Ochaco-chan, of course, but her encouragement for Ochaco-chan and Deku to hook up is aimed solely at getting the two of them alone in a quiet, private room. Once that happens, Ochaco’s eyes will go gold and slitted, the walls will start dripping blood, and Deku will find out quite quickly that not everyone is so willing to move on from him murdering Shigaraki Tomura of the League of Villains.

O I miss the Bakugou who was on-course for a big personal growth arc about learning to work in a team. I feel like that Bakugou, alongside having had a way less tiresome endgame battle, might actually have been able to keep some sidekicks without being chiefly concerned about the level of their personal ambitions. I don’t give a shit about his (or anyone else save one guy’s) chart position, but it’s exhausting that he had great development into being a proud but capable team player all the way up through the 1-A versus Deku fight, and then all of that gets flushed down the toilet to revert to him getting a badass solo fight against All For One and an epilogue that allows him no work partner options whatsoever outside of the main character.

O The comedy visuals of Deku’s dumb face being subsumed by Bakugou’s plush backseat make me want to die. Someone please throw this main character away.

O I’m glad Mina reclaimed at least some aspect of her original Alien Queen aspirations with the “Ridley Hero” thing. Good for her.

O On a worldbuilding note, my attention is caught by Shinsou being described as “not contending” for a chart position, though the kanji can also mean things like “out of contention” or “beyond the sphere of.” I assume it’s just indicating that Shinsou is an underground Hero like his mentor Aizawa, but a) I feel like that runs a bit counter to his goal of proving that he can be a Hero even with a quirk like Brainwash, and b) isn’t it a bit sketchy if underground Heroes can just choose to exempt themselves from the most visible, public-facing form of Pro Hero evaluation? Maybe the HPSC charts them for its own records and then removes them from public visibility, of course, or maybe the charts only go down to 200 or so and stop after that, with Shinsou, not seeking for attention, comfortable to be below that cut-off. Not sure, but there are some interesting possibilities there, as well as some concerning ones.

O HOLY GOD, Monoma’s new look. I like it very much. He is also the only person I want to see on the charts at all. Two hundred ranked entries of Monoma's daily work antics. I support him wholly and with only the most loving of faceitiousness.

O Extremely funny to me that all the people I saw on Twitter talking about this chapter confirming KamiJirou had to first ignore Jirou explicitly denying that there’s anything going on and second be very disingenuous indeed with the panel crop they used to wave around crowing about their ship. I don’t have a strong distaste for KamiJirou relative to my distaste for Kaminari himself, but my tolerance for him pretty much starts and ends with KamiJirouMomo as a poly arrangement, so I was pleased to see that left open here.

O If I dislike Toga’s image being used to encourage Ochaco to hook up with Deku (and I dislike it very much, particularly given the loathsome last words Deku spoke to Toga when she was alive, but at least I can see the sense it makes from a thematic and characterization perspective), I have only profanity for how much I hate Shigaraki’s image being used to encourage Deku in confessing to Ochaco. Just take my entire folder full of negative reaction memes. Jesus Christ.

I have said before, and will have more to say in the future, about Deku’s assorted failures as a protagonist and hero, but him deciding that the kind of adult he wants to be is a Hero high school teacher really is the ultimate indicator of just how little he cared about who Shigaraki was and what he wanted. Ochaco is making a good faith effort to help the Toga Himikos of the future. Deku, meanwhile, is shallowly paddling around in his Hero Worship wading pool, ignoring both the Shimura Tenkos and the Shigaraki Tomuras of the world—the people Hero Society outcasts, villainizes, and sweeps under the rug.

Shigaraki’s last behest—that Deku ensure the things Shigaraki fought to destroy remain destroyed—was wasted on Deku, who, once he got Spinner and Overhaul off his conscience, clearly could not give less of a shit about helping the people Shigaraki fought for. To see that last behest come back in the context of Deku using it to bolster his goddamn love life is a fucking travesty, and I hope Ochaco dumps him inside of a year if Toga Himiko’s vengeful ghost doesn’t get him first.

O DON’T WORRY, GUYS; I’M SURE THE HEROES TOTALLY TRY TO BE MORE COMPASSIONATE AND UNDERSTANDING TOWARDS RANDOM, DOWN-ON-THEIR-LUCK VILLAINS NOW. THINGS ARE SURE TO BE TOTALLY DIFFER—

Oh. Oh, it’s not different at all, is it?

(Have I mentioned enough times yet how much I really, really dislike the street crime scenes where Our Heroes stand around and chitchat in the middle of a crime scene, having successfully dealt with the big bad villain whose actions they did not even attempt to de-escalate and whom they have immediately forgotten all about?)

O Wow, thanks for letting us know you don’t think impulse criminals aren’t wicked to the core, Iida. That makes me feel real reassured about how you guys are handling Villains who premeditate! (It does not.)

O I’ve already said I disliked how Toga’s “image” is used here, but let me not shortchange the fact that it also sucks because it puts the last nail in the coffin of Uraraka having any agency over sharing her own feelings. She has a lengthy arc about how she is—like Toga in the past—repressing her feelings for the one she loves; she gets through to Toga by frankly admitting to those feelings, as well as all the other things she was sitting on about Toga herself. And then in the aftermath, she goes right back to repressing her feelings, now ones of paralyzing grief over Toga’s death. Deku witnesses those feelings not because she chooses to share them with him, but because he tracks her down mid-cry. And now we find out for sure what Chapter 430 left unclear: that in eight years, Ochaco hasn’t said a word about her once-again repressed feelings for him. Instead, just as she did when she was a teenager, she’s doubled down on putting those feelings away in the name of what she “should” be doing.

And here? Does she finally take control of her own life, her own feelings, her own expression? No. At least, not until after Deku has been the one to confess first and Vision!Toga psychically shoves her forward to close the gap. The only thing left for Ochaco to do, the only assertiveness asked of her, is to accept or rebuff Deku’s overture. Good god, you’d think she was Eri, a helpless waif wrestling with indoctrination about how much she’s not allowed to want anything for her own sake, whose turning point in the narrative is finding the strength to reach back for the hand being extended towards her.

Coming from a long-term abuse victim, that’s a perfectly worthy character arc, even a deeply moving show of strength, but it’s wildly pathetic for BNHA’s most prominent female hero, the gal whose character arc was founded entirely on balancing her desire to help others with pursuing her own happiness. Good lord, did Shonen Jump tell Horikoshi that boys don’t like it when girls are too forward or what?

#bnha #bnha 431 #chapter thoughts #uraraka ochaco #no. 2 green #toga himiko #class talk #bnha epilogue #bnha critical #quirk counseling #bnha hero society #stillness answers #stillness has salt

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mysteria157 · 1 year ago

Text

Moment One: An Old Flame

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

CW: fluff, profanity, explicit sexual content (whole lotta smut, I’m talking: vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, creampie…lol you get it).

Word Count: ~6k

Summary: When Nanami has no choice but to work overtime, you bring him dinner as a surprise. But you unexpectedly find his ex-girlfriend already keeping him company.

Takes place a few weeks after Chapter 15 of It Had To Be You!

Notes: I had this idea way back when I wrote chapter 15 weeks ago and I finally made it a reality last night LOL. I don’t have a beta reader, so sometimes there may be a mistake or two. I have a habit of being way too detailed when I write, and that includes smut. So hopefully you enjoy it!

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always welcome! Happy reading!

Divider: @saradika | Header: myself

Those Moments In Between Masterlist | Moment Two

MINORS DNI

Nanami knows better.

He knows that his ex-girlfriend, Pia, is just as devious as she was when they were in undergrad.

When they were younger and together, she gave sweetness and tender love that made Nanami stick around a bit longer than he should have. Though they had nothing in common and she was far too outgoing, she helped him embrace many different things that were normally out of his comfort zone.

She taught him how to express public displays of affection in his own way. She taught him how to express what he felt when it came to romantic love.

He was grateful for it. Truly.

Indirectly, her personality only made him realize just how ill-suited they were for one another despite her good intentions.

Pia was spiteful to those who disagreed with her, disrespectful to those who did not have the same values as her, and outlandishly rude to those who came on to Nanami. She covered it all up with smiles, jokes as a means of apology, and an innocent glint in her eyes that Nanami at the time, didn't have the experience to see through.

Gojo had tried to warn him, year after year.

But he was young--his disdain for Gojo was five thousand times more intense than it is now--so Nanami treated everything that fell from Gojo's lips as a ploy to annoy anyway.

Nanami remained oblivious to her behavior, caught in the haze of young love, until their final year of college.

That haze had gradually become easier to sift through. The complaints from his friends finally began to register in his mind. Then, one day between classes, a significant moment allowed him to finally blink away the fog.

Every action that he had once dismissed, enticed by the flutter of her lashes and the touch of her lips, rose to the surface from an ocean of naivety--loud and unfiltered.

He despised himself for having to come to the painful realization that Gojo had been right all along.

Nanami allowed Gojo to mock him for a week before reverting to his habit of telling him to shut up unless he had something meaningful to contribute to their conversations.

Despite feeling embarrassed and heartbroken, he cut ties--clean and simple--moved on with his life, and never heard from her again.

Until now, that is, as she is currently in Nakameguro for a project to market her wine enterprise. She specifically chose his company to assist in expanding her business in the Japanese market, and he despises every minute of it.

Pia clearly wants to make up for lost time because she goes to great lengths to be close to him.

She has a habit of discreetly slipping into the elevator just before it closes, coincidentally finding herself alone with Nanami every time. With a simple smile and a polite greeting, she faces the front and they ride in silence, but with every encounter, she subtly edges closer and closer to him.

Like clockwork, without fail, she makes a point to peek into his office every morning, disregarding his attempt to keep the door closed. She greets him, extends an invitation to lunch—an invitation he consistently declines—and continues with her day.

Being a recluse by nature, he rarely leaves his office except for coffee runs to the breakroom or when Yuji relentlessly calls for his presence. But with Pia’s presence, he can hardly focus when she’s around. He refuses to engage in conversation or give her an opening to pursue him romantically. Because he knows she will. So now he makes Yuji come to him and will bring his own coffee from home.

He chooses not to confide in you about his struggles.

You had only met her once, but it was more than enough. Because to you, Pia is overwhelmingly beautiful, with a well-traveled life and wealth. You are an amateur ceramic artist with modest savings, a mother that you can’t stand, and a body that had recently been stretched and marked by childbirth.

You thought Kento deserved better—deserved someone like Pia.

You were grappling with the overwhelming responsibilities of taking care of Ulani, trying your best to navigate through postpartum depression in a healthy way, and coming to terms with a body that seemed alien to you.

So the sight of Pia for the first time, radiant and flaunting a badge of honor for dating Nanami, did nothing but throw you into a deep pit of insecurity.

Kento lifted you out of that dark place, demonstrated to you again—without fail—how devoted he was to you then and always.

He made it abundantly clear that he was yours.

He’s determined to never make you feel unsure of yourself again.

So it's not a big deal. She’s just a nuisance that he has to dodge for the next week.

Just another week until she goes back to Italy where she—hopefully—will never return.

What’s the worst that can happen?

It turns out, a lot.

He tries to stay one step ahead, deliberately exchanging a brief greeting with her in the lobby to prevent her from slithering into his office. He even waits until the office is deserted, and the day is nearly over before stepping into the elevator.

He doesn’t know how he got out scot-free, but Friday rolls around and he thinks that he just might pull this off.

But Yaga chooses today of all days to ask Nanami to stay behind to consolidate a few contracts that only Nanami—unfortunately—has access to. In normal circumstances, Nanami would decline and suggest pushing it off until Monday.

It’s even more unfortunate because he has plans tonight. He wants to help you make dinner and spend time with his daughter and he shouldn’t even have to think about excuses because he hates overtime. But, the consolidation is due Monday, and he wants to get it done now so that he can avoid the hassle later on.

You don’t sound upset when he calls you to break the news. Your usually calm voice is slightly downcast with a gentle sigh that you think he can’t hear.

“I guess it’s rare so I shouldn’t be mad but,” you complain weakly, your words tinged with a slight whine that makes Nanami smirk to himself. “I made Katsudon.”

He groans, mouth instantly watering at the mere thought.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can, my love. I promise.”

You grumble a reply that makes him chuckle, a tender sound resonating deep in his chest as he listens to you tell him that you love him before hanging up the phone.

***

It’s seven o’clock and he’s fighting a migraine. But he’s almost done, and he’s determined to finish the last stack of contracts that require organizing before he can make his way home to you and Ulani.

As he pens his signature on the bottom of one contract, there’s a knock on his office door, prompting him to invite them in—assuming it’s merely the janitor since everyone else on the floor left hours ago.

That’s all he thinks to himself; he focuses his attention on yet another clause, preparing to initial his name on the side when everything comes to a screeching halt.

Because standing before him isn’t the janitor—it’s Pia.

Pia, clad in a tight black dress that not only defies workplace etiquette but also starkly contrasts the one she wore earlier in the day.

Earlier that day, he followed her every movement as she got into her car and drove away, silently relieved that he could finally relax. Yet, here she is; her dark brown wavy hair hanging over her shoulder in a manner far too seductive for his comfort, and black heels clutched in her hands instead of adorning her feet.

It takes him only a second to assess how quickly he can maneuver past her without a word. He will take the steps if he has to, or maybe he can grab the remaining contracts and finish the rest at home and—

“Gojo always mentions how you never stay late anymore, so I’m surprised to see you here,” she purrs, her Italian accent grating against his ears, exacerbating his throbbing migraine behind his eyes. Her lust-filled, indecent intentions taint her dark brown eyes, reinforcing the strong urge within him to leave, quickly.

He’s not the type of man to belittle a woman’s appearance because they all possess their own beauty. His mother hammered that among other things about the respect of women deep into his skull before he hit puberty. But he’s well-mannered enough to acknowledge beauty and let the line be drawn there—because other women aren’t you, and he doesn’t have a wandering eye.

He never has and he never will.

“Is there a reason why you are here, Pia?” he questions, discreetly binding the stack of contracts together so he can swiftly grab them along with his blazer and push her out of the way if he has to. “Your project finished at the end of the business day, so I assumed you would be on your way back to Italy.”

She scoffs a deep and guttural noise that makes Nanami’s stomach twirl in distaste and intensifies the pounding behind his eyes. “You know exactly why I’m here, Kento. Don’t be dull. You never were back then, and you aren’t now.”

His stomach churns, the knots tightening with each passing moment between them. The tension becomes unbearable, culminating in a swift rise from his seat as he retrieves his blazer behind his large, deep red chair.

“You need to leave,” he demands, his voice devoid of the polite courtesy he had extended to her during her visit. He tucks the contracts beneath an arm, grabs his car keys, and makes for the door—but she’s quick to sidestep so her frame blocks his path.

Irritation surges within him, an emotion that others—excluding you—are keen to elicit when they begin to waste his time.

“Pia, please move out of the way so that I can go home.”

She arches a perfectly groomed eyebrow, adding to the torment coursing through his stomach. “So you’re saying you don’t even want to talk? It’s been years since we’ve seen each other, and you’ve done nothing but avoid me during my entire stay.” Her whiny, petulant tone and childlike frown only serve to trigger flashbacks to times when she didn’t get her way, intensifying the deep divide that caused their separation.

“And you don’t understand the reason why?” he retorts, irritation heavier and thick in his mouth. A frown etches itself onto his lips, and his patience dissipates in the tense air encircling them.

A noise in the lobby—a noise that implies someone can be listening—makes his heart stammer in his chest and the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

While she has an agenda, he does not. He refuses to allow others to lose respect for him in this office, thinking he indulges in infidelity during his free time when that couldn’t be further from the truth. He couldn’t care less about others’ opinions, except when it involves you and your relationship—that’s where he draws the line.

Unaffected by his sarcastic remark, she delicately places a perfectly manicured hand on his chest. He’s quick to react, catching her wrist in a way that makes his blazer fall to the floor, pulling her hand away from him as his body begins to shake in frustration.

“I don’t know where you’ve gotten the impression that I want anything with you, but I won’t be entertaining it. What we had was a long time ago and it won’t ever be reignited again. Try your best to understand that,” he states firmly.

“But—” she begins to protest.

“Enough, Pia. Leave. Now.”

He isn’t asking nicely anymore, his head pounding, and the decision to simply push her out of the way is made. Just as he prepares to do so, the door swings open, and the person he longs to see the most but also wishes wasn’t here right now, rushes in.

“Ken, I thought I could bring you dinner and—” you stop mid-sentence, words wedged in your throat as you take in the scene in front of you. You’re holding a Tupperware container, the steam inside condensing along the edges.

Nanami with papers under one arm and the other dropping from a delicate wrist to flop down at his side, his hair disheveled from hours of musing, his face clearly disturbed. And Pia, beautiful and ethereal as usual as she whips around to look at you.

Since that first day you met her, you haven’t encountered Pia again. And Kento’s unwavering loyalty and trust have provided no reason to entertain the thought of her.

However, Nanami’s stiff stature, Pia’s tight dress that reveals a bit too much in the front, and the stiletto heels swinging from her finger in one hand make it abundantly clear to you why she is here.

At seven o’clock at night.

With no one else around.

You want to shy away from the implication, to fend off your surprise with a shy chuckle, and let the poisonous current of insecurity draw you away like that time before. But Nanami had skillfully put those doubts to rest weeks ago.

Now you’re just irritated.

“Pia? What are you doing here?” You keep your tone light, masking the annoyance bubbling inside you. Pia’s earlier sultry gaze has vanished, replaced by widened eyes and hands smoothing her already unwrinkled dress, anxiously. “Kento told me the project ended a few hours ago. Aren’t you flying back to Italy soon?”

She fumbles, her rose-tinted lips curling as she searches for something to say, gripping her heels tighter in her hand. It’s reminiscent of watching a child scrambling for an excuse after being caught with their hands in a cookie jar.

Nanami remains silent, astonished. In the past, any other woman daring to breathe his air while Pia was present would have been met with scathing words and threats. But now, that Pia is desperately trying to produce an excuse for her late presence within a workplace when she she should be on a flight home.

“She was just leaving, love,” Nanami interjects, trying his best to make the situation as simple as it can be. Pia agrees, blushing and nodding, hastily slipping her heels back on with hands seemingly covered in sweat.

Watching her struggle to secure her heels, her fingers slipping on the buckle, reignites a surge of confidence deep within you. The once persistent insecurity in her presence now feels like a mere joke. In this moment, she becomes the joke.

And you want to savor every minute of it.

The next words spill from your mouth, impossible to contain. You wiggle the small Tupperware container in your hands, gesturing towards her and offering a shy but satisfied smile.

“I was just bringing my husband dinner,” you chuckle airily, the lie slipping from your lips with ease. You relish the reaction from them both. Pia’s hands slip on her heel strap, causing her to stumble. Nanami struggles to contain his composure, eyes wide as saucers, his breath caught in his throat as your words ring in his ears like a piercing siren.

“Kento is the only one on this floor, it’s awfully late and I doubt you would have left earlier without saying goodbye. Surely you—” you pause, pretending to be taken aback before leveling an accusatory gaze at her. She looks up from her hunched position, hands still fumbling with the straps of her heels, her eyes wide and beautifully tan skin appearing pale. You’re not one for pettiness, but the delight from the sight of her struggling courses through your veins. “Surely you’re not here with the intention to do something else, are you?”

“No!” she quickly retorts, her voice both loud and tinged with a hint of nervousness that makes the corner of your lip twitch. “No of course not—”

“So what are you doing here?” you cut her off with a narrowing of your eyes, repeating your question from earlier with a touch less feigned innocence, your tone slightly more serious and impatient.

“L-leaving actually! Just wanted to say goodbye to Kento before my flight in the morning,” she stammers, now standing three inches taller, maintaining an air of elegance and grace even as her embarrassment paints her cheeks red.

She hastily bids Nanami farewell—a choked and tight goodbye—, a lopsided and anxious smile directed at you, and stumbles once more as she hurriedly exits the room, a snort of amusement escaping your lips as she trips before disappearing from your sight.

You close the door behind her, shutting away her presence for good.

The room falls into silence, Nanami’s face turning a vibrant shade of red that forces you to suppress your laughter with every ounce of effort you can muster.

“Love, I can explain—,” he begins, but you promptly cut him off, a giggle escaping despite your best attempts to hold it back.

You know he would never do anything. Nanami would probably take infinite shifts of overtime instead of letting a woman who was not you touch him. In fact, you heard the entire conversation before you rushed in, and it makes your heart flutter with love that is already overflowing for him.

“It’s not funny,” he grumbles.

But it’s so funny to watch him squirm, his face burning even more and his movements awkward as he clutches the bundle of disheveled contracts in his hand. His expressions of frustration and his furrowed brow only serve to ignite a warmth in your stomach.

You love to tease him. And now you’ve been given the perfect opportunity to make him sweat.

“There’s no need to explain, Ken. I’m just messing with you,” you reassure him, taking his free hand and gently pulling him back to his desk. Turning to face his still-nervous figure, you retrieve the papers from his grasp and place them neatly on his large mahogany desk.

“I heard the entire conversation. I am curious though,” you begin, pressing him down into his chair. He’s silent as he watches you push the chair back a little, so you have room to stand between him and his desk. “What do you think she would have done if I hadn’t come in time?”

“Absolutely nothing because I don’t—” he starts, but his words are abruptly cut off by the touch of your hand gliding against the fabric of his chest. Unlike Pia’s touch, your fingertips radiate heat and beckon him in a way that has his cock twitching in his slacks. His heart skips a beat as he watches your own manicured nails circle the buttons of his dress shirt before undoing them quickly. “We can’t—”

“Why?” you interrupt, your voice low and hot, instantly drying up his throat. Your fingertips dance along the exposed skin of his chest, gently teasing him as your nail flicks against a pink nipple before trailing down between the contours of his abs. You tap your fingers along the downy hair that trails under his slack and his stomach bunches in response, twitching from the stimulation, his heart skipping and his throat tightening slowly.

“Do you want me to stop?”

He doesn’t. God, he doesn’t, and the words ‘no’ are out of his mouth before he can stop them, giving you his consent even though he’s embarrassed out of his mind. His migraine becomes an insignificant thought, the pulsing from earlier falling into a slow ebb, eclipsed by the escalating desire coursing through his veins.

Nanami has never been the type of man to do this sort of thing. While he likes to be inside you anytime he can, he cherishes the privacy that safeguards both himself and you, more.

But he can’t lie to himself that the thought of something happening in this office with you hasn’t crossed his mind multiple times—especially when you used to work together.

The sound of you undoing his belt buckle has his heart racing, thumping loud and heavy in his chest and his face is on fire as he watches you release him from the confines of his pants, his cock already hard and leaking.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down and finding it difficult to contain your own desire from the sight of him. The area between your legs throbs as you trace your eyes down a cock that you’re intimately familiar with. Warm and achingly heavy, leaking with anticipation and pleading for your touch. His abs tense with a sharp intake of breath as you wrap your hand around him, a pleasurable hiss escaping his throat as he watches you stroke him languidly.

You press your free hand into the arm of his chair, leaning in until your lips are mere inches apart. Inhaling his ragged breaths, you admire the way his deep brown eyes blow out, leaving only a ring of burnt umber for you to gaze into.

Your grip on him has his mind foggy, desire overtaking any rational thoughts that he would normally use right about now.

But you’re so good.

You’re curling your wrist with every upward stroke just the way he loves and his abs bunch with every jolt of pleasure that zips inside of him.

He has to touch you, has to get his hands on you in some way to ground himself, and he instinctively reaches out for you when suddenly you tsk, pulling back slightly to create more distance between your lips.

“No touching.”

Oh.

You never deny him when you’re both like this. You always want his hands on you. The fact that you’re now denying him, gazing at him with a dangerous look in your eyes, shocks him. And it arouses him to a degree that makes him choke on a breath.

He sags back into his chair, gasping for breath when your hands trail down to cup his balls. He digs his fingers into the chair’s armrests, scratching red leather, and he’s desperate to keep himself from cumming too soon.

“Did you—did you lock the door?” he manages to gasp, grasping onto any shred of coherent thought he has left.

You tilt your head in confusion, gaze at him with an indifferent stare, and then shrug nonchalantly before sagging down to your knees in front of him. The sight makes his toes curl in his expensive Chukka boots.

The rational part of his mind urges him to get up and check the door. Just get up and make sure the door is at least locked before anything else—but then his thoughts are short-circuiting and stuttering as your tongue slides wet up his shaft and you swallow him down to the base without a care in the world.

The back of his head slams against the cushioned chair as a surge of pleasure courses through his veins. You’re wet and sloppy, teasing him with your gaze as your mouth stretches from the thickness of him—and he’s struggling to hold on, struggling to keep his orgasm at bay even though it’s right there.

He tries to reach for you—tries to card his hands through your hair but you smack it away and glare at him with such a ferocity that he’s embarrassed for even attempting.

Marketing templates. Morning traffic. A cold cup of coffee.

He thinks of everything he can to resist the warmth in his stomach and the coil tightening along his spine; because you suck his cock in a way that makes him fidget in his chair, humming and gurgling into his ears in a wicked melody that’s making him go insane.

You’re enjoying every second of this and it only makes him blush harder with just how exposed he is to you right now. The mere weight of his cock in your mouth and the slightly salty taste of him makes your panties damp, your cunt pulsating and aching to be filled.

And you’ll make sure it happens.

So you patiently wait until he’s panting harshly, his grip on the arm of his chair growing tighter and tighter. You wait until that crazed look dances in his eyes—the one you’re so familiar with right before he cums. And right when he’s on the cusp, you pull away.

He exhales hard and sinks into his chair almost in relief as the band inside of him relaxes slightly, desperately trying to catch his breath and hissing as the cold air of his office wraps around his wet cock.

“Pia really did have a plan, didn’t she?” you playfully tease, standing to card your fingers through his blonde locks. Your fingertips glide across the faint traces of sweat, your hand moving along with the shake of his head in response to you, his gaze unfocused.

You kick off your shoes, hook your thumbs into the corner of your leggings, and slide them down and off your legs—his eyes following every inch of creamy brown skin that is revealed to him.

You’re wearing an oversized sweater, a soft cashmere that he got you simply because he wanted, and it now covers your faint stretch-marked thighs. They are your battle scars, your own reminders of the journey your body underwent to grow and birthed the beautiful daughter you both have now.

His breath falters as he watches you gracefully perch on his large desk, placing your legs on top and bending your knees so your fuzzy sock-covered feet press against the rich mahogany. Leaning back on one arm, you effortlessly open your legs for him. His naturally narrow eyes widen at the sight of your white damp panties, and he longs to lick, suck, and slide his cock inside the very place they conceal.

The glint in your eyes is mischievous and taunting, delighting in the way he struggles to stay seated even as you slide one of your hands down into your panties.

“Can I—” he starts, but you cut him off.

“No.”

You leave no room for argument and don’t offer anything else as you begin to circle your clit leisurely, arching into the touch as echoes of pleasure hum to life. It’s not long before you’re pushing your panties to the side to expose yourself to the open air. Your cunt throbs with desire when you hear Nanami groan softly under his breath.

You’ve never been this bold, never entertained the thought of anything voyeuristic. But Nanami seems to awaken something within you, something you’re slowly embracing. He’s so shy about sex outside of the privacy of your home, and it only makes this more exciting that he’s even entertaining it now.

“Did she do this with you?” you ask him, your voice breathless as you sink two fingers into your wet cunt. The corner of Nanami’s eye twitches from the sight and you swallow down a giggle that threatens to escape. “Did she ever make you watch her while she touched herself?”

You moan softly as you curl your fingers up as best as you can from your angle. Nanami’s fingers dig into the leather of his chair with barely contained restraint.

“Answer me, Kento.”

“No. She didn’t.”

Satisfied with his answer, a sense of pride flaps in your chest, and you gleefully continue fingering yourself in front of him. It always takes you a while to get off with your fingers, so you use that as ammunition to watch Nanami squirm.

You watch the way his exposed muscular pectorals move with his increasing breaths. You watch the way his cock twitches, hot and heavy against his stomach, leaking precum onto his abs. And you soak up the way he traces his eyes along every inch of you, leaving nothing without his attention.

When you finally cum, sharp and abrupt, he’s hanging on by a thread—ready to abandon your command to be still, yank you to him, and sink inside.

He watches your cunt flutter around your fingers as you slowly come down from your high, gasping like an angel into the office air. Breathless, you stand on shaky legs and move to stand before him, lifting slick-covered fingers to his mouth which he readily opens without command, desperate to taste you any time he can. He groans softly against your fingers, eyes drooping, tongue sliding wet between your digits. The sight makes your cunt throb weakly, faint embers that had just died down, licking to life again.

You taste like everything to him, everything he wants and everything he needs.

But it’s not on the menu tonight.

You straddle his lap wordlessly and smack his hands away when he tries to wrap large hands around your waist. He swallows his frustration, yearning to touch you, yet willing to comply for the promise of more.

Using the remnants of your arousal between your legs, you coat him, stroking him enough to make sure you take him effortlessly, and then you guide him to your entrance and sink down to the hilt. The feel of him inside you is glorious, stretching you in the way you like that makes your cunt tremble to life around him, grateful for his presence once again.

“Fuck,” he hisses—chokes with eyes squeezed shut, hand gripping the chair until it groans. You’re so wet, so fucking warm and tight that he’s shaking--practically trembling and swallowing a whimper as he fights the urge to grab your hips.

You didn’t need much to get used to him. You’re a masochist when he stretches you—you crave the way your cunt tenses from the intrusion, gripping him like a vice.

You’re a champ, enveloping him and giving him little time to acclimate before you’re bouncing on his cock with a finesse that would make any woman jealous.

You slide both hands into the hair at his nape and pull so that he cranes his neck back to gaze up at you. He’s slack-jawed, panting with breaths that tickle your lips, his eyes heavy with desire.

“Did she ever fuck you like this, hmm? Come into your office when you would work long hours and ride you until you couldn’t see straight?”

He can only shake his head ‘no’ in response, his throat too dry to speak, his lungs burning. He craves your touch, your lips on him, something to anchor him as he struggles to keep up. It’s the only way he can stay sane when the neurons in his brain are frying by the second. He begs wordlessly, groans deeply up into your mouth, pleading for anything.

And thankfully, you grant him a searing kiss. Your lips mold against his, tongues battling for dominance that he willingly surrenders to. His every thrust hits that perfect spot within you, brushing away hints of oversensitivity and bringing forth faint pleasure that makes you dig your hands into blond tresses and pull tight.

The pleasure caresses the insides of your thighs and tightens the muscles of your legs. Every brush of your clit against the skin of his abs shoots electricity throughout your cunt and up to the base of your spine, igniting a simmering fire that begins to heat deep pools of lava that reside there.

You pull away from his lips with a harsh moan, gasping into the warm air of his office, riding him harder to the point that the legs of his chair begin to squeak.

He knows you well. He knows how you get demanding and delirious and incoherent when you ride him, and he loves to count the seconds until that switch in your brain goes off. And it’s not even a second later when—

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good. So, so good,” you moan against the skin of his lips. “Fucking me just the way I like Ken.”

He watches every move you make, tracing his eyes over the contours of your face and the way your loose curls cling to creamy brown cheeks.

His eyes roll when he picks up your whispered chants. You’re a woman possessed and you take what you want—when you want. And he gives and gives with every yes, yes, more Ken, you’re so good, please, please, please yes!

Your pupils are blown and glazed over with desire, but suddenly your brows furrow in frustration.

“She walked in here in a tight dress and high heels looking to get you in the same position that I have you now. But at the end of the day, you’re mine.”

There’s not an ounce of coyness in your words. You’re so serious, firm, and unyielding that it makes him shudder, a groan sliding from his parted lips, his eyes rolling into the back of his head and—

“Look at me,” you command, voice low, panting from exertion and the feel of your body beginning to draw tight with embers of a powerful orgasm. His eyes roll back without hesitation, locking with yours. “Unless—unless some other circumstance tears us apart, you—you are mine. Pia can have all the money and fame, but she will never have you. I do.”

“Yes,” he whispers, the word tumbling from his lips without faltering. His hips struggle to keep up and his thighs begin to stiffen as pleasure begins to curl deliciously so that his hands dig into the chair. His fingers slip against the leather, sweaty and tingling.

“You’re the father of my child.”

“Yes,” he chants again, breathless and quivering as the rubber band along his spine grows taught, stretching and shaking from the tension.

“You sleep next to me. You kiss me. You fuck me.”

“Yes, only you—only you.”

You tremble from his words, satisfaction oozing like hot thick globs along your skin. “That’s right, Kento,” you purr as your hips begin to roll against him, your clit carrying currents of pleasure through your veins, that pool of lava at the base of your spine boiling and rising to the brim.

“Please,” he whispers, his plea pulling you from your desire-induced haze. You look down at him, admire the flush of his cheeks, the warmth of his breath against the collarbone of your sweater, the sweat that beads along his hairline. “Please.”

“Please what?” you tease, trying to maintain a playful demeanor even though your hips are beginning to ache from overuse. You come to a stop on top of him, your breaths mingling together.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, always gentle and caring, even when he’s bursting from the seams. You love him so fucking much.

“Will you make me cum?”

“Always,” he responds without hesitation, his words filled with conviction. You lean in, pressing your lips against his, savoring the affection he willingly gives you. When you pull away, you brush thick blonde locks from his forehead, exposing more of his sharp features that will never fail to make your heart race.

“Then touch me, Ken,” you whisper, your voice laced with desire and anticipation.

Without wasting a moment, he swiftly lifts you in his arms, his cock still nestled inside as he carries you towards his desk.

Your breath catches as you stare up at him, the sound of papers scattering to the floor filling the air. He pulls your sweater up, revealing every inch of your faintly stretch-marked belly, before tugging down a cup of your bra, heady eyes watching as one of your breasts spills from its confines.

He’s too fast. You fumble for words and let out a surprised yelp when he yanks your waist toward the edge of the desk. He presses your knees as close to your chest as you will allow, and then he slams into you once—and then twice before picking up a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

He devours you, tongue flicking and swirling wet and dripping around your exposed nipple as he pounds into you unabashedly, the desk squeaking and groaning from his efforts.

All bravado that you had earlier splinters away with each smack of his muscular hips against you, the skin of his abs brushing against your clit deliciously, coaxing moan after moan from your lips. His tongue flicks your nipple again before he bites the hardened bud, and your cunt flutters—clenches around him, your thighs beginning to twitch even though they’re pressed to your chest.

“I’m all yours. Always yours,” he whispers against your lips, blonde tresses gliding against your cheeks.

You hope there’s no one on this floor, or that no one has decided to come back for something because the last thing they need to hear is Nanami Kento, Director of Strategic Partnerships, railing his girlfriend on his over-priced, too-large mahogany desk.

You can barely breathe, your moans growing in pitch, the sound of skin on skin echoing through his office, your hands sliding up to dig fingers into the skin of his back. You don’t even have the chance to tell him you’re close.

The stroke of him inside you, the slap of his skin against your bundle of nerves, and the feel of his mouth trailing along the sweaty column of your neck with a deep and heavy cum for me baby breaks the seal inside of you.

The lava boils over—pools along your bones, hot and delicious and caressing every nerve ending within you, your cunt squeezing him without remorse. You can’t help the loud moan that shakes from your lips, growing in pitch when the pleasure seems to spike and overheat you in oversensitivity, your entire body tingling and shaking like an exposed nerve.

Nanami takes every ounce of pleasure you offer. Everything, every part of you is precious—treasured in a way that no one else will ever be able to comprehend. He takes every breath, every hitch in your throat, every droplet of sweat on your skin, every whimper and moan and scratch of your nails against him. He savors it all—needs it to survive, to know that you have chosen him, that you want him, that you love him.

You’re the only woman who makes Pia tremble and stumble over her words. You are a force to be reckoned with, and he knew that the moment you snapped at him when you first met. You’re fierce in the way you love, strong with the words you say, and so fucking beautiful that he cant help but feel proud of just how threatened Pia was by the sight of you.

Those words you spoke confidently to her have played like a record in his head since you forced him into his chair.

“I was just bringing my husband some dinner.”

My husband.

He’s thought about it, so many fucking times. And he swears it will happen. Soon.

One day you’ll be his wife.

His wife.

His thoughts come to a sudden halt because he’s cumming, catching him off guard, that rubber band snapping in half, pleasure yanking from the base of his spine and pulling a harsh groan from his chest as he spills inside of you.

His hands slip from behind your knees and smack onto the wood of his desk and you wrap your legs around his waist as you both regain your breath. He’s putty against you, melted and loose and molding against every crevice of you as he takes in your intoxicating scent. Lilac from your body wash, shea butter from your lotion, and a hint of cooking grease that wafted onto your skin when you made dinner.

Your fingers lovingly comb through his sweaty hair, your legs blissfully achy, your cunt satisfied and throbbing, and your heart coming to normal sinus rhythm in your chest.

“Ome is probably wondering where I am,” you finally speak, breaking the tranquil silence of his office. “She offered to watch Ulani when I left.” Nanami hums against you, a low and gravelly sound that’s typical of him when he’s ready to go to sleep. “Bring the rest of the contracts home. No more overtime.”

As if he would even entertain the thought of being in this office a moment longer. “Okay,” he agrees, pressing his lips to your neck. He still has his arms around you, still connected to you despite having softened inside you minutes ago.

But you don’t mind. You cherish these moments with him, holding them dear in your heart, knowing that each one is a gift.

Because you’re the only one who can revel in the way he needs you, the way he craves having his hands on you, the way he murmurs his adoration into your skin. And you love every bit of it. You love him.

“Will she be back?” you ask, a hint of hesitance in your tone.

He shakes his head, groaning softly as you scratch that spot behind his ear. “No. Never.”

“She better not,” you jest, an eyebrow lifting to the ceiling, gazing at no one. “If she pulls shit like that again, there won’t be a happy ending for you.”

He barks out a laugh against your neck, lifting his head to take in your blissed-out form. Fatigue weighs heavy on your eyes, your lashes delicately curled, your hair spread out on his desk to make you look like the most otherworldly thing he has—will ever see.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, love.”

He kisses you tenderly once and then twice, before resting his head against your chest, the soft cashmere of your sweater caressing his cheek. His eyes catch something on the corner of his desk.

The Tupperware of food that you brought still emits steam, a homemade Katsudon by your hands, just for him.

His heart thrums in his chest, full and filled with warmth.

His wife.

Soon.

Thanks for reading!