#scrub fumes

[verlake]

Magnus being a coven escapee is top 5 insane adaptational changes for sure, given that the show is looking at the ways that power structures rely on abuse to maintain themselves as the status quo. if lestat literally embodies the aristocratic european patriarchy and it’s effect on the family unit and it’s racist extension into the colony states like louisiana, what does it mean to show that a large part of his own abuse at home was brought about by attempting - in the ways that he could - to be outside them? Like the lengths the story is going to set up all the myriad ways in which systemic abuse (and sa either as real [claudia and armand] or allegorical [lestat’s turning] ) does not automatically make you a friend and ally to those who have experienced something similar to you, no matter how much you may deeply and truly love them, but instead become another rod on their back is… something else. 

and louis seemingly unable to engage with any of this sincerely with his ceo detatchment from profit coming from bodies, and the wall of his own guilt (and not seeing himself as a victim of an abusive relationship!!) at putting who knows how many girls in similar situations in the brothels is truly… big man in the big house stuffing cotton in his ears. 

[ritzcrackee]

projecting but i think izzy cleans when he's angry

[plutosrobin]

having a job is cool bc you earn money! but then there are the horrors

[mocacheezy]

Having sensory issues that you haven't quite registered as proper, real and VALID issues yet can be real interesting. For example;

Me, overwhelmed and fuming with rage and anxiety: How can I fuckity fuck make this better?

*remembers that sunlight and seeing what's outside can make people feel less claustrophobic ergo lowering anxiety*

*forgets that bright lights and colors are a sensory FUCK NO when overwhelmed*

*partially opens the window shutters*

*closes the window shutters*

[maxxmutt]

Having a good gender moment and I wanna say that I love trans joy and gender euphoria this shit kicks ass

[scrubnuggey]

*lying down for bed*

My brain: hey so you know the smell of the fumes from those go-karts at haunted trails? Yeah specifically the one you went to on your 12th birthday. Yeah. So you're going to taste that for like a half a second for no reason. Then you're going to make a tumblr post about it

Me: what the f- ack...gasoline fumes...

[ridingthatd]

◕◔ RYOMEN TWINS I

◔◕ itadorixfem!reader, sukunaxfem!reader, nsfw, heavy smut, twins breeding you, possessive, kinky asf part 1

the ryomen twins were known around the whole kingdom- more like they were feared by the whole kingdom, they hold a power no one could compare to, no one as much as dares to make eye contact with them- fearing for their life, they could destroy an entire nation just by lifting a finger- and nobody want to experience the agony of disobeying or displeasing them in anyway.

even though the twins look identically alike- they're the complete opposite of each other, after working for such a long time for them- the longest anyone worked under them without "suddenly" dying or got brutally killed. you learned to tell the difference between them.

sukuna ryomen. such a heartless man, who you can barely get a reaction out of- at first you always thought how can someone be so psychotic, how can someone hold so much evil in them, but you learned to accept it by time, you learned to live with seeing him take a bath- soaking in a solution of cursed energy formed from crushing and straining venemous creatures.

sukuna ryomen. was rough with the way he treated you, rough in a way he wouldn't care to ask about your opinion or care to open his mouth and tell you what he pleased- he would simply harshly pick you up by his lower four arms, make you sit uncomfortably with him in the disgusting of a bath- watching your every move as you gently scrub on his rough skin, and what always seem to leave you fascinated was the vibration that always leaves from his chest everytime you scrub him- purring like a huge beast. resting his huge face on the swollen of your breast as he breaths you in.

itadori yuji. he was the complete opposite of his brother, he held such a nice energy around him, he was never harsh nor aggressive in anyway towards you, he had such a gentle soul- that's at least how you felt, he would treat you like a delicate flower with so much gentility, you loved having silly little conversations with him, you loved the small walks he would walk with you- even as much as help you with laundry that he knew nothing about.

itadori yuji. he would always yell at his brother as soon as he takes a look at the finger marks he left behind from picking you up here and then, like a ragdoll- you could be doing dishes, sukuna make his way toward hold you 7 feets up the ground sniff you then place you down with a thud. itadori seems to hate it as he frowns at the marks rubbing them gently, he even goes as far as placing a kiss on them letting his lips linger there while his pink warm tongue peak out licking wetly- he makes an unbearable eye contact with you.

your heart pounds in your chest, as you hear yelling coming from itadoris office- you never ever heard itadori yelling the way he's yelling right now and it made you feel so uneasy, it made you wanna run and hide far away. you flinch once you hear the door open and loud footsteps echos in the hallway- the hallway you were in, mopping the floor.

from the shadow that's coming your way- you can tell it was sukuna with his two extra arms that his brother didn't have- or as they say he didn't wanna show. you tightly shut your eyes, holding the wooden mop praying to goddess that he would just to go his room.

but even the goddess couldn't save you from sukunas shadow that now tour over you- you can feel his warm breath on your neck as he leans in, sniffing you as always- but this time he didn't hold you nor pick you up.

you flinch again as you hear itadoris office door slam open and fast heavy foot steps comes directly your way. it was itadori- you couldn't recognize him, he look furious like a beast who was set out of the cage for the first time. glaring at sukuna.

" I fucking told you to stay away from her." he growls out, fuming at the mouth, sukuna rolls his eyes as he steps away from you and continue his way toward his bedroom yelling out a-

"I didn't touch her brother, have it however you want" that makes itadoris eyes snap to you- grabbing your arms harshly for the first time- scanning you for any marks that his brother could have left behind.

it looks like he wasn't satisfied as he picks you, holding you to tightly- to close to your liking you can feel his hard chest pressed harshly against your soft boobs- hard nipples, as he makes his way toward his bedroom closing the door loudly behind him.

he throws you on his bed, making you gasp- as you bounce, not letting you have enough time to process what's happening as he continues his scan- roughly holding your hips, pressing hard against the bed, not letting you move.

you were confused why, when was he this harsh, his soft touch were long forgotten as he hold you so painfully that you couldn't help but choke out a-

"it hurts" that seems to snap him out of it, as his eyes look at you gently and his touch loosen up a bit- looking at you worriedly but whatever his next thought was, it made his eyes darken again, his grip harden, fingers squeezing your hips, earning a pained groan from you.

"why? don't you like that" he whispers harshly against your ear as he leans in, you frown confused on what does he mean by that, you feel his warm breath against your sensitive neck, making you move your hips, trying to escape whatever is going on.

itadori trail his nose slowly down your ear taking deep breaths in, feeling his lips brush against your neck as he do, your heart is pounding as he settle one of his thick legs between your thigh, while the other is outside- caging you in.

"I don't think I quite understand what you mean, my lord." you gasp out, feeling him place his lips on the sensitive part of your neck, while his nose rub gently making it ticklish. itadori lean back to look you in the eyes- his eyes were dark, pupils expanded, staring at you hazely, as if he got drunk on your scent that he was sniffing in.

his eyes trails to your lips, your heart thumps-thumps as he leans in brushing his nose against yours still maintaining eye contact- his mouth half-open just like yours.

"I will show you" he growls out before he fully leans in and take your lips between his teeth- tugging them into his mouth, to meet his warm tongue that peak out to cares your lips, wetting them with his spit- before he fully take your lower lip in, and start sucking on it, making a hot loud wet sound,

this doesn't seem to be enough for him as he leans more in, pushing his knee into your sensitive cunt, making you moan into his mouth which only seems to drive him even more crazy, pushing his knee deeper just like his tongue that makes its way in your mouth just to meet yours.

circling wetly around it, it made you feel so light headed, the way he sucked your tongue into his mouth lapping on it likes he's a new born baby, you whimper into his mouth not realizing that you starting to arch your already dripping cunt into his knee.

"wanna breed you" itadori rasps out, as he break his tongue away from yours staring at the wet string that still connect your mouth together, he grinds his knee into your aching cunt, breathing hard against your lips.

"wanna fuck you" you whimper, your fingers tugging on his hair, letting your tongue out- in intention to tell him that you want his tongue inside your mouth again.

this move of yours drived him crazy, making him groan as he harshly gives you his tongue again swirling it around yours, while he line his throbbing cock against your leaking cunt, grabbing the hem of your dress and pulling it up- grinding against your panties only.

yours lips disconnect again with a wet pop sound, as yuji trail his rough large hands under your dress making their way toward your aching nipples- twisting them against his fingers.

"wanna be inside of you now" he moans out more like to himself- his hips thrusting crazily against yours, it was to much force- to inhuman, it made you bounce hard against the bed, you couldn't do anything but grab on his hair for support- which only seemed to make yuji go even more psychotic.

"fuck, want to feel your wet cunt on my face" he growls out, flipping you so fast- that he was laying down as you straddle his face, your panties was ripped into half by itadoris teeth- like it offended him for hiding your cunt from him.

he slapped your ass so hard- you were sure it was going to leave a purple mark, you cry out, "fuck sorry won't do it again" he coo at you rubbing the spot- but he lied, he does it again and again and again, your pussy was so wet, dripping, drenched as you ride your lords face, you can slide on his face from how wet it was with your juice.

slap, slap, slap, your ass was covered with purple hand marks "more-" he laps on your 5th orgasm, "I want fucking more of this sweet little cunt" he growls out eating your cunt up eagerly, your body was limp on top of his face, your full body weight was set on his face- but he only seemed to enjoy it.

"please no more i can't-" he slurps on your clit holding your thighs hard against his face, you choke on your sobs, "I can't please- please".

he gently stroke your ass, as he mutters out "one more", and you give him exactly what he asked for, squirting all over your lords face- it was to much pleasure, you were trying to move your hips away, but he held your thighs locked into his face not freeing you till he licked every single last drop.

you thought it was over as he place you down on the bed- but you judged to quick as you take a look at his ragging cock that was covered with his own cum, seeds leaking out cumming just from eating your delicious cunt out.

your cunt clench once itadori reveals his huge cock, wanting to be filled by it, "please please" you pathetically spread your thighs, showing him your puffy red pussy from being sucked by him.

"you want me to fuck you? you want to be fucked by your lord?" he darkly questions out as he lines his cock, pushing fully in before you got time to answer.

dark, all you can see is dark, pleasure, all you can feel is pleasure, as you open your eyes gasping for air, to see itadori thrusting his hips inside of you, so fast- so hard, chanting to himself.

"fuck you're so tight, so tight" he moans out drool drips from his mouth to yours, it was to hot, to hot, "I'm going to fill with my cum, you want it? you want it?" he crazily questions as he lock his hips with yours, hovering over you, grabbing your chin just to shove his tongue deep inside your mouth, fucking it just like he's fucking your pussy.

"fuck fuck gonna fill you fuuuuuck" he growls as you feel hot cum hit your womb, you twitch underneath him, it was all to much for you- for you little human body.

itadori didn't pull out his cock was spilling since forever, still spilling even as it leaks out into his bed sheets- you whimper, as you feel him rock his hips, fucking his cum into you.

he coo at you, kissing your sweaty forehead before he pulls out, and spread your thighs just to grin crazily as he looks at the way your red puffy pussy was dripping with his cum.

₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ to be continued?₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ

: ̗̀➛ part 2 is 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Two: love, and love well

tw: religious abuse, domestic violence, minor grief, minor man handling

When you arrive home, you lay the wine out on the table like an offering to Jesus Christ Himself. 

A perfect trifecta, the florid liquid sloshes and slowly settles in their bottles as you wipe your sweaty palms on the front of your apron. Skin soaked in moonshine, the scent is so strong you almost feel tipsy off of the fumes alone. Luckily, your father has locked himself away in his office, rendering him too far away to smell the stench on you—likely hunched over his well-loved bible to take notes. Even now you can see the way that poor book falls apart at the seams with loose pages and a fractured spine. 

(Is this why he rips you apart the way he does? Is this how he loves, and loves well? By ruining? Let all that you do be done in love. If your spine was just as crooked as his bible, would you find him attempting to mend you with glue?) 

Instead of ruminating about your father’s strange expression of care, you take note of the light that bleeds on the floor. Honey gold, it livens up the wood floors your father forced you to scrub clean the previous weekend. Cleanliness is close to Godliness, and still he managed to track dirt in not even hours after you had finished. It’s of no consequence—you are grateful to be given so many opportunities to improve yourself in both skill and personhood. 

Sighing, the setting sun reminds you that there is a meal to be cooked. Having been denied lunch in favor of running errands, your mouth waters at the sight of the ingredients alone. Beans, sourdough biscuits, brown gravy and sowbelly; the steam and flames leaves your cheeks toasty by the time they’re finished cooking. 

You fix up two plates and gather the cutlery to set the table before taking a seat. There are three chairs that surround this small, square table, yet one has remained empty for longer that you’d care to admit. Sometimes, if you stare at the gaping void on your right for long enough, you can nearly feel the warmth your mother left behind. She lingers in odd places throughout the house—in the jar of sourdough starter she created that you still feed; in the lilies she planted along the deck that refuse to die no matter how many times your father yanks them from the earth; in the face of the full moon that winks at you through the window as the sun sets. 

As soon as the clock strikes seven, the rusty hinges to your father’s office squeak open. Quiet, like scuttering field mice. His pace is languid as he wanders towards the table, foggy eyes piercing through you. Greeting him with a smile, you gesture to his place at the table where cooling food awaits him with puffs and swirls of steam. 

“Supper’s ready, Daddy,” you say as if it wasn’t already obvious. “And I got the wine just like you wanted.” 

He responds with nothing but a hum as he takes the seat next to you. His chair creaks and groans beneath his weight, crying out like a wounded animal begging for relief. Swallowing, you roll your lips together as you await his word. 

“Say Grace, girl,” he orders. 

Eagerly, you fold your hands and rest them above the table before bowing your head. You squeeze your eyes shut. 

“Father, we thank you for your many blessings. We thank you now for this meal. Please bless it. May it nourish and strengthen our bodies to your honor and glory. Amen.” 

Your prayer flows from your mouth like blood from your wounded knuckles, and it’s enough for your father to be content with it. You wait for him to take the first bite before you dare to indulge in the meal you slaved over the hot stove for. A stitch of hunger ravages your stomach and it refuses to relinquish its hold on you until you’ve shoved a spoonful of beans into your mouth. Stomach tinged with avarice, it hardly allows you to taste the flavors on your tongue before demanding you swallow. 

Dinner is a quiet affair, like usual. There is nothing for you to share with your father that he doesn’t already know—or something he could find the heart to care for—and he seems to speak to you only to order you around or share his displeasure about something. Usually, his silence means you’re doing well, so you bask in the cold nothingness. 

Though, it usually doesn’t take long for him to shatter through the algid atmosphere with a sharp tongue. 

“The change that Mr. Beckett gave you? Where is it?” he asks. 

Nodding, you swallow the food in your mouth before placing your utensils on your plate to rest. “I’ve got it right here in my pocket,” you assure. 

Yet, when you burden yourself with cloth against your aching wounds once more, your stomach drops when you can’t find the change you were given. Blinking, you dig deeper, and still there is nothing but the cotton of your apron. Soft, you’ve had this clothing item for years and it has never betrayed you before. Desperate, you stand to your feet to search, worried that you can’t feel the change in the swathes of fabric in your dress. 

The only thing your fingertips brush against is a torn hole. 

It’s big enough to fit your thumb through frayed seams—plenty large enough to lose the coins Mr. Beckett gave you. Your heart leaps into your throat where it threatens to choke you and you are brutally reminded of your time in the saloon. Those strange men, how anxious you were to flee that place, how your apron caught on the stool…

“Well?” your father questions impatiently. 

“I-I’m sorry, Daddy. I don’t… I don’t have it,” you admit. 

Though you’ve already admitted defeat, your hands continue to fruitlessly paw at your skirt. Was it left behind at the saloon? Could you go back now and see if Mr. Beckett cleaned it up? Or did you leave a trail of coins behind you during your walk home like breadcrumbs meant to lure children? Would you have to scrounge the earth on your hands and knees in order to make this right? 

“You don’t have it?” he repeats incredulously. 

“My apron tore, it must’ve fallen out of my pocket,” you explain with trembling hands. “I-I’m sure Mr. Beckett still has it. I’ll go back and look for it. I’m sorry, Daddy, I promise I didn’t mean to lose it.” 

He is quiet. Silent for long enough that your heart begins to quiver in your chest like a hare burrowing beneath the earth to hide from vicious predators. You stand with a rigid spine as you wait for him to wipe his hands on the front of his trousers. When he finally looks at you, his eyes hold nothing but virulent desire. 

“No one who practices deceit shall dwell in my house; no one who utters lies shall continue before my eyes,” he quotes. “Nothing but excuses and empty promises. Tell me, girl, why do you lie to me?” 

“I’m not lying, I swear it,” you assure. 

“Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord,” he quotes further. 

“Daddy please, I’d never lie to you,” you beg. Tears begin to trespass along your cheeks, but you know better than to wipe them away. If you don’t acknowledge their existence, then maybe he won’t either. 

“Not only are you a liar, but you are a thief,” your father claims as he rises from his seat. He moves around the table and you find your teeth biting into your tongue to prevent you from begging any further. “What punishment do you think is fit for a liar and a thief? Do they deserve mercy? Does a false witness go unpunished, girl? Or shall he who breathes out lies perish?” 

You are given no time to contemplate his questions and rehearsed verses before the back of his hand bites into the apple of your cheek. He carries more strength than a preacher should—oftentimes you wonder if he carries the strength of God Himself when he punishes you. Your ears ring at the impact as your feet stumble from the force. A lip in the wooden floor catches your heel, and you cry out as you fall onto your rump. Lights dance in your vision like sun flares on a photograph as you stare up at your father. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say there was a halo of light around his head. 

But you do know better. The only thing that ever illuminates your father is his anger. 

He strikes you three more times on the same cheek. He’s kneeling next to you and yet still towers over you—always maintaining power and control. Pain blossoms along the side of your jaw and up into the mushy bits of your brain as you stifle your sobs. A migraine is bound to burrow into the thin layer of your skull soon, but for now the only thing that hurts worse than this throe is your repentance. 

“Well,” he speaks when he’s finally determined that you’ve had enough. “Go then. If you say you’ve lost it, then go find it, and don’t you dare return until you do. Do I make myself clear, girl?” 

Clutching the side of your face, you nod only for him to bark at you to speak. “Yes, Daddy. I understand.” 

When the cool dusk air hits your skin, you do not find yourself heading into town. You do not chase the change that lurks in the thicket that lines the trail or in Mr. Beckett’s rowdy saloon. Instead, you follow the moonlit trail that your mother used to take you on when you were a child. 

It looks different in the dying light of the sun—or perhaps you have your tears to thank for the distortion. Still, it’s a path you could follow even with your eyes plucked from your head, and you continue to stumble further and further away from home while you lament in your sorrows. Even the crickets join you in your babbling as they leap out of your way and dive into the bramble. 

Something has broken in you today. Something that has been suffering from stress fractures and erosion for longer than it should have, and now it gushes. It ferments like wine and festers like a bad wound and for a moment you swear you hear the moon urging you to follow its guiding light. Your father always told you that if you ever got lost, all you needed to do was look for the steeple that towers close to God and you’d find your way back, yet now you find relief in looking over your shoulder to see it growing smaller in the distance. Even as the worn trail ends in a fit of weeds and fallen trees, you persevere along the chossy earth. 

Your feet don’t stop moving until your toes catch on a clump of sagebrush at the top of a steep hill. You save yourself before you tumble to the ground and you use that opportunity to let yourself slowly sink into the dirt. It isn’t until you’re resting on your bum that your body is able to comprehend the amount of pain you’re in. The sting of your knuckles, the bruises that taint your knees, and the throb in your cheek—it all coalesces until it sears your skin just as bad as your obloquy does. 

Despite it all, there is still beauty. 

It flickers in the distance as your sleepy town begins to enjoy evening festivities with lit lanterns and warm windows. Perched high in the hills, you have a perfect view of the way wagon trails carve into the earth like a knife through fresh ham. A part of you swears you can hear someone playing the piano in Mr. Beckett’s saloon, but you shake that illusion as soon as your eyes land on the steeple of your father’s church once more. 

You are still too close to home for comfort. 

Once you manage to catch your breath, you stand back up on your aching feet and continue trekking through the foreign and unforgiving terrain. You are grateful for the milky moonlight that illuminates the space between tree trunks and bushes, though you still find spindly branches pulling at your dress. 

You’re unsure of what you should do in a situation like this. Surely your father sits at home finishing the meal you prepared for him as he waits for you to return with the change he is owed. Yet, the thought of returning home while your wounds are still fresh makes your stomach twist with a terrible, mawkish longing. 

Any craving for your mangled sense of home quickly evaporates at the scent of smoke. 

It’s an active fire—still burning with freshly cut logs that sputter dark smoke. A skinny plume rises in the air where it weaves between stars and you find yourself utterly stricken with curiosity. The scent grows stronger as you meander. You’re not sure what you’re hoping to find. Here in the middle of the night, out on the fringes of your town—the environs of the wilderness—surely it would be nothing good. 

(And never satisfied are the eyes of men.)

Marmalade light bleeds between branches as you catch sight of a small campfire stirring in the distance. Shadows warp your point of view, making your head spin and forcing you to brace against a tree as you squint to make sense of the shapes. You see horses. Several hands tall, they dip their heads low as they lazily graze on the sparse bits of grass at their feet. Their owners seem to also be enjoying food of their own as the scent of game wafts toward you on the bitter breeze. 

Braving a few steps closer, you catch the tail end of a chuckle and what sounds like an insult. Then, you see it—an odd haircut bathed in amber. Cropped short on either side of his head, yet leaving a longer trail down the center, the style reminds you of a horse’s mane. 

“You can piss right off with that type of talk.” 

“Aye, but I’m taking all the firepower with me. Not unless you trust Simon with the dynamite.” 

There’s a scoff. “Scary thought, that. Bad enough already trusting you with it.” 

Their accents are strange—unfamiliar at the very least. They speak as if they’re fresh off of the boats that traversed across the Atlantic, which isn’t anything interesting. Plenty of people from all over the world flock to see the United States and stake a claim, yet travelers are rare around these parts. You’d expect accents like this to hang around Grand Hollow, not the tiny town of Penmosa on the fringes of nowhere. 

Yet, there’s something especial about these figures. Marginally familiar like the way juniper bushes smell just like their berries taste, yet bitter enough to leave your lips puckering. You can’t discern if it’s because of the huff of the man on the right side of the fire, or the warm smile of the man on the left, but there is something haunting about their presence. You soak in the view of them and find nothing but a herald for something truculent. 

It isn’t until you meet the sapphire blaze that glints from across the campfire that the familiarity crashes down on you. A low brim hat nearly smothers the flames in his gaze, but there’s no mistaking the man that seems to appear from thin air—these are the men Mr. Beckett warned you about. Recalcitrant outlaws who bring nothing but trouble. Your sweet bartender had told you that they were nothing but wild animals, and now here in the penumbra you are able to witness this for yourself.

(All things are full of weariness; a man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.)

The urge to flee hardly has the time to boil in your bones before a fat palmed hand clasps over your mouth to silence you. Your scream dies as a gasp in your throat while your fingers claw at a thick forearm, nails desperately attempting to peel into skin like it’s fresh bread and not pure iron. Squirming heels spade into the dirt in front of you, but the beast at your back moves the earth in order to drag you toward the fire and the pack of wolves that await you. 

Mind whirling, you scream into tobacco tainted flesh as the beast huffs with effort to keep you contained. You find yourself suddenly yearning to see the steeple of the church once more, but that desire dissipates as you’re tossed on the ground where you land on your already injured knees with a yelp. 

“Don’t like eavesdroppers,” the voice behind you growls. 

Palms pressing into the earth, you twist around to gaze at the herculean man that stands above you. He’s just as tall—if not taller—than the horses hitched to the pine trees nearby, and his face is obscured with a dark bandana. Only his eyes are to be seen; not even the incandescence from the fire can thaw the frost he exudes. 

“I-I wasn’t eavesdropping,” you stutter. 

“No?” the masked man prods. “Just out in the middle of nowhere staring at our camp for fun then, huh?” 

“No, no, I just- I was wandering was all. I promise, mister. I didn’t mean any harm, I swear it.” You’re stammering. Tripping over your words before they form. This beast pins you with his gaze and you’re stuck with the threat of his claws as the flames of the campfire lick at your back. The heat is almost enough to evaporate the tears on your cheeks. 

“Bullshit,” he says, acidulous. 

“Easy, Riley.” 

A canorous voice rings behind you, calming the escalating situation though doing nothing to quell your quickening pulse. Eyes stuck on the brute before you, you are forced to listen as a pair of spurs jingle quietly in tune with the crackling of the fire. Languid. Creeping. The sound halts to your left and you finally muster the courage to look. 

The boots are nice. Well kept, though worn. Classic cowboy boots with the pointed toes and strong heel meant for keeping steady in stirrups. For a moment you feel as if you’re kneeling in the church again with knuckles bared. These are your father’s boots pacing back and forth as he greedily determines your castigation for whatever transgression you’ve committed before him. 

Then, the figure kneels, and you are brutally brought back into the present. The faded blue jeans, the thick belt, and the six shooter glinting in the amber light. This is him—the leader of the 141 Mr. Beckett told you about. There’s no mistaking his vivid azure gaze. 

You are plagued with an odd callosity—if you truly had your wits about you, you’d be making a run for it. Now, you are no better than a fawn fainting at the sound of gunshots. 

A perturbing smile flickers across his lips as he reaches up and removes his hat, revealing neatly kept dark hair beneath. His eyes don’t leave you, not even as he runs a hand over his locks to smooth out the bumps. 

“We’ve got nothing to be worried about here, boys,” the man assures with a sonorous chuckle. He glances around at them where they shift and huff as if disappointed at the lack of fresh meat that should be splayed before them. Then, his eyes find you again where they narrow—almost taunting. “Nothing but a lost lamb, aren’t you?”

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[f1fantasys]

Netflix and Chill Part 2

Warnings - FILTHY SMUT. that's it. You've been warned.

The motherfucker ghosted you.

You'd woken up the next morning, confused for a few seconds as you regained your surroundings. Normally you would feel the warmth of Lando's arm around your naked form, pulling you closer as you both shuffled to wake up. But today you had woken up cold. Pulling the sheets closer to you, you turned around, bracing yourself for whatever was to come next, good or bad. Except the other side of the bed was cold, empty, as if no one had even been there. Sitting up and looking around the room, you mentally cursed yourself for being such a deep sleeper. There was no sign of Lando. No clothes, no personal belongings, nothing. It was as if he wasn't here at all. Checking your phone, your heart dropped when there wasn't even a message from him. You held your ground for the next few days, not attempting to contact him, because, what the hell? So you threw yourself into work, busy as ever, and tried not to think of him.

It was now testing week in Bahrain, excitement in the paddock buzzing with the season about to start. You figured it would be impossible not to see the curly-haired Brit, but you'd decided to ignore him if you did. Why did he think it was okay to give you the best orgasms of your life, talk about a future, even though you could blame it on the adrenaline, and then avoid you as if you didn't know each other.

Day 1 went on without a hitch. You were covering Ferrari, so you were cooped up in their garage all day, and you were grateful all you saw of Lando was his back as he was walking out of the paddock.

Getting back to your hotel, you took a long shower, scrubbing off the smell of rubber and grease that'd gathered in the garage. You crawled into bed, desperate for sleep though you kept tossing and turning until your phone buzzed with a message. Seeing Lando's on your screen had you jolting up.

''hey, you good? sorry for being MIA, prepping for the season and what not..''

You took a few minutes to reply. You totally got how stressed and busy he was, but what pissed you off was how he'd left you sleeping in his room, bolted like it was nothing, you were nothing.

''i get you're busy Lan, but low blow leaving me in YOUR hotel room without so much as a fucking 'hey, I'm leaving, see you whenever'' you sent back.

His next message came in quick.

''whoa, relax. yeah? didn't think you'd react like this..''

Relax? Really? Was he really telling you to relax right now? You were fuming.

''react like what? Lando, we fucked and then you literally walked out in silence. how should i react?''

''i..yeah, dick move. i'm sorry''

Before you the chance to respond, another text came in.

''let me make it up to you? ;)''

Fuck this man and his abilities to turn you on with a few simple words.

''no thank you, i'm tired.

''y/n? saying no to my dick?''

''fuck you''

''i'd rather you fuck me''

Already feeling a wetness in your panties, you instinctively slipped a hand past them to slide through your throbbing folds, when you phone pinged again.

''damn, no reply for 3 minutes. she's touching herself thinkin' about me''

Damn him for knowing you inside out.

''stop''

''come on y/n, i know how needy you get. let me help you yeah?

''Lando'' you warned, though you didn't want him to stop one bit.

He obviously took it as you moaning him name, not warning him.

''i know baby. just imagine i'm right there with you, it's my fingers sliding through your dripping cunt. press two into yourself?''

You did as he said, gasping and arching your back off the bed as you thrust them in and out at a steady pace though it didn't feel as good as Lando's rough, calloused fingers. And when he saw you hadn't replied, he didn't hesitate to call you.

Whimpering, you answered, not saying anything but instead letting him hear what he was doing to you.

''Fuck, always love hearing you like this'' he said. ''Are you doing it? Fucking yourself with your fingers?'' he asked as you heard shuffling on the other end of the line.

''I am'' you responded, words coming through gritted teeth.

''Go faster, and let me hear you come more baby. Fuck I'm so hard right now''

You quickened your pace, breathless moans leaving your mouth. ''Are, huh, are you touching yourself?'' you asked.

''Yeah, fuck, i'm so fucking hard right now. Imagining your tongue on my cock, soft and hot''

''Lando'' you moaned his name, your tummy warming up, orgasm on the brink.

He quickly requested a facetime which you accepted, nearly tipping you over the edge as you saw him sat against his headboard, fist around his dick, pumping very quickly as he let out his own series of grunts.

''I'm right there with you, fuck. Think of my tongue now, going down on you. Licking up all your juices as I suck on your clit before thrusting it through your hole, fuck you're delicious. Are you gonna cum baby? All over my face yeah?''

''I-fuck me. I'm gonna-'' you started before your orgasm ripped through your body, your cum coating your fingers as you shook, the after effects taking control now.

Just seeing you let go to his words had Lando on the brink, his moans becoming louder as you watched cum splurge out of his girth and on to his stomach, sheets of white painting him as his body shuddered and tried to calm down. ''Fucking hell'' he groaned.

Both your chests were heaving, smug smiles playing your faces as you stared at each other through the phone.

''One more thing babygirl'' he said.

''Huh'' you questioned.

''Need to see you suck your fingers off. Taste yourself''

You did as he did. Sliding your fingers out of your cunt and bringing them to your lips, not before showing off the shine to Lando through the camera.

''Fuck'' you heard him mutter as you finally sank them into your mouth, moaning at the salty taste of your cum.

You licked them clean and released them with a pop before turning your attention back to Lando.

''Your turn'' you said, feeling your cheeks heat up at the thought of Lando tasting himself.

He groaned, and you watched him gather his slick on a finger before slipping it into his mouth, already clenching your thighs together at the sight of him.

Finally, as things settles and both your heart rates returned to normal, Lando sheepishly smiled at you while you internally cursed yourself for getting putty in his hands so easily.

''Tomorrow, yeah?'' he said, up and walking to his bathroom to clean up.

''Tomorrow'' you said, bidding him goodnight.

Needless to say, you woke up fresh as a daisy in the morning. That damn mouth of his, doing things to you without so much as touching you.

You strode into the paddock with a colleague, stopping my the McLaren hospitality to see if Lando was there. He wasn't, so you made your way to Mercedes, your home for the day.

George was speaking before you saw him. ''Someone's pucker'' he said, winking.

Your cheeks flushed, Lando must have said something.

''Shut up'' you mumbled as he walked in step with you. He was a close friend of Lando's, and they often spoke of their quoted ''love lives'' so rather, ''friends, with benefits''

You motioned to zip your mouth up and throw away the key before your breath hitched when you saw Lando walking towards you.

''Hello'' he greeted innocently, with a smirk that was anything but innocent.

''Hi'' you smiled, clearing your throat as George walked away with a smug look on his own face.

''Good night?'' he asked, as if he wasn't talking filthy over the phone not 12 hours ago.

''Meh, it was alright, could have been better'' you said.

He chuckled, a deep sarcastic laugh before he moved closer, lips barely touching your ear. ''I'll be looking for a different answer tomorrow morning, after i fuck you numb tonight'' he whispered, walking off behind you, leaving you blushing in the middle of the paddock.

The rest of the day was busy from the word go. You had been keeping an eye on how Lando was doing, his car seemed to take off right where they ended last year, if anything, better even. Just as you were wrapping up for the day, he'd texted you with his room number. ''Don't be late'' to which you reacted with a heart.

You had a dinner to attend, which seemed to drag on forever before you practically ran up to your room to shower and change, eager for him. You knocked a few times with no answer, so opened your phone to call him as you read a message he'd sent.

''In the shower. Door's unlocked''

You smiled and pushed it open, the noise of the shower filling your ears. Debating whether to wait for him or join him, the latter won out.

You stripped your clothes to be butt naked before opening the bathroom door, gasping when your eyes landed on Lando's hands pumping himself.

''Gonna stand there and watch or help out?'' he teased, opening the shower door you to step into.

Within seconds his lips were on yours, fighting for dominance as your tongues slid against each other. It was sloppy and messy, the both of you swallowing the others moans.

You could feel Lando's hard erection between your stomachs, his hands cupping your ass, massaging it tightly.

''Need to taste you'' you mumbled, roughly pushing him against the wall and sinking down on your knees while Lando didn't protest. He gripped your hair, pulling it out of your face into a makeshift ponytail as you kissed a strip on his bare thighs up to his crotch.

''Please'' he begged leaning his head back, mouth slightly agape as you finally wrapped your lips around his tip, swallowing his pre-cum and then sucking hard on it.

''Fuck me y/n. That mouth of yours'' he groaned when you started pushing him further into your mouth, pumping what you couldn't fit in. You hummed in response, the sensation causing his dick to twitch in your mouth as you quickened your pace, folding with his balls as his grip on your hair tightened.

''Fuck you take me so good. Where do you want my cum?'' he asked, voice desperate though none of your cared how quickly he was pushing to the edge.

He should have known the answer already. You were always ready to taste him, so you continued with your movements as Lando cupped your face and began fucking himself through your mouth, relentlessly.

And in a matter of seconds he exploded, sheets of warm, salty cum coating the inside of your mouth as he let out guttural moans, legs shaking and shuddering as his dick twitched uncontrollably.

You clenched your thighs together at the sound, taste and sight in front of you. Lando was slowly becoming your world, and to see him fall apart like that because of you, was doing things. Good or bad? You didn't know.

You stood back up and stood on your tippy-toes to kiss him, hard and deep, gripping his hair tightly.

He quickly turned the water off before picking you up, throwing you over his shoulders before stepping out of the shower, not caring about dripping water everywhere as he carried you to the bed, flopping you down before hovering above you.

You took his green eyes in, heart beating out of your chest because it was times like this that you couldn't believe he was choosing to do these types of things with you.

''I'm sorry for being such a dick. I was worried you'd think I'm a desperate fucking weirdo after saying all those things to you that night'' he said, thumb stroking your cheek.

''Lando, I literally want the same things as you, i told you. Please don't do that again. I'd thought you regretted all of it'' you said softly.

''Fuck, the only thing i regret is going all MIA on. I promise I won't do it again''

You responded by pulling him down and kissing him senseless again.

''I meant it. I want all of you.'' you mumbled between licks and nips of his tongue.

''I'm here now, not going anywhere'' he said, before hovering down your body and spreading you legs apart, a smirk taking over his face.

''Look at you, dripping for me'' he said, wasting no time in licking a strip up your sticky cunt.

You gasped, tugging at his hair as he started his onslaught, devouring your pussy, biting and sucking on your clit as he thrust two finger through you, hitting against your g-spot over and over again.

''Oh god, Lando, fuck. Fuck me'' you said between moans, gasps for air because he really was not going easy you.

''Cum on my face y/n, need to taste you'' you said, adding a third finger while holding your legs spread with his strong hands.

He didn't need to tell you twice to cum. In no time you were gushing your liquids all over, drenching his face in white hot sticky cum as your moans over took the sloppy sound of his tongue lapping at you.

When you'd realized what was happening, Lando was praising your name over and over, and it dawned on you as you looked at him, panic taking over your body.

You'd just squirted all over his face.

''I-oh my god, shit, I'm sor-

''What the fuck, y/n, how are you saying sorry right now? This is the hottest fucking thing you've ever done. I'm about to cum again just looking at you like this'' he said quickly.

You had no energy to argue, butterflies in your stomach at his words as he leaned up to kiss you again.

''Need to feel you, please'' you begged.

''Condom?'' he asked, having a feeling he knows the answer already.

You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips as he slid his thick girth through your folds.

''Fuck me numb, yeah?'' you said, repeating his earlier words back to him.

''Fucking dirty mouth'' he mumbled before sliding into you in a single thrust, bottoming out while you held your breath, squeezed your eyes shut at the intrusion.

You wrapped your legs tightly around his waste and told him to move, capturing his lips again between breathy moans and guttural groans.

'Fuck, you're tight'' he said, picking up his pace, pounding into you, his dick continuously hitting the same spot over and over as your walls clenched painfully around him.

''Lando, please, faster'' you begged, his hand coming down to toy at your clit which immediately had your body shuddering underneath him, your orgasm ripping through you while he relentlessly continued pounding into you.

''Not gonna last long, fuck me'' he said, his moans pornographic by now, and the sound on skin slapping against skin filling up the room.

''I, I can't Lando, too much'' you said, cunt overstimulated.

He slowed his movements. ''Want me to stop?'' he asked, no etch of concern on his face coz he knew you could take it.

''Fuck no'' you said, already trying to move your body up and down to create some friction again.

He smirked as he resumed his pace, quick, hard, deep thrusts until they started becoming sloppy, his dick throbbing inside of you as you came yet again, your body like jelly, moaning out his name, and not a few seconds later you felt sheets of warm cum coating your insides as he came with a husky groan, shuddering on top of you.

Lando eventually collapsed on your body, the both of you shivering at the cold air coating your sweat-clad skin.

You could feel like softening inside of you, though no one even attempted to move, too fucked out to care.

''Your incredible'' he mumbled in your neck, his breath fanning your skin as your played with the curls on his head.

''Tell me that tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that'' you teased back, making him pull his head up, sheepish smile.

''Be my girlfriend?'' he asked, rather shyly.

''I'd love to!'' you said, unable to keep your own smile in.

You didn't know what to expect when his fingers tapped against your cheek, motioning for you to open your mouth.

You did so, your brain short circuiting when Lando let his spit drip down from his mouth into yours, smug smirk on his face.

''Now we're official, baby''

A/N - reverse cowgirl in this pic? YES PLEASE.

@sltwins @savagecatsuga @sheeesthings @dollyvuu @lilorose25 @htpssgavi @moonclaine @col4pint0 @dustie-faerie @ayap4paya @geometric-circle @martygraciesversion381 @screechingmiraclechaos @sarx164 @sunny-ln4 @cmleitora @brats66 @saythename-sm

[kashverse]

I can imagine mamakuna lowkey being clean freak, so when she sees biscuit crumbles on the floor (which she just perfectly cleaned not a second ago) or dirty dishes she's practically fuming to the point where not even papakuna is brave enough to tell her to calm down 😭😭

kunafamily lore masterlist (if you wanna know who mr. pickles and baby are!)

being a single mom is no easy task. not that you’d know, considering you are not a single mom, but you might as well be when you walk into your house after a long day of being a corporate baddie only to be greeted by pure, unfiltered chaos.

pizza crumbs.

a mysteriously sticky countertop.

and the unmistakable scent of cat food that has been half-eaten and abandoned like some kind of offering to a higher power. it triggers something deep inside you. something primal. something terrifying.

the motherly rage of a clean freak.

baby the tabby, who up until now had been leisurely sprawled on the floor like a victorian child perishing of consumption, immediately senses the danger. his tail flicks. his ears twitch. then—before you can even take a step toward him—he picks up a stray cat food pellet with his paws and presents it to you like he’s making a sacrificial offering. "good," you say, narrowing your eyes. "and the rest?"

baby the tabby, in what can only be described as sheer desperation to survive, licks the floor.

mr. pickles, the true veteran of this household, already knows better. he’s been here before. he’s seen things. so he does what any wise, battle-worn soul would do—he tries to clean up as much as he can before you can notice. the problem? his old-man slobber is all over his face. you sigh. deeply. with the weight of a thousand disappointments.

“mr. pickles.”

he looks at you. the room is silent. then, in his infinite wisdom, he licks his face again.

a valiant effort. ultimately, not enough.

at least babykuna, the true star of this household, is the picture of discipline. she has been trained well. she scrubs her hands, wipes her face, and nods at you with the solemnity of a warrior returning from battle. “i cleaned everything, mama,” she declares, voice laced with the confidence of someone who has witnessed firsthand what happens when the household does not meet your standards. you pat her head. “good girl.”

and then. there is your husband. your dear, beloved, overgrown menace of a husband. sukuna, in all his glory, is sitting at the kitchen counter with a half-empty beer and a pile of chicken wing carcasses. and he has, in his reckless pursuit of enjoyment, not cleaned a single thing.

"what," you say, voice dangerously calm, "is this."

sukuna, entirely too relaxed for someone on the verge of death, takes a sip of his beer. “looks like dinner.”

you stare. he stares back.

babykuna, sensing imminent doom, very quietly tiptoes away. baby the tabby follows. mr. pickles too.

sukuna, still confident—foolishly, stupidly confident—leans back in his chair and smirks. "what, you gonna make me sleep on the couch over a couple of chicken bones?"

silence. a long, long silence. then, realization finally dawns upon him.

"…babe," he tries again, but this time with actual concern.

you exhale. slow. steady. the breath of a woman who is moments away from committing a crime.

"you have five seconds," you say, voice eerily soft, "to clean this up before i make you file for unesco world heritage protection to save your spot in this bed tonight."

sukuna moves. fast.

babykuna peeks around the corner and whispers, "papa’s in trouble."

mr. pickles lets out a long, knowing sigh.

justice has been served.

[moonstruckme]

can i request a reader who can’t admit she’s upset with one the marauders (or all)? like refuses to cry…only if you’re comfortable of course. thank you :)

Thank you for requesting gorgeous!

modern au

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

The smell of smoke coming from the kitchen is the first sign that Sirius has tipped over from resentment into remorse. 

“Jesus,” you open the front door on your way into the kitchen, eyes watering, “what are you doing?” 

“I was trying to make rice,” he says, fanning desperately over your pressure cooker, “but I think I’ve fucked it.” 

“Do you think so?” Any other day you’d both grin at the harmless snark, but now Sirius’ expression pinches and you think your own must look the same, your tone more biting than you meant for it to be. “It’s fine, it’ll be fine once it airs out. Help me with the windows?” 

Sirius acts like it’s a competition, opening three windows before you’ve finished two and looking at you like he’s expecting a pat on the head for it. You try to give him a smile, and his expression clouds over. 

“Sorry,” he says, voice not quite cool but oddly remote, “the idea was to surprise you with dinner, and I’ve broken your rice thingy instead.” 

“It’s not broken,” you reassure him. “I’m sure it’ll be fine once I clean it out. Why were you trying to make dinner?” 

Sirius grimaces. It’s a full body motion, his eyebrows hooking in the middle while the muscles in his forearms shift uncomfortably and his shoulders migrate upward. “Sort of a shitty attempt at an olive branch, I guess.” 

Some of the smoke has cleared, and you brave the kitchen. “I don’t need an olive branch,” you say. “If you say we’re good, we’re good.” 

“Don’t do that.” He follows you into the kitchen. “I can tell you’re upset, just because—” Sirius hisses when you take the bowl out of the pressure cooker, transferring it swiftly to the sink “—fuck, baby, don’t burn yourself. Let me take care of that later.” 

“I’d rather handle it now,” you say, turning on the faucet. “I’m just letting it soak anyway.” 

“I’m trying to handle this.” Sturdy hands wrap around your shoulders, turning you to face your boyfriend. He looks at you steadily. “Don’t pretend you’re not angry with me, because I know that you are.” 

A spark of annoyance tingles up your spine as you shrug, reaching behind you to turn off the faucet. “I’m not.” 

“Can you stop trying to make me feel like an idiot? I know you. You’ve been all stiff since last night.” 

“You were angry last night. Not me.” 

“Yeah, well it seems to have caught on.” 

You turn away from him and back towards the sink, swishing your hand in the cold water of the bowl to dislodge the charred rice sticking to the bottom. You don’t know where Sirius gets off, acting like you’re holding a grudge when he’s the one who shouted at you last night. Your phone had died while you were out with friends. That was all that had happened. You didn’t think anything of it, because Sirius, the only person who would really worry about not being able to reach you, knew you were out and that you’d be home late. 

But when you had gotten home, he’d been furious. Gone on and on about how he’d been trying to get a response from you all night, and how dangerous it was to get drunk when you couldn’t call anyone (nevermind that you’d been with your friends), and how freaked out he’d been. He wouldn’t listen to you. He’d only wanted to yell and rage, and make you sit in your heels on the couch while he did it. He’d even seemed like he might be tearing up a couple of times. And you hated to think of him being scared for you, but since when was it your responsibility to answer every time he called? He knew you were with your friends. You hadn’t asked him to check in on you. 

He’d gone to bed still fuming and you’d stayed on the couch rather than try to sleep in a hostile bed. Now, inexplicably, his tune seems to have changed. 

“So,” Sirius sighs, “this is you not mad, huh?” 

“Yup.” You scrub at the bowl with your fingernails. 

“I just want a chance to apologize.” 

“You can if it’ll make you feel better, but I don’t need it.” 

“Why can’t you just admit it?” 

“Because I’m not the one who gets pissy about stupid things.” You dislodge a chunk of rice and your hand slips across the bowl, splashing water onto your shirt. “That’s you.” 

There’s a second of dense, oppressive silence. When Sirius breaches it, you can hear the smirk in his voice. “There’s my girl. Tell me about the stupid things I got pissy about, would you?”

“It’s nothing.” 

“No, it’s not. It wasn’t nothing to me, and clearly it wasn’t to you either. Go on, doll.” 

“I don’t want to argue with you.” 

“Sure you do.” 

“Why do you want to fight so bad?” 

“Because,” Sirius says, and you can hear him moving behind you, can all but see him leaning against the counter, the picture of insouciance, “I think you need to get it out of your system.” 

You scrub harder at the bowl. Blackened bits of rice float to the top of the water. “Like you do?” 

A pause. His voice softens. “It’s not always a good thing. I shouldn’t have shouted at you, last night.” Something in your chest tightens painfully at this new gentle tone. “I’m sorry. I let my temper get the better of me. I was just worried about you.” 

“I don’t think that’s my fault,” you say, managing to sound mostly normal. You dump out the contents of the bowl, filling it again with warmer water. “My phone was dead, and I was with my friends. I didn’t need you to worry about me.” 

“I just do, when I know you’ve all been drinking, and I can’t talk to you to know you’re okay…” Sirius takes in a breath, breaking your heart with how it sounds like he’s trying to steady himself. “But you’re right, okay? It wasn’t fair.” 

“I didn’t know I was coming home to be shouted at.” This time, your voice betrays you, a pitchiness that makes you go quiet fast. You hear Sirius move. 

“Sweetheart?” he asks softly. There’s a touch at your elbow. “I’m sorry, baby, please look at me.” 

You don’t want to, but you don’t want your embarrassment interpreted as ire. You take a quiet breath before pivoting from the sink. Sirius’ eyes are waiting, sad and fretful as they probe at yours. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, impossibly quieter, and runs his fingers from your elbow up the back of your arm. “It wasn’t your fault, I wasn’t being fair. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.” 

You press your lips together, hard. His eyebrows hook up in the middle. 

“You can cry, sweet thing. It’s okay.” You shake your head mutely, blinking, and Sirius makes a terribly lovely cooing sound, snaking an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his chest. You hug him back as the first hot tear rolls down your cheek. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” Your shoulders jump with a stilted, poorly repressed sob, his grip on you tightening. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby. My temper tantrum really did a number on you, huh?” 

You laugh wetly. “Guess so,” you squeak. “Sorry.” 

“If you apologize for this, I may shout at you again,” he warns fondly. “You haven’t done anything wrong, lovely girl. Just let it out, if you need to.” 

You know that’s not easy for Sirius to say. Know he’s likely close to tears himself, from how agitated seeing other people cry makes him. You appreciate the offer. 

You fall into a silence less heavy than any that’s suffocated your home since last night, broken up only by the steady, quiet thumping of Sirius patting your back and the intermittent smooching sounds as he kisses your shoulder or your cheek or the side of your neck. You stand still in your smoky kitchen, wetting your boyfriend’s shoulder with tears and snot, and he lets you.

[phant0mth1ef]

a scrub is a guy that thinks he’s fly.

-

your ex was, well for lack of better word, a man who was considered to be a scrub.

a low ranked hero, the bottom of the food chain, public enemy no. 1 even. whatever vulgar you’d like to call him, it probably truly fit his personality because he was just that shitty—. no, scratch that, he was that much of a scrub.

so that’s how you found yourself in this situation, newly divorced at the ripe age of 22. also soon to be without a place to call home because despite your ex-husband sucking, he did rake in some money.

you had a job, of course, but you were currently a model for a low ranked fashion agency. the best gig that you’d gotten was in a shopping catalog. and while you weren’t ugly, you still couldn’t land that big break of yours just yet.

until you saw an ad for a gig where you’d have to model outfits inspired by pro-heroes, the top 10, to be exact.

two birds with one stone, you get back at your ex, and you also make some money out of it, what’s the worst that could happen? so of course, you showed up to the auditions.

you’d landed the gig with a few other girls and guys combined, and you’d be walking the runway at the next hero billboard chart rankings. your two assigned heroes were dynamight & chargebolt, who’s costumes were drop dead gorgeous. you didn’t mind one bit that you’d be wearing something inspired by them.

at the awards’ ceremony, they both watched you intently. hungry eyes scanning every part of your body as you strutted down, your outfit accentuating your curves perfectly.

they were interested in you.

the job had also allowed you to stay and watch the awards from the civilian gallery, so when two men appeared in front of you asking for a photo, you were pleasantly surprised at the two blondes standing in front of you.

oh and your ex was fuming when he saw the headlines about pro heroes dynamight & chargebolt being seen chatting it up with a new rising model, l/n y/n.

[oimitocat]

IF I TOUCH YA… | OS

༘۠ anton x m!reader

༘۠ nonidol! au + swimmer!anton + swimmer!reader + rivals with benefits + angst + nsfw + shower sex + technically public sex

༘۠ a/n: i’m still new to riize, please spare me. i’m sorry if this suck, i’m literally trying to get back into my writing mojo. [i’m trying because shotaro and sungchan redebuted ;( ] angst cus i LOVE angst ;)

“DAMNIT!” you growl, slamming your fist against the shower door.

anton, anton, anton.

that’s the only thing— the only name bouncing around your head. the (beautiful) idiot beat you by a—

“SECOND. A FUCKING SECOND!” you fume, the hot water running down your back doesn’t help, the steam giving you comedic energy with your emotions.

it’s a reoccurring situation, you beat him one day, he beats you another day. yet this whole week he’s been beating you by mere seconds.

“n/n…” his soft voice comes out from outside the shower stall.

“what.” you grunt, angrily scrubbing the shampoo in your hair.

you know he’s standing outside, fidgeting. what you don’t know is how fast his heart is racing, how anxious he is at the sound of you being so angry. he knows you’re competitive, he is too, yet he had always hoped it wouldn’t affect the friendship or companionship he was trying to have with you.

“the hell do you want, lee?”

he takes a deep breath, glancing back at the shower room door. almost everyone had left, except the coach which said he’ll go to his office and watch his anime.

“are you going to sulk like a sore loser or go home de-stressed?”

he jolts when your door flies open with a slam. you’re glaring at him but his eyes fly down, below your hips. he’s not hiding anything, why would he? he came inside the shower room with purpose, no towel on with purpose.

“so that wasn’t a one time thing?” you question, raising a brow.

he hesitates, looking around and playing innocent. “did you want it to?”

he gasps when you yank him by the wrist. he’s genuinely surprised at how fast you accepted the invitation, he thought you’d put up more of a fight but no, clearly you wanted your vengeance. he almost pushes you away, but your lips on his is just a beautiful feeling. this is the only time you actually give him something other than a glare or competitive comments. he’s all bark no bite, this is exactly how you two tangoed the first time, except that time you only took a blowjob from him.

left his throat sore and his tongue felt heavy during the entirety of the next day, the ghost of your dick in his mouth there.

he’s not a virgin, by no means, but he’s never done something this crazy. fucking in the shower room? what if someone forgot their shampoo or something and tries to come in? what if their coach decided to do his job and actually check up on you two for once?

you grip his hips, pushing him against the stall wall, the water still running. your lips are over his neck, nipping and kissing. he gets lost in that sensation, his hands coming up to mess with your wet hair.

your body is hot, the water burning your skin. he’s not a hot shower person, so apart from him already feeling sweaty in your hands, the steam isn’t helping with his libido. he tugs at your hair when you trail down his chest and stomach. his hips twitch forward as you go lower. he’s so hard it’s embarrassing.

“don’t look at me as if i’d help you with it.”

and you embarrass him. of course you do.

“you clean?” you ask as you come back up and eye his plush, wet lips.

his eyes are naturally doe, you almost find it cute. (who are you kidding, it absolutely is. you wanna to destroy him, corrupt him so bad).

“yeah,” his voice is always soft, yet you fell in love with how hoarse and raspy you can make it sound.

“fine, let me show you how much you piss me off,” you growl, placing your hands behind his thighs and swooping him up in one swift movement.

you grunt, forgetting how tall and built this boy is. he cling to you out of fear, his heart racing. this is new to him and doing it with you just brings out a rush he never new he’d experience. yet, despite the arousal and sexual hunger, he eyes you with a hint of perplexion. are you joking? you don’t actually get pissed off at him, right? but of what? him beating you lately or his existence in general?

he can’t ponder about it for more than a mere second before your fingers spread his cheeks apart. he hooks his ankles behind you, securing himself in your hold as you push in. you make a small, almost silent noise when your tip pushes the moist gland.

“h-hold on, grab me right,” he gasps as his arms wrap around your neck again.

“this isn’t easy, idiot,” you huff, “you’re not exactly small or light.”

he closes his eyes when some water drips from the top of his head. yet, when he feels you thrust he snaps them open and gasps.

“fuck, you’re so warm,” you grunt, pulling him down by the hips to slam into him.

it’s taking everything in you to hoist him up and move him. a hardcore arm workout, but one you know you’ll enjoy. you place a soft kiss, contrasting your brutal movements, onto his wet skin, making him moan— his neck is sensitive to kisses. especially with how wet and hot yours are.

from the rush in the moment, you build the pace and stamina to fuck him into the wall. his arms tighten around you, his airy moans echoing softly. he’s trying to be silent just in case, or at least you think. is he always this soft voiced? you grin— could you make him get loud?

you pull out entirely before slamming back inside. his breath hitches and his eyes snap open again.

“ah- oh fuck-!” he squeaks as you slam him down onto you.

his dick flops uselessly between the two of you. your fingers dig into the softness of his flesh in his ass, nails digging into him. you’ll leave marks, he knows it. yet, that’s what he’s hoping for, because where you’ll look at him nasty for doing the drills perfectly or getting praised for his renewed charts , he’ll know those marks happened when you looked at him with something other than hate.

you aim like you’re on a mission, which you are. the wet sound of skin against skin bounces around the shower walls. the running water isn’t loud enough anymore— you’re grunting as you chase your high and anton is letting out high pitched whines.

he presses his cheek against the side of your face. you feel so good, he can feel you splitting him open. he can feel the warmth of your dick inside his equally warm walls.

“y-y/n, you feel so good,” he pants out. “guess you’re good at something.”

fuck. that literally pissed you off. like, maybe not exactly in a way where his words irked you, but in the sense that it drove you to keep proving him right since he clearly wants to be right.

he grunts and moans when you get brutal. you’re growling and digging your nails into his skin.

“ah, ah,” his thighs twitch around your waist, a clear sign he’s getting close and sensitive.

you let out heavy breaths, a gruttal moan leaves your throat as you feel your climax building.

“imagine coach comes in here and sees his best swimmer getting fucked like a slut,” you cackle between your grunts. you feels his hole clench around you and you can’t help but feel amused at that. “you wanna get caught being a slut? what would the school think?” his breathing turns more erratic, “what would your daddy think?”

“fuck- y/n stop,” he tries but you just feel so good slamming into him that he just sounds stupid.

“the district stars fucking in the shower rooms, what a header,” you grin as you push your hips flush into his reddened ass cheeks, spilling deep into him.

he shudders, your warm seed sending him over the edge. he can’t even bask in the post-orgasm for a second because you pull out and set him back on his feet. you feel the pull in your shoulder blades, this is going to be embedded in your muscles for a while. yet you don’t find yourself showing any shred of care for him when you notice how wobbly his legs are.

“just watch, i’ll make sure you become a good fuck more than a good swimmer, lee.” you grunt, stepping out of the shower stall while glaring at him.

his heart aches, but he just throws you a lazy, lustful smile. because he knows that as long as he beats you, you’ll take out your anger on him.

and that would mean he’ll mean something to you. one way or another.

[alohajix]

𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕

Description: when Emma meets Harry—a charming, British bartender—on a night out in New York City, their instant connection lingers long after the music fades. A few days later, one simple text turns into a date neither of them can forget. What starts with soft conversation and lingering looks quickly builds into something deeper, more electric… and maybe even real.

Warnings: this one-shot includes mature themes and sexual content. Readers +18.

Words: 4K.

*****

My phone buzzed from somewhere under the blanket draped across my legs. I was half-asleep on the couch, still in scrubs, feet sore from a twelve-hour shift and brain running on fumes. I almost didn’t check it. But then I saw his name.

Harry: Hey, you. Still thinking about that smile. Want to get a drink sometime?

I blinked at the screen. Once. Twice. Then I sat up.

My heart did this weird flutter thing I hadn’t felt in a while. Three, maybe four days since I met him at the club, and he’d been in the back of my mind ever since—British accent, wide grin, messy curls, and that way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room. And now here he was. Texting me.

I reread the message. Then I read it again. My thumb hovered over the screen, heart still racing like it hadn’t gotten the memo that this was just a text and not a marriage proposal.

Still, I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want to say yes. I did. God, I did. But it had been a while since someone made me feel that kind of nervous. The good kind. The kind that caught me off guard, like a breath you didn’t know you were holding until it rushed back in.

Finally, I typed: Hey you. I was kind of hoping you’d say that.

I hit send before I could overthink it. Then set the phone down on the coffee table like it might combust in my hand if I stared at it too long.

I leaned back into the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around me, suddenly very aware of the silence in the room. The hum of the fridge. The faint sound of a car horn outside. The quick, anxious rhythm of my pulse in my ears. What if he changed his mind? What if I read too much into that night? What if—

My phone lit up again.

Harry: Tomorrow night? I get off at 8. There’s a little place I love—quiet, cozy. Thought of you when I passed it today.

And just like that, the nerves were gone. Replaced with something warmer, steadier. Excitement. That quiet kind that builds in your chest like a secret you’re not ready to say out loud yet.

I stared at his message, the edges of a smile tugging at my lips. He thought of me. Today. In the middle of his life, his day—he saw a place and pictured me there. With him. I let myself sit in that for a second. Let it settle. Let it feel real.

Then I typed: That sounds perfect. Send me the details?

I didn’t even try to hide the smile this time.

The next evening crept up faster than I expected. By six, I was out of the shower, towel wrapped around my head, standing in front of my closet like I’d never dressed myself before. It wasn’t just about picking an outfit—it was about feeling like myself. Comfortable, confident, like the version of me he met that night at the club… but maybe a little softer, a little more deliberate. I tried on two dresses. Then jeans and a blouse. Then the first dress again.

My bathroom counter was a mess—lip glosses, hairbrush, mascara wand balanced between product bottles. I kept checking my phone for no reason, like I was expecting him to cancel. He didn’t. Instead, at 6:42, his name lit up the screen.

Harry: I’ll meet you outside. Can’t wait to see you.

I stared at the message, heart giving that little skip again, and finally settled on a simple black dress and boots. Casual, but just enough effort. By the time I slipped my jacket on, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—and paused. Not bad. Not overdone. Just me. And for the first time all day, I let myself feel it: I was excited.

Really, genuinely excited.

The air outside was crisp, just cool enough to flush my cheeks as I stepped onto the sidewalk. Streetlights flickered to life as the sun dipped behind the buildings, the city shifting into its evening rhythm. Then I saw his car—a black, older model with character. Parked just a few feet down the block. And there he was, leaning casually against the driver’s side door, hands in his jacket pockets, curls just messy enough to be charming.

His head lifted as I approached, and that slow, familiar smile tugged at his lips.

“Hey, you,” he said, voice low and warm, that accent hitting me harder than I expected.

“Hey,” I breathed back, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You look…” He paused, eyes moving over me in a way that made my skin warm. “Incredible.”

I laughed, soft and breathy. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He pulled the door open for me with a slight bow. “After you, m’lady.”

I rolled my eyes but climbed in, heart racing just a little. The inside of the car smelled like clean leather and something vaguely like cedarwood. Safe. Comfortable. As he slid into the driver’s seat beside me, I caught him stealing a glance.

“What?” I asked, grinning.

“Nothing,” he said, putting the car into drive. “Just… glad you said yes.”

The ride was easy—quiet music playing low, city lights flickering past the windows like little glimmers of magic. Neither of us said much, but it wasn’t awkward. Just that kind of comfortable silence that felt earned, like we didn’t need to fill it to make it meaningful. Ten minutes later, he pulled into a small side street I’d never noticed before. Brick buildings lined the block, cozy and close, with warm lighting spilling from the windows of a little place nestled on the corner. No flashy sign, just a simple wooden door and a soft glow behind frosted glass.

Harry parked and looked over at me, like he was checking to see if I approved.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I love it already.”

He smiled, clearly pleased, and got out to open my door before I could even reach for the handle.

Inside, the restaurant felt like a hidden pocket of calm—dim lights, flickering candles on the tables, the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware. There was music playing somewhere in the background—something jazzy and slow, almost like it was dancing just at the edge of hearing.

The hostess greeted us with a knowing smile and led us to a small booth near the back. Harry let me slide in first, then settled across from me, his knee brushing mine under the table as he got comfortable.

“This place is one of my favorites,” he said, resting his arms on the table. “Feels like the kind of spot you can actually talk in, you know?”

I nodded, glancing around. “It’s perfect.” And just like that, the night officially began.

The server came and went—water glasses filled, orders taken, menus gone—and then it was just us again. Soft music played in the background, the candle on our table flickering gently between us.

Harry leaned forward a little, resting his arms on the table. “So… neonatal nurse. That’s impressive. I don’t think I could hold a baby without panicking.”

I smiled. “Most people can’t at first. It’s all about being calm and steady.”

He looked at me for a second, then said, “You seem like someone who’s good at that.”

“I try,” I said, still smiling. “What about you? Do you bartend full-time?”

He shook his head. “Nah. I’m finishing a business degree. Been taking my time with it, but I like it. I’ve always wanted to start something of my own, you know? Build something real.”

I nodded, surprised but impressed. “That actually fits you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“You think before you speak,” I said. “You don’t talk just to talk.”

That made him laugh quietly. “Is that a compliment?”

“It is.”

There was a pause—just long enough for something to shift between us. Softer. More aware.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said, voice lower now.

“Oh?” I asked, leaning slightly closer. “And what did you expect?”

He gave me a look. “Someone quieter. Maybe shy. But you’ve got this calm strength about you. Like you slow things down just by being in the room.”

My chest tightened in the best way. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t. I just looked at him, and he looked back.

“You’re good at this,” I said after a second.

“At what?”

“Making someone feel like they’re the only one here.”

He smiled. “Maybe you are.”

Dinner went by in a blur of warm food, quiet laughter, and the kind of conversation that made time feel like it was moving just a little too fast. I didn’t want the night to end, but eventually, the plates were cleared and the server brought the check. Before I could even reach for my bag, Harry had already slipped his card into the folder.

“Wait—what are you doing?” I asked, sitting up straighter.

“Paying,” he said simply, sliding it back toward the edge of the table with that annoying little smirk.

“I can split it with you.”

“You could,” he said, eyes meeting mine, “but I won’t let you.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, even though my cheeks were already warm. “That’s not fair.”

He leaned in a little. “It’s a date, Emma. Let me take you out.”

The way he said it—soft but sure—left no room for argument. So I sat back and let him win, even if I rolled my eyes doing it.

Outside, the night had settled into something quiet and cool. The street was mostly empty, and the city had that rare hum where everything felt a little slower, a little softer.

“Want to walk for a bit?” he asked, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding.

We walked side by side, close but not touching, the rhythm of our steps falling into sync without trying. He told me a story about a nightmare shift at the bar, I told him about a baby that surprised us all and pulled through. We laughed. We paused. We kept walking. At one point, our hands brushed—and for a second, neither of us moved. But then he gently took mine, like it had been there waiting for his.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t loud. Just… easy.

By the time we made it back to his car, my heart was lighter, but the tension between us had thickened—comfortable, electric, and very much alive. The drive back was quieter than the ride there, but not in a bad way. The kind of quiet where everything meant more—every glance, every small shift in the air between us.

I watched the city blur past my window, lights streaking against the glass, but I could feel him glance over at me every so often. Like he was checking to make sure I was still smiling. Or maybe just stealing a look because he couldn’t help it.

“You’re quiet,” he said softly, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearshift.

I turned my head toward him. “So are you.”

His mouth curved. “Yeah, but you’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

He flicked his eyes toward me, then back to the road. “Like you’re thinking something dangerous.”

I laughed under my breath. “You first.”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m trying to behave.”

I shifted slightly in my seat, the space between us feeling tighter somehow, even though neither of us moved any closer.

“Are you always this good at… not behaving?” I asked, voice a little quieter now.

His grip on the wheel tightened, just barely. “Depends on the person.”

There was heat in his tone now. Subtle, but unmistakable. It filled the small space between us like static. My skin buzzed with it.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” I said after a beat. “That night at the club. You caught me off guard.”

“Good,” he said, glancing over again—longer this time. “You caught me too.”

The light turned red, and we came to a slow stop. He looked at me, really looked, his eyes falling to my lips before finding my gaze again. Everything felt still. Held in place by a thread so thin it could snap with the slightest touch. When I bit down on my bottom lip, something changed. I didn’t mean to do it for him, but the way his jaw tightened and his eyes darkened told me exactly what it did. He reached over without a word, his hand settling on my thigh—confident, slow, like he was testing how far I’d let him go. His fingers stayed still at first, then brushed lightly against the inside of my leg, just enough to make me breathe a little deeper.

I looked at him, and he was already watching me. My chest rose and fell in quiet rhythm, heart pounding. Neither of us spoke. We didn’t have to.

The city kept moving around us, but we stayed like that—his hand on me, my pulse racing, everything stretched tight between us—until we pulled up in front of my place. He let the engine idle for a second longer before turning the key, and the silence in the car changed again. Still charged. Still full of what now.

He turned toward me, his hand slipping away from my leg so slowly it almost hurt.

“Thanks for tonight,” I said quietly, not sure what else to say.

His eyes flicked down to my mouth again before coming back to mine. “You’re welcome.”

The question hovered between us like fog—thick, unspoken, undeniable.

“Do you want to…” I started, then stopped, heat rising in my chest. He didn’t make me finish.

“Come up?” he said. I nodded. Just once. And we both got out of the car.

The click of my keys in the lock felt too loud in the quiet hallway. My fingers trembled just slightly as I turned the handle and pushed the door open, stepping inside with Harry close behind me. The soft glow from the streetlights outside spilled into the apartment, painting faint gold shapes across the floor. I dropped my keys into the bowl by the door, my back still turned to him, trying to calm the flutter in my chest.

I barely had a chance to turn around before I felt him step in close—his presence warm, steady, intentional. And then his hand was on my waist, and his mouth was on mine.

It took my breath for half a second—not because I didn’t want it, but because I hadn’t expected it to happen so suddenly. The kiss was firm but unhurried, like he’d been waiting all night and couldn’t hold back another second. His lips moved slowly over mine, not rushing, not demanding—just asking. His other hand came up, cupping the side of my face gently, his thumb brushing just below my cheekbone as he pulled back, just barely.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, barely more than a breath between us.

I nodded, already leaning back in. “Yeah.”

His mouth curved into a soft smile against mine before he kissed me again—this time deeper, more sure, his hands sliding along my waist as I melted into him, every thought slipping out of reach except him. Everything about it felt right—slow, warm, and only just beginning.

My back pressed gently against the closed door as his hands settled on my waist, thumbs brushing the fabric of my dress with a quiet kind of urgency. There was nothing rushed in the way he touched me—just intent. Like he wanted to feel everything. Like he needed to.

I curled my fingers into the front of his jacket, tugging him just a little closer until our bodies aligned perfectly, chest to chest, his warmth sinking into me in a way that made my knees feel unsteady. When we finally broke apart for air, he rested his forehead against mine, breathing a little heavier now.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the second I saw you,” he whispered.

I didn’t answer—not with words. I slid my hands beneath the lapels of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders slowly, letting it fall to the floor with a soft rustle. He let me, his eyes locked on mine the whole time, like he was watching to see if I meant it. And I did.

He kissed me again, deeper now, his hands moving from my waist to the small of my back, then lower. I gasped softly into his mouth when his fingers gripped just a little tighter, pulling me flush against him.

“Emma,” he murmured, my name catching in his throat like a secret. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I don’t,” I whispered. “I want you.” That was all he needed.

My back met the couch cushions, and his body followed, settling against me, his hand sliding up the side of my thigh, beneath my dress. Every touch sent heat straight through me, and when he kissed down my neck, I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.

His fingers found the zipper at my side, tugging slowly, giving me time to stop him—but I didn’t. I only arched into him, wanting more. His lips brushed the top of my chest, and I felt the clasp of my bra shift under his hand. But before he undid it, he paused—just enough to meet my eyes.

I pulled him in for another kiss, but between kisses, I whispered, “Bedroom.”

He stilled, just for a beat, then nodded and stood, holding his hand out to me. I took it without hesitation. He followed me down the short hallway, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back, steady and warm. The anticipation between us built with every step, the silence heavy with everything we were about to give in to.

Inside my bedroom, the light was soft—just the amber glow of the bedside lamp—and the room felt suddenly smaller, more intimate, now that we were both here.

He kissed me again as I turned to face him, hands returning to my back, and this time he unhooked my bra with ease. The straps slipped from my shoulders, and the look in his eyes changed—darker, deeper, filled with heat and reverence.

“You’re stunning,” he said, barely above a whisper. His fingers trailed up my thigh, warm and sure, until he reached the heat between my legs.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured against my skin, voice thick. “I barely touched you.”

“I’ve wanted this since the second you texted me,” I whispered, my voice shaky as his fingers slid over me again.

“Yeah?” He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. “You think about me?”

“All the time,” I breathed, hips arching into his touch.

He groaned, kissing me again, slower this time, more deliberate. “You have no idea what that does to me.” He paused and looked at me like I’d just knocked the air out of him. “Jesus, Emma,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”

“Come here,” I said, pulling him back to me.

He kissed down my chest, his mouth hot and open as he wrapped his lips around my nipple, sucking gently until I moaned, squirming beneath him.

“I want to hear more of that,” he said into my skin, voice low and hungry. “I want to hear everything.”

When his mouth moved between my thighs, I gasped his name, hand threading into his hair. His tongue moved with skill—slow circles, teasing flicks—and when he slipped two fingers inside me, I cried out, hips rocking uncontrollably.

“God—Harry—don’t stop,” I moaned. He didn’t.

He watched me fall apart beneath him, eyes dark with focus. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you. You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

When the orgasm hit, it took everything from me—my breath, my words, my grip on anything but him. He kept moving until I trembled, then kissed his way back up to my mouth, swallowing my shaky breaths.

“You still okay?” he asked, brushing hair from my face.

“More than okay,” I said, tugging at his jeans. “I want you. Now.”

He smiled, breathless and sweet, and leaned over to grab a condom. “Say it again.”

“I want you,” I whispered, watching him roll it on. “I need you.”

He groaned as he positioned himself between my thighs. “Fuck, I’ve needed you since the second you walked into that club.”

And then he pushed into me—slow and deep. We gasped together, his name slipping from my lips as he filled me completely.

“You feel—shit—Emma, you feel so good,” he murmured, his hand gripping my thigh as he found a steady rhythm. “I’m not gonna last long if you keep looking at me like that.”

“Then don’t,” I whispered, wrapping my legs around his waist. “Just give me everything.”

He kissed me hard, hips thrusting deeper now, and when I moaned into his mouth, he pulled back just enough to speak.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You,” I breathed. “Harder.”

His eyes flashed, and he flipped me gently, pulling me on top of him, guiding my hips down until I was fully seated again.

“Ride me, baby,” he said, gripping my waist. “I want to watch you come.”

I moved slowly at first, grinding against him, teasing us both. His eyes never left mine. Every sound I made, every shift of my body, seemed to push him closer to the edge.

“You feel so good,” I gasped, nails dragging down his chest. “So deep.”

His hands slid up my thighs, over my hips. “Faster, Emma. Just like that.”

The pressure built again, faster this time. My body trembled above him as he thrust up into me, chasing it.

“Harry—fuck—I’m so close.”

“Come for me,” he groaned. “Let go. I’ve got you.” And I did.

My orgasm ripped through me, loud and consuming. My walls clenched tight around him and seconds later, he followed, hips stuttering beneath me, breath caught in his throat as he moaned my name like a promise. I collapsed onto his chest, both of us slick with sweat, hearts racing and skin humming with aftershocks.

His arms wrapped around me without hesitation, lips brushing my temple as we lay there tangled and quiet.

“Still thinking about that smile,” he whispered, his voice warm and spent.

I laughed against his skin. “Still thinking about you.”

[s4nniebe4r]

the roommate

part two: growing pains

pairing: roommate! san x fem! reader

synopsis: learning to live with him, it’s proving to be difficult

wc: 1.4k

tags: slow burn, roommates, enemies to lovers, angst, forced proximity, eventual romance, a little suggestive content (if you squint hard enough) in this chapter

etc: part two for the series! i’m working on a masterlist as we speak! reblogging, leaving comments, and liking the story always encourages me to write more, so… as always, not proof-read!

previous part next part

Living with San is truly an exercise in patience. 

It starts small. A jacket draped over the couch instead of hung up on the rack. A dirty coffee filled mug was left in the sink despite the dishwasher being right there. Water droplets on the bathroom counter that he wipes down. None of it is too much, but it’s enough to set yourself on edge. 

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re an adult. You can handle minor inconveniences like these without losing your mind. 

Until the first time you find his damp towel on the floor. 

You stare at it for a long, hard moment, irritation bubbling and rising over in your chest. It’s such a simple thing—hang up your towel after you use it. But apparently, that’s just too much to ask for. With a sharp exhale, you pick it up and place it back on the rack, your movements are oh so rigid and stiff. 

The next morning, you find it on the floor yet again. 

San is in the kitchen when you walk out, casually scrolling through his phone while eating cereal straight from the box. His hair is a fluffed mess, sticking up at odd angles, and the sleeves of his hoodie are shoved up to his elbows. He looks comfortable, like he belongs in this space. Your space. It irks you in a way you can’t quite explain. 

You take in the scene—San standing there like he has all the time in the world, his gaze still fixed on his phone, completely oblivious to the mess he’s leaving behind. A small pile of crumbs litters the counter beside him, and the milk carton is still out, condensation pooling beneath it. Your fingers twitch ever so slightly. 

You glare at him, eyes burning, though, he doesn’t look up. 

You consider saying something Just a simple ‘Hey, could you hang up your towel?’ But the words are lodged in your throat, stuck somewhere between pride and annoyance. 

Instead, you slam the cabinet a little harder than necessary when you grab a mug for your morning tea. San’s chewing slows for half a second before resuming, but he still doesn’t acknowledge you. 

If this is what he wants, you can play along. 

And so, it begins. 

It’s a series of minor assaults, neither of you willing to admit you’re knowingly doing it. 

You wipe down the bathroom counter with unnecessary force, scrubbing at the water rings he never bothers to clean. San walks in moments later and sets his toothbrush down right in a fresh puddle of water. Your eye twitches. 

You adjust the thermostat because it’s freezing, your body is always running cold. Later that night, you realize it’s been turned back down. 

Another time, San writes down on the mutual grocery list to pick up his favorite chocolate biscuits; Binch. You would, but they’re out of stock. When you get back, he barely glances at you before muttering, “Never mind.” 

You blink back at him. “Never mind what?”

“Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing. You know it’s not nothing. He’s fuming over it, his mood just a shade darker than usually. But if he’s not going to say anything, you certainly won’t either. 

Still, something gnaws at you. It wasn’t like you forgot on purpose—you actually went looking for them, scanning the shelves for an extra five minutes, even checking with an employee. But they were out. What were you supposed to do, conjure them out of thin air? You huff, tossing the bag of groceries onto the counter with more force than necessary, earning the smallest glance from San. If he cared so much, maybe he could have gotten them himself. 

You tell yourself you don’t care. But later, when you hear him sigh as he reaches into the pantry and grabs something else, something he obviously doesn’t want, irritation prickles beneath your skin. You clench your jaw and look away, as if ignoring him will make the frustration disappear. Yeah, right. 

The silence lingers, a thick unspoken challenge. You stare at each other a beat too long before turning away, the tension weaving itself into the very atmosphere between you. 

Two days later, you find the towel on the floor again. This time, you don’t pick it up. You just glare at it every time you walk past, willing it to disappear out of sheer frustration. 

And as the days go by, the apartment begins to feel smaller and smaller with all the unspoken tension. The walls seem to press in, like the walls keep adding a layer of paint, only further amplifying every little minor annoyance. The sink constantly has stray dishes, the coffee table in the living area is cluttered with San’s random belongings—headphones, a half-empty water bottle, a single sock he never bothers to pick up. Your already small living room, feeling even smaller. After all, it was just the TV and a single two seat couch. It’s chaos. And you can’t breathe in chaos. You never have been able to. 

At night, you can somehow hear him moving around in his room, the walls were not as thick as they seemed, you noted. The sound of the drawers opening, the soft creak of his bed as he shifts, you could almost make out the rustling of his sheets when the heater stopped humming. It annoys you more than it should, the sheer awareness of his presence making it impossible to fully relax. And yet, when the apartment falls silent again, you find yourself still awake, staring at the ceiling, listening. 

The unspoken tension simmers beneath the surface, neither of you actually addressing it outright. Conversations are kept short, words clipped or laced with sarcasm. 

“San, do you actually plan on washing your dishes, or are they just for decoration to you?”

He barely looks up from his laptop. “I’m trying to conduct a long-term experiment. I’ll see how long they can stay in the sink before they clean themselves.”

You inhale sharply through your nose, bring the tips of your fingers up to pinch the bridge of it. “Fascinating.” 

He smirks. “I thought so.”

You leave the room before you say something you know you’ll regret. But the irritation follows you, clinging to your skin like static. Even when you’re not in the same room, you can feel his presence, lingering at the edges of your awareness, like a song stuck in a loop in your mind. It was deafening. 

The worst part? It’s that you’re both acutely aware of each other in a way that has nothing to do with the irritation. It’s the way you notice when he walks out of the shower, his hair damp, towel slung low around his waist, his skin just glistening under the soft glow of the bathroom light. Your eyes linger for too long, you know this. Just a second too long, before you force yourself to look away. You try to be nonchalant, pretend you’re unfazed, but your breath hitches slightly, unconsciously, when you catch the way droplets trail down the ridges of his stomach before disappearing beneath the towel. You tear your gaze, cheeks warming with something you refuse to acknowledge.

And San, he isn’t blind either. 

It’s in the way his gaze flickers to you when you stretch in the morning, the hem of your shirt lifting slightly, exposing a sliver of skin. His jaw tightens before he returns to his phone like he saw nothing. But you notice the way his fingers pause on the screen, gripping a little tighter than he should, how he exhales before resuming whatever it was that he was pretending to be focused on. 

The way that the air feels thicker when you pass each other in the narrow hallways, shoulder nearly brushing, your breaths momentarily syncing before one of you steps aside. The slight pause before movement, as if you're both aware of the proximity, and maybe of the tiniest of heat that lingers between you. 

Stolen glances that neither of you fully acknowledge. The way your stomach tightens when he murmurs something under his breath that you’re not sure you were supposed to hear. The moments where annoyance and something else blur together, tangled into something, almost dangerous. 

The tension stretches thin, taut like a wire ready to snap, but neither of you makes a move to cut it. Because neither of you will admit to it. 

But it’s there. Waiting. 

[delaware-lemme-smash]

Sfw and nsfw HCs Poly relationship of Bakugou and Kirishima with their female reader?

An explosive combination!

Characters: Bakugou Katsuki/DynaMight, Kirishima Eijirou/Red Riot

Contents: poly!relationship, feminine pet names, afab reader, nsfw, oral, biting,

Bakugou Katsuki/DynaMight & Kirishima Eijirou/Red Riot

SFW

I'm going to go ahead and give Kirishima the credit for getting this little throuple together, because there's no damn way it was Bakugou. He's too hot-headed and there are too many feelings involved in the whole thing for him to sit down and think it through. Especially if there's been some jealousy and some miscommunications in the run-up to The Discussion.

So it was basically you and Kirishima who approached Bakugou and suggested giving the whole polyamory thing a try.

For a few minutes he just squints at the two of you, trying to work out if he should be pissed off or not. You wanna date him and Kirishima. What the hell, are you trying to say he's not enough for you?! Wait, but doesn't this mean he gets what he wants and he doesn't have to watch Kirishima mope around like some kind of boulder puppy?

Once he's done working through the Five Stages of Whatever, he turns a wicked grin on you.

"You think you need two guys to keep you satisfied? We'll see about that. Don't you dare underestimate me!"

"Dude, chill, it's not a contest," Kirishima says, trying to calm him down.

"Yeah? Sounds like loser talk to me."

And that was how your relationship started.

Given their busy schedules as Pro Heroes, it's likely you all live together to split the household chores and just to get an opportunity to see each other between missions and patrols. Bakugou had the nicest, largest place (and probably Kirishima already as a roommate), so it made sense for you to all move into his apartment. Something he bitched uproariously about, even though he knew it was logical and he actually wanted it too. Being pissy is like a reflex for him.

You got a nice big bed for the three of you. Bakugou rigidly enforces "his side", even if he's out on a night patrol. He grouches that your big head has deflated his pillow if you slept on his side. (And proceeds to shove his face in said pillow the next time he sleeps, 'cause it smells like you now.) You don't get a "side" per se, because your place is in the middle, the filling in the muscle sandwich.

Kirishima's the biggest cuddler, but don't let Bakugou convince you he's not almost as bad. He is, and he'll get moody if you point it out. Let him keep his delusions.

Kirishima wants you to wear his clothes. Those cute sleep sets you keep buying? Mysteriously disappeared (hidden in the linen closet). In their place? A bunch of oversized, faded Crimson Riot or "manly" t-shirts for you to wear to bed. Bakugou might get in on the action and chuck in some of his skull or Deep Dope shirts. Take the hint.

Bakugou's standard of cleanliness is higher than yours or Kirishima's. He's not the type to set up a cleaning rota and shifts though (Iida-like behaviour). He just blows a fuse and attacks it all at once. You'll come home to a spotless apartment and a fuming Bakugou in the kitchen, scrubbing the dishes. Picture Explosion Murder God: DynaMight in a pair of yellow rubber gloves.

He has different reactions to mess for you or Kirishima. If he finds Kirishima's socks on the bedroom floor, he'll ball them up and toss them as his friend's head. "Pick up after yourself, rockbrain." If they're yours, he'll still throw them at Kirishima's head, but address you instead: "Don't be so fucking lazy, babe."

I'd say all of you are fairly decent in the cooking department, but Bakugou's irrepressible competitive streak always gives him the edge. The stuff he cooks always looks the best, but he leans into his spices a little too much. A little too hot saucy. Kirishima can only really do basic stuff, but he knows all the good takeout places in the city—Fatgum showed him.

Movie nights are usually action movies. Wanna watch something different for once? Yell louder than the boys.

When it comes to gifts, Kirishima's are the cute and heartfelt, whereas Bakugou's tend to be cool, flashy, and expensive.

There's fitness equipment cluttering up what used to be Kirishima's room, and loads of tubs of whey protein and bulking powder in the kitchen. The guys are fitness freaks.

You're definitely a little spoiled. You just have to even vaguely move in the direction of the couch and there'll be someone grabbing your hips, pulling you down into their lap. It's a rare occasion when you sit on an actual chair.

NSFW

Oh, boy.

Let's begin by stating that, yes, your sex life is off-the-charts amazing. Bakugou and Kirishima are both young, strong, red-blooded guys with big personalities and dangerous jobs. There's a lot of testosterone, a lot of adrenaline, and a lot of man to go around. Their libidos are insane.

At the start of the relationship, sex tends to be a one-on-one kind of thing. You and Bakugou. You and Kirishima. But one thing led to another, and... Well, actually, Bakugou heard all those cute little noises Kirishima was drawing out of you in the bedroom, and he didn't feel like sitting in the living room playing video games anymore. Bakugou stalked into the bedroom, stripping off his shirt and growling that he wasn't gonna sit there like a cuck. It tends to be a group activity now.

You get groped. A lot.

As aforementioned, you'll be sitting on Bakugou or Kirishima's lap, and their hand will slide up to get a soft handful of titty, massaging it lightly through the fabric of your shirt. Bakugou in particular likes to slide one of his hands into your panties and just let it rest there, his calloused fingertip playing idly with your clit while he's watching a movie or an All Might documentary. When you start squeaking, it's time to hit pause, toss you over his shoulder, and take you to the bedroom, Kirishima whistling casually as he follows.

Trying to get from the bathroom to the bedroom after a shower is like running a gauntlet. When you're warm and dewy and smelling all fruity, it's like catnip to your boyfriends. You dodge Bakugou's casual swipe from the couch, gripping your towel as you almost make it to the bedroom. Only for Kirishima to block the doorway, grinning like a shark.

"Heeey, babe. Goin' somewhere?"

When you step back, you bump up against Bakugou's chest, who has silently crept up behind you. Great, now you're gonna need another shower by the time they're done.

Kirishima likes to bite. He's extra careful 'cause of his sharp teeth, but he likes to leave imprints on the fat of your inner thighs, biting down just enough to give you an exciting little pinch.

Bakugou's big on oral. He likes clamping your thighs around his head, his pulse racing in his ears while he lashes your clit with his tongue, sucking aggressively. He makes a lot of aggressive grunts and growls when he goes down on you, sounding like he's actually hungry. He doesn't stop until you're slippery wet after a couple orgasms, and he emerges wild-eyed, panting, his mouth and chin dripping with you.

Kirishima's a bit more versatile in bed. He can do the fun, loud sex that has you bouncing on the mattress, or the slow, intense, romantic sex where you're staring into each other's eyes.

Bakugou fucks. He bends you like a pretzel, hitting it hard and deep, his hands curled into fists either side of your head so he doesn't accidentally set off any explosions. Sex with him is hot, hard, sweaty, and primal. He's the one that gets you screaming (along with the ensuing noise complaints), biting, and clawing. He wears your nail drag marks with smug pride.

I hope you guys got that bed on a warranty, because their competitive streak follows you into the bedroom too. They keep a tally of who made you come and how many times before you tap out.