#these two have been plaguing me for WEEKS. WEEKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[pipsyy]

caught...

sub!hamzah x f!reader smut (lowkey perv!hamzah if you squint)

hi everyone! i thought of this idea at like 3am a couple nights ago and it has been plaguing my mind ever since. please enjoy! message me requests please! i am desperate for prompts.

summary: after losing a few of your panties, you begin to suspect your shy roommate Hamzah. but, coming home early one night, you are met with a sight that would change things for good.

warnings: smut under cut! DON'T read if you are under the age of 18.

word count: 2575

For weeks, you had been losing your underwear. You would put your clothes in the washer, then the dryer, but by the time you got back to your room and folded your clothes, one, or sometimes two, pairs of your panties were missing. It was concerning, to say the least. However, when you lost your favorite pair (pink cotton with white lace and bows), you began to get frustrated.

“Hamzah?” you ask your roommate while he’s in the kitchen getting snacks.

“Mmh?” he responds, mouth full with doritos.

“Kind of a weird question—I mean, you probably have no fucking clue—but have you seen my panties anywhere? I can’t find them.”

At the mention of panties, Hamzah’s cheeks flush a light shade of pink. “Panties?!” he asks, mouth still full. He swallows thickly. “No, I mean, I don’t think so. What do they look like?”

“Um-” you felt yourself blush a light shade of pink, thinking about how embarrassing it was talking about your panties with your hella attractive roommate. “They’re pink and white—bows too.”

If possible, Hamzah flushed an even deeper shade of red. “O-oh, no. No. I haven’t seen them anywhere,” he huffed out an awkward laugh, looking anywhere else in the room but your eyes.

“That’s okay,” you say, giggling awkwardly. The tension palpable in the room. “Just…you know, if you do see them, let me know.”

—

Later that week, after getting home early from a party, you were met with the most surprising of circumstances. You entered your apartment and kicked off your shoes; the 4-inch heels had killed your feet. Every light in the apartment was off—save for the small light emanating from the clocks on the oven and microwave—and it was dead silent. Eerily silent. You knew that Hamzah was home, I mean, he never left. But it was only 11pm, which was way too early for him to go to bed. You at least expected to hear him typing on his computer, or hear the faint sound of his laptop playing a show, or hear him yelling at whatever stupid game he was playing with Martin. But no. Absolutely nothing.

Just then you heard it. Although you weren’t exactly sure what “it” was. A faint, but deep, groan, as if someone was crying out in pain. You strained your ears, listening for that noise again. There! There it was again, the exact same noise, although this time you could hear a faint squeaking following the groan.

“Hamzah,” you hesitantly call out. You creeped forwards in the direction of his bedroom. The deep sounds followed by squeaking got louder as you neared his room. The door was ajar and you peeked through the crack. You almost let out a loud gasp at the sight before you, clapping your hands over your mouth to prevent any noise from escaping your lips. Hamzah was stretched out on his bed, head tilted back as he thrust his cock into his hand. You shot back from the door, face reddening. You felt embarrassed for staring so unabashedly at the dark-haired man in such an intimate situation. Even so, you felt a throbbing deep in your core and you knew that if you reached down to touch your panties beneath your dress, you would be soaking wet. Slowly, mentally slapping yourself, you peered through the crack in the door again. Hamzah’s head was tilted back in pure ecstasy, pretty lips spilling whines and groans as the bed squeaked with every thrust into his hand. You watched, panties growing wetter by the second, as he reached next to him and brought a piece of fabric up to his nose, inhaling deeply and letting out a heady whine. Your eyes widened as you recognized the slip of fabric as your favorite pair of panties. The pink ones with the white lace. 

Your name spills from his lips, eyes rolling back into his head. Holy fuck. You sat on your knees, rolling your wet folds against the palm of your hand. You couldn’t believe the sight before your eyes. Your roommate—who you’ve had a crush on since moving in with him—was jerking off to you, your underwear pressed deeply into his nose. Hamzah’s hips stuttered, edging dangerously close to release.

“F-fuck, y/n,” he whimpered. “S-so good. So fucking pretty. G-gonna, gonna cum, shit.” At this desperate confession, a high-pitched whine escaped your parted lips and your eyes widened, clapping your hands over your mouth. Hamzah abruptly stopped his motions, whipping his head in the direction of the unprecedented sound. His glossy eyes met yours, fucked-out expression directly mirroring your own.

“S-shit,” he said breathlessly, stumbling out of bed and covering his erection with the sheets around his legs. You shot backwards from the door, tumbling directly into the wall. Hamzah fumbled to get pants on, and ran towards you, a pleading look in his eyes.

“Holy shit, y/n. I-I, um, I had no idea that you were home. I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t do that. Not if I knew that you were here.”

You were still sat on the floor, pink blush fast-spreading across your cheeks. You felt a coy smile tickling your lips. “Were you—” you looked up at Hamzah, feeling a dangerous rush of confidence flood your mind, “Were you jerking off to me?”

Hamzah’s eyes widened impossibly large. “I–no. I mean…no,” he said. “Definitely not.”

“Really,” you said seductively, rising up from your position and stepping closer to the trembling man. “Because…” you leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I swear I heard you say my name.” A deep red blush spread across Hamzah’s cheekbones and he swallowed audibly.

His voice lowered a decibel. “No,” he whispered. “No, I wasn’t.”

You smirked at how flustered you made him. “I didn’t take you for a liar, you know.” You pushed past the taller man into his room. The moment you enter, you felt your core throb, the smell of sweat and sex and and something purely Hamzah penetrating your nostrils. You made your way to his bed, sheets strewn carelessly, and picked up the pink underwear that had fallen to the floor in Hamzah’s rushed attempt at maintaining his dignity. You dangled the fabric from your extended pointer finger.

“So what are these then?” The panties sway from your finger, and Hamzah’s puppy-like eyes follow the cloth to and fro like a tennis match. 

“I–,” he gulped. “I don’t know how those got there.”

You stepped toward him. “So you’re really just gonna play dumb with me then, huh?” You took careful step after careful step until you were inches away from the timid, trembling man. “You’re not dumb, Hamzah.” You reached up until his glossy eyes came face-to-face with your panties. “Take them.”

Hamzah’s dumbfounded expression stared back at your own. You shifted the fabric forward, directly into his big nose, and he shakily inhaled, eyes almost rolling back into his own head. “F-fuck,” he whimpered out. Swiftly, as if they were never there in the first place, you removed the outstretched panties from his prying nostrils. The look he gave you, as his eyes slowly opened, made your legs weak and your core throb. He looked as though he would give you the world, or anything you asked, as long as he could be face-to-face with that stupid piece of cloth again.

“Tell me what you want,” you asked, voice low and seductive.

“You,” he whispered, eyes darting from your own, to the wall, to the panties still clutched in your hand, and back to your own.

You smile at his bashfulness. “A little louder,” you said, feeling cocky. You reach up to push back his dark, messy curls from his sweaty forehead.

Hamzah’s dark eyes met your own and you melted. “You…I want you. I want you so fucking bad it hurts.” You felt your core tighten. Hamzah looked at you with glossy, pleading eyes. You looked down and noticed the erection still straining in his pants. You turn around and walk to his bed, sitting on the edge. You pat the soft bedding next to you.

“Come here.” Hamzah moved at the speed of light, by the time you blinked he was sitting down next to you, hands politely together in his lap. You lean over to straddle Hamzah’s thick thighs, dress riding up, the thin cloth of your panties doing nothing to stop you from feeling his erection pressing against your wet folds. You intertwine your hands behind his neck while he looks up at you with intense adoration and devotion. Your hands cup his cheeks.

“What do you want, baby?” you ask. You reach down, beneath the waistband of his gym shorts, and grasp his hard length. Hamzah’s parted red lips elicit a whiny gasp as his large hands firmly grasp your waist. 

“I want–” he starts, barely able to string a sentence together as you begin to move your hand up and down his length. “I want to be inside you.” 

You chuckled coyly, moving your hand faster. “And what makes you think you have the right to be inside me.” Groans and gasps tumbled from Hamzah’s wet lips. His head was tilted back, a purely fucked-out expression bedazzling his beautiful face. 

“I just—,” he blissfully moaned out. “I just want to feel you.” His hands snaked up your dress, reaching up to grasp at your covered tits. His big hands connected with your sensitive nipples that were poking out through the fabric. A dirty, stupid idea shot into your head. You pull away from Hamzah, untangling yourself from his roaming hands. “W-what?” he said, confusion written all over his pretty face. 

“I don’t know,” you respond. “I’m kinda pissed at you right now. Do you know how fucking gross it is to come home to your roommate touching himself to you? Desperately jerking off, my favorite fucking pair of panties in your grimy hands. You’re a disgusting little slut, aren’t you?” Hamzah’s covered cock visibly twitched in his gym shorts. He let out a heady whimper at your vile tone and words. “Oh…” you said, a dark and naughty gleam twinkling in your eyes. “Do you like that shit? Do you like it when I call you a stupid fucking whore?” Hamzah’s hips grinded against the air, desperate for any sort of friction against his aching cock.

“I think,” you say, reaching down to pick up the pink panties you had discarded to the side, “That I don’t want a disgusting slut like you to touch me, not with those filthy fucking hands of yours.” Using the elastic of your lacy panties, you tie Hamzah’s hands together behind his back. He whimpered at your touch, the light graze of your fingers shooting electricity down his spine and into his desperate member. Once Hamzah was fully tied up, unable to move his hands to touch your body, you flung your current pair of panties off and sat back on his lap again. You reached into his pants once more, pulling his weeping cock from within his shorts. You rubbed his erection up and down your wet folds, looking down to see the soaking, wet mess you were making of his cock. You line his tip up with your hole, sliding him into your wet cunt. The stretch was unbearably pleasurable and Hamzah let out an unfiltered groan.

“Shut up,” you told him, placing your hand over his mouth. “I don’t want to hear a fucking word from you.” You began bouncing up and down on his cock, whines and moans escaping your parted lips at the fulfilling sensation deep within your cunt. Hamzah looked completely pathetic beneath you, eyes filled with desperation as he clumsily attempted to thrust up into you. You grab onto his curls, yanking as his cock hits a particularly sensitive spot deep within your cunt. Hamzah lets out another whine at the tugging sensation. Immediately, you stop your motions and slap him across the face.

“I told you to shut up,” you said roughly, voice rattling with an emotion you had never thought could possess you: dominance. And you were enjoying it. You enjoyed seeing this tall, muscular man writhe beneath your smaller body, pathetically attempting to engage and make you feel good. An idea flitted through your head. You reached down to the floor and grabbed your discarded panties. Squeezing his cheeks together in your hands, you opened up his mouth and shoved your panties in, effectively gagging him. Hamzah let out a muffled groan at the feeling of the used cloth being shoved between his lips. Hips jerking into you now at a frenzied pace. The increased speed of his cock inside you felt like heaven, and you let out a high-pitched moan, collapsing into his shoulders. You rode his cock violently, Hamzah’s pathetic face reflecting your own shining pleasure. Hamzah’s hips began to stutter, his gagged moans becoming increasingly frequent as his eyes fluttered closed, and you knew he was close. You reached down to touch your clit, hoping to reach your climax at the same time. The combined pleasure of touching your clit and the sweet stretch of Hamzah’s cock hitting that delicious spot deep inside you made your head tip back in ecstasy. Hamzah’s eyes widened and you felt his cock twitch inside of you.

“Do you want to cum, baby?” you asked sweetly, rocking your hips softly against his. He nodded his head aggressively. Your walls fluttered around his cock, and Hamzah looked in pain, nose scrunched and eyes squeezed shut. You realized, as you continued to rock your hips, that he was waiting for your permission to cum.

“Oh,” you say sweetly. “You want my permission, hmm?” You giggle softly as Hamzah tries to talk, the soft fabric in his mouth preventing him from doing so. “You can cum, baby, I want you to.” At this admission, Hamzah’s face tightens and his hips stutter and begin to shake. The feeling of his cock twitching inside you, spurting cum against your tight walls, sent you over the edge. Hamzah’s chest was heaving as he watched you writhe on top of him, your pleasure furthering his own. You let out a high-pitched whine as you come down from your high. Hamzah’s eyes were wide, glossy, and pathetic as they met your own. You pulled the pair of panties out of his mouth and he sucked in a deep breath. You slid off his length and reached behind him, untying your panties from around his wrists. He let out a sigh as his hands became free, rubbing them together to recirculate the blood flow.

“Are you okay?” you ask him, suddenly feeling a deep sense of embarrassment. “I’m sorry! That was fucking crazy! I didn’t at all mean to take it that far.”

Hamzah looked up at you, a playful smile spreading across his face. “Are you kidding me? You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted to do that with you.”

“Yeah! But…like that?” you respond. “I-I mean…I slapped you. I feel like I took it too far.” You move to leave the room, embarrassment bleeding all over your face in a deep red color. Hamzah reached you in an instant, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, head resting on your shoulder. He placed a sweet kiss on your neck.

“Trust me,” he said. “That was exactly what I wanted.”

[bloody-bee-tea]

We're here for you

Hitoshi follows Aizawa along in their cooldown routine, but his head isn't in it. He can't stop thinking, can't stop wondering and it makes it hard to concentrate. It's the reason he already got smacked in the head twice and if Aizawa notices that he's still not entirely there, then he'll clap him over the head a third time, Hitoshi just knows it.

It's just–

"Alright, out with it," Aizawa says as he comes out of their last stretch and he pins Hitoshi with a look.

It makes him squirm though he tries not to let it show too much.

"It's nothing," Hitoshi tries, even though he knows it's stupid.

If Aizawa already noticed that something is off then he's unlikely to drop it, that's something Hitoshi has learned in the last two weeks they've been doing this.

"It's something," Aizawa gives back, narrowing his eyes at Hitoshi. "And it's enough to distract you. So out with it."

Hitoshi still hesitates for a long moment, but despite his pushy demeanour, Aizawa seems more than content to wait him out, his steady gaze still on Hitoshi and he doesn't know if that makes it better or worse.

"You said–when we started this you said–" Hitoshi trails off, suddenly deathly afraid that if he says this, if he asks what's been plaguing him the entire time since the words left Aizawa's mouth, that he'll know immediately what's going on, what Hitoshi is really referring to and it makes him sick.

Still, Aizawa doesn't back down.

"Yes?" he prompts and Hitoshi drops his gaze, unable to hold it any longer, but he still can feel Aizawa's eyes on him.

"You said you'd be there for me," Hitoshi whispers, more to his feet than Aizawa, but of course he hears.

"I did," he agrees, solemn and steady and it makes Hitoshi breathe that little bit easier, allows him to finally ask what's really bothering him.

"What does that mean?"

He dares to lift his gaze up a little bit, catches Aizawa still looking at him, but he doesn't seem mad, doesn't appear to charge for an attack but in all honesty, Hitoshi thinks he'd never see it coming with Aizawa.

His father telegraphs his moves so broadly that even without any kind of training Hitoshi always knows when he is about to hit him, but with Aizawa things are different.

He's a pro, after all.

"It means that no matter what, I'm here for you," Aizawa repeats and he must read the frustration right off Hitoshi's face because the corner of his mouth ticks upwards. "It means you can come to me with anything."

He says it with emphasis and something heavy drops in Hitoshi's stomach, something that feels close to panic.

"I have to go," Hitoshi rushes out as he scrambles to his feet, but a quick look at Aizawa shows him that he's still seated on the ground, not making a single move to stop Hitoshi or even follow him.

"Same time Wednesday," he simply says. "Remember to rest until then."

It almost makes Hitoshi laugh, because how the hell is he ever supposed to rest in that house, but he bites it back and shoulders his bag.

"Thank you," Hitoshi breathes out, not daring to even attempt to lie to Aizawa and then he's out of the gym.

Hitoshi thought he might feel better with a little bit of distance between them, between him and Aizawa's knowing eyes, but Hitoshi can't outrun his own thoughts and the way Aizawa had said 'anything' keeps running around in his head on a loop.

Hitoshi sleeps poorly that night and it barely has anything to do with his smarting ribs.

~*~*~

Aizawa and Yamada are demonstrating a move Hitoshi has problems grasping and they are telegraphing their movements so slowly that it almost makes Hitoshi laugh.

Almost, because once again, his mind isn't all there.

He thinks he hasn't stopped ruminating on the way Aizawa had told him that he can come to him with anything and it doesn't help that Yamada had said something similar during their advanced English lessons.

Hitoshi still hasn't figured out what 'anything' means and he has to admit that it's driving him slightly insane. He wishes there could be an easy answer, that he could just know if his situation at home is really something he can trust them with but he fears that it might not be that easy.

"Thanks for paying attention," Aizawa's lazy drawl suddenly jolts him out of his thoughts and when Hitoshi focuses back on them, he realises with a start that they are both turned towards him and while Aizawa looks mildly annoyed, Yamada can't hide his amused smile.

"I'm so sorry," Hitoshi rushes out, "I'm just–"

"Distracted to all hell and back," Yamada finishes for him and elbows Aizawa in the side. "Time for a break."

For a split second Hitoshi thinks Aizawa is going to argue, but then he nods and walks over to their water bottles, Yamada following while he waves Hitoshi to join them as well.

He follows behind them a little bit more slowly and by the time he makes it to them, Aizawa is already laid out on the ground, eyes closed and maybe even already asleep. It's hard to tell with him sometimes and Hitoshi thinks he might as well go for it now.

If Aizawa is asleep, it'll spare him his searching gaze and Yamada might be easier to talk to anyway.

"So, I was wondering about something," Hitoshi mutters, and he knows Aizawa isn't asleep by the way one of his eyebrow rises.

"That much was apparent. Shoot, kiddo," Yamada says, giving him a reassuring smile and Hitoshi takes a deep breath.

It shouldn't matter this much, because he's not asking for anything grand; he just wants an explanation and it doesn't have to mean anything, not if he doesn't want it to and not if the answer isn't what he's secretly hoping for.

And still, he hesitates.

He hesitates for long enough that Yamada's smile slides right off his face and that's what finally prompts Hitoshi to talk.

"Aizawa said a while back that I could come to him with anything and you expressed something along those same lines," Hitoshi mumbles towards Yamada and then trails off because Aizawa cracks one eye open.

"I did," he agrees, in the same way he did weeks earlier, clearly trying to prompt Hitoshi to explain what exactly this is about and Yamada nods encouragingly.

"I was just wondering what that 'anything' entails," Hitoshi finishes in a rush and drops his gaze back to the ground.

He still senses Aizawa and Yamada exchanging a look before Yamada speaks up.

"It means just that, Shinsou. You can talk to us about anything and everything. It doesn't matter, we're happy to listen and provide help as we can. You can come to us regarding problems with school or your classmates; we're here to listen if you have concerns about your future or what you want to do, and you can talk to us if you have problems at home or with your family."

Hitoshi just barely manages not to flinch and he just hopes that they don't notice.

"We try to stay out of any romantic relationships of our students, so girl talk–or boy talk, for that matter–is not really what we're here for but if it's a sexuality or identity crisis, we can be your guys, too."

"We mean it when we say anything, Shinsou," Aizawa chimes in and Yamada chuckles before he pokes Aizawa's side.

"Even non-serious stuff. I know this guy would be real happy if you showed him pictures of cats. You once mentioned you're feeding the strays close to your home, right? You must have pictures you can share."

It gets Aizawa to finally sit back up again and his attention is fixed on Hitoshi.

"You feed stray cats?" he asks and he seems interested in a way he didn't before, which makes Hitoshi bite back a smile.

"Sometimes," he admits and walks over to his bag. "I do have pictures, if you want to see?" he offers and Aizawa is at his side a second later, impatiently waiting for him to take his phone out.

Yamada seems entirely too pleased with himself and Hitoshi notices the way he looks at Aizawa, notices how Aizawa looks back, albeit briefly, and he wonders what's going on there but he knows that it's none of his business.

They offered for him to talk; they didn't offer anything else and it would probably only make them mad if he pried into something that he shouldn't.

So instead of poking his nose where it doesn't belong, he unlocks his phone and pulls up his cat folder, tilting the screen towards Aizawa, who leans over his shoulder, closely paying attention to all the cats Hitoshi shows him.

It's not the training he's here for, it's not what Aizawa and Yamada signed up for, what they made time for, but they don't complain and instead ask involved questions about the cats and not once does Hitoshi feel as if he's stealing their time.

It's definitely a first and it makes something small and bright light up in his chest.

~*~*~

Hitoshi starts small. He keeps it up with the cat pics, and neither Aizawa nor Yamada ever brush him off for that; Aizawa even asked after the pictures once, when Hitoshi was too busy pretending not to be in agonising pain to remember something as trivial as that.

After the cat pictures comes homework. Hitoshi is a good student, so it takes him a while to find something he has trouble with but when he does, Aizawa doesn't hesitate to sit down with him to explain the concept for Hitoshi.

Yamada already answers him every and all questions he has about English but the one time Hitoshi complained about a math problem, Yamada went through that with him as well.

It's–novel, to not be yelled at for innocent things like this and Hitoshi finds that their words—their offer—burn bright under his skin.

It makes him want to push and so one day, he does.

Hitoshi doesn’t really plan it, but the day was shit in a way it hasn't been in a long time, following after a weekend where his parents kept avoiding him, kept being scared of him, in between bursts of fists and kicks, and so when Aizawa levels him with a look and asks him what's wrong, it just all spills out of Hitoshi.

"U.A. was supposed to be better," he spits out, dropping his bag and making no move to get changed for training.

"Better than what?"

"Than literally anywhere else. Quirk discrimination wasn't supposed to be a thing here; it wasn't supposed to go on like this," Hitoshi says and he hates the way his voice shakes, how wet it sounds because it screams of weakness and he doesn't want Aizawa to see that.

"What happened?" Aizawa asks, much softer this time and pats the ground next to where he sits and Hitoshi moves as if he's on autopilot.

"It's stupid," Hitoshi mutters, because now that he has Aizawa's attention he realises just how childish and immature he's being and he ducks his head in an attempt to hide.

"Tell me anyway."

"The League, they are apparently recruiting," Hitoshi says after a moment. "My classmates thought it'd be funny to go through the students and decide who would join them."

"Based on quirks," Aizawa says with a nod and Hitoshi nods as well because what else could it be.

"I made top of the list," he says with false cheer. "Finally I'm number one." He doesn't care how bitter he sounds, because he is.

"You're at the most prestigious hero school. You're doing everything you can to be a hero," Aizawa says with a frown and Hitoshi laughs at him.

"Doesn't matter. With a quirk like mine, what else but a villain could I ever be? I've heard the same shit for all of my life, but I thought it was supposed to get better. And instead it just keeps happening. I'm sick and tired of being asked to make someone do something. I'm sick and tired of being the first everyone looks to when someone acts out of character, or when something disappears or when a fight starts. As if I'm always the cause for any of that. I'm just–I'm so tired."

"You never mentioned that before," Aizawa carefully says and Hitoshi shrugs.

"It's not usually this bad. Our class rep, she makes sure it doesn't get out of hand, but she's out sick today and with that whole League thing–-" Hitoshi shrugs. "Besides, it's stupid and useless and irrational to be upset over something I can't change and I didn't want to bother you with that."

"You're not bothering me with that, I told you I'm here for you to talk about anything. And being upset about bullying and discrimination, especially when it's aimed at yourself, is never stupid. You're entitled to feel hurt and angry about all of that. It is supposed to be better here; we have a pretty strict policy about that and things like that aren't supposed to happen."

"Great, so it's just me, bringing out the worst in everyone, just like always," Hitoshi mutters, because that, too, is nothing he hasn't heard before. As if his mere existence is tempting people to give in to their darker thoughts.

"Is it just your class?" Aizawa wants to know and Hitoshi makes a face.

He hears people whisper, in the halls and during lunch, but no one who isn't his classmate has ever outright said anything to his face.

"I'll take that as a no then," Aizawa concludes and Hitoshi is too tired to fight him on that.

"What are we doing today?" Hitoshi asks after the silence stretches between them and he feels how Aizawa musters him.

"I wanted to get started on quirk training, but maybe today is not the best time for that."

Hitoshi knows it's stupid and telling and it's pathetic to be scared of your own quirk, but he can't help but to flinch at Aizawa's words. He must notice it, too, because a sad smile flits over his face.

"You up for combat training? Or do you wanna call it early today?"

"And waste your time completely?"

"You're not wasting my time," Aizawa corrects him. "Not every day is the same and it would be dangerous to not take that into account. Today is a bad day; it happens and it will pass. But there's no reason for us to make a bad day worse, so if training is not something that's on the table today, then that's fine."

He makes it sound so easy as if it's perfectly normal for someone to take Hitoshi's mental and physical state into account and it makes his eyes burn.

"I–might not have paid attention in class today," Hitoshi finally offers and Aizawa nods once.

"Homework it is. Yamada will be by later, so keep your math problems for him," Aizawa says with a small shudder and it's enough to bring out a smile on Hitoshi's face.

"Not a fan, huh?"

"Of math? Unlikely. Now, show me something I can help you with."

Hitoshi does and just like that the afternoon passes.

By the time Hitoshi walks home he has to admit that a bad day just turned into a good day, simply because two people weren't mean to him.

Hitoshi thinks it might be pathetic, but it also makes him happy.

~*~*~

Two weeks later, classes are cancelled for a three day quirk discrimination seminar. Everyone has to attend and at the end, Principal Nezu makes it abundantly clear that U.A. will not stand for any kind of discrimination and that expulsion is the only viable punishment for it.

The next time Hitoshi meets Aizawa for training he walks right up to him and bonks his head to his shoulder like a cat, staying there for a long moment, silently conveying his gratitude and Aizawa pats his head twice.

Hitoshi wishes he could stay like that forever.

~*~*~

Hitoshi feels sick. He knows he has to do it, he knows he has to trust Aizawa and Yamada but just thinking about it is hard and he has no idea how he's ever going to put into words just how shitty his life at home is without completely breaking down.

So he decides to start the entire conversation with a theoretical, even though he damn well knows that as soon as the question leaves his mouth, both teachers will know exactly what's going on, but at least like that he can pretend that it has nothing to do with him, if their answer makes him feel worse than he already does.

Hitoshi hasn't even fully stepped into the gym when both men take one look at him and apparently decide that training is clearly not on his mind.

"Out with it," Aizawa says once Hitoshi is close enough and he doesn't even give Hitoshi the chance to pretend that it's nothing and he can't make his mind up if that's a good thing or not.

"I was just wondering," Hitoshi slowly starts, trying not to squirm under their attention and forces the words out, "what would happen if you learn that a student was at danger at home. Or–you know–that their home life isn't the best."

Hitoshi's voice is thin and shaky and they must know what he's asking, why he's asking, but instead of immediately saying anything, Aizawa and Yamada exchange a look.

This one is a lot shorter than what they usually do, so they must come to a conclusion fairly quickly and Hitoshi isn't sure if he's glad for it when Aizawa almost immediately turns back towards him.

"It depends, really," Aizawa starts with and great, Hitoshi already hates this. "If it's just that the home life isn't the best, with no immediate danger to their well-being then the dorm system offers a good reprieve of that. The student would be able to live on campus during the school year, while the school gets partial custody for that time. It would still mean the student has to go home during the breaks, though, and the parents have to agree in the first place."

"And if it's more than that?" Hitoshi whispers and now it's Yamada who speaks.

"Then the school–and we as teachers–would ensure that all the proper steps are taken to get the student out of that situation. We would seize emergency custody, which places the student into the hands of CPS for the duration of the investigation into the family. The school is equipped to take over custody in times like that, so the education of the student can be guaranteed."

"We teachers are all required to have foster licenses, so even if the dorm system is not an option for whatever reason, one of the teachers could seize custody,” Aizawa takes over. “That also applies if the student is in dire need of a stable home, something that the dorms can't supply. Once the investigation is complete and it's been decided that the student can't go back to their family, we would help look for a suitable foster family."

"Or it can be decided that the student stays with the teacher, if everyone is in agreement," Yamada chimes in and it makes Hitoshi's eyes burn.

Who would ever decide to keep him?

"An investigation takes time, though," he mutters and tries to calculate if it would take enough time for him to make the hero course and be placed into the dorm system by default, no matter the outcome.

Probably not, knowing his luck.

"Normally, yes," Yamada agrees. "But you forget that we're Pro Heroes. I know all you students sometimes forget when it comes to us, because you see us as teachers here, but our word has a little bit more weight. And we have connections. I know someone who has a certain detective on speed dial," he teasingly says and elbows Aizawa in the side.

"Because it's practical," Aizawa sighs out before he concentrates back on Hitoshi again. "It would speed things up, if we filed the complaint. We can get the right people on the case and we're not easily brushed off, either."

"What if you don't believe the student?" Hitoshi forces himself to ask, because what if? What if he says it, and they just decide that it's not worth it?

"That's not going to happen," Yamada says. "If someone brings up concerns like that, we're going to take them seriously, no matter what. Yeah, maybe the investigation will show that the student was just trying to get their parents into trouble, or they just wanted some attention, but maybe they were telling the truth. There is no way anyone here at U.A. is going to take that risk. If someone mentions something like that, we are going to treat this as seriously as we can."

Hitoshi's eyes burn and his hands shake and he's pretty sure he's going to throw up if he opens his mouth now but then Yamada steps close and he prompts him with a gentle "Hitoshi?" and it's enough.

That little bit of kindness he can hear in Yamada's voice is enough.

"I really need your help," Hitoshi chokes out and a second later he finds himself in Yamada's arms, shaking apart.

"Shou," Yamada says and Aizawa grunts.

"See, it's practical to have him on speed dial," he grumbles out and a second later a call connects.

Aizawa must have put it on speaker and Hitoshi forces himself to cry silently, so he can hear what's going on.

"Eraser," a man answers and he sounds about as tired as Hitoshi usually feels. "What did your hell class do now?"

"This isn't about them. I need you to open an investigation into the family of Shinsou Hitoshi."

"On what grounds?"

"Child abuse," is the immediate answer and the man–Tsukauchi, most likely–is silent for a moment before a soft "Oh, shit" comes over.

"Indeed," Aizawa drily says.

"I take it you haven't informed CPS yet?"

"I needed to make sure you're on the case first," Aizawa gives back and Yamada leans down.

"His quirk is Lie Detector, which comes in real handy, especially in cases like this. There's no way for your parents to talk their way out of this," Yamada promises him and Hitoshi presses closer, hoping to silently convey is gratitude, because he doesn't think his voice will hold.

"Am I putting you down for emergency custody? What does Mic say to that?"

"Well, he's right there with me, so put us both down," Aizawa tells him and Yamada hums his consent.

"Fine," Tsukauchi sighs out. "Anything else besides the abuse I need to jot down?"

"Hitoshi?" Aizawa carefully asks, clearly aware that he's listening in and Hitoshi is glad that he doesn't have to look at either of them right now.

"They are scared of me and they are–just not there," he sobs out, barely giving an explanation at all and Yamada gently sways them from side to side.

"Neglect, too. It's enough, right?"

"Of course it is. Are there any injuries right now, that we can file?"

"Hitoshi?" Aizawa asks and Hitoshi tries to hide himself further into Yamada.

"Yeah," he then admits because his ribs are still hurting and he thinks the footprint on his thigh is still more blue than yellow.

Yamada makes a pained noise, instantly loosening his arms around Hitoshi, but that's the last thing he wants, so he presses closer again and Yamada thankfully seems to get the message, because he hugs him tight again.

"We'll bring him to Recovery Girl," Aizawa promises and Tsukauchi agrees.

"I'll be in touch, and he's not allowed to go back to his family before you get the okay from me, if at all. But–I really put yours and Mic's names down for this?"

"Yes, Tsukauchi. If he wants to stay with us, we're going to take him in."

Yamada hums in agreement and it makes Hitoshi's head spin to hear that.

Sure, Aizawa has just told him that all the teachers have foster licenses and that all of them are prepared to take any student in should the need arise but to hear him state it so firmly, as if there couldn't ever be any doubt that Hitoshi is going to stay with him and Yamada, that they might want him to even, is unbelievable.

Aizawa must have ended the phone call while Hitoshi was still trying to wrap his head around that because suddenly he's right by his side.

"We've got you, kid. You're safe with us," he promises Hitoshi and he thinks that with them, maybe he can believe it.

They listened to him, Aizawa did something when the discrimination was brought up and they said they want to take him in. No doubt in Aizawa's voice, no hesitation, no protest from Yamada, who clearly has a say in that as well, if Tsukauchi is anything to go by.

Maybe not everyone is out there to make Hitoshi's life a living hell.

"Thank you," he gets out between his sobs and they only get worse when Aizawa puts a hand to his head.

"Always," he and Yamada say at the same time and it only prompts more tears from Hitoshi.

But for the first time in maybe forever, they are good tears.

[lynn-tged-posting]

hello tee gee eee dee community this is my offering

[thyandrawrites]

*insert Paris Hilton meme here* Can I have five more of these little bottom lashed bitches

I'm feeling really happy with how my little Sae came out in particular. It was almost worth it losing my mind with all the embroidered details dhhshsj

[thelionwholearnedtowrite]

when did the breath of the wild fandom unanimously decide that sidon has two dicks? like, was there a meeting? because i have not seen one explicit fic where he didn’t have two, and i’m just wondering-

[hauntingblue]

Castlevania is interesting but tell my why we get three episodes of internal conflict in the dracula castle (good) while the main characters are on a library and do fuck all. Well they have three scenes of relationship building that are supposed to mean something when they come out but they are so little and superficial imo

[walterdecourceys]

ocd sucks for a number of reasons but it's objectively at its stupidest when the inside of my brain just sounds like a twitter argument between two people who haven't been outside in a month

[avvidstarion]

Covid is unfortunately spreading around my marching band. Was talking to this guy I hate. He was like “I can’t believe I didn’t get it!” (a close contact of his tested positive last week). I said. “Well don’t call it too soon, it can take up to two weeks to incubate”. He said. “Wait, for real?!”. Girl. I hate you so much

[tonycries]

R U Mine?

Synopsis. Does he really count as an éx if he’s fúcking you this good?

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, éxes, mating press, they’re REALLY down bad, jealousy (Nanami’s, Sukuna’s), bréeding, marathon séx, recording (Sukuna’s), creampíe, cúmplay, pússytalking, possessíve boys, oraI (fem receiving), thígh ríding, fíngering, proposals, HEINOUS things, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.2k

A/N. I love men groveling hehe. Hope y’all have a great week!

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 1 week

Oh, it’s around the fourth orgasm when Toji can’t think - can’t even breathe.

Can’t do anything but spit out little profanities into your swollen lips while he rams his messy cock deeper into your sloppy entrance. Body moving before his mind to savor the sweet sweet cunt that’s been plaguing his mind all week.

Again. And again. And again and again and-

“A week.” you hear that familiar mantra from behind you, whirling your teary eyes to stare over your shoulder at your utterly wrecked ex-husband. Gaze glassy, cheeks flushed, lips sagging open as he pants, “A whole week, n’ you’re sure she didn’t m-miss me, doll? Didn’t crave me fillin’ her up?” 

And Toji takes your pitiful little whine as enough of an answer, reaching down below to thumb apart your folds greedily - all puffy and sensitive where he swipes at the seed trickling down your poor, overfilled slit. “Or do I just hafta prove it to ya?”

So mean with the way he’s shoving each and every thick spurt of his cum back inside your gummy walls. Sloppier. Languid, as the exhaustion sets in - and honestly, Toji doesn’t even know if he can cum again despite the long, calculated strokes into your snug cunt. 

But he has to, even if it fucking kills him. 

Moaning messily, your knees weaken at his renewed vigor, “T-Toji I-” Laying your body limply over the lewd little pool of cum below you, you claw at the damp sheets. “D-didn’t-”

But he doesn’t hear - doesn’t even care when he brings up his shaky fingers -  glossy, and covered in the mess of your juices and his cum - up to your swollen lips. 

“Ah ah-” he tuts, pushing the pads of his thick fingers between them amusedly. Dick swelling up further inside you at the way that smart mouth of yours sucks on the salty taste like such a slut. “These mm- sheets were expensive since ya ngh- threw out all mine, y’know. C’mere, come to your husband.”

And in a split second, two, strong hands are pulling you back up by your forearms. Arching your body back like such a slut, bending you in half against Toji’s sculpted front. And fuck this new angle makes you keen. 

He’s pressing a chaste kiss into your quivering shoulders, “Or- we could just mm fuck- share the same ones again?”

That only makes your hips fuck back against his, messily trying to meet his ruthless tempo - one that has you depending on Toji holding you up like some ragdoll. One that has him pistoning his hips faster, more purposeful, so infuriatingly familiar with the way he glides his aching tip along your ravaged g-spot. 

“Y-you’re too much-” you meet his amused, half-lidded gaze. Letting him lick and kiss at the big fat tears rolling down your cheeks, grazing your lips against that tiny scar of his. “Should’ve ngh- never-”

“No.” a groan bursts from his lips. Fingers tightening - sure leave marks around your arms, using the gravity to bounce your body deeper into his cock. “No no no no- was a- fuuuck stop squeezin’ me s’tight- was a joke, doll. Already waited a week, don’t go takin’ this ah- pussy away from me again.” 

For all his cockiness, Toji sounded worried - so genuinely concerned as he drags his sensitive length along your plushy walls. Tears pricking behind his eyes with each painful squeeze of his twitching balls, smacking your skin with each rough, depraved thrust inside

Scoffing, “Wh-what if I mmpf- do?”

And he’s slamming his hips into you so mean that you could almost feel the overabundance of cum sloshing inside you, claiming you from the inside out. Hips sloppy in a way that told he’s lost whatever sanity he had left.

“Said m’sorry, right? C’mooon-” Dancing an open palm up to press down on your lower stomach, hard. Letting Toji’s cum ooze down his length, pooling at his heavy balls. “She missed me too- look how much she’s ngh- takin’. How much more she wants.”

Toji’s free hand comes up to squish your cheeks together in an embarrassing pout, forcing your head down just enough to look at the heavenly sight below. And what you’re met with has you mewling out his name embarrassingly louder. 

Your poor pussy stuffed to the brim, just bulging with the struggle to take your ex-husband. 

But still trying so needily to milk him as much as possible, clenching and quivering every time his fat head kisses all your sensitive spots. 

And despite all that, you still stupidly lie, “Didn’t- didn’t miss you.”

It’s like he expected that - was waiting for it even, as an excuse to go harder.

“Well then…” a slow, dangerous smirk spreads across Toji’s features - one that definitely didn’t bode well for you. He presses a hot peck against your wobbly lips, cock twitching knowingly against your g-spot. “Guess I’ve gotta f-fill her up again to prove it.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - 3 weeks

“Look at me.” you hear from above you, two long fingers gently tilting your head up to meet Nanami’s hardened gaze. “Look at who’s fucking you, my love.”

You squirm, thighs trying to clamp around where he was positioned between them. “K-Ken–”

“Yeah, that’s it.” Nanami hushes you gently - the exact opposite of those languid, heavy grinds of his aching cock into your already-stuffed cunt. Shoving you further and further up those silky sheets of his with each smack of his hips, “S’me. I hah- I got you, darling. Finally, I got you.”

It’s been a whole three weeks without your pretty touch, without those sweet sweet moans spilling from your lips. Without you - sprawled out all prettily like this on Nanami’s king-sized bed, being fucked into the mattress by him like you deserve. 

And he’ll be sure to make up for those three weeks.

Nanami pushes away the bouquet of roses he’d gotten you earlier today, throwing your legs over his sculpted shoulders to bend you into such a mean mating press. 

He’s murmuring against the underside of your jaw, “I missed you, my love. Missed my cute cunt.”  Rolling his hips deeper into yours, fat head kissing at your poor g-spot with each little movement. Nosing down the sweet spots on your pulse, “Missed those sweet noises for me. Missed-” Biting down on the crook of your neck, hard. Enough to break skin if Nanami really wanted to. “-this. This one’s for that douche at the club.”

You’re gasping at those neat little indents on your skin, fingers twitching upwards to feel the deep, purposeful mark. Never has Nanami acted this feral. Never has he left embarrassing marks to admire for later. 

“Ken- what-” you whine - but you don’t get very far with that dazed little sentence. 

No, because Nanami’s dragging his lips so searingly across the print, hips stuttering forwards while he kisses away the dredges of pain. Only to turn his head to the other side of your neck and give you a sinful, matching mark on the other side. 

Murmuring into your skin, “That one’s for the hah- cashier that looked at you wrong. N’ this one’s-” Pretty lips sucking a tiny mark right above, “-for the security guard that was too nice to ya.”

Fuck.

No sooner are you actually realizing what is happening, Nanami’s pulling out with a pained grunt - like it killed him to be apart. Even if it was just for all of the two seconds it took for him to flip you onto your stomach like some ragdoll, strong arms supporting your weight. 

And if you were in any better state of mind you’d have questions. Literally anything but those fucked-out little moans he was dragging out of you, rock-hard cock molding your walls to him with each mean, possessive stroke. 

“This one-” Nanami kisses up your curved spine, biceps bulging as he wraps them around your middle. Biting down on the small of your back, “-s’for Higurama a-asking for your ngh- number.” Onto your shoulder, tough. Meaner than the rest, in fact, “N’ this one’s for Gojo.”

Fuck, and he won’t stop - can’t. Leaving you utterly wrecked like you’d been thrown to the wolves. But no, it’s just Nanami Kento.

“Nghh- Ken.” you blabber when he doesn’t ease up on colliding his thick tip against your g-spot. And as if that wasn’t enough, he’s snaking down a hand to draw tight, urgent little circles on your clit. “But m’yours! N-no need to be so…”

A low chuckle sounds in your ear, “What, my love?” And Nanami pistons his hips even harder, bouncing you onto the fresh mattress. “Mean? Jealous? Possessive?” 

Each little description is rattled off with a harsh pattern on your clit, sending white-hot pleasure down your poor, marked-up body - all the way down to your stuffed pussy. Bulging and stuttering with each harsh thrust.

You turn your head around to meet an uncharacteristically disheveled Nanami, familiar blue button-up pulled open, stray strands of blond sticking to his forehead, that furrow in his brow softening at the sight of your fucked-out expression. 

Through those hard, taxing rams of his hips against yours, Nanami manages to whisper out a ragged, “You’re jus’ too perfect, my girl. Too irresistible.” Hot tongue licking all over those bruises he so proudly made, “Can’t help but ngh- wan’ you for myself. Want to write my name on you.” 

“W-write your- hngh- Didn’t think you’d be so-” You’re cut off by Nanami’s fingers moving sloppier - faster. Those messy little circles forming- oh. Fuck. 

Your eyes widen, blinking up tearily at Nanami’s loving grin that told you he knew what he was doing. Fingers deftly rolling against your sensitive nub to draw out a persistent little K-E-N-T-O-K-E-N-T-O-K-E-N-T-O-K-E-N-T

“This one…” He trails off, pulling your back flush against the ridges and curves of his toned front. So tight it almost hurt. Making it easy to dip his head down and suck on your syrupy addictive lips, “This one’s all f’me.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - 1 month

It’d been a nice, long month without any noise complaints from your neighbors. A month of being left with nothing but the thought of you and whatever disappointing rebound sex you’d been having to make up for it. 

And to Geto Suguru, that was a month too long. 

Which is why he was currently snaking your shaky legs to lock around his neck, hot breath ghosting over your soaked panties as he hums. “Oh how I missed this view.”

You let out an embarrassed whine, cheeks burning at the way that Geto’s hooded eyes were just devouring the sight of your dripping wet cunt. Greedily pulling aside the flimsy fabric to eye the way your pretty pussy was glistening and winking up needily at him. 

“Did anyone else treat you like ya deserve?”

“Wha- oh!”

Geto doesn’t waste any time, flattening his hot tongue to drag it along your sloppy slit - too impatient, too starved to go without a taste any longer. Hell, he already waited a month for this. And he wasn’t going to wait any longer. “Mmm-” Dewy eyes rolling to the back of his head, “Even sweeter than I remembered, gorgeous.”

Diving in so deep between your legs that his nose was pressing up so sinfully against your throbbing clit, chin grinding against your skin. Like he couldn’t care - would love it - in fact if he could suffocate buried right here in his favorite place. 

“Mmm,” he smacks his lips against your puffy ones, teasingly circling right around the sweet spot of your clit. “Bet the neighbors missed me, huh? Missed the way I had you screamin’ on my mouth?”

You click your tongue, bucking your hips up - partially because you needed Geto to make out with your cunt the way you knew he wanted to, partially because you really needed him to shut up right now. “M-maybe.” you mutter.

Geto’s eyes are widening in mock-surprise, “Maybe?” Hooking a finger underneath that familiar little hair tie on his wrist to easily tie back those long, inky locks. Oh. Fuck. You were so fucked. “‘Maybe’ she says, hah. Well, here’s a little reminder, gorgeous.”

And it’s all you can do to bring a hand up to your mouth, trying not to scream when Geto presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss on your needy pussy. Pretty pink lips wrapping around your sensitive nub to suck - harsh. Peering smugly at you through his long lashes when you thrash and buck closer. 

“Yeah?” Geto slurs into your cunt, one hand pushing down your reckless hips. The other rolling your ravaged clit between two fingers. “Remembered?”

It was true - none of your past hookups have ever been this dizzyingly good. 

Your mouth sags open, letting out a broken whine that makes Geto throw his head back and laugh - laugh. Long tongue darting out again, circling your sloppy entrance, pressing in. “Not yet, I think.”

And oh while you were desperately trying to keep quiet, he was trying his very best to do the exact opposite. 

Tongue bullying past your puffy lips to map out all those sweet spots against your gummy walls, brows furrowing in concentration when he picks up an intense, maddeningly little tempo.

And yet, the only thing ringing in Geto’s ears were those fucking obscene squelches from below. Well, that won’t do. 

“Oh!” you yelp at the feeling of two long fingers pumping past that first ring of muscle. “Ngh- fuck you- Sugu!”

Hitting the bullseye of your g-spot straight on. Making you let out a slutty little ah! ah! ah! as his finger pads drag against every sopping nook and cranny of your plushy walls. “Lemme know how good it feels, gorgeous.”

Unapologetic. Unrelenting, as Geto plays with you on his fingers. On his mouth lapping at your syrupy sweet juices, rolling his tongue so mean against your ravaged clit. Your sloppy entrance. Fuck, even those sensitive areas on your thighs. Anywhere and everywhere that Geto Suguru could reach because shit, it’s been too long. And he’s drunk, so fucking drunk on his girl’s pussy. 

Your eyes snap open, and shit the sight is so pretty that it makes you clamp down sinfully on his fingers. Hair falling out of his sloppy bun, framing Geto’s pretty flushed face. As pink as those lips meshing messily with yours. Eyes dazed, miles away, your slick dripping down his face, down, down, down all the way to the curve of his jaw. 

You manage to let out a disbelieving mutter of, “Y-your girl?” And when that doesn’t rouse Geto, you tug familiarly on his disheveled hair. Having to fucking pull him back to repeat, “Your girl?” 

Fuck, did he say that out loud?

Oh, well - he wasn’t entirely wrong, was he?

And he tells you that - involuntarily, of course, high off your sweet taste and your cute moans. Loud. Movements only speeding up. 

“S’true.” You feel his lips form a fucked-out smile against your pussy, “This pretty pussy is mine, right? S’mine to ruin.” Giving your poor, abused clit a lingering, chaste peck - one that if you didn’t know any better, you’d consider to be apologetic. “Mine to make you scream.”

So it only makes sense that you do when you cum. 

“Hngh- oh my god oh my god, Sugu I’m- m’cumming m’cumming hah-” Your thighs tighten around Geto’s frenzied head, vision blurry while he laps away content at your pussy. Difficult, almost, with the way you were clenching and milking his face. Until your voice was hoarse, “I’m- oh”

Your hips drag along his pretty face, and he eases you into it. “Yeahh, that’s it.” Giving your ass a gentle smack, “Jus’ like that. Let ‘em know. Let everyone know there’s no one that knows this pussy as good as me.” 

“Y-you’re so- ngh”

“Shhh shhh, I know I know, gorgeous. But save your voice-” Geto rock-hard cock twitches needily at the thought of how fucking pissed everyone in this apartment building was about to be. “-cuz you’re about to lose it, soon.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 4 days

Choso feels hot - he feels like he’s burning from the inside out when you slide your slutty excuse of your panties to the side. Spreading your legs to flash him a glimpse of your dripping wet cunt, “So do it then, if you’re so sorry.”

And oh was Choso sorry. 

Sorry he couldn’t move faster with the way he was immediately sidling up right next to you, shaky fingers trembling on that belt of his until his red, angry cock springs free. Smearing a lewd streak of precum down his abs.

Sorry he couldn’t even pretend to want this any less when he’s immediately sliding his fat, leaky tip between your pretty folds. Sliding up and down up and down up and-

“Oh.” you jaw falls slack when he presses in, stretching that first, feeble ring of resistance around Choso’s thick tip. Hips stuttering in protest, “Fuck- forgot how- ngh, big you are, Cho.”

“S-sorry-” he gasps into your open mouth, moving in shallow, slow grinds to squeeze inside. Catching your lips with his in a messy kiss, “Sorry m’sorry- m- hah-” And whatever coherent thoughts are fucked out of Choso’s mind when he finally sinks in all the way, “Ohhh m’sorry.”

Sorry it took him a whole four days until he was buried to the hilt inside your syrupy sweet pussy again. 

He squeezes the fat of your ass between two hands, pulling your tight pussy impossibly deeper down his length. All the way until you could feel the thump! thump! thump! of his racing veins again your gummy walls. “M’yours again, right?”

And despite his question, Choso doesn’t even think about giving you the time to answer - immediately shoving his swollen cock inside until he could feel the plush of your cervix. Fucking you into your couch so ruthlessly, so depraved. 

Making up for those four days - twofold.

“Ngh- f-fuck, Cho, where did ngh- where did this all come from?” you whine, biting down on his wobbly lower lip. “What’s got you so-”

One arm wraps around your middle, the other snaking down to cut you off with one, hard roll of his thumb against your throbbing clit. “You.” Is all he manages to get out, before looping that same thumb around your flimsy panties. Once - hard. 

Rip!

Looking right into your bleary eyes as he shreds them clean off your waist.

And you can only watch - lips dropping into a soft oh! of disbelief as Choso brings the sodden, tattered fabric up, up, up to his face. Breathing in your essence, “F-fuuck, n’ this pretty pussy, of course.” 

Immediately, he’s smashing into your sensitive spot. Sloppy. Animalistically. 

So depraved - not even pulling all the way out until his weeping tip is circling your entrance like usual. Instead, fucking into you in just quick, jagged thrusts like he was addicted to the feeling of your cunt, addicted to each pretty moan pulled out from you when he brushes up against your g-spot. 

“S’too good, Cho.” you mewl at the way you’re being shoved higher and higher up your couch with your ex-boyfriend’s rough cadence. “S’too- oh-” Scrambling at the cushions, the coffee-table, anything and everything to keep whatever’s left of your sanity. 

So much so that you almost miss the gentle hand placing your trembling ones over Choso’s broad shoulders, whispering out a strained, “M’sorry. Fuck- m’sorry.”  

You didn’t even know what he was apologizing for at this point, but you circle your hands around his neck to pull him closer. Letting Choso place his teary eyes on your mouth, tentatively sucking on your bottom lip, “M’yours, right?” Abusing your poor sweet spots, fingers taking their place back to toy with your pulsing clit. Rolling and circling the sensitive nub against his thick fingers, “Lemme be yours, baby- can’t ngh- can’t live without your sweet pussy. Without you.” 

“Y-yeah?” you let out a wet murmur.

And Choso’s giving you a barely-lucid nod, each drag of his cock along your gummy walls makes him grow louder. Pulling you along with him, closer and closer. 

“Mhm, wanna be yours-” Utterly wrecked little strangled gasps of your name escaping him, “M’gonna die- ya feel too good. Too- hah- mine. Oh, baby m’sorry I’m-”

It’s all it takes for him to send you over the end, with one harsh collision of his thick head against your g-spot. And suddenly you’re seeing stars behind your eyes, feeling Choso’s cock twitch wildly as he fucks you through your high. 

Once. Twice.

With absolutely no rhythm or rhyme - just running on the fumes of you milking him so fucking tight and an orgasm so hard it has tears pricking behind his lids. Cumming in thick, hot ropes of his seed that coat your walls white - again and again and- Choso can’t stop. Doesn’t want to stop. 

“M’sorry- ngh” Doesn’t want to do anything other than push your legs so far apart it burned, eyeing the creamy ring of white around his base as he whispers, “I’ve still got four days to make up for.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 13 days

“Ya think he’s really gonna like this, brat?” Sukuna breathes hotly against your ear above the thumping bass. Sharp canines grazing along the outer shell, “Think hell like how pretty you look whining on my lap like this?”

You huff in frustration, eyes screwed up against the harsh flashlight shining down on your precarious position. Hands still urgently tugging down your ex-boyfriend tight boxers, skirt hiking up where you were sat so sluttily across his muscled thighs. 

Honestly, you didn’t know that all it’d take for Sukuna to snap was a risky little dance with some cute guy at this party. Eyes hardening, all but dragging your smug self into the nearest unlocked bedroom. 

But, hell, you weren’t complaining about it, either.

“Maybe.” you flash him a devilish grin, batting your lashes up so devilishly innocently at the phone camera pointed at you. Perfectly catching the way your bare cunt was just drooling and glistening all over him, “Or maybe he’ll just wonder why your dick’s so sm-”

Whatever insult dies on the tip of your tongue when Sukuna pulls down his boxers just enough for his swollen cock to hit his toned front. 

Rock-hard and beading angry precum at his fat head, running down, down, down his long length to pool at his heavy balls. So unfairly big that it made your thighs quiver - fuck, it’s been too long. 

And Sukuna notices - of course he does. 

“What were ya sayin’, brat?” he hums, dick twitching ever-so-slightly at the flustered shake of your head. “No no no,” Sukuna raises his knee so that gravity slides you closer down his thigh, his free hand reaching out to squish your cheeks together. Possessive. Demanding. You gasp as he starts up a steady, methodical bobbing of his leg to the music outside. “-use your words. My dick’s so what?”

Sukuna knew the answer - and you did, too. 

And it certainly wasn’t wrapping your swollen lips around that large thumb of his on your face, sucking softly as you rock your hips back to meet his cadence. 

“Nothing, Kuna.” you smile, syrupy sweet. Letting your cunt form a lewd little wet patch that helps you slide easier. “Just talking about-” Sukuna’s breath hitches in his broad chest when you wrap your soft palm around the base of his cock, squeezing. “-how much I missed your dick.”

The camera shakes in his hand, “You little minx.”

Maybe you were an idiot - maybe you were a genius.

Because no sooner are the words out of his mouth before Sukuna’s bucking into your hips, dragging your sloppy cunt along the dips and curves of his thigh muscles. Having him fuck your fist at the same frenzied tempo.

Muffled around his fingers, “Kuna-” 

“Shut up.” he hisses, resting your pretty pussy on that tattooed band on his leg. “Couldn’t even last two weeks. If you hah- missed my dick so bad then y’can get off on this, too, hm?” 

And shit you forgot how mean Sukuna was with his little movements. 

Bouncing his legs to grind your dripping cunt along his thigh, making you ride it so hard that your throbbing clit is catching on his muscles. All the way from near his knee down the sinful trail to where you could almost meet his aching cock.

He pushes the phone closer to catch the way your eyes roll to the back of your head, lips sagging open stupidly. “Answer me. Answer the camera, tell him how much you missed me.” 

The blurry camera alternates between the way you’re pumping your hand - all shaky and soaked in precum - up and down his cock. And the way Sukuna’s dipping a large hand down to help spread your swollen pussy lips, toying with your sensitive nub in the process.

“Ngh-” you squeal when he places that same hand back on your hips, taking control to bully your hips harder and harder down his thigh. Flashlight illuminating that obscene trail of sweet sweet juices you’ve left behind. “M-missed this-”

Sloppier. More desperate. 

And, usually, he’d tease you a little for being so pliant, for humping him like a bitch in heat - but fuck Sukuna can’t even speak when your thumb teases nimbly underneath his sensitive tip - just the way he liked.

“O-oh-” he’s letting out a guttural groan, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the familiar touch. “Heh, that needy? You ngh- wanted this that much ya had to dance with a loser to fuuuck- make me jealous?”

And yet for all Sukuna’s talk, he’s only fucking his hips up into your fist. Recording the way he was furiously twitching in your hands, so needy. So depraved. 

Fingers jolting to leave little crescent marks on your hips as they tighten. Words strained, “Wan’ed to ride my thigh like before? To leave your lil’ mark on me? After all, I did get this thigh tattoo in honor of you, y’know.” 

It’s all you can do to sob out, hips stuttering messily. “K-Kuna- m’close- ah-” Messily dragging your lips across his, “Gonna cum mmpf- gonna cum gonna-”

But oh you should’ve known. Should’ve gotten an inkling that your dear ex-boyfriend wouldn’t let you off that easy. 

Because in a split-second, you’re being plucked off Sukuna’s thigh so easily, the camera set up in some corner of the bed to capture the way he sandwiches his swollen cock between your puffy folds. Kneading at your ass to slobber your syrupy juices all over him. 

Mouth quirking up into a cruel little smile at your disappointed little whine, “You really think m’getting ya for the first time in almost two weeks n’ letting you cum on anything but my cock?” And an even crueler laugh, “Better get workin’ before I send this video to that new boytoy of yours, brat.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - 6 hours

“New shoes, new purses, new nails-” Gojo has his face buried into the crook of your neck, swollen lips bursting with new, broken little moans each passing second, “-a new car- fuck- five new cars. I don’t care, sweetheart. Jus’- jus’ a bit more-”

“Six hours…”

“Six hours too fuckin’ long, thought m’gonna die without this sweet sweet cunt.”

And oh then two large hands of his are shoving up that silky new dress he’d bought for you just a few hours before. Spreading your shaky legs further apart to piston his cock faster - deeper - into your heavenly cunt. 

“Hngh- T-Toru–” you whine, your new heels digging into the skin of Gojo’s toned hips. Jeweled bracelets clanging together as you drag your nails down his milky back - absolutely ruining the smooth canvas. “You’re just b-bribing me.”

“So?” Gojo sounds genuinely confused, raising his pussydrunk eyes to focus on yours, “What’s wrong with ohh fuck jus’ like that- spoiling my girl?”

You give him an eye roll - which only makes your ex-boyfriend let out a stuttering gasp. Head dropping back as his cock twitches wildly, massaging those hidden sweet spots along your gummy walls in a way that only he can.

“The- the problem is- ngh m’not your girl.”

For the entirety of six hours, that is. And the great Gojo Satoru wasn’t about to let that last for a minute longer. 

“Fuuuck don’t say that, sweetheart.” Gojo groans, two fingers making their way downwards to toy with your poor clit, twirling and brushing the pads of his fingers against the sensitive nub. “You’re my girl, always my girl, right? Or do I h-hafta ngh- buy ya another house to prove it?”

You’re gasping at the sight of Gojo reaching for wherever his phone had been thrown off, well and fully intent on calling Tokyo’s best contractor right now. “No!” Pinning his hand down with yours, “Don’t- don’t need another house, Toru.”

Gojo’s pretty pink lips fall into a stubborn pout, and yet his hips never stop. Fucking you into the mattress of this overpriced hotel suite so hard you were sure it would leave marks. 

His heavy balls on your ass, thighs against your own, fingers on your waist - just itching, aching to rip this flimsy dress off of you and fuck you all over again in a whole new one from the stacks of bags on the floor. 

“Then what.” he moans, words hitching upwards with each sloppy smack of his hips against yours. Shuddering out a heavy breath against your lips, “Anything- haaah anything for you. Anything n’ I jus’ want you- fuck fuck fuck jus’ want you.” 

It’s a ragged, dizzying little mantra that he kept spitting into your open mouth. Only growing louder and louder with each drag of Gojo’s massive length against your dripping cunt. Stretching you out, molding you, drawing you back to him.

You choke out, “Wan’- want- ngh-” 

But fuck it was so difficult to speak with how needily Gojo was playing with your pretty pussy. Just ravaging your gaping hole with his unforgiving cock, molding you against each ride and curve of his dick. Fingers so firm on your clit, “Mhm? Tell me- ngh anything.”

“Wan’ you-” you’re letting out an embarrassed pant. Lips crashing against his stunned ones, “Wanna cum- want you- fuck- wanna cum, Toru, so bad.”

“Then cum.” It’s all you can make out through the blood roaring in your ears, your orgasm so close that it almost hurt. Or maybe that’s just how hard that Gojo was pushing into your cervix, your g-spot, everywhere and anywhere. “Cum f’me, my girl.”

And then you are - your entire body jolting into Gojo’s as he fucks you messily through your high. Over and over and-

Barely even making it three, mean thrusts before the way your tight pussy was milking him gets too much. Before he can’t help but spill all into your gummy walls, painting then a creamy little white that was so sinful. So his.

Gojo’s free hand crushes you even closer to his body, pinning you down with his weight to make sure you take every single drop of his seed. All of it. 

“Ohh fuck- you’re right.” he grits out, the pleasure too much that his eyes are blown, jaw falling slack, veins popping out from the side of his neck. “Ngh- this is the best- fuck, you’re the best. The- oh m’gonna give ya everything for the rest of m’life-”

And in the haze of it all, you barely even register the cold, metallic band being slipped gently onto your finger. And despite your blurry, unfocused vision, you could pick apart the ridiculously large diamond winking at you under the dim-lighting. Gojo’s voice sounding way too-pleased as he hums, “Jus’ a lil’ something I bought extra.”

A/N. Reader in Gojo’s is too nice idc I’d be asking for that new house. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[stargirlrchive]

simon’s work wife

one — two — three — four

the transition in your relationship—if you could call it that—with simon was easier than you anticipated. he practically herded you into his apartment.

helping you pack, doing all the heavy lifting, and grunting softly when you’d ask if some of your decor would clash with his. “wh’tver you want in our house will go, doll.”

our house. our.

shivers ran down your spine when you’d hear him refer to your things as our. you didn’t mind it—albeit it did confuse you a bit because just two weeks ago you were single, and now you were living with your lieutenant, and sleeping in his bed, and he’d cook for you—even knew how you liked your coffee in the morning.

the only weird thing was that he didn’t touch you.

well he did, like placing a heavy hand on your lower back to guide you, or pressing up against you to grab a cup from the shelves because you couldn’t reach it, or letting his thumb trail down your throat as you spoke to him.

but he didn’t touch you.

that plagued your thoughts all day, even as you slipped into bed with him. letting out a small huff as he turned to face you in the dim light of the room.

“what’s wrong?”

“nothing.”

you could tell his brows pinched together but you didn’t mention it. picking at your cuticles to stop yourself from looking at him.

you were still so confused; he clearly wanted you if his actions meant anything. and you couldn’t deny that anytime he’d refer to you as his ‘missus’ that warmth curled in your belly and left you a mess.

a needy, horny mess. it was his fault really.

he grunted, thick fingers wrapping around your soft thigh to pull you closer to him, “we ain’t supposed to go to sleep mad at each other.”

your nose scrunched up at him as you somehow found yourself under him, “and who sets these rules?”

he stared at you for a second before that same hand that was curled around your thigh now moved to curl around your throat gently, his eyes glued to your lips.

“me.”

you huff again, but make no move to move from under him—a move simon doesn’t miss. “what’s go ya’ so worked up, sweetheart?”

the gravel in his voice had your skin heating up, nipples pebbling as you met his gaze, “you.”

“me?”

“mhm.”

the amusement was clear in his eyes, staring down at you as he let his weight sink into you and you had to bite back the moan that threatened to leave your lips.

god, you felt pathetic. just the feeling of his cock on your belly, the scent of him, had you reeling.

“tell me what you need.”

one of his hands trailed lower, thumb barely ghosting over your nipple and a breathless whine left your mouth. “well—i-i need you to perform your duties-”

a rumbly laugh left his mouth as his nose dipped down to your throat, licking up your neck and nipping softly, “my duties?”

heat coiled in your belly, arousal pulling between your thighs as you tried to control your breathing. “and what duties have i been falling short on?”

your mind went hazy as he cupped your breast, lowering his hips to press his cock against your cunt, heavy and thick and just there. teasing you further by not moving.

“have i been neglecting my missus?”

that pulled a moan straight from your parted lips, hips bucking upwards to grind against his cock as he grunted lowly. “y-yes, been neglecting me.”

he nipped at your neck, thick fingers easily snapping away that lacy fabric that sat on your hips as he growled out softly, “m’sorry, baby. i’ll make it up to you.”

[dawnwriterimagines]

Innocents among you

Part Two to TRAITORS AMONG US

SIMON RILEY X FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 X FEM!READER

Summary: Your torture is over, but is it really? There is only the torment in your mind now. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the flowers at your hospital bed and the tormentors awaiting the relief of your forgiveness.

Part 3!!

Part 4

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

You flatlined twice, almost as soon as you were handed off to the medics.

Committing themselves to doing CPR before bringing in the defibrillator for an electric charge to your sudden cardiac arrest. "Clear!" They restarted your heart just outside the hallway of your cell, Simon held back by Price as your heart stopped again within the same minute and panic ensued. Johnny and Kyle hearing the news, rushing up towards the hall, their footsteps probably the echo that you held onto as your heart rate picked back up.

Clearly, you lived.

You didn't have the luxury of going comatose immediately after. As you would've preferred.

You'd awoken hours after the medical team carried you off to the infirmary. Still on edge, still plagued by discomfort and cold, despite the lights of the recovery facility and the nurses that paraded around you.

Morphine wears off in about 6 hours, so you were up wailing in agony within the same time. Clearly no one expected you up so soon, but you hadn't slept in days, at least not more than an hour. Jerking up involuntarily, hands all over you to keep you down and steady, you could hear a familiar doctor's attempt to calm you down. But, the blistering pain that radiated from every pore in your body was ringing so loud, a present noise that blocked everything out.

So, at first, you'd been terrified, attempting to clutch onto the first thing you'd woken up to. But, you couldn't move, at least not voluntarily.

With the damage to your spine for countless hours, days, and what you had discovered to be two fucking weeks of endless torture, you'd undergone three difference corrective surgeries that would 'possibly' fix the nerve and circulatory damage done to you. It had left you nearly completely immobile since your admission into the infirmary. The doctors were quite astonished that you were even alive...

The nurses were patient enough with your panicked state to slowly ease you out of your stupor. But, at times it wasn't easy, especially when you didn't even know where you were at first. Since you couldn't see...

You were blind for about four days. Everything a tinted red for a few more after you'd regained your sight.

Fevers plagued you for the week, skin that was raw and inflamed from the severe cold and constant dousing from the pipes, you couldn't move if you wanted to.

The first thing you'd been graced to see were the multiple arrangements of flowers, lilies, white tulips, hydrangeas, roses...typical assortments of regret and remorse.

"Can someone throw these away?" had been your first words.

The nurse who had been checking over your vitals looks over at the flowers, the were all over the desk, even on the floor lining the windows, once they ran out of space to put them. It was beautiful. But, she knew why. Everyone knew why. You were quite famous here in the infirmary, as you were in special unit. "Of course."

They were out within the day. The room bare once more.

And then you saw them outside your infirmary window. Just a glimpse. Around the time you were still getting your sight back.

Seeing them for the first time since everything made bile build up in your throat, a screaming fear that created a pulsing headache.

Kyle, Johnny, Price and...you didn't see Simon.

Price was...a statue. Not moving an inch. His hand against his mouth, covering up the aching distress anyone could see on his face.

Kyle was pacing, back and forth and back and forth. Making an offhanded comment at one of them every few seconds.

But, Johnny was talking, pointing spitefully at someone out of your view.

He was there too then. Simon.

Turning away from the window, you couldn't look at them anymore.

"Don't let them in," you breathe out to your doctor as she sets down a trayed mug on your sliding table as she sits you up to drink a hot cup of tea, which you had requested. "Any of them. Please." You were still so cold, you couldn't imagine dealing with any type of cold weather for a while after dealing with this.

She's confused a moment, before turning to the doorway, where she recalled seeing the four men waiting outside in the hallway. She's seen them just sitting there for days now, they wouldn't beg or argue to come in, they'd just wait. It's not like you were cleared for visitors yet anyway.

Every morning she clocked in for the job, there they were. Sitting there like abandoned children, awaiting the moment the door would open to be welcomed inside.

It was like they never left.

Of course she knew who they were to you. Word spreads fast on the base. Especially for a Task Force as 'famous' as they were around here.

Squeezing your shoulder, comfortingly. Feeling protective, your doctor spoke, "Of course," she slides the mug forward a bit, taking the teaspoon to stir once and lift it to toward your lips to sip. "Blow," she guided.

You did. And sipped.

And it was warmer than any blanket they'd wrapped you in.

---

Prior to being able to trudge around on your own, with the help of a crutch you'd been given to go to the bathroom by yourself finally, the nurses had sponged you down in bed. Your spinal surgeries led to you being at risk if they made efforts to remove you from your bed for anything more than a medical emergency.

Mostly, because you're terrified of the showerhead....and it's pathetic, but no one judges you for it as you opt for a sponge bath every time instead. Even if you're shaking as the water slides down your skin even now. The last thing you needed on top of all this was to develop aquaphobia.

Today was the first day you could do it on you own, limping your way to the bathroom with your crutch. The smell of bleach is much stronger in here, it stings your nose.

You stared at the metal stool left tucked at the side, walking around it as if it would pounce up and attack you, you try not to look at it. You'd been doing well without panic attacks for a few days now, just hold it together.

Taking a breath, you reach out to the handle for the spout, glancing up at the showerhead, before back down. Swallowing thickly when you begin to turn it before pausing, hearing the water rush up the pipe to spill out. Turning it back up just as quickly, shutting off the pipe, you inhale deeply, trembling now, hand up to the chilled tile to steady yourself.

You'll try again, you had to.

Drip...

Drip...

Unable to help yourself, the sudden rush of paranoia that runs through you is terrible, a hoarse cry leaves you. You shove yourself away from the shower stall, back ramming into the doorframe, catching yourself, and away from the showerhead as the water drips, slowly from the faucet.

Drip...

Drip...

As panic tightened its grip around your chest, your breaths quickly turned to short, sharp gasps. The room spinning, colors blurring into a dizzying whirlwind. You turn swiftly, nearly knocking yourself off your feet as the thudding of your own heart startles you, you can hear it in your ears, in your hands, in your feet.

You press a trembling hand to your chest, clawing over the area, trying to slow the frantic pace of your breathing, but it only seemed to escalate. The small room narrowing to a black hole of fear and suffocation, every gasp began to disorient you, turning lightheaded.

As tears welled in your eyes, you collapse against the side wall, sliding down to the tiled floor. Slamming your palm against your chest, once, twice, as hot tears leave streaks down your bruised face, you beg your lungs to expand and wait for your breathing to regulate.

Beginning to sob uncontrollably as you hit yourself in the chest again and again and again, waiting for the moment you found yourself able to breathe.

Why did this have to happen?

You remember the violent swing of the baton against your face, the sting it leaves afterwards, the immediate spotting of bruises forming. The memory startles you, receding back into yourself, back to that day.

"It wasn't me..." you cried loudly, in the empty room. It echoes against the tiles.

Simon wrapping his hands around your neck, staring you down as he squeezed, maliciously. You couldn't breathe as your lover shook with the strength he uses to hold himself back from taking your life.

"I'm sorry," you hiccupped. "I'm--I'm sorry," you're not sure when you crawled yourself into the corner, the lights of the bathroom flickering off dimly from your lack of movement. As you're drowned in darkness, the water dripping from the spout, the cold tile against your skin, it's too much. You scramble upwards, running out of the bathroom.

The automatic lights flicker back on inside, but you're too in your head to notice.

Stumbling down to your knees as you feel the rip of a ruined stitching tearing along your side. "Ah!" comes your startled cry. Making it to the side of your hospital bed, you fist your hand through your sheets, unable to stand yourself up.

Taking pained breaths against the sterile sheets, you bury your head in them, cursing whatever luck you thought you had in this life.

They were your family...

All you had for so many years...

As your breathing slows to distraught, agonized huffs of air, sniffling to yourself as you catch sight of your face in the metal frame of your hospital bed. The dark purple bruises beneath your eyes as the swelling gradually went down, the still bloodshot left eye of yours, the twelve stitches on the left side of your face. So gruesome you knew it would scar you for life, a permanent reminder on your fucking face.

Anger bubbled up inside you at the sight of it. At the memory that would always follow when you'd look at it.

Anger that you hadn't been able to properly feel until now.

Anger that you feared to have until today.

"Are you alright?" the sound of his voice makes you visible tense.

Simon.

He's here.

You don't turn to face him, if you did, you'd revert back to the person you were cowering into moments ago. "The door was open...I just--" he pauses, swallowing thickly. "Lemme help you up."

Hearing his footsteps suddenly moving closer, you speak fast. "STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!" you scream over your shoulder, tucking yourself further away from him. "Do NOT move."

He stops in his tracks. You catch the sight of him in the metal framing of the bed, he's a blur in the metal, but you notice his mask is gone, he's Simon Riley now, not Ghost as he appeared to you in the interrogation cell.

"Don't you dare get any closer," you spat.

"I heard you," he spoke, carefully. Mouth opening and closing, before speaking again. "But, you don't have to be stubborn. If you stay there any longer you could tear your stitches."

"Whose fault is that?"

Simon shifts his stance on his feet, waits a second. "I know. And I can never begin to tell you how sorry I am for what I did. What we all did to you," he says, quietly. "The intel we discovered...or that was forged, it came from a source we've used a dozen times, (Y/n), we thought it was true. It had to be. We've never been misled before."

"So..." your nails bite into your skin, you make an amused sound, biting down on your lip for a moment, till it hurt. " That's what you came here to say, huh? What you waited days to--. Is this you justifying--"

"No, (y/n), that's not--"

"--why you tortured me, strangled me, stripped me, in that fucking cell, Simon?"

"We had to believe it, at the time..."

"Was I not a trusted source?" you argued. "Had I not proven more than a thousand times that you could trust me? I've fought next to you, laid in your bed, given you my love, my trust, I--" you shook with rage at the time and energy wasted on time family, this relationship, if the end goal was always meant to just be this.. "I thought that was at least half the reason you decided to marry me..." at the mention of your relationship, you could see the way Simon nearly lost his balance, hands coming up to run along his face. "You told me you would kill me in that room..."

"I was just talking, I wouldn't have--" his voice cracks as he whispers, trying to convince.

"When you left, I thought you'd come back to kill me any minute, or Price, to spare you. I waited to die for two days, terrified out of my mind. I wondered about heaven, not if I'd make it... but what it'd be like, what I'd be missing out on," you thought back to your time in that cell, a haunted expression Simon couldn't see. "While you all got a good nights rest, woke up for some bacon and eggs, and listened to the warden tell you that your prisoner was framed...for a crime you'd already punished her for..." you stuttered on your breathing, tears flowing silently.

Simon inhales deeply. "I could never expect you to forgive me. I-I had taken my hurt out on you, I thought you did it, I was so sure. I couldn't hear what you were saying, I just could see the evidence, and I--I'm sorry. I'm sorry, love. I'm truly--" he gets to his knees behind you.

"Get up."

"I can never tell you how sorry I am---"

"Simon."

"I never should've done this to you. If I could ever--" his voice rising with distressed breaths, you didn't have to look at him to see his face a mess of sorrow, tears that would mix into the stubble on his face.

"Simon!"

"--make it up to you. If you could ever find it in your to forgive me, (y/n). I'll spend the rest of my life--" he gets closer, reaching out.

Whipping around, stiffening completely as you feel the graze of his fingers across your skin, "DON'T TOUCH ME!" you shove your back against your bedding, your hand swinging and flying across his face. His head snapping to the side as he pauses, freezing up where he kneels, having completely forgotten your request to stay put. "What's the matter with you! Even now? Even now, you can't just listen to this one thing?!"

"I-I'm sorry..." He looks at you, finally seeing your face clearly and up close since it all happened. Finally he can see the bruises along your face, the blood that fills your eye, the dark bruise still around your neck.

Seeing him. He looks rough. Honestly, he looks terrible. His hair shaggy and falling over his eye. Dark circles with bags under them. Pale, and thinner than he should be.

His jaw clenches with guilt and he averts his eyes, you continue. "How could I forgive you for this?" you stare at him, "I could forgive you, if you hadn't let them chain me up like an animal. If you hadn't watched them drown me for hours, beat me black and blue and left me screaming for days. I could forgive you if you had just believed me even for a moment." you feign thoughtfulness. "How about you look at my face. My wrists. My legs! MY FUCKING SPINE, SIMON!"

"Nothing I can say or do, will ever make any of it ok, I know that. And I can't ask for you to ever forgive--"

"What could I possible owe you in this life, that makes you think I'd even think about forgiving any of you for the things you did to me?" you gritted out, angrily.

Simon's head drops, a slow, shuttering sigh leaves him. "I'll never stop trying to make this right. Never."

"...Get out, Simon."

"I'm sorry."

"Simon."

"I'm so sorry..." he reaches out again.

"Ghost."

He's silent this time, fingers tensing, out in mid air.

"I never wanna see you again."

"I love you, (Y/n)," he confessed, eyes feral and wide. Pulling at the ends of your slip.

"I don't want to hear that, Ghost," kicking away from him. "Stop it."

"I couldn't stop even as it happened--"

"Shut up. And get out," shaking as you sneered at his desperate attempts. "It's over, Ghost."

"And I took it on you. It hurt so much, I couldn't think," Simon's face twisted with agony and remorse. "I'm sorry!"

He was making you lose your goddamn mind, you broke. "GET THE FUCK OUT!" screaming at one another as overwhelming tears escaped your eyes.

---

It's quiet in your hospital room, it's empty now, the door closed this time.

The door knob turns and opens again a moment later. "Oh no, Ms. (L/n)!" luckily it was your assigned nurse, who takes your arm and fixes it around her shoulder before helping haul yourself up to your feet. "What're you doing on the floor? There's a call button for a reason," she scolds as you sit on the edge of your bed.

You're quiet.

Alarmingly so for your nurse, who notices the pulled stitching that creates a line of blood down your side. "If this is about what happened to you..." the nurse started, speaking carefully, pulling a lining of gauze from the side to press to your skin. You don't even wince at the pressure, even when she begins to clean and replace the broken stitch. "Don't let it break you. Not even further than this experience already has..." she says, while through the last stitch and prepping a bandage.

"I've been broken long before this," you whispered, looking towards the afternoon sun shining through your window. "This. This didn't break me, no," you admitted, before glancing up with glossy eyes, rage hidden beneath a profound look of sadness. "It destroyed me."

Her hand pauses at your side, your words startling, turning to see the tear that slips down your cheek. Knowing now how deep your scars were from this, before gently sliding the last of the bandage across your skin. "Do not think you are irreparable. That time can't heal your wounds."

"But, there's always reminders," touching the stitches on your cheek, "some things can't be forgiven."

"I never said to forgive..." the nurse interjected. "If you could, after all this, you're stronger than any woman that could be named."

You snicker at that, humming soundly. "That's an interesting thought. I guess I'm one of the weaker ones then."

"And yet, still the strongest I've ever met," she finishes. Pats your cheek, "click the button next time. Save us both the heart attack."

"Noted," you assured.

As she's prepping to leave for her rounds, you open your mouth, once, twice, before clearing it. "Is it possible, someone could help me out--the water..."

"Of course," the nurse says, quickly. "Don't worry, I understand. I'll get everything set for you."

As she walks away, you breathing out your appreciation, you take a long inhale, swallowing down the heaviness in your chest.

part 3 OUT NOW!!

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[sleepymaddy]

.

[chatsukimi]

ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

featuring: protective!heian!sukuna, kindhearted!servant!reader. slight angst/hurt -> comfort. synopsis: you're sick. to your surprise, you're rescued by the man second closest to death himself. masterlist

you should've known he wouldn't come. sukuna has never set foot in the servant's headquarters in his life, let alone to chase after a sick servant. you lower your head, trying to ease the headache that has plagued you through the day.

sukuna loves his bloodshed and his gore. him and death would be good friends, you think to yourself. he wouldn't care if your body was burnt or buried, you think to yourself; wouldn't care if you died at all.

the room the others put you in is empty. ash spreads neatly over the cold floor. the scent of kibble haunts the atmosphere. it's where they put the dogs before sukuna killed them.

ever since you took care of the king of curses while he was sick, the other servants had been careful in keeping a distance from you. not in ill of heart; they're simply terrified at what you must've done to survive in your week long stay with the monster. honestly, you don't blame them.

but now when you're laying on the freezing ground, struggling to breathe, it's hard not to.

'this is where you live?'

your eyes look up. shock. then, with all the strength you can muster, you heave yourself one step away from the man at the doorway, which only serves to piss him off more.

sukuna ryomen, in all his glory, looks down at you. bending down to pick you up like a limp doll to be seated against the wall, he seems to revel in his regained strength. you can't help but feel happy for him, to have survived this fatal disease. not many men can attest to that...

then again, he is no ordinary man.

'i asked you a question.'

you nod, a small thing, barely a movement. he seems to clench his teeth.

he takes off his long white coat, flaunting a layer of dried blood, and drapes it over your shoulders.

yet it doesn't end there. he retrieves from his pocket a bottle of what looks to be a golden syrup.

you know exactly what it is.

he takes your hand and wraps it around the flask, making you hold it, sparing, not one, but two of his eyes, to stare at you, making sure you do as he commands.

'swallow.'

you shake your head. you know he's asking you to do. this is a medication is so rare for your disease that no sorcerer has found in over a hundred years. he's brought this thing of myth right to your very lips. now he's asking you to drink it, and thus take away any chance of it saving anyone else's life.

you scowl, but the tickling sensation in your throat grows stronger, eventually erupting out of your mouth in a harsh cough. you look away from sukuna.

'leave,' you whisper, weakly. 'don't wanna infect you.'

'i survived the illness already. i've developed an immunity.'

you shake your head again. you couldn't threaten your king's health with your own weakness. you just couldn't.

'i can't take this.'

he growls. without any notice, he swallows your lips in a kiss. in the momentary haze, you could hardly resist, fisting the front of his kimono to ground yourself. then, you feel something sweet, honey-ish, hit your tongue.

with his hand locked on your chin, it forces you to swallow.

you pull back, pushing him away. he groans.

he wipes his mouth, still with two eyes staring.

no... no, why did he do that?

'y-you- how? no... why did you waste it on me?' you whisper, desperately searching his face for an answer. 'i'm just a servant. you could've given it to a princess, or a scholar, or priest-'

he grabs you by the arm and forces you into his arms. its heat astounds you, and you find yourself crawling closer. a vague thumping sound seems to press against your ear-

oh. you calm your breathing.

it's his heartbeat.

alive.

'sleep in my room tonight,' he demands.

what did he say? you strain your mind, trying to replay what he said earlier. no... maybe you heard correctly.

'but i'm no concubine,' you respond, instantly.

his arm supports your waist, helping you up effortlessly to your feet. he then directs two of his eyes to the doorway, his cadence low and domineering.

'it doesn't matter.'

he leads you placidly through the servant's quarters. you notice all conversation cease at your entry, bodies dropping into a low bow. a small voice in you whispers that it's where you should be too. you tug at sukuna's arm.

'i'm only a servant, sukuna.'

you know what it looks like, a servant clutching onto a man, more god than human. a man who has slaughtered villages, blood staining the base of his kimono crimson, and turned half a province on its head, just to save you.

'whatever you are in my eyes is what you are to the world,' he states, his expression unchanging. 'if i deem you a queen, that is who you are.'

exiting the servant compound, you know you can't say no- not like you wanted to. the wide expanse of his chest is comforting.

yet however sweet this feeling remains, you can't help but gulp. perhaps this is the closest a human has ever come to courting death.

[ohcaptains]

𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟.

college! peter parker x fem reader.

18+ only !!! f! receiving oral sex. peter parker has an oral fixation i said what i said. in my spider-man era again.

peter was a weekly visitor at this point. sometimes, it was twice, but never more than three. three was pushing it.

Three said that Peter meant something to you, and you couldn’t have that. No, whatever this was between the pair of you was strictly transactional. It was Peter texting you late at night, the classic, you up? Gracing your screen, and every time, you would pretend to be annoyed.

As if Peter coming around to give you the greatest head of your life was an inconvenience. Tempted, the devil on your shoulder smirking, to type back, Jesus, again? but never doing it. Instead, you wrote: sure.

Still, it plagued your mind. He never asked for anything else.

It was as if he did this purely for himself.

“Oh fuck,” you mewled, clenching down tight. The hand that was wrapped around Peter’s brown curls clutched and tugged, and the unconscious movement earned you a chastised groan. It rumbled through your cunt, and the echo shot to your clit, making you close your eyes and lean back, wet mouth spilling his name into your dorm.

Peter liked hearing you.

Liked seeing you lose your mind with his head between your thighs, your pussy wet and throbbing from his mouth and fingers. It’s why he came around often. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even text, would just knock on your door -- looking sheepish from under his dark curls -- and just. Not. Say. Anything.

His silence was answer enough. You knew what he wanted. Or, needed, as you later figured out, as you saw how red he’d gotten when you told him he couldn’t come around for a bit. When you said something about focusing on exams, he’d come over anyway, whined, shuffled his feet and said, You can do your work, I just gotta…I’ll be quick.

The lack of explanation made your mind swirl. But regardless, you’d let him in and did your work with his head between your thighs. He’d tutored you, too, told you how to solve for x with his fingers inside of you. He’d said, if you let me make you come again, I’ll do your Maths work for the next week. After he’d left, you stared at the scene of the crime in pure silence.

Just…reflecting.

Peter fluttered his tongue over your swollen clit. Focused on swirling it around his tongue in sloppy, wet circles, and the thick desire that swelled between your thighs began to pool at your lower back, forcing you to arch up into it.

“Please,” you wept, even though he was giving you what you wanted. Flat on your back with his deft grip keeping your bare thighs open. It was 8 pm. He’d caught you just after your shower, so the smell of your shampoo and body wash wafted through the air – Lavender and pear.

Peter had spread you open and said you smelled like spring. You’d been far too turned on to comment on it. He grumbled into your cunt, and you managed to work out the word, more? You hummed, too drunk on him and wound tight to verbalise that yes, you wanted more. Wanted him to make you come, and come again, till all you could do was mumble his name and focus on your breathing.

He'd learnt how you liked it. Paid attention, and he was getting full scores as he pushed his tongue flat against your swollen clit and sucked. Your vision went white.

“Oh fuck – ohfuck, Peter—” you squirmed, but Peter was strong, and he held you to the bed with his vice-like grip, wordlessly saying take it take it take it.

He lapped at you, salvia drooling over your cunt and down his chin, soaking the sheets. He was always so careless. In moments like this, that nervous edge that always fluttered around him was gone, replaced by a visceral drive to either please you, or get what he wanted.

The two bled into each other.

His tempo was leisurely, but that didn’t stop the heat from washing over you all at once.

You clamped your thighs around his ears and moaned -- loud, so loud that you were sure the other students on your floor heard.

Still, the ache was erratic, “So good,” you sobbed, and you heard yourself, heard the near primal need in your voice, and the desperation made you embarrassed, made you cover your mouth with your palm and grip the sheets, willing yourself to cool it. 

“Move your hand, or I’ll stop,” he uttered against you, and your clit was so sore that the echo of his words made your eyes roll back. Peter must have seen, as he hummed a laugh, and kissed your inner thigh, “lemme hear you.”

Managing to gain some sense of sanity, you blearily blinked down at him, but all sense of stability you thought you had was wiped away when you saw Peter had his hand stuffed down his pants.

You dropped back onto the bed and sobbed.

You knew he got off on this, but Jesus Christ, you’d never seen that before.

“Gotta be kidding me,” you breathed, and Peter must have understood what you were referencing, as he buried his reddening face into your inner thigh. He let out a breathy chuckle, “’ M’sorry,” he mumbled, “usually I wait till I get home, but you’re just so hot.”

You had to stay completely still, or you’d burst. Usually, I wait till I get home?

Peter moved his face and began nuzzling the wet folds of your pussy. He bumped his nose against your clit, and you quietly choked.

Peter hummed, “couldn’t help myself.”

You figured he did something like that, but the admission made your thighs tense. You pictured him stumbling home – cheeks still wet with you – and tugging his pants down, quickly shoving his hands into his boxers and taking hold of his aching cock. Did he whimper when he came? Or was he silent, all tremors and low grunts? No. He definitely whimpered.

He was far too pretty to stay quiet.

The sudden desire to kiss him swept over you.

Reaching down, you tugged at his curls, wordlessly motioning him to move. When he did, you briefly saw the red of his cheeks and wet of his nose before you kissed him, all tongue, and tasted yourself on his pink lips.

Peter melted into you. Huffed your name like a sigh, and the sheer tenderness of it had you wrapping your legs around his back and pressing your bare cunt against his jeans.

He was rock-hard. Tentatively, you ran your nails over his chest, and dipped low, pressing between his thighs, cupping his bulge, and gently squeezing. Peter wept.

“Oh fuck,” he sobbed, as desperate as you imagined. With one hand in his hair and the other on his cock, you continued to kiss him, until the ache between your thighs became too much to bear.

“Make me come,” you whispered, “and I’ll put you in my mouth.”

Peter had never moved so fast in his life.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hello, hope you're a having a good day

Could you write something about 141 x reader where the sparring session turns a little too not your usual sparring (if you know what I mean). The reader and them being all sweaty and shit and like the sexual tension that's been there for a while. This idea has been plaguing my mind since forever. Thank youuuu

Haha! Yes! Omg, I love it. Okay, for this, I didn't go full smut. When someone mentions sexual tension, I tend to hyperfocus on that and want to bathe in it. Give me naughty thoughts and flirting-maybe even some actual physical contact that borders on dangerous territory. Give me the yearning! I want to giggle and kick my feet and think about what might happen later.

So, I indulged in that regard! I had lots of fun with this. Thank you so much for sending it in!!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x TF141!Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, knife play, grinding, rough kissing, caught in the act, training, naughty thoughts, mutual yearning

Word Count: 2.4k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Come on. Come at me.”

Soap rolls his shoulders and then brings his fists up in a fighting stance. He makes a “go on” gestured with his hands.

Every muscle in your body is sore. Tired doesn’t even begin to describe how you’re feeling. But you want to best Soap. He’s been on your ass for weeks now—insisting that the two of you should spar together. It’s not the sparring that makes you warm and tingly but the way he suggests it.

Always leaning in. Standing far too close. Bumping your shoulder with his.

Soap waits, but you’re not sure how to proceed. So far, you’ve been completely unsuccessful. As if knowing all your moves, Soap has dodged each blow and kick, effortlessly taking you down to the mat every time you thinking you’ve ensnared him.

Stealth is more your thing. Creeping around in the shadows. Taking out opponents from afar. A sniper scope is your friend. Hand-to-hand isn’t.

You lunge for him and Soap steps back. Fist missing him, you sidestep and go for a jab in the stomach. Soap slaps your hand away, and you want to yell in frustration.

“Sloppy today,” chides Soap, grinning like this amuses him.

It probably does. He’s one for a good laugh.

This time you feign, and Soap takes it, moving in. You’re ready for him, turning out of his swing to duck beneath and then aim for the face. Soap rises to block, and opens a clear line to his groin.

Fucking beautiful.

Lifting your foot, you don’t tap him hard, just enough for his cheeks to go pink. Soap grunts, and you chuckle.

“Shouldn’t have left yourself—”

With an oof, your back smacks against the tumble mat beneath you. Soaps snags your wrists and pins them above your head. You go to kick out at him, but Soap’s knees are between your legs. He shoves them wider.

You’re completely trapped beneath him.

And in a completely inappropriate position.

From where you’re pinned, you notice the small beads of sweat on his brow and how a few pieces of hair stick to his skin. Though his chest is covered by a shirt, it’s snug, with every muscle on display. Those powerful thighs of his press against yours in such a way that you’re imagining nothing between your bodies.

Would he feel this powerful over you if the two of you were elsewhere? Perhaps, somewhere more private. Somewhere without a tumble mat. Somewhere with a bed.

“Can’t harm the goods, love,” says Soap, his voice husky. You’re not sure if it’s from the close contact or from the tap you gave his crotch.

“Then don’t leave them vulnerable,” you reply, almost not recognizing the sound of your own voice. It too is husky as if dipped in desire.

The middle of Soap’s brow scrunches slightly. His gaze travels downward to linger on your lips and then further still until you sense him admiring more than he is observing.

“Soap—”

His gaze snaps upward. “Johnny,” he corrects. “Think we’re on closer terms.”

“Are we?” you ask, as his hips start to relax.

The press of him against you is apparent, and the hardness there is poking at you. Insistent. And you don’t want to ignore it.

Instead, you press upward, grinding against him.

Soap—no—Johnny, makes a sound in his throat.

One moment you’re under him and then you’re in his lap, the two of you sitting up, staring into each other’s eyes. Your heart hammers in your chest, and your hands fists the front of his shirt.

“You—”

“Are we interrupting something?”

You and Johnny turn just as Ghost and Gaz enter the gym. Gaz has a towel draped over his shoulder. The water bottle he holds it half-way towards his mouth before he freezes, gaze locked on you and Johnny.

Ghost cocks his head, arms crossed over his chest.

You’re speechless. Lost. Your mind hasn’t caught up.

But Johnny’s has.

With a twist, Johnny rolls and then lightly tosses you off him as if the two of you were simply practicing and not staring into each other’s eyes.

“You want a go, Lt?” asks Johnny.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“You up for another round?” asks Kyle.

The man is grinning like he could do this all day. You’re sore everywhere—ready to collapse from exhaustion. Hand-to-hand combat is not your thing which is why you’re here in the training room with Kyle.

Yes, you need practice, but you’ve also had your eye on him, admiring him when you think no one is looking. It’s an excuse for some alone time.

“I’d rather eat glass,” you mutter, snatching up your water bottle and drinking the last of it.

“Hate me that much?” he teases.

“So much so that I wanted to spend the afternoon beating your ass.”

Kyle bursts out laughing. He snatches the water bottle out of your hand and aims it at you, squeezing. There’s nothing in it. A few measly drops hit your face and then you lunge for him. Kyle jumps back and extends his arms outward.

“One more round.” He winks. “Come on, love.”

He’s being cheeky, and your blood is pumping.

Kyle tosses your water bottle to the side as you stride forward. His arms go up, and then the two of you are nothing but flying fists and feet. He’s faster, blocking every blow you send his way.

Sweat accumulates on your brow and on the back of your neck, dripping down your spine. You lick your lips, taste the salt from the sweat.

You duck. Swing. Kyle snatches your wrist and twists, pinning your arm behind you. With a sharp jab of your elbow, you nail Kyle in the stomach, freeing yourself.

As you spin to lash out, Kyle is right there, in your space, blocking all movement. You try to step back, to allow space in your next strike, but Kyle rushes in. The two of you are twisted up. Falling. Slamming into the mat on the floor.

You shove and Kyle resists, his strength outmatching yours. With cheek pressed into the mat, you have nowhere to go. You’re completely on your stomach, and all of Kyle’s weight is on you. He breathes heavily, chest heaving. You feel his breath against your skin, and the contact only sends your skin into a shiver.

Your mind drifts, lingering in places it shouldn’t. Worse—Kyle is aroused. His hardness pokes at your ass. But whether he notices or not is unclear.

“You’re improving,” he says.

“I have a good teacher.”

Kyle makes a noise that sounds like agreement. Every muscle is tense, and even Kyle’s hold on you seems laced with something harsh. But then it eases. Softens. His grip loosens enough that you roll onto your side, glancing up at him.

He is so goddamn close. Just a gentle tilt of the head and your lips would meet his. It wouldn’t be that hard. He’s right there.

Kyle blinks, and then his gaze trails downward, lingering on your lips.

“We,” he begins. “We shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

His thumb traces along the side of your throat, and your eyelids flutter with contentment. A little moan escapes you, and you hear Kyle’s sharp inhale.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck it.”

His thumb becomes his whole hand. Holding you in place, Kyle goes all in, claiming your lips with his. It is dominating, and you happily give in to him.

John Price

Your back hits the tumble mat with a sharp slap. The exposed portions of your shoulders and back sting from the contact.

"Again."

Groaning, you push up to a seated position. "We've been at this for hours."

"And you need practice," counters Price.

He's hatless. And shirtless. Only in cargo pants and boots, Captain Price's bare skin glistens with sweat. You won't pretend that the sight of him like this doesn't intrigue you. For months now you've been observing Captain Price in more than just a professional manner. It's hard not to, and the sweat-drenched man before you isn't helping things.

Captain Price runs his fingers through his hair, taking a step back. The casualness to the movement causes your stomach to twist with desire. Your body betrays you, and you have no idea if these feelings are entirely one-sided. Sometimes you think you might gleam a notion of his thoughts, but it always manages to slip through your grasp.

Price offers his hand, and an idea forms.

You extend yours, but don't close the distance. Price is the one that leans forward to do so. It's the perfect opportunity. When your fingers close around his, you tug back, throwing him off balance.

Price tips forward, and you turn to the side as he crashes down to the mat. In one fluid movement, you roll Price onto his back and straddle his stomach.

"Never let your guard down. That's what you always say."

Price's eyes widen slightly before softening. The corner of his mouth twitches into a hint of amusement. It immediately sends heat flaring through you.

"I do," he replies, and it's nearly a coo.

That smirk of his widens into an actual smile, and then it's you on your back and Price straddling. You strike out with an elbow but Price catches your swing, trapping your arms above your head. He bends forward a bit, and it is then that you feel the stiffness against your stomach.

Price makes no move to hide it, and you don’t dare glance downward.

"You need to do better-"

"Captain."

Price immediately recoils, sitting up and releasing your arms. You twist to look behind you, only to find Ghost and Soap standing nearby. Ghost is ever the silent observer, but Soap's head is slightly tilted to the side, the middle of his brow pinched like he's not sure what's happening.

"Meeting starts in five,” says Soap. “Came to find you."

Price coughs and then he's off you, kneeling and offering you a hand again. You don't try to knock him down.

"Just going over some pointers,” replies Price.

"Pointers?" deadpans Ghost and you shoot him a look. He shrugs at you, gaze lingering before moving to his captain.

"Give me ten minutes. Shower. Then I'll be there."

Captain Price gives you a quick glance before walking off with Soap. Ghost crosses his arms over his chest and just stares.

“What?" you snap

"Pointers," he repeats.

"Oh, fuck off, Simon."

He chuckles and turns to follow the two out of the training room.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

"Your posture is terrible."

"That's very helpful, Lieutenant,” you deadpan.

"Are you sassing me?"

"No."

Simon shakes his head and sighs. “Can’t throw a knife accurately if you’re hunched like a goblin.”

“Goblin,” you mutter under your breath. “Asshole.”

“What was that?”

You clear your throat. “Seems easy, Lieutenant. You just throw the pointy end at the enemy.”

Simon grunts and then grabs your raised arm. "You won't hit anything standing like that."

You resist his pull but you're outmatch when it comes to strength. With one hand on your arm and one on your waist, Simon shifts you into position.

"Like this," he instructs, bringing your arm back. "Firm grip. Feet pointed forward." Simon releases your arm but his hand on your waist remains. "Throw. At the target."

You let the knife fly. It strikes just right of the bullseye.

"Again,” nods Simon.

"Really?"

Simon slowly drops his hand from your waist, the tips of fingers lingering a second longer than necessary.

Removing a knife from his boot, Simon flips it end over end. "We could hone your skills a different way."

"What way?"

“Grab your knife and find out.”

Stalking toward the bullseyes, you yank out the knife, joining Simon in the sparring ring. He bends at the knee, crouching into a fight stance. You mimic the movement.

Simon lunges first and you sidestep. But he's quick for such a large man. He moves around and behind you so fast he's almost a blur.

Grabbing your wrist, Simon lightly twists and pins you against his front, the knife tip pointed at your throat.

"Again,” he growls.

Simon lightly shoves you away. You spin. Striking out. He slaps your arm down and raises his own, the knife tip pointed at your throat for a second time.

"Again."

Showing your teeth, you charge at him, barreling into him at the middle. Simon staggers but doesn't faulter. He attempts to toss you off him, but you remain firm, grabbing hold.

This unloads him, his weight toppling with you. The two of you go down. Simon rolls you onto your back, his body pressed to yours, knife at your throat again.

"Better,” he says. “Still needs improvement."

You go to shove him off, but Simon doesn't budge. He remains where he is, and every point of contact is like an electrical spark. Even his face is close, balaclava nearly scratching against your skin. There is not part of him you’re not touching.

Awareness settles in.

Simon is all hardness over you.

"Have any tips you can give me?" you reply.

His gaze slowly lowers to your lips. His hips shift slightly, something stiff poking against your inner thigh.

“I have one,” he murmurs.

Bet I can guess.

“How do you want it?” he continues.

"You're the expert," you reply softly, hooking your leg over the back of his.

It's an invitation, one you aren't sure he'll take.

There’s a brief pause, and then Simon hums in agreement. It’s a pleased sound, one that instantly makes you shiver. Without taking the knife from your throat, he closes the distance, lips pressing against yours through the balaclava.

Heat erupts, the knife in your hand forgotten on the floor as you grab at him, fingers digging in.

It's only a tease. You want the real thing.

"What's the tip?" you ask once he breaks the connection.

Simon answers by grinding his hips against yours.

That one. Got it.

“We should—”

A door slams from somewhere down the hall. Simon’s head snaps up. The knife disappears, and then Simon is pushing himself away, kneeling beside you. His head is turned toward the main doors, but no one enters.

“It’s late,” you say. No one should be coming this way.

He turns back to you. “Your knife skills are shit.”

You groan. “I know. Goblin hunch. Got it.”

Simon snorts, and offers his hand. You take it, and he pulls you into a seated position. “Just a few more rounds,” he says, and then with a husky twinge to his tone, “and then I’ll go make sure the locker room is clear.”

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[milksnake-tea]

❀ ˎˊ- prompt: wise likes you, and just about everyone on sixth street knows. ❀ ˎˊ- wise x gn!reader ❀ ˎˊ- wc: 1.3k ❀ ˎˊ- warnings: slightly ooc wise idk im still lvl 26 okay ❀ ˎˊ- a/n: thanks you stellaronhvnters for plaguing my mind w wise. anywho this my mini break from the series LMAO wise. i love you king.

Wise can hardly focus, and for once, it isn’t because of you.

Not that he minds being distracted by you - quite the opposite. He could spend hours just watching you talk and getting lost in your eyes, occasionally nodding or agreeing with whatever you were talking about the day. He liked hearing your voice; it was soothing like a cool river, especially after a grueling day.

But this time, it’s him who’s being stared at, and to his disappointment, the one burning holes into him isn’t you (although he severely doubts he could handle it if it were to be you).

No, instead, General Chop stares at him from the corner of his eye as he prepares other customers’ orders, a hint of knowing in his usual smile. Wise can see the excitement in the chef’s eyes, and it doesn’t take a genius to know why.

“Wise?”

He seizes up, bumping his chopsticks. He’s quick to fix himself as you shoot him a nervous, but questioning smile.

“Sorry, you were saying?” he says smoothly (at least he hopes it’s smooth, he still doesn’t know how to talk to pretty people), eager to move past his minor mishap.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” you laugh. “I was just saying that you have a little something on your face.”

Wise feels his cheeks warm. “Oh, really? Thanks for telling me.”

He moves to grab some napkins, but you beat him to it. Wise swears something in him malfunctions when he turns and suddenly you’re all too close to him, your hand reached out to clean up his face.

“Wha- Wait, what’re you-” he sputters, nearly falling off his stool as he lurches back.

“Hey, stand still,” you scold, your slight annoyance only serving to speed up his heart rate because who in the world said it was okay for you to be this cute.

At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if steam was coming from his head, with how fuzzy his mind feels. He can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but just sit there, dazed as you dab obliviously at the corner of his lip.

As you pull away, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, mentally thanking whatever deities reigned above that he hadn’t fainted on the spot. That would’ve been embarrassing; Belle would never let him live it down.

His face feels cooler - hopefully it isn’t so red anymore. By the time he’s able to think coherently again, you’ve started chatting again. Wise nods along (he has no idea what you’re talking about), and goes to slurp up some of his noodles when he sees General Chop again.

The chef, obviously holding back a cackle, grins encouragingly at him and flashes him a thumbs up in support. Wise internally groans. Would it be a bad idea if he drowned himself in his noodles right now?

And this isn’t the first time either - Wise is pretty sure the entirety of Sixth Street is aware of his… ugh, crush on you (saying it out loud both hurts him and makes him feel warm inside. Which is a terrible feeling. He wants to throw up).

Just last week, he’d seen you at the Coff Café, and Tin Man, being both a gracious cafe owner and a huge romantic, had decided that that day was a good day to have a 50% off deal specifically for pairs if they bought two or more items.

Wise hadn’t questioned it at first, since it was normal for shops to occasionally hold discounts like these to attract more customers. Even he was guilty of it, being a business co-owner himself.

But then you had to call him out in the line, excitedly waving him over as you were at the cashier ordering. Tin Man was behind you, a smile in his eyes that Wise wasn’t sure he liked, but he begrudgingly made his way over.

He still remembers the way your eyes sparkled as you explained the discount to him. They reminded him of the stars he’d see at twilight, when he couldn’t sleep and would climb to the roof just to watch New Eridu’s nightlife.

Naturally, he had accepted your offer of buying him a free drink (no one refuses free food), but he quickly learned to regret it when he saw the mischievous gleam in Tin Man’s artificial eyes.

He still gets flustered thinking of it now - the heart-shaped whipped cream and the whisper of “good luck” haunts him, especially when he thinks about how confused you were at the impromptu decoration.

The amount of times he’s caught his neighbors playing matchmaker, he can’t count on both hands - and that’s not including what Belle has tried. It’d be funny if it wasn’t also incredibly humiliating.

“Master, if you were planning on drifting off, perhaps you should’ve stayed home to take a nap.”

Wise sighs. “Be quiet, Fairy. I’m in public.”

“What?” you blink. Wise blinks back before realizing he’d been a little too loud.

“Sorry, I was talking to myself,” he chuckles awkwardly, hands fiddling with each other - it’s a nervous habit of his. You smile understandingly.

“No, it’s okay,” you say, pushing your bowl towards General Chop to signify you were done with it. “You’ve been out of it today, Wise. Something on your mind?”

You, Wise wants to say, but he doesn’t feel like embarrassing himself further. “I guess I’m just tired. Long day today.”

“I can tell,” you laugh, the sound music to his ears. You hop off the stool after sliding your share of the payment to General Chop. “Come on, I’ll walk you home. You look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

Wise’s heart does a little tap dance at your offer, but he manages to keep his cool. He hastily pays General Chop before eagerly joining you in your short walk to Random Play.

“Bro!” Belle greets him enthusiastically as he opens the door. Her eyes light up when she sees you, and she raises her eyebrows suggestively at her brother. Wise shoots her a glare when you aren’t looking. “[Name], too? How was your da- mmghhifjk-”

Wise smiles innocently as he slaps a hand over Belle’s mouth. You can’t help but laugh at the two, and Wise admires the crinkle the corners of your eyes.

“Ignore her,” he says nonchalantly, wrinkling his nose as Belle licks his hand like the little rat she is. “Do you want to come in, or…?”

“No, I shouldn’t.” You wave your hands bashfully. “It’s getting late, so I should be getting back home.”

Wise nods in understanding. Belle pries herself free and he wipes his spit-covered hand on her sleeve, ignoring her sputters and protests (she chose this path. She will reap its consequences).

“Well, I guess this is goodbye.”

You nod, shifting your feet. “I guess it is.”

Wise’s brows furrow at your behavior - what’s on your mind. But thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long before his inquiry is answered.

You take a step forward, and Wise feels your arms loop around him in a tight hug. Suddenly, his senses are elevated, and it’s almost as if everything is enhanced tenfold. He can feel your heartbeat against his chest, the soft sound of your breath, your hair tickling his face and the heat that radiates off of your body against him.

“I really enjoyed today,” you say, stepping back with a smile that could rival an angel’s. “Thanks for hanging out with me.”

Wise tries to formulate a response, but all that comes out is a squeak like a dying balloon. God, if his face was red before, it must be flaming now. You giggle at his response, before you wave both him and Belle goodbye and leave for your home.

It takes a good five minutes before he can speak again.

“Hey sis?”

Belle sounds as shocked as him. “Yeah?”

“I think I’m going to faint.”

He hears his sister sigh.

“Wise, you’re helpless, you know that?” she shakes her head exasperatingly. “And just when you finally made progress too.”

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