#while i politely pose next to them
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inkz123 · 6 months ago
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They kidnapped me for the holidays
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mahowaga · 3 months ago
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it started innocently—really, it did.
you had no idea the chaos you were about to unleash when, that first time, you pulled your phone out at dinner to capture the gorgeous table spread.
you aren't some influencer, you don't have an aesthetic food page or anything. you just like saving the memories. you like looking back at the colors of the dishes, the way the warm lights catch the steam rising from a bowl of ramen, or the glistening sheen of freshly grilled corn. it makes you happy.
but nanami kento—who sits across from you at that table, handsome in his pressed white button-up and tie still a little too tight against his throat even though the workday has ended—mistakes your angle.
his gaze flicks up from his plate, catching you just as you are angling your phone. and for a brief moment, his face freezes.
then—composed, but stiff—he straightens his spine and fixes his tie.
you blink. "what... what are you doing?"
"you could've warned me if you were going to take a photo of me," he murmurs, eyes dropping to his food. "i must look ridiculous while eating."
the words catch you so off guard that you barely manage a confused laugh, and the words i wasn't taking a photo of you! i was taking a photo of the table, of the food don't come. instead, you stutter, "oh, well, i—"
kento nods, but his eyes don't meet yours. he simply spears a piece of potato and says, "of course."
you meant to correct him properly. you meant to explain. but watching the slight pink creep up the tips of his ears—the usually unflappable nanami kento, embarrassed at the thought of you taking his picture—you hesitate.
and then you just never said anything.
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the next time it happens, it's sushi.
a fancy little place you pick because you know kento likes it—quiet, clean, no frills but top-tier quality. you're practically bouncing in your seat by the time the chef slides the first omakase platter in front of you, every piece glistening, delicate, artful.
you pull out your phone.
kento, mid-reach for his cup of tea, freezes again. just like last time.
then slowly—almost robotically—he sets the cup down, places his hands neatly on his lap, and gives you the most stilted half-smile you've ever seen.
you pause, staring at him. "kento—"
"it's alright," he says quickly. "i understand. people like documenting memories. i just. i just wasn't prepared. that's all."
you really should clear the misunderstanding right now.
but instead, a laugh bubbles out of you. "alright. then—hold still."
and you snap a photo. of him. not the food. him.
the photo is terrible—he's as stiff as a board, his jaw locked, and he looks like he's posing for a passport photo at gunpoint.
but it's cute. in the way kento always is, without ever meaning to be.
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it becomes a thing after that. you don't even know how.
every time you take your phone out, kento will assume the position. stiff shoulders, straight spine, polite smile.
and every time, you can't bring yourself to tell him that no—really—you're just trying to take a photo of the food.
but by the fourth or fifth outing, something shifts.
kento starts asking, carefully neutral, "do you want me to sit differently? or is this alright?"
and that? that cracks something in you.
"no," you laugh, breathless. "you're perfect."
the words slip out before you can stop them.
kento blinks once, then twice. then he looks down quickly, ears flushing crimson. "i see."
after that, it's like he's resigned himself. if you pull your phone out, he waits. patient, polite, quietly ready.
so you start taking photos. of him. on purpose.
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at the cafe, with the tiny cappuccino cup too delicate in his large hands—snap.
at the bakery, applying jam to the slice of freshly baked bread—snap.
at the park, sitting stiffly on the bench while you both have ice cream—snap.
"you're building a collection, aren't you?" kento asks one evening, watching you put your phone down with a barely-contained smile.
you start. "what?"
"photos. of me." his voice is flat, but his eyes—his eyes are soft, just the slightest glint of amusement there. "i'm assuming you have a folder by now."
you flush. "i—no—maybe."
kento lets out a low sigh, running a hand through his hair. "you could just ask, you know."
you blink. "ask?"
"if you want a picture," he says, clearing his throat. "i don't mind. but maybe then—maybe i could try not to look like a stiff idiot."
you laugh, loud and bright, and kento flinches like he's just startled a bird.
"you don't look like an idiot," you say, wiping your eyes. "you look like you. that's perfect to me."
kento stares at you for a long, quiet moment. and then—unexpected, a tiny miracle—he smiles. a real one. the kind that softens all the lines of his face, that crinkles his eyes just enough.
"that might be the nicest thing anyone's said to me," he murmurs.
you open your mouth, close it, then grin. "well, get used to it. you're stuck with me, nanami kento. my photo album's already proof."
kento gives a long-suffering sigh, but his hand—warm, steady—reaches out across the table, brushing yours.
"i suppose," he says, almost fond, "i can live with that."
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seven months later, you've built a whole gallery. and when kento catches you looking through it one night—tired from work, tie loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up—he doesn't say a word.
he just kisses the top of your head, quietly, and murmurs, "just let me know next time, hm? i want to look good for you."
and that is how your silly little secret turns into the softest thing you've ever shared with him.
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isamoa · 2 years ago
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“ WHAT GETS THEM HARD! ”
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jjk men x f!reader ࿐ MDNI.
ᰔ、summary. jjk scenarios on how their dicks get hard ofc
ᰔ、tags. (ft. gojo, geto, toji, choso), nsfw, female anatomy, cunnilingus, exhibitionism, sexting, masturbation, etc.
ᰔ、a/n. these are just my silly depictions. if u dont agree idgaf lol
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SATORU GOJO has the dirtiest mind and the highest sex drive. his pants definitely start feeling a little tighter at the sight of you eating a popsicle or something. specifically in public. he would have no shame in it either—casually forming a smirk on his face and dropping a snarky innuendo about the way you’re eating. “can you suck me off like that when we get home?” he’d mumble from across the table, his eyes peeking out from the top of his glasses, a smirk plastered on his lips; wet from the constant licking of his tongue. your eyes widen, a small ‘pop’ sounding from your mouth when you took the frozen sweet out to gasp at the man in front of you. “gojo! are you serious?” you’d yell in a whisper, looking around to see if anyone had heard him. “you’re right,” he’d sigh, standing up from his chair to reveal the very prominent and very obvious bulge in his pants. “we should just do it now.”
SUGURU GETO on the other hand is a polite man. like satoru, he’s a real freak in the sheets—but not as shamelessly. the littlest things can get him hard for sure, but unintentionally seeing your undergarments would really get him going. like an accidental peek at your panties from under your skirt, or a shirt thats a little too see-through showing off the print on your bra. he wouldn’t say anything of course, not right away. you would just be minding your own business one minute and then he’s dragging you towards the bedroom the next. “sugu- what are you-?” you would ask in a confusing tone, craning your head to look at the said man who was now behind you—pushing your stomach up against the countertop; a single hand brought up to grope your breast while the other laid flat against your hip. “your bra is showing.” he’d let you know blankly; an attempt to distract you while his hand slid it’s way into your pants. you would look down in response to his comment, noticing that your bra was in-fact showing like he said. unfortunately for him, you also already noticed the hardon pressed against your back.
TOJI FUSHIGURO gets hard from eating pussy. simple as that. he will get embarrassingly sloppy—juices coating his face and dripping down his chin, loving every second of it while his cock slowly grows harder. emphasis on grows. and if you think for a second that he does it for your pleasure, think again. this man will eat you out purely for his enjoyment only. his eyes are closed and his hands are squeezing at your thighs—legs thrashing uncontrollably from the uncomfortable pressure in his pants that’s about to come undone. “toji- let me help you.” you’d beg with a whimper, dragging your hand from the top of his head down to his cheek when you noticed the constant shuffling of his legs and the crease in his eyebrow. he’d laugh darkly, the breathy snicker creating a hum between your core that made a whine escape from your lips. “im fine mama,” he’ll say cockily, pulling a hand away from your leg to undo his zipper. “ill cum soon, you don’t gotta do ‘nun.”
CHOSO is a needy guy. his face will turn red at a simple flirty text—but send him a slutty pic and he might just cream his pants. fully naked or dressed in lingerie, his favorite or not, he will definitely feel some pressure down below. he might ignore you for a while, uncertain on how he should reply; if he’s even able to. “fuck- couldn’t wait till i got home, could you?” he’d whine quietly, trying his best to keep his voice down from the bathroom of his office job; one hand holding the phone up to his ear while the other rushed to unbuckle his belt. “sorry cho,” you’d apologize from the other line, voice rather faint as you posed for another picture to send him. “when are you coming?” you ask doubtfully just as his phone vibrates with another notification from your contact. “now- im comin’ now baby.” he replies with a huff, phone almost slipping from his ear. “really!?” you try to clarify—much more excited than the first time. “no, i mean im cumming. right now.”
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taikeero-lecoredier · 7 months ago
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HR9495 ON ITS WAY TO SENATE
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Sadly the nonprofit orgs killer bill passed the house and is now on its way to the senate,endangering orgs such as ACLU,EFF,FTF, Internet Archive, AO3 ( @transformativeworks )and any fighting for human rights. Take some time to voice your disappointment at the reps who voted yes on this terrible bill,and thanks the rep that voted against it. However the next step will be to focus on the Senate, here you can find your senators: https://www.senate.gov/senators/ If your senator is a democrat, you can use this script: "I am calling to urge my representative to vote no on H.R. 9495 . This is a dangerous bill would give the Trump administration unilateral power to label any non-profit as terrorist supporting and shut it down without due process. I am calling on my representative to defend civil rights organizations and oppose this bill. Thank you.” You can also tell them you'll vote for them if they vote no on this bill. Anything goes. if your senator is republican/MAGA, use their own words against them :
"As your constituent, I urge you to vote NO on H.R. 9495. This bill poses a dangerous threat to the fundamental freedoms guaranteed by the First Amendment and must not pass the Senate. It grants any incoming administration unchecked authority to revoke the tax-exempt status of non-profit organizations without oversight or due process. Such government overreach is not what the Founding Fathers envisioned for our democracy. This bill undermines the principles of free speech and freedom of association, cornerstones of American liberty.
H.R. 9495 threatens to pave the way for political suppression, allowing the government to selectively target and shut down organizations based on ideological disagreements. This could affect any non-profit, including churches and conservative groups, as well as organizations that champion human rights and civil liberties. Regardless of political leanings, this bill sets a chilling precedent that no American patriot should support.
While situations relating to the hostages deserve careful attention, they can and should be addressed in a separate, narrowly tailored bill. H.R. 9495, however, is a broad, unconstitutional overreach that strikes at the heart of free speech and freedom. It is unpatriotic and incompatible with the values we hold dear as Americans.
I implore you to stand as a defender of liberty and uphold the rights of your constituents. Be a patriot, listen to the voice of the people, protect our God given right to free speech as Americans, and reject this dangerous legislation. Vote NO on H.R. 9495. Thank you, God Bless and God Bless America." (Taken from here )
You can also come join our server internet dedicated to fight against bad bills (and other bad internet bills such as KOSA) We organize call in days and gather ressources ! https://discord.gg/pwTSXZMxnH
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kunareads · 1 month ago
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brat | track two
talk talk featuring satoru gojo
producer!suguru x popstar!reader
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prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist
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wc: 7.2k
content: best friend + safe zone!satoru!!! drugs (implied)/alcohol use, club-hopping / SMUT (so much of it but it's necessary i promise), studio sex, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected p in v, voyeurism, exhibitionism, threesome / soft angst if you squint
taglist is closed! 18+ please <3
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Buzzfeed Music — COKE, CROP TOPS, AND COLLABS: THE WILD NIGHT THAT MAY HAVE GIVEN US THE SONG OF THE SUMMER
Page Six — BRAT PACK SPOTTED: GETO, YN, AND GOJO HIT THREE CLUBS IN ONE NIGHT, LEAVE TOGETHER
Fader — TRIPLE THREAT: YN, GETO, AND GOJO TURN HEADS ON A NIGHT OUT. COLLAB INCOMING?
the first club of the night is designed to be documented. manicured skyline, hand-selected crowd, the kind of party that wants to be watched.
you arrive on suguru’s arm, late and camera-ready. there’s a lull when you enter—a breath of recognition that follows the two of you like smoke. you’re barely past the threshold when you see him.
satoru, lit up like a match.
white hair glittering, sunglasses on at 10 PM, wearing the same grin he’s had since you were nineteen. he ditches whoever he was charming mid-sentence and heads straight towards you.
you don’t wave, but your smile gives you away.
“look who finally showed up,” he calls, already too loud.
“had to give you time to clear out the influencers.”
“you’re welcome.” he winks. “been doing your job all night.”
beside you, suguru’s already sipping on something clear and expensive.
“hi, suguru,” satoru drawls, eyes bright with mischief. “you miss me?
suguru takes another sip. pauses. “not even a little.”
“so yes,” satoru beams.
suguru just huffs a laugh in response like he knows how this goes.
satoru grabs your hand and spins you like you’re in a ballroom. “you look fucking hot.”
you lean in like it’s a secret. “i know.”
he grins, delighted, and the three of you dissolve into it—feeding off lights and noise and attention you didn’t have to ask for.
satoru waves at photographers, blowing kisses and posing for anyone who calls his name.
people gravitate to suguru despite how little he gives them, caught by that amused attentiveness that makes them forget their own names.
you pause at a branded backdrop. someone with a ring light asks if they can get a quick shot for socials. someone else holds their phone up, already filming: “fit check?”
“gaultier,” you say sweetly. “my bag is dior, but i’m not really sure where the jewelry came from—you’d have to ask suguru.”
a neon-lit photo booth glows near the bar. satoru sees it first and grabs your hand, already moving. you catch suguru’s wrist as you go. the flash pops three times: your tongue out, then suguru flipping off the camera, then them kissing your cheeks while you squeeze your eyes shut and smile so hard it hurts.
a cocktail appears in your hand—too fruity, not nearly strong enough. you slap satoru's hand away when he tries to steal it. “mine,” you say. he pouts, so you feed it to him from your straw. suguru mutters something about children.
the “dance floor” is mostly mood lighting, camera drones floating like ghosts overhead. satoru pulls you into it anyway. you dance for one song before passing him off to someone more eager. suguru mouths something sarcastic from where he stands—traitor, maybe—and you twirl your way back to him, grinning.
@/cultgeto (story) 📸 : satoru sipping your drink from your hand 💬 : @/cultyn @/gojos
the next stop is haze and bass that hits your chest before your ears catch up. low ceilings, red lights, fog machines in overdrive. no branded ice buckets or polite spacing between bodies.
you love it instantly.
the three of you are recognized on arrival—cheers, waves, a group of girls jumping up and down—but no one asks for photos or signatures.
satoru finds an empty stool at the bar and slaps his hand down, offering it to you like a throne. he’s already unbuttoned two more buttons than earlier, hair wild like he’s been in wind or trouble. probably both.
you take the seat with a dramatic curtsy and blow him a kiss. he catches it, fake-swooning into suguru’s shoulder like he’s just been shot.
suguru just looks at him, mildly debating whether to let him fall. he lifts a hand instead, rings brushing the back of satoru’s neck, almost affectionate. his mouth twitches like he might be smiling.
with all the subtlety of a fire alarm, satoru flags down the bartender. nine shots of tequila are lined up quick, glowing under red lights.
“we’re celebrating,” he shouts.
“celebrating what?” you ask, resting your elbows on the bar.
he shrugs. “being hot and alive?”
you clink your glass to his, then to suguru’s.
the first shot burns. the second fizzes. suguru kisses your head before the third, and it goes down too easy. your skin starts to hum, like your body’s picking up signal. the room softens at the edges, melting just for you.
satoru’s gone a second later, pulled into the crowd by something shiny or loud or both.
your stool spins—suguru turning it until your knees slot between his.
“he’s already drunk,” you say, trying not to laugh.
“so are you,” he says, planting a kiss to your cheek.
you don’t disagree. the music shifts—heavier, sexier. suguru’s hand steadies you as you slide off the stool. the crowd presses in and you let it, head tilting back and shoulders going loose. no room to be shy. suguru steps behind you, one hand at your hip as the other traces up your side.
you turn your head, looking for satoru. he’s ten feet away, tangled in a group of strangers and dancing with a girl in silver boots, pouring liquor into someone else’s mouth. of course he is. he’s laughing, putting on a show, but his eyes find you. you match his rhythm, grinding back into suguru.
suguru leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.
“if i told you not to let him touch you,” he starts, “would you listen?”
you look back at him—oh?—and giggle. he doesn’t need an answer. he marks you anyway, teeth catching skin on your neck. it’s a brand, not a warning. you smile at the feeling. you knew he’d like that.
across the room, satoru observes, lips curled up like he knew this would happen. you keep dancing, arms outstretched and fingers flexing like you’re calling a puppy. the crowd parts as he starts toward you, drink in hand, grin pulling wide like he knows he’s walking into trouble.
when he gets close enough, you snatch the glass from him.
“this for me?” you ask, sipping slow.
“obviously,” he says. “i’m a giver.”
you hum, handing the half-finished drink off to suguru. he downs the rest without blinking, sets the glass on a nearby ledge.
“so obedient,” satoru coos.
he raises a brow. “you say that like you’re not worse.”
“i am,” satoru agrees brightly.
you smirk and shake your head, fingers curling into his shirt like you might pull him in—but instead you twist, catching suguru’s wrist in the same movement.
“bathroom break,” you announce, already walking. “come on.”
@/gojos (story) 📸 : mirror pic of all three of you in a bathroom—satoru taking the photo with a rolled bill tucked behind his ear, you fixing your lipgloss, suguru tying his hair back 💬 : band meeting
@/cultyn (story) 📸 : blurry photo of satoru and suguru smoking while walking toward the car ahead of you on a sidewalk
there’s a line down the block for the third club, but the bouncer nods the three of you in as soon as you exit the car.
it’s more intense here. strobes flicker slow enough to warp time, fast enough to keep you disoriented. bodies blur into one another. the floor feels like it’s bleeding.
you’re not sure who’s leading anymore.
suguru’s flushed, and your earrings are missing (he pocketed them twenty minutes ago). satoru’s shirt is fully unbuttoned now. his pupils are blown wide. so are yours. so are suguru’s.
satoru leans in to say something—and nearly crashes into a speaker. suguru catches him by the collar, steadying him with one hand and wiping under his nose with the other.
“you’re not cute enough to get away with that on camera,” he says, not unkind.
“yes i am,” satoru beams, eyes sparkling.
then he spins away like he’s proving it. disappears into the crowd for all of five seconds before materializing behind the booth, arms flung around the current DJ like they go way back.
suguru’s slower, tugging you along with two fingers curled into your belt loop. someone offers him a set of headphones and a password. he nods like he already knows.
you and satoru are already dancing. you’re in his arms before you realize—twirled into him, caught at the waist with his hands all over you like he forgot how to be subtle. the bass kicks up behind you—suguru’s doing it on purpose.
you're not sure how long it's been when you both reach for him. he resists for a second, makes you pull, but you end up caught between them anyway—hands at your waist, your ribs, your throat.
the lights shift: red to blue to violet. suguru’s palm curves around your stomach. satoru’s thumb drags across your bottom lip, smearing whatever’s left of your gloss. you lean back into suguru and tilt your head toward satoru’s mouth, not closing the distance.
someone calls your name. a flash goes off. none of it touches you.
“we’re gonna start a rumor,” satoru laughs.
“let them,” suguru murmurs, fingers skating past the hem of your top like a dare.
the bass shifts. your hand finds satoru’s jaw. the other curls into the chain at suguru’s neck.
satoru’s eyes flick down. he looks like he might do it—close the distance, taste you, start something. suguru’s breath ghosts against your throat like he’s already imagining it. you hold your breath, the moment hums with potential, and then—
“we should go,” suguru says, low and even.
automatically, you let go of his chain and reach for satoru’s hand. his fingers thread through yours as suguru’s palm finds the small of your back, guiding you both through the crowd.
the air outside is warmer than you expect—balmy and unbothered by the hour. the street hums low around you.
suguru finds a barricade like it was waiting for him, leaning back with his usual ease to light a cigarette. satoru slots behind you like a missing piece, arms over your shoulders, still bouncing like the music never stopped. you close your eyes and tip your head back into his shoulder.
“parle-moi, chérie,” satoru teases.
you giggle. “absolutely not.”
he pouts, swaying you side to side like a lullaby. “habla conmigo?”
“only if i get to use my secret made-up language.”
“doesn’t matter,” he says with a smile. “just talk.”
suguru exhales smoke. “no one understands either of you.”
you both laugh, and for a moment, everything holds. the three of you in borrowed warmth. smoke curling into still air. the city too preoccupied to interrupt.
then your phone buzzes in your hand—once, twice, then all at once.
a flash goes off. shouting.
“they found us,” satoru says, grinning like it’s a game.
the crowd closes in fast: paparazzi, a few screaming fans, a handful of quieter ones hanging back with their phones half-raised, like they just want proof they were here. the boys don’t flinch. the car’s already waiting.
suguru flicks his cigarette away. satoru’s hand finds your shoulder, calmly steering you like this happens every night.
halfway through the crush, someone gets too close. not aggressive—just a man with a phone, angling for a shot. you barely notice, but suguru's hand is immediate, pulling you a step back into satoru’s space. he moves forward, stepping between you and the outstretched arm with a look that doesn’t invite argument.
“don’t,” he says.
the man stammers something—sorry, maybe—but the moment’s already over. the driver opens the back door. satoru’s hand finds the small of your back, guiding you in without letting go. suguru slides in after, the door clicking shut behind him.
“studio’s closest,” he says, settling.
“let’s go,” satoru echoes.
you sink between them, breath catching up to your body. a laugh escapes you—quiet, stunned, not entirely sure why.
that could’ve gone differently.
“that was cute,” you say. “you guys almost looked coordinated.”
@/ynswife: do they know we can see them???
@/gojojojo: yn and satoru being besties is terrifying because neither of them has ever faced a consequence in their life
@/suguruowned: satoru is fun hot messy and suguru is scary hot mean and yn is all of the above
the studio is humming when you arrive, LEDs casting everything in soft pink. the three of you spill through the door, glitter-streaked and flushed, riding a high that’s more chemical than natural and definitely not wearing off anytime soon.
you kick your heels off by the door. satoru tosses his sunglasses onto the nearest surface. suguru sinks into his chair like he’s been missing it all night, the backlight from the boards catching on his rings as he starts scrolling through files.
a beat kicks up under the speakers, then dies. another takes its place—lighter, too slow. he lets it breathe. scratches it, then moves on.
you grab two mics and join satoru on the floor, sprawling out across cushions and cables. a stack of paper scraps sits between you—lyric fragments, setlists, a crumpled parking ticket. you’re already giggling, trading nonsense into the mics like they’re toys.
“talk to me in spanish,” satoru says, chin tilted back like he’s communing with the ceiling.
“hay una fiesta en mi casa,” you purr. “vengan, será muuuuy divertido.”
satoru nearly chokes laughing. “wait, wait—j'ai perdu mon téléphone,” he adds, deep voice turning airy. “mais tu sais quoi, ça valait la peine—”
you’re both laughing too hard to finish the line. satoru drops the mic onto his chest, grinning up at the ceiling. you lean back onto your elbows, breathless.
and then—unserious and perfectly on-key—he sings.
“are we getting too close?”
you snort. “shut up.”
he just winks at you. “you’re leaving things in my head.”
a lazy finger comes up to point at suguru. “i’ll be honest, you scare me.”
“my life’s supposed to be a party.” he pouts like he means it.
you toss your head back, giggling. suguru finally turns, amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth. “you done?”
“almost.” satoru sits up to dig through his phone. “i actually brought something.”
you blink at him. “like… to share with the class?”
he hands the phone to suguru, already playing. it’s rough. recorded in the back of a car, probably, but it’s there.
the more i know you, the more i like you can you stick with me, maybe just for life? and say what’s on your mind?
you sit up and grab your mic again. your voice slices through the air.
talk to me in french, talk to me in spanish talk to me in your own made up language doesn’t matter if i understand it
suguru lifts a scrap of paper while you sing and holds it up: talk right in my ear, tell me your secrets and fears.
you grin when you see it, saying the words without breaking rhythm.
from there, everything just… clicks.
satoru moves into the booth and gets the post-chorus down quick, making faces at you through the glass. you improvise your second verse. a lot of it’s nonsense that you’ll have to revise later, some of it hits.
you twirl barefoot across the room as you sing, eventually dropping into suguru’s open lap. he doesn’t react, just adjusts you with one hand on your waist, the other still working.
it plays back. you and satoru throw harmonies over each other and ad-libs where they’re needed. somehow, it works.
your high melts into something honeyed and warm. you curl up in suguru’s lap, mic abandoned somewhere behind you as you listen to satoru record one last take. his voice is lazy on the mic now, edges dulled by laughter. when it ends, he peels off the headphones and wanders back into the room.
suguru spreads his knees a little wider under you and tips his head back, eyes tracing your profile like he’s thinking about what to do next. you shift slightly, gaze trailing to satoru as he drops onto the couch with no urgency, legs wide, glitter clinging to his collarbones.
his eyes are half-lidded, but they don’t leave you—not when suguru’s hand starts to trail up your thigh, or when he brushes your hair back to kiss the spot below your ear.
you exhale slow.
suguru’s palm presses low on your back, guiding your hips into a slow roll. he's warm beneath you, just hard enough to feel. you follow, like you always do.
“you’re being mean,” you whine.
“am i?” he replies with a smirk.
you grind again, filthier this time—enough to tempt.
“you want him to watch,” he says, dragging his teeth against your throat. “or join?”
you tilt your head like you’re thinking about it. his teeth catch your jaw as you rock again, a little deeper. a little more obvious, like you want to be seen.
his hand tightens at your waist, the other in your hair as he pulls you into a kiss—deep and addictive, tongue and teeth and something filthy at the edge. he kisses you like he always does: like he owns you.
like satoru should know that already.
and you don’t stop. don’t even flinch when you feel satoru’s eyes burn hotter from across the room. you let it feed you, kiss suguru slow with your hips in motion, more intentional now.
when you finally pull back, your rhythm has slowed to a lazy, taunting grind. your forehead rests against suguru’s, gaze sliding sideways.
satoru looks like he’s buffering.
you hesitate just long enough for suguru to catch it.
“it’s okay, baby,” he says, quiet against your jaw. “go ahead.”
you didn’t think you needed his permission. but the second he gives it, something in you loosens. you kiss him once—tender, grateful—then slip from his lap.
he doesn’t stop you. just reaches for your zipper, unfastening it with one practiced pull. your skirt slips down your legs and his hand trails after it, light and reverent.
then he leans back with his arms crossed, watching you walk away from him like a gift he’s given.
you hook your thumbs into your panties as you go. they cling for a moment—slick stringing between your thighs—before dropping to the studio floor.
satoru’s eyes track every movement. “you sure?” he asks.
“are you?”
that makes him laugh. “come find out.”
without breaking eye contact, he pushes his jeans down like he has all the time in the world. he’s already hard, heavy and flushed against his abs.
your stomach flips unexpectedly, and you pause. not because you don’t want it, but because this is satoru. your enabler. your softest place to land. your favorite.
he sees it, hands finding your thighs. “hey,” he says, catching your eyes. “we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”
“i want to,” you say.
and you do. you trust him. you always have. and it’s easy—so easy—to give that trust shape now. to let him hold it.
“how do you want me?”
his eyes snap up to yours like you broke something in him just by asking.
but it’s suguru who answers. “turn around.”
you do. without hesitation.
climbing into satoru’s lap backward feels obscene—deliciously so. you like it. you like the way suguru sits up straighter when you do, like you’re the show now. nothing hides the way your ass fits satoru’s lap, or the way you reach between your legs to guide him in.
satoru groans as you sink down—one long, steady exhale like he wasn’t ready. like he didn’t expect you to take all of him. you gasp at the stretch, gripping his knee to steady yourself.
“oh fuck,” he pants.
you grin over your shoulder. “you sound pretty.”
“don’t start,” he grits out, but he’s smiling through it.
you settle with a shiver, feeling impossibly full. he’s so thick and so deep that you can’t help the whimper that slips out. his hands trace up your sides, firm but patient.
across the room, suguru watches—silent, eyes fixed on the way you take him.
so you move. each rock of your hips draws a sound from satoru���s throat and a matching one from yours. he meets every grind halfway like he can’t help himself.
you keep your eyes on suguru. not for his approval, just to show him: look what you made.
“jesus,” satoru groans. “he’s gonna let me die like this.”
you moan, breathless and giddy. you can feel slick running out of you, every drag against your walls, the ache where he's stretching you.
“he’s making me earn it,” you whisper.
he presses a kiss to your spine. “you never had to.”
and at that—finally—suguru takes his time crossing the distance. your body stills when he drops to his knees in front of you, heart tripping in your chest.
suguru spreads you wider, palms firm, fingers digging in. then, his breath against you. you moan before he even touches you. your head falls back onto satoru’s shoulder, chest rising and falling hard.
“easy,” satoru murmurs, one thumb stroking your waist.
“keep going,” suguru murmurs. it’s unclear who he’s talking to.
and when he finally licks—a slow drag of his tongue where satoru stuffs you—you cry out, whole body jolting forward.
satoru catches you, groaning. “jesus—”
“oh—fuck,” you gasp.
suguru doesn’t ease into it. he eats you like he’s been thinking about this all night. like this was the point. he’s confident, focused, working your clit between thrusts, letting your slick smear across his face.
“shit—she’s—she’s squeezing me,” satoru chokes out. and you feel how hips jerk up without permission, how he pulses inside you every time you moan.
you’re gasping now. your body gets caught in the rhythm—rocking forward and back as they take you apart in tandem. satoru fucking up into you like he needs it, suguru’s mouth locked between your legs like devotion.
your mouth falls open, silent at first, then full of noise—moans, whimpers, babbled nonsense.
“he’s—fuck—he’s—”
“yeah, princess,” satoru laughs, half-mad. “we know.”
suguru doesn’t let up. not until your whole body is vibrating, until your moans give out into sobs, until you’re clenching around satoru with your nails biting into his thighs and your head thrown back.
“oh my god, i—”
everything seizes, then lets go—a brutal, blinding pleasure ripping through you like a flood. you come hard. loud. body arching between them—into satoru’s chest, into suguru’s mouth, into the heat of being seen.
“fuck—fuck,” satoru breathes, arms crushing around your waist. “you’re—jesus, she’s fucking milking me—”
suguru groans low into you, vibrations rolling through you. he doesn’t stop, just eases you down until he catches the last tremors with his tongue. soothes you, like he’s not half the reason you just came apart.
you collapse into satoru, skin flushed hot. he’s panting hard, forehead pressed to your shoulder like he’s trying to stop the world from ending.
“fuck, i’m—” he starts. “don’t move.”
his voice cracks. he’s holding it in.
and you can’t do anything about it. not yet. your legs shake, head spinning too much to move, let alone help.
but suguru can.
his hands trail up your thighs as he stands. he leans in, close enough that it forces you even further back into satoru, and kisses you. slow, claiming. a filthy, reverent thing that tastes like you. it hits you again that he just had his mouth on you while you were full of satoru.
the thought makes you gasp into it. he strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers.
“off, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “let me handle him.”
you nod and he helps you lift, easing you off of satoru. you and satoru both whimper at the drag.
“arms up,” suguru says.
you obey, let him tug your top off gently. he doesn’t even glance at your chest, just presses a final kiss to your temple before settling between satoru’s legs.
satoru stares at you now, eyes glazed. you’re still catching your breath, but you press close anyway—one hand on his chest, the other at his jaw. you kiss his cheek, trace the slick curve of his abs. suguru strokes him once, then again. his eyes flutter shut.
“don’t cum yet,” you murmur, lips brushing his throat.
his jaw clenches. “i’m not gonna last.”
“mm,” you hum, smiling against his skin. “you can take it.”
and then suguru takes him into his mouth.
satoru moans—loud, broken. his hips jerk, but suguru is already there, holding him still with one hand. he sucks him slow and deep, tongue pressing firm beneath the shaft. satoru tries to chase it, hips straining up against suguru’s hand, desperate for more.
“fuck—please—”
suguru pulls off. “stay still.”
“can’t,” satoru pants, flushed to his ears. “please—fuck, please, just—”
you lean in close, running a thumb over his lips. “you gonna cry for him?” you whisper. “gonna beg?”
his eyes flutter open to meet yours. they’re glassy. gone.
suguru licks the underside lightly. up and down.
“please,” satoru breathes, begging you now. “please let me cum. i can’t—i can’t take it, fuck, i need—”
you glance down, meet suguru’s eyes, and nod. “then go ahead,” you say to satoru, voice sugar-sweet. “let him taste it.”
suguru doesn’t hesitate. he sinks back down and takes all of him—and satoru’s eyes roll back, one hand flying to find your arm as he spills down suguru’s throat with a sound like he’s breaking.
you stay quiet, holding him through it, letting him fall apart the way you did. you stroke his chest and his hair. press slow kisses to the side of his face.
suguru rises slowly.
satoru's head is tipped back, still panting, lips parted like he’s tasting the afterglow. he doesn’t even flinch when suguru leans over him.
“open your mouth.”
satoru obeys instantly. suguru slides two fingers in, deep and smooth, curling just slightly against his tongue. satoru moans, eyelids fluttering.
“can’t believe how fucking good you look like this,” suguru mutters, shaking his head like he shouldn’t be surprised.
he pulls his fingers out enough to slap his cheek—once, twice—then pushes them back in, slower, watching satoru suck them down greedily, whining around them like he needs it.
and you can’t help yourself. you lean in and kiss him, right over suguru’s hand. hot and messy, tongues tangling over the taste of suguru’s skin. your moan gets lost in his.
suguru’s breathing goes shallow as he watches you pass him back and forth. you’re all too gone now to pretend you don’t like it—this quiet collapse into each other.
satoru lets go with a hum when suguru finally pulls away. you pull back too, heat pooling when you see him—flushed and debauched, white hair sticking to his forehead, blue irises intruded on by dark pupils.
and he’s staring at you like you hung the moon.
when you look up, suguru’s watching you too.
his gaze moves down your body like he’s replaying things—your moans, the way you came apart on his tongue, the way you kissed him after. and now, soft and open, you hold his gaze without flinching.
he hooks a finger under your chin. kisses you again—slow and sweet, like a promise—before stepping back to undress.
behind you, one hand finds your waist. when you turn to satoru with soft eyes, he opens his arms without a word. you crawl into him and he pulls you close, turning you in his lap until you’re comfortable with back to his chest and your thighs falling open.
“hi,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder.
your lips curve as you lean your head back. “hey.”
suguru steps forward.
his hand trails up your thigh, thumb circling your entrance, eyes stuck on the way it flexes under his touch. he strokes himself once, twice—then lines up and sinks into you with one smooth, claiming thrust.
you cry out from the stretch, head snapping forward before satoru’s hand finds your forehead to guide you back to his shoulder. “breathe,” he whispers at your ear. “you can take it.”
and you do. you take all of him.
he draws it out at first—deep, dragging strokes as he gives your body time to catch up. your hand drifts mindlessly to where he fills you, just to verify the ache.
“you missed him, huh?” satoru says, teasing and soft, pressing a kiss to your hair. “he missed you too.”
suguru groans, snapping his hips harder. the rhythm builds like ritual.
each thrust lands heavy—the wet slap of skin filling the room, obscene and constant. he fucks you like he’s putting something back where it belongs.
and he can, because he knows you too well. knows the spot that makes you gasp, the angle that makes you cry, the pace that makes you go stupid.
your thighs tremble where they’re spread. you can’t hold still—can’t even try. every thrust shoves you into satoru, rocking you like a ragdoll. your fingers claw for anything—his thigh, suguru’s wrist, the edge of the couch—but nothing holds.
“god, she’s taking it,” satoru groans, awestruck.
“she always does,” suguru growls. “she fucking loves it.”
and you do. you can’t say it, can barely breathe, but you do. every thrust punches a new sound out of you—choked moans, gasps, desperate little whines.
suguru spits into satoru’s hand. you barely register it until you feel it: slick fingers rubbing against your clit in tight, filthy circles that make your eyes roll back.
“don’t stop,” you pant. “please don’t stop—”
satoru’s mouth brushes your ear. “you sound so fucking sweet like this.”
you nod, frantic, but it’s not enough. you’re falling apart, and all you can do is clutch at them like they might keep you together.
“fuck,” you gasp. “fuck, please—please—”
you’re not even sure what you’re asking for.
suguru grits his teeth and drives deeper. satoru kisses your temple like a blessing, fingers unrelenting. your whole body writhes in their hands. too full, too raw, too much.
and satoru must feel it—how your muscles flex without rhythm, how your breathing breaks out of sync.
he looks up. “you got her?”
suguru doesn’t answer right away. instead, he stills. stays buried deep as he leans in, his chest pressed to yours, foreheads meeting.
the shift is jarring—your body clenches around him, desperate for friction, for something. but you freeze with him, pulled under. the world drops out as his breath brushes your lips. your chest heaves. your hands find their way around his neck like prayer.
when he speaks, it’s just for you.
“i got you,” he breathes. like a secret. like a promise.
and something in you cracks.
it’s rare, this softness between you.
and for a second—just a second—you almost pull away from it. not because you want to, but because that’s what you do with each other.
but he’s here, holding the tenderness. holding you.
because he knows. of course he does.
“hey,” he whispers, brushing his nose against yours. his thumb strokes your cheek like he’s trying to hold you there. “stay with me.”
you nod, barely. your eyes well up.
“say thank you.”
your throat tightens.
“thank you,” you breathe. quiet. shaking.
he hums, half-praise, half-moan. his hips roll once, just to feel you clench.
and then, so quiet you almost miss it, satoru whispers. “say it again.”
“thank you.” higher this time. fragile as you hold suguru’s gaze. “thank you, thank you—”
you’re not sure if you’re thanking him for fucking you like this, or for holding you here, or for the way he always, always, knows how to bring you back from the edge without letting you fall.
but it works.
suguru groans at the sound of it. kisses your cheek like you’ve ruined him.
then he moves again.
he fucks into you with intent now—like he needs to finish what he started, needs to feel you fall apart around him. his thrusts grow deeper as satoru’s fingers find your clit again, circling in perfect rhythm. they both know exactly how close you are. they’re pulling you under together.
“oh my god—”
“come on, princess,” satoru murmurs. “give it to him.”
suguru groans at the words. he’s close—so fucking close—but he’s holding it. waiting for you.
your breaths come short, whole body pulling taut now, like you’re being wound too far.
his hand finds your throat—not to choke, but to anchor. his thumb presses up under your jaw as he leans in, lips ghosting over your cheek.
“you’re right there,” he murmurs. “i feel you. give it to me.”
your heart squeezes. and when your head tips back, your mouth open in a moan—
satoru kisses him.
he slides his free hand behind suguru’s neck, pulls him down into it, and kisses him over your head. open-mouthed and frantic and needy.
it lands like a spark.
suguru moans into it. he kisses satoru back like he’s starving for it—biting at his lip, hips still slamming into you like nothing else exists.
your orgasm hits you so hard you go silent.
your body locks up—mouth open, no sound—until a sob breaks free from your throat, raw and desperate. tears spill over your lashes as you writhe, clenching so tight it nearly forces suguru out.
but he chases it. moaning into satoru’s mouth, fucking you through your orgasm and straight into his own. his pace falters, his breath catches, and then he’s spilling inside you, hips rocking through it like he can’t stop, like he wants to stay.
no one moves right away.
suguru's hand strokes your cheek. behind you, satoru exhales—his arms relax just enough to let you breathe deeper as his smile curves at your temple.
eventually, suguru pulls out slow, kissing you when you whimper. he stands, silent as ever, and slips from the room.
you melt fully into satoru, exhaustion settling as your eyes slip shut.
he brushes damp hair from your face and laughs quietly. “you two are so in love it’s disgusting.”
you swat at his chest, eyes still closed. “you’re projecting.”
“no, really,” he giggles. “you should see your face right now.”
“can’t,” you mumble. “sleepy.”
“mhm. poor baby.”
you would’ve hit him again if your arms worked.
the couch shifts. suguru’s back—barefoot, still shirtless—carrying three water bottles and two soft t-shirts over his shoulder. he sets them down, kneels beside you.
“gonna clean you up.”
he uses a shirt, dabbing gently between your legs like he’s done it a million times and will do it again. you flinch, but he hushes you immediately, murmuring praise you can barely hear. when he’s satisfied, he slides the clean shirt over your head, guiding your arms through like you’re delicate.
you slump back into satoru, half-asleep. suguru lifts a water bottle to your lips. you sip twice. he sits beside you, drinking the rest of his, and for a while, no one speaks.
then satoru, voice muffled in your hair: “we’re not sleeping like this.”
“we could,” you whisper.
“we shouldn’t,” suguru replies, already moving.
satoru stands and lifts you gently into the producer’s chair. you hear the soft clinks of the frame, the rustle of blankets pulled from the closet.
as soon as the couch is pulled out, you crawl into it. suguru slides in beside you, and you curl into him like you always do.
satoru groans dramatically when he joins, rearranging until he finds the perfect position: his head pillowed in suguru’s lap, one arm flung across your waist.
for the first time all night, everything is still.
you’re asleep first.
satoru’s not far behind—he mumbles something into suguru’s lap, then goes quiet. his breathing evens out quickly, mouth parted, fingers twitching once at your waist like he’s dreaming something warm.
but suguru stays awake.
he doesn’t know why. maybe it’s the weight of both of you on him. maybe it’s the part of him that always watches, always waits.
his fingers trace slow circles against your back. your cheek is warm against his chest, one leg draped over his. you look peaceful like this. like the sharp edges that usually cling to you have melted clean off for tonight.
part of him aches.
he doesn’t resent it at all. he knows how you are with satoru. he has for years.
how you lean into him without thinking. how you smile easier, laugh without checking yourself first. how your chaos and his collide in ways that never spark danger—only more light. you don’t guard yourself with satoru because you’ve never had to.
it’s not a competition.
he’s told himself that more than once.
but you’ve never given suguru that kind of ease without a fight.
and god help him, he likes it.
he likes that every soft thing you give him feels like a win. that you make him work for it. every laugh, every let-down guard, every tender moment—he’s had to fight you for those.
but tonight—
you gave it to him without the war first. like it didn’t cost you anything. he can’t stop turning it over in his mind, trying to understand what changed. what he did. and whether he can do it again.
his hand keeps moving along your spine, slow and steady. a silent tether.
because he can’t ask you. not without risking the quiet. and maybe he doesn’t need to.
because at the end of the day, you’ll flirt with the whole world. you’ll light up every room, throw yourself across stages and hearts. you’ll let satoru make you laugh until you’re gasping for air, let him be the reason you catch your breath instead of losing it.
but you’ll still end up here, in suguru’s arms.
you’ll still call him first.
that’s just the game.
he’ll keep playing for as long as you let him.
@/deuxmoi BLIND ITEM: a certain pop darling, a white-haired chaos agent, and your favorite producer’s favorite producer were seen stumbling into a studio after hours last night. security’s been posted up since 2 AM, and nobody has left ten hours later.
you wake slowly.
your body aches in that full, molten way—spent, sated, soft at the edges. you blink through the quiet, eyes adjusting to the haze bleeding through the studio’s curtains.
across the room, suguru is already up.
he sits in his chair, shirt on, sweatpants slung low. his hair’s messy, like he raked his fingers through it and gave up halfway.
he’s staring at his phone, thumbs moving: swipe. pause. tap. type.
you almost miss the tension at first. but then you catch it: something flashing across his face. gone too fast to name, but you saw it. not a frown, not quite surprise. more like confirmation. like he received something he knew was coming.
he doesn’t know you’re awake. tap. tap. type.
you stay still. your heart ticks up anyway.
it’s probably nothing.
probably some brand deal he doesn’t want. or an annoying scheduling conflict. some PR request, a time zone fuck up, a half-buried deadline. something normal.
you tell yourself all of that.
but it echoes anyway. lingers like static—soft but charged.
the spell breaks when satoru stirs beside you.
his arm flexes over your waist, searching until his hand finds the bare skin at your hip. his fingers curl there, loose and lazy, and he hums—eyes closed, voice rough.
“c’mere.”
you shift without thinking, curling into him. his nose nudges your shoulder, mouth brushing your skin.
suguru looks up. he softens at the sight of you relaxing, satoru smiling into your neck like he’s dreaming.
then satoru mumbles into your hair: “did we record something?”
you blink, your brain still syrupy. “…yes?”
suguru’s already moving. he sets his phone down—screen dark, face down—and reaches for his laptop. the screen wakes with a soft glow. a project is already open.
music bleeds through the speakers.
the intro is unfamiliar—then satoru’s voice, airy and laced with heat. a low beat that hits hard. your voice looping over it: talk to me in french, talk to me in spanish.
it’s better than you remember—sharp and sexy and fun. by the outro, you’re sitting up and grinning so wide it hurts.
“we sound fucking unreal,” you say, turning to face them.
suguru doesn’t look at the screen. he looks at you.
“you are.”
your stomach flips.
“get a fucking room,” satoru groans, dragging the blanket over his head like it personally offended him.
a laugh escapes you. and when you meet suguru’s eyes again, you’re still smiling.
so is he.
and the tension from before—whatever it was—doesn’t vanish. but it recedes.
580 notes · View notes
temis-de-leon · 1 year ago
Text
Pick me girls and OM! Brothers - Part 1
Characters: Lucifer, Mammon and Levi (x reader, separately)
Pick me boy variant
Part 2 - Satan, Asmo, Beel and Belphie (x reader, separately)
Part 3 - Diavolo, Barbatos, Solomon and Simeon (x reader, separately)
Masterlist
CW: pick me girl behavior, suggestive, mentions of sex between the brothers and mc, mentions of violence, a bit of magic, mentions of cheating (not actual cheating), mammon and mc taking a shower together, jealous mc, some fluff, some hurt, some comfort, kinda ooc but i had so much fun with this
.
Lucifer
Wherever you went, rumor followed. Haven't you heard? The mighty Lord of Pride has a significant other. Who could it be? Maybe the prince or his butler? Both of them? Or perhaps it was just some random demon? Surely not the human... right?
"Of course not!" said the witch, surrounded by both curious and jealous nobles.
You weren't in the balcony, but you could still hear the conversation in your spot near the open door. You could also hear the gasps and the murmurs. It was ridiculous.
What to do next? You could interrupt the gossip and make your relationship public; after all, it was only a matter of time before someone spotted you both in Ristorante Six or an empty hallway in RAD.
Ignoring them was the better option, however. No words sounded aggressive and yet polite enough to get the witch to shut up without making a scene. Plus, Lucifer was looking exquisitely fine that night. His wings did wonders to his appearance.
"Then who?" the voices asked while you walked away towards your boyfriend.
"Well, I wasn't supposed to say anything..."
Oh no she did not.
"But we're just so in love"
I'll be damned, you thought. She did.
The wrath you felt was primal and it provoked a worried glance from Satan, who was chatting with one of his many contacts in the other side of the ballroom.
You wanted to make an entrance, a dramatic one, but you could only watch as the witch talked and talked about her supposed first date with Lucifer, their first kiss, their first time, his performance in bed (which... No. She was so wrong about that one).
Finally, you opened your mouth.
"You don't say?"
But that wasn't your voice.
Beside you stood Lucifer in all his glory, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes and a hand hugging your waist. The floor trembled under your feet as he walked and, if it wasn't for his tight grip, the magic induced vertigo would've send you to the ground.
You could tell he was trying not to harm you too much, but the group in the balcony wasn't so lucky. All of them were on their knees and some even coughing blood.
"Do tell all your stories tonight, by dawn you'll have no tongue to keep lying"
The witch had tears in her eyes, too focused on her own pain to be aware of her surroundings or his words. Was he being serious? You wanted to ask what would really happen to that woman, but Lucifer was always two steps ahead.
He cradled your face and kissed you, slowly yet firm. His cold skin felt good against yours, already blushing under his half lidded eyes.
"Dance with me?" he asked, caressing your bottom lip with his thumb.
Damn, did he know how to distract you.
Mammon
"You're dating the Great Mammon!" he'd said with his characteristic smile, both of you eating ramen in your bed while watching bad romcoms "That's something to be stoked about! You need to tell everyone about it!"
Of course, that translated to: please, please, please, I need people to know that I bagged YOU and YOU chose ME.
So, there you were, chatting with his makeup stylist and some other models while he posed in front of the camera. It was better than you expected, actually. You thought the fashion world in the Devildom would be full of self righteous assholes and insufferable divas, but you couldn't be more wrong.
Well, of course, there's always an exception.
There was a demoness in the other side of the studio, taking selfies with a pout in her lips and a fake, nauseating, innocence in her expression. She looked toxic from a mile away.
And yet, your boyfriend dated her for three months; three long and excruciating months, yes, but still. They'd dated.
And you were cool with that. So so cool with that. You were chill. A freezer, even. You loved Mammon and everyone and their mother could tell Mammon loved you. Everything was fine.
Except... well...
It was easy to forget the brothers were famous and popular bachelors, princes of hell, that, just like in every human monarchy, had fans to spare. People that would support them no matter what they did and no matter who they dated and people that would hate everyone they dated because... You don't really know why.
You just had some haters.
And this bitch was taking advantage of this, you knew it in your heart.
Rumors of Mammon cheating on you with one of his model coworkers had been there since the beginning of your relationship. It was something you just had to live with, one of the reasons the Avatar of Greed doted on you with everything he had.
Mammon loved you.
So why did you panick so much when he stood up in the underwear he was advertising, getting ready for the next picture, and the demoness took a selfie of her lips with his half naked body behind her?
"That whore" whispered another model behind you. You liked them.
But it was okay, you didn't mind. No, really. You didn't.
Except you did.
And so did Mammon.
"Oi!"
Everyone looked at him and you could swear his demon form was starting to show, blending with his siluette in blurred edges.
"Delete that"
She could've laughed at him, like everyone tended to do. She could've ignored him and tempt fate, but it was not a wise idea.
There was static in the air, black mist barely clouding your vision and a faint voice whispering in the back of your brain. The sound of feathers filled the room and soon crows started to surround the studio outside the window.
After a couple of sickening minutes, a loud pop settled the place back to normal and caused the birds to fly away.
The demoness gasped, letting her DDD fall to the ground like it burned her. Looking at her smoking hands, it probably did.
After that, everyone acted like nothing happened. You, however? Your whole body was buzzing, leaving you paralyzed with feelings you needed to explore in the future and making Mammon look at you with a knowing smile.
"...sick of those rumors..." he'd say hours later while he washed your hair in the shower "and you dumbass humans believe everything you see, even if it's stupid"
He'd wait until you were both in bed, ruminating about every little thing that happened back there before talking again.
"Because it's stupid, you know? I'd never cheat on ya. The Great Mammon would never do that to you. I mean, I'd never to that anyway, but specially not to you. Keep that in mind, human! You catched the best demon of all hell! Lucky you!"
Lucky me, he wanted to say instead.
You understood him anyways.
Leviathan
@/f3istyk1ttenuwu sent you a message!
.
.
You stared at the screen and the screen stared back at you.
Reading the user name physically hurt you and you'd lie if you said you weren't worried about it. Did you trust Levi? Yes, absolutely. Did you trust f3istyk1ttenuwu? Not really, no.
So (this time voluntarily), you opened the gates of hell.
It was the Devildom version of Discord, which was worrying enough, and the user's pfp showed a cute pinked hair girl with dainty horns and half of her boobs out.
With a frown and your heartbeat in your throat, you opened the chatroom.
@/f3istyk1ttenuwu: r u lone?
@/f3istyk1ttenuwu: did ur frend leef?
@/f3istyk1ttenuwu: their a party pooper
@/f3istyk1ttenuwu: didnt let u join the grp
@/f3istyk1ttenuwu: :(
@/f3istyk1ttenuwu: leviachsn?
.
Oh, heeeeell no.
First of all, it was leviachAn. Second, YOU were the only one who could call him THAT.
Ignoring the voice of reason, you checked the door before investigating the previous messages. Levi was in your room, retrieving your nightwear as punishment for not letting you win in Devil Kart YET AGAIN, so, knowing how flustered he got everytime he saw you in the Ruri Chan's inspired piyamas he got you for your birthday, you were sure you had another couple of minutes alone in his room.
@/f3istyk1ttenuwu: thx 4 sving me !!
@/f3istyk1ttenuwu: we shld team more
@/f3istyk1ttenuwu: were zo good 2gether
wEre Zo gOoD 2gETheR
You couldn't help but mock her in the privacy of your mind. Did she think writing like a 10 year old was attractive? If so, what the fuck?
@/f3istyk1ttenuwu: call? brke my pc & cn't fix it alone \(-o-)/
"Call a fucking tech" you whispered to yourself.
"Henry?"
Fuck.
You turned around like a deer in headlights. Levi's cheeks still wore a furious red, but he remained quiet at the door when he saw you snooping through his private conversations.
Fuck it, you thought after some uncomfortable seconds. If someone could understand jealousy, it would be him.
"Who's this girl?"
Levi frowned and got closer to you, leaning over your shoulder to see his computer, probably giving you the closeness he'd crave if he was in your place.
"Oh, I don't know" his final answer disappointed you "Some girl the others wanted in the party"
But why was she talking to him like that?
"And why is she talking to you like that?"
He shrugged his shoulders, knowing that both of you knew the answer. Then, he straightened like he had an epiphany, and looked at you with shining eyes and a smile too big for his face.
"Are you jealous, MC?"
Levi jumped in happiness before you could say anything, unable to truly express how happy he was upon his sin affecting you.
"My Henry is jealous!! Because of a yucky disgusting otaku like me!! This reminds me of that anime: 'Help?! My crush snooped through my pc and now they're jealous because someone else is flirting with me??'"
It was obvious by now you had nothing to worry about, so you let him be. You let him appreciate how much you loved him.
In the end, you had to shower his face in kisses to shut him up and, for great measure, you also changed into that extra large Ruri Chan t-shirt in front of him.
Hours later, both of you were sweating in the comfort of his bathtub and Levi was completely sure you fell asleep.
And if you saw how he offered himself to fix this girl's computer only to hack her camera and post her real face all around the internet, no you didn't.
Tagging them lovely people: @hello-gloomy @the-sassiest-toaster @hero-nii-blog @yourlocalyin
Hope you like it!
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lady-luckk · 2 months ago
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Can I get more magical girl content? I love magical girls so much :3
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lights, glitter, action!!!
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# pairings: yandere batfam x magical girl reader
# synopsis: you randomly fall out of the sky and into the arms of the batfamily. now you get to experience wacky adventures with them.
# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.
# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!
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thinking of a drabble about a magical girl (aka you) who crash-lands—quite literally—into gotham, face-first into a rooftop during a red hood stakeout. your transformation sequence sparks brighter than the bat-signal, and jason todd immediately points a gun at you before you finish your glittery intro pose. “i am celestia radiant, guardian of purity and—” click “you’ve got three seconds to explain the sparkles.”
“do not shoot that sparkly person,” dick grayson says through comms, voice full of older brother exhaustion. “that’s not a sentence i thought i’d say today, but here we are.”
you insist your wand only “dispels negativity,” which doesn’t go over well when you try to boop jason with it and his helmet actually falls off. “what the—kid, that thing costs more than your tiara.”
tim drake attempts to scan you with his tech. the scanner explodes in pink glitter. he blinks. “great. now my system’s infected with lisa frank malware.”
“i can sense your inner turmoil,” you tell him, solemnly. “do you even sleep?”
“define sleep.”
“when your soul regenerates through restful peace.”
“yeah, no. i run on coffee, spite, and childhood trauma.”
damian challenges you immediately and calls you “a delusional pastel distraction.” you politely deck him with a glitter beam. alfred bandages him while muttering, “perhaps don’t insult people with projectile sparkles next time.”
you enter the batcave and gasps, “so much repressed emotion... this place reeks of unhealed trauma!” bruce walks out of the shadows and deadpans, “welcome to gotham.”
dick pokes your wand, curious. it responds by turning into a cat. neither of them say anything. they just nod like this is normal.
bruce finally sits you down and says, “are you a threat?”
“only to sadness, injustice, and tight schedules.”
“...”
you’re officially listed in the batcomputer as “magical girl (?) – harmless (???) – very pink (confirmed).”
after months of you showing up to “aid gotham’s bravest hearts,” the batfam starts developing a crushing, all-consuming soft spot for you—like an airborne glitter virus of affection.
jason is furious about it.
“they’re weird, they’re loud, and they smells like vanilla cupcakes!”
“you mean the vanilla cupcakes you keep stealing from them?”
“THAT’S NOT THE POINT.”
dick develops a habit of dramatically appearing next to you with his shirt slightly torn. “oops, must’ve gotten grazed again. guess i need magical healing?”
“you’ve got twelve band-aids on and none of them are real wounds,” tim whispers.
“don’t ruin this for me.”
tim claims he’s above it all. “we don’t even know what dimension they’re from.”
“your made them a custom batphone,” jason says.
“for tactical reasons.”
“it’s shaped like a heart.”
“tactical. heartline security.”
damian insists he feels nothing. "you’re a distraction." but when you calls him “gallant” after he saves a kitten, he literally freezes. the kitten escapes. he doesn’t notice. he’s still staring.
bruce has, very clearly, stated:
“i don’t care about you personally.” completely straight-faced. like he’s reading a grocery list. everyone heard it. everyone quotes it.
and yet… every time you so much as glance at something remotely out of budget, he’s already pulled out his black card.
“i’m just funding mission efficiency,” he says.
“that’s a limited-edition 40th anniversary magical cow figure from meow meow doki.”
“you seemed interested. we might need it.”
you mention wanting snacks once during patrol. the next day, the cave fridge is stocked with every brand you’ve ever casually mentioned.
“it’s for team morale,” bruce says, not making eye contact.
“you bought six flavors of celestial-themed ice cream.”
“they were on sale.”
you say it’s cold in your room once.
bruce upgrades the entire manor’s heating system by the end of the day.
“old wiring,” he says. “dangerous.”
over time it becomes apparent that they’ve grown an unhealthy attachment towards you.
whenever dick spots you, he clings to you like he can't bear to be apart. he’ll throw his arm around your shoulders with a grin, holding you a little too tightly. “did you miss me?” he’ll ask, leaning in just a little too close as he whispers in your ear. you can feel the weight of his gaze even when he’s not looking directly at you
jason has a habit of “accidentally” touching you. when you're walking together, his fingers will brush against yours, lingering just a second longer than necessary. he’ll give you a low, almost inaudible chuckle when you flinch. “i know you don’t mind,” he’ll say with a wicked grin, his hand remaining a little too close to yours.
tim loves to stand behind you when you’re busy, too close for comfort. you’ll feel his breath on your neck, his fingers lightly brushing against your back as he "casually" adjusts your chair. “just making sure you're comfortable,” he’ll say with a tone that feels like more than just a comment. when you turn around, he’s already walking away, as if he never meant to invade your space at all.
damian doesn’t shy away from showing his possessiveness. if you're out in public, he’ll stand a little too close to you, his presence always hovering just behind you like a shadow. sometimes, when you’re sitting, he’ll casually rest his hand on your knee, as if to remind you that you’re his responsibility. “stay close,” he’ll say, his voice unyielding.
bruce doesn't need to say much; his actions speak louder. he’ll touch your arm with a hand that's just firm enough to be a reminder. if you're sitting near him, he’ll make sure his leg brushes against yours, the slightest physical connection making it clear he's always aware of your presence. “are you comfortable?” he’ll ask, his gaze unreadable as if keeping you within his reach is the only thing that matters.
something that i've wondered was what people did during those long ass magical girl transformation.
imagine this: the city was in chaos. explosions echoed in the distance. the batboys were in the middle of a high-stakes battle against a villain whose name they still hadn’t quite figured out, but who was throwing around enough toxins and lasers to give gotham a new reason to be paranoid.
dick was leaping from wall to wall, trying to outmaneuver the villain’s henchmen. jason was head-butting a wall, making sure no one tried to flank them. tim was hacking into a control panel, eyes flicking between screens like a caffeinated squirrel. damian was already fighting the villain head-on, his sword clashing against their armor.
then, a voice crackled over the comms, interrupting the chaos:
“hey guys, be ready—i’m just finishing my transformation!”
everyone freezes. like someone hit pause on the action.
dick paused mid-flip, hanging from a ceiling beam. “wait—did they just say ‘transformation?’”
jason’s fist was raised, but he didn’t punch, staring at the comms like he’d been told the laws of physics were invalid. “they’re really doing this now?”
tim blinked. “are they seriously transforming? right in the middle of all this?”
damian, standing with his sword poised and looking perfectly ready to end the villain’s reign, sighed audibly. “this is… highly inefficient.”
but he didn’t move a muscle. not even to attack. he was waiting.
bruce, who had been silently observing the chaos and directing the others via comms, sighed too—his voice just low enough to avoid detection. “if we’re waiting, then wait. no need to rush this. hold positions. let’s see how long this takes.”
there was no mistaking it. he was as much a part of this ridiculous ritual as everyone else.
the villain, who had been watching the absurdity unfold, narrowed their eyes. “what are they doing? are they—waiting? are they—really pausing for a transformation?” the villain scoffed, clearly annoyed by the delay.
they pointed a glowing gauntlet at the group. “you’re all pathetic!”
but the batboys? completely unmoved. they were all still. all waiting. they were locked in place, every one of them silently enduring this ridiculous delay.
jason, gritting his teeth, turned to face the villain for the first time in a few minutes. “we’d love to keep fighting, but... you know. waiting on them.”
tim, flipping through some data on his wrist computer, half-checked out. “i’ll just optimize our schedule for the next one, but... they better have a good reason for this.”
dick was already making a list of things he could do during the wait. "i mean, it’s a whole process. at least we get a breather."
the villain, becoming increasingly frustrated, clenched their fists and began pacing. “no. i will not wait any longer!”
they leveled their weapon toward the batboys, preparing for an attack—but they didn’t move. everyone stood frozen—the batboys too disciplined to break formation, and you?
still getting ready.
there was another long pause. the villain shot a glare at bruce, who was calmly scanning the room, not even bothering to acknowledge the interruption. “are you all seriously letting this happen?” the villain snapped, voice rising. “i can’t believe i’m waiting on—”
and then it happened.
the unmistakable sound of sparkles filled the air. a soft chime echoed through the comms.
“magical girl transformation, initiate!”
dick’s eyes practically sparkled. “here it comes…”
jason let out a low groan, leaning back against a pillar. “this better be good.”
tim was frantically refreshing his mental list of everything he’d need to do to process this information later.
damian folded his arms and glared at the villain. “this delay better be worth it.”
there was a soft flash, a trail of glitter, and—there you were. in your full magical girl outfit, sparkling like a dream—the colors bright, the fabric catching the light, and your transformation complete in all its glory.
there was an awkward silence.
jason blinked, covered in what was still residual glitter from the earlier mishap. “okay, that... took a little longer than i thought.”
tim let out a long sigh. “i swear, the next time we’re scheduling this—everyone gets a 30-second limit.”
“done!” you announced, twirling dramatically. “let’s do this!”
bruce stared at you with a level of composure that barely hid his tiny sigh of approval.
“...now, we can continue.”
dick, ever the dramatic one, clapped. “absolutely worth it.”
jason just groaned and rolled his eyes, but the tiniest hint of a smile twitched on his lips.
“yeah, yeah, but next time, let’s maybe—i don’t know—not do this during a fight?”
the villain, now fuming, was clearly done. “this is your strategy?” they snapped. “you’ve got to be kidding me!”
they swung their weapon, clearly intending to take you down—but the batboys weren’t having it anymore.
in perfect sync, they moved, attacking from all angles.
you, of course, were already ready, using your powers to effortlessly counter their attacks.
the fight lasted all of five minutes after that.
once the villain was down, the batboys stepped back, eyes on you. jason let out a snort. “well, that was... something.”
tim raised an eyebrow. “maybe next time we make a better schedule for these things?”
damian just crossed his arms. “you’d think after all these months, we’d learn not to wait for their transformation.”
dick, flashed a smile. “what can i say? it’s worth it.”
bruce, just muttered, “next time, no delays.”
you, oblivious to their frustration and somehow enjoying the chaos, smiled brightly. “i’m glad you guys handled it without me!”
the villain, now completely defeated and embarrassed, could only mumble as they were carted off. “i cannot believe i lost to these people.”
and the batboys? they’d just endured yet another ridiculous chapter in their lives with you. but they all secretly agreed on one thing.
no matter how much it annoyed them… they’d always wait for your magical girl transformation.
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omgfangirlland · 3 months ago
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The Shadows That Nurture 24
I feel like every chapter is slowly getting longer and longer- don't know how to feel about it... Ch 25 is over 3k long- may get longer before going live idk :))
Masterlist || First || previous<< Chapter 24 >>next
“It’s definitely an ambush.” Your voice hummed through their minds as you sharpened the retractable blades of your metal-covered fingers. “That’s a possibility. But I’m sure you can protect us, poor damsels in distress.” You roll your eyes at Slade’s thought, however, your attention is redirected.
All three of you squinted at the figures of the men shadowed by the sun. “I could take on the skinny one with the robotic eye.” Luthor’s prideful thinking was met with an unimpressed look from both you and Slade. “I doubt it.” You cleared your throat before finally speaking out loud. “I know about you.” You cross your arms, leaning on one foot before looking right at the general. “Kregg, right? And who are you two?”
Kregg stepped forward once they landed, and Slade immediately took notice of the man’s nervousness. Hidden well, but still there. “Yes. I am General Kregg.” His hand extended to his side, directed to the buffiest man. “This is Conquest, one of our greatest. And this-“ his hand moved to point out the better-dressed figure between the three. “- is Grand Regent Thragg, our lord.”
“And savior-“ Your slipped mutter made Lex twitch, almost choking on the traitorous laugh that bubbled up. “So we’ve got war, conquest, and a prince? We’re missing famine, I guess...” You raise an eyebrow. “Alright. What do you want?”
The fur-lined cloak of Thragg fluttered in the air as he came forward this time, his tall frame going past Kregg, way too close for Slade and Luthor’s preference as their bodies shifted slightly to be a few centimeters in front of you. “I don’t know what your father told you about me. I do not care. And however prideful I may be, I’m not stupid.”
Despite all that, his frown deepened, and his face soured. “I… didn’t believe you when you first threatened us.  I have been proven… wrong.” It seemed to take a lot of pain to say that. You took note of that for later use while scoffing. “Yes. I know you’ve been watching me. And that you sent a soldier after my brother, so you better get to the point because I’m already fighting tooth and nail to not rip you three to shreds and take over Viltrumite myself. Make you the slaves for once.” Threatening them was perhaps stupid, but you just wanted to eat and sleep.
“Humans have made treaties with what you call marriage for centuries-“ Thragg didn’t finish his sentence as Lex couldn’t hold his laugh of utter shock at the implication while Slade scoffed, both men ending up saying the same thing. “No. Let’s go.” They grabbed your arms and started moving, almost stumbling as you remained unmoving. “Arranged marriages have stopped being a thing in a majority of countries, let alone as a thing to end wars. But you’ve made me curious enough to hear you out. Going through all the work of threatening an assassin to threaten a billionaire so the billionaire can ask politely- it’d be rude not to at least listen.”
The man’s eyebrow twitches as soon as he senses sarcasm. “You… and your family and allies pose a feasible threat.” Thragg truly looked like he was in pain. “But if we were to go to war, we’d still do irreparable damage. We’ll surrender, but we want to hide on Earth, amongst humans, to raise our ranks. We won’t interfere with human events.” Kregg paled when you laughed right in Thragg’s face, yet his own remained unmoving. “Oh, so you want to use humans as breeding bitches? And then- if something- or someone attacks and almost levels out Earth you’ll just what? Sit on your lazy asses and watch everyone die?”
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“Make them work for it. Let them think about it, they sound desperate enough.” Cecil’s voice made the heroes who were about to leave stop in their tracks, their eyes moving to the bald man as he asked Donald to pull up the images. Nolan and Thaedus rose from their chairs at the sight of the three Viltrumites. “You want all of that?” The Sorceress’ voice almost sang in a mocking tone. “There’ll be rules. My planet, my rules, not yours. First one: You’ll work yourselves to death if a threat shows up. I’ll let you think about it.”
“I don’t care.” You quickly interrupted the Viltrumite when he tried to argue. “Two weeks. No more, no less. I’ll have a set of rules that every Viltrumite will have to qualify for them to even be allowed to look in Earth’s direction.” The camera moved, showing Lex and Slade. “I guess it’s too late for the Ritz now?” Slade smirked. “I’m sure we can find a non-stop and destroy the billionaire’s kitchen.” Was the last thing everyone heard before the transmission was cut.
Cecil turned to the people present. “Seems our work needs to speed up.” Harvey looked at the balding man. “We can update our files in less than three days. We’ll be ready for a trial before the aliens return with an answer.” Dick’s eyes jumped from the people speaking to Nolan and Mark, the names of the aliens going through one ear out the other, his eye twitching as he finally got up off the floor. “Yes- yes, aliens bad, don’t like them- Why are you-“ If his mother or Alfred saw him pointing his finger like this towards the older man, Richard would be dead. “-allowing my sister around Deathstroke and Luthor?!”
“Those two will be easily dealt with. I do not like the way that Thragg kept staring at her.” Damian’s comment went unanswered as Invincible frowned and crossed his arms, the young man scoffing at the lesser Grayson. “Your sister? Since when? Last I checked you lot didn’t even know she was missing until- like last year.” Nolan spoke up too, not letting any of the bats get a word in. “Not to mention, she hasn’t been a Wayne for years. She’s a Grayson.”
“Bullshit.” Stephanie couldn’t hold the hiss that escaped her mouth. Batman was seething with rage at what he assumed was a lie. His imposing figure got up from his chair in a move that would usually threaten anyone-but them? Never. “I fear that’s the truth, Mr. Wayne.” Cecil quickly cut through.
“When Nolan came to me with the request I was ready to send the kid packing back to you, but I think you out of all people will understand the curiosity one has to discover things.” Mark has never seen Cecil ever glare like that at anyone, let alone speak to anyone with such a threatening tone in his voice. “Imagine my surprise at the many public articles of your neglect, and at the many, private, records that were swept under.”
“Everything only made me want to talk to her, and when I finally got the chance all I saw was a kid clinging onto the only female figure in the house, avoiding any male besides Invincible, more scared that I’d send her back to you rather that Omni-Man kidnapped her.” Duke took in a shaky breath, muttering something under his breath along the lines of it being harsh.
“Might be.” Cecil shrugs before his eyes settle back on Bruce. “How many times has she been sick under your watch? Does she have any allergies? What’s her least favorite color? How many times did she run away from the manor before running away from the city? Can you even answer one question?” Batman couldn’t, but Nolan was quick to when Cecil looked at him. “Five times, two of which she had to go to a pharmacy on her own to buy meds, with us she was sick three times. She has one allergy to metamizole and one skin problem that she needs creams for and has a personal vendetta against the olive green shade that looks like vomit.”
The other heroes wanted to stand up for their allies, but the more the men spoke, the more their respect dwindled. “She’s better off with them. And not only because they gave her the love you weren’t able to, but because if she ever snaps, ever goes off the hinges- it won’t be you who’ll be able to reel her back, even for a moment. It won’t even be these two. It’ll be her mom.” Cecil looked around the room. “Anyone has anything else to say?... Good. Let’s go, we’ll keep in contact.”
The league was left alone with a still-shaking Nightwing, and a more than usual, broody Batman, the other bats besides Jason seemed dejected at best. Dinah’s eyes, however, stayed on her husband’s figure. She could see the clogs turning into his head, the way his eyes narrowed at Bruce like he couldn’t quite believe it. She sighs before pulling her man towards the door, it’ll be a long month, she could feel it.
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“That was reckless of you.” Lex groaned as he sunk into his uncomfortable leather couch you had covered in as many fluffy blankets as you could. “Your face is reckless.” Your voice was muffled, eating your third serving of the chicken and rice Slade had cooked. “And you two wanted me to do it- I want a vacation, by the way- Mom and Mark need it, and after dealing with those three mean mugging my ass you two owe me.”
You were really only talking to Lex as Slade found a recliner hours ago and passed out on it like the divorced, deadbeat dad he is. “Somewhere warm and quiet, preferably a private island without the Epstein bullshit.” Luthor’s lip curled at that. “Don���t even try to compare me to that low life- I may be a monster, but I have morals.”
“Bull. You tried to kill Kon when you thought he wasn’t obeying you. And you so are a weirdo for nagging me since I was a teen with your craziness. Slade is a weirdo too, hunting down kids, fighting them, and grooming them to be the perfect weapons just because his own won’t talk to him anymore- oh my god, he’s Bruce with extra steps in reverse.” Your hand dropped the fork, holding onto your face instead. “… I’m taking your bed for making me think about all of this- no thinking on my vacation! Note that down- I need a no-thinking week!“
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The trial went by… too quickly. The Judge and Jury were definitely brought off, but it wasn’t Cecil, the man was actually pouty about the fact. That was however good for you and your family. While most of Nolan’s freedoms, and consequently your own, would be stepped on and rubbed into the floor it was better than moving him on the moon… Maybe. Still debatable. You took a note to visit your dear rogues towards the end of your vacation… or when you could, really. Two-Face deserves another thanks for the show he put on.
The good part- Lex did give you the vacation you wanted. So, after Abe, as you’ve come to call The Immortal, said his goodbyes to go on his own vacation you and the babysitter your mom found were running around to pack things for the holiday. Well, you were. Poor April was watching alongside Debbie the chaos as Mark and Nolan seemed to be just as anxious, flying around the house.
Your mother sighs before reminding everyone of the no-flying rule, resulting in everyone stopping and landing on their feet. “Sorry mom- it’s just-“ Debbie smiles at you as she hands you a bag to load into the car. “You’re not used to relaxing, but it’ll be fine. If we forget something you can just teleport back and grab it and if something bad happens you and your brother will be there to protect us.” Nolan pouted as he wasn’t included but did not say anything. “Now come on, let’s load up the van so we can reach the house before dark.”
“Oh, we’re taking the car? I thought we’d be flying?” April asked as she lifted Oliver higher on her hip. “We are flying.” You smirk as Mark continues with a shrug. “But we are also taking the van. Hope you’re not car and fly sick.” April could only hum as the two young adults went back to their work, her eyes settling on Debbie’s reassuring smile.
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Whoever said vacations are relaxing is a liar with fiery pants. Sure, the lazing around is nice, but the packing and unpacking is a nightmare you could do without. Alas, after a good nap and a great dinner, you were hanging with your dear brother on the balcony, enjoying the cold breeze cooling the heat left by the sun. “Mark- don’t give me that bull. You haven’t been okay since dad beat you up, and that Levy guy only made it worse.”
“You killed Vidor without remorse.” Mark wasn’t looking at you, eyes remaining on his can of soda. “I did. I’d do it again. That doesn’t mean you have to do that. You’re not me and I’m not you.” You rested your hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t- I thought he was stronger, I didn’t mean to kill him- I-…”
“Mark. From what you and everyone else told me, the man was unhinged. I… I can’t say I know how you feel, I had no remorse for the Joker or Vidor, and I don’t think I’ll have any for the others who may meet the same fate. But that’s me, that’s Nolan. You’re better than us. You want to help them get better, to fix things in a- morally correct way.”
“The world needs that. And you shouldn’t feel shame, or like you failed because you couldn’t do it. You tried.” Mark snorts at your words. “I’m supposed to be the older sibling-“ You immediately repeat his words in a deep voice. “Fuck off.” He nudges your ribcage with his elbow after you do. “I mean it. We both killed, we both got traumatized- and yet you’re like an unmoving mountain… I still have nightmares about how much worse that night could have been, mom and Oliver could have died, but all they got was a broken arm and bruised forehead.” You lean back in the recliner, taking his words in before responding. “The guilt eats me… That I wasn’t there, that I wasn’t the one to bring you back. Kinda feels like I failed.”
“Cheers to guilt eating us alive.” Mark jokes. “Cheers. As for the other thing you said… I- I don’t think most people deserve a second chance… I think everyone should get a second chance- but some people don’t want to change to be deserving of it. And if they don’t want to put their pride aside and do the work required, they’ll do what they did again, and again, and again. There’s no fixing something that doesn’t want to be fixed. Joker was like that. Bruce tried so fucking hard for a lost cause- when Jason came back, he beat him up harder than he ever did the clown.”
“I think that was when I started believing that. Bruce never hit us- them. He went out of his way to redirect his anger toward anything else, is what Jason said. He also said B reacted like that because he felt too guilt-ridden and frustrated on how he failed him- but-… I think he was furious at how right Jason was.” You shrug. “I don’t know… The fucker is something I stopped trying to detangle and understand a long time ago, but he also fits the category of if they don’t want to fix themselves they don’t deserve a second chance. Bruce is so sure that he’s right in everything, he forgets to understand that just because he feels like he did the right thing doesn’t mean it was the right choice for others.”
“Dad’s trying.” Mark mutters as if to reassure himself. “He is. You still flinch sometimes. Don’t feel bad about that, you have every right to. He was… brutal in that fight.” Your eyes meet as you nudge his shoulder with yours. “You’re stronger than me, I don’t think I would have been able to come back from that fight like you did.” Mark’s lip twitched into a smile.
“… Sometimes I just want to beat the shit out of dad. With a spiked baseball… in the middle of the night, preferably. Like he wronged me in another life.” His words earned a laugh straight from the depths of your belly. “He has a very punchable face.” You cackle as Mark joins in your gleeful laugh.
Tag list: @bat1212 @trashlanternfish360 @shycreatorreview @syrooo @a-lurking-fae @alittletiredcry @kittzu @plsfckmedxddy @blackhood1229 @nxdxsworld @leeiasure @dandelion-delusion @lovebug-apple @sillysealsies @tsxukikami @enchantingarcadecreation @alishii @d3nnji @itsberrydreemurstuff @yuyuzi-ling @welpthisisboring @1abi @mxvoid26 @persephone-kore-law @bluevenus19 @ryuushou @asillysimp @aalunar @cxcilla @sirenetheblogger @pinkluv29 @br33zy-blizzardz @victoria1676 @of-poetry-and-dreams @djpuppy-kittens @wizzerreblogs @galaxypurplerose @burningkittenprince @swanluver @ohnoivefallen
Ch 25 sneak peek:
“You came to tell me to be a lover?” You sniffle as you chuckle. “No. I’m just being selfish and wanted to see you.” [REDACTED] nudges you. “But it won’t kill you. You’ll see, the fates have already sewn your threads. It’s just a matter of which one you decide to walk.” You didn’t move away from her, but you did wipe away your remaining tears. “Sounds like the illusion of choice.”
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noirscript · 7 days ago
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Inked Possession | part two
pairing: yandere artist x erotic book writer!reader description: At his exhibit, Eleazar’s jealousy ignites with a stranger’s laugh—and by nightfall, you’re blindfolded, bound, and painted in his studio, every touch a possessive reminder that you belong only to him. warning/s: Yandere behavior, possessiveness, explicit sexual content, bondage (restraints), blindfolding, jealousy, emotional manipulation, exhibitionism (implied), power dynamics, obsessive love, rough sex, worship/adoration, noncon/dubcon undertones. note: enjoy!!! the pre-order for Callixto's ebook will end next week (Monday) so make sure to reserve a copy of the ebook PLUS the exclusive freebies that comes with it! The freebies will only be available during the pre-order period.
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It begins with a laugh.
Not yours. And definitely not Eleazar’s.
The gallery hums with polite chatter and soft music, all of it bleeding into the undercurrent of hushed awe and too-hungry eyes. It’s a private preview of Anatomy of Devotion,
Eleazar’s newest exhibit—his obsession rendered in brushstrokes. You. In shadows and warm light. Draped in his shirt, curled into his bed, arched across canvas like you belonged there more than in your own skin.
And you do, don’t you?
You feel exposed, not because of the nudity or the rawness of each painting, but because you know he painted them while you slept, dreamed, moaned. The audience doesn't see that part. But he does. And you do. And it burns beneath your clothes.
From across the room, you sense his eyes on you. He’s dressed in black again—casual in a way that still looks powerful, shoulders straight and jaw tense. His dark hair is slightly messy, a curl brushing the edge of his cheekbone. He watches you with an intensity that borders on unnerving. You offer a small, reassuring smile, a signal: I'm fine. I'm just talking.
He doesn’t smile back.
You turn to excuse yourself politely from the nearby crowd, but someone steps in.
“This one,” a voice says beside you, male, amused, too relaxed for your comfort. “Damn. That’s my favorite.”
You follow his gaze and immediately regret it. He’s pointing to the massive oil painting of you in Eleazar’s studio chair, one leg folded under the other, wearing nothing but his ruined, paint-smeared shirt. The same one that now hangs like a shrine in your shared bedroom.
“The way you’re looking in this?” the assistant says, sipping his champagne with a crooked grin. “Like someone just dragged you out of a fever dream. Fucking raw. He nailed it.”
You offer a tight smile, holding your glass a little too firmly. “He captures what matters.”
He leans in slightly, voice dropping as if you’re already conspiring. “If I had someone like you in my studio, I’d never stop painting. Or touching. I mean… ever considered posing for someone else?”
The comment slides across your skin like rot. You pull away a fraction, breath caught in your throat—but it’s already too late.
The man doesn't notice. “I’ve got a setup. Nothing big, but I can be a lot more fun than your guy.”
The flute nearly slips from your hand.
It doesn’t shatter. It doesn’t have to.
Because Eleazar is suddenly behind him.
The temperature of the room changes. The quiet turns heavy. The gallery’s background noise continues—oblivious—but here, where Eleazar stands, the world becomes razor-sharp.
The assistant laughs nervously, stepping back as if he’s only now aware of the storm forming inches from his face. “Oh—hey. Didn’t see you there, man. Just a joke. Your wife’s stunning, really. You must be proud.”
Eleazar’s smile is slight and sharp. It looks polite. It isn’t.
“I’m always proud of what’s mine,” he replies, calm and low, too calm. “But you strike me as the kind of man who doesn’t understand boundaries until he’s bleeding.”
The man blanches, and you can practically smell the fear start to rise off him. You reach out to place a hand on Eleazar’s arm, grounding, a silent plea not to cause a scene here.
He doesn’t need to.
He takes your hand instead and guides you through the crowd, slow and silent, his grip firm but not harsh. You follow without protest.
---
The drive home is quiet. Not cold—just sharpened into something that leaves no room for distractions.
Eleazar keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, flexing every now and then like he’s holding back something primal. His jaw is tight, his profile locked in shadow, and even the air feels afraid to stir.
You try once, softly. “Eleazar—”
“Don’t.”
You flinch. Not because of the volume—he doesn’t raise his voice—but because of the meaning behind it. He rarely interrupts you. When he does, it's because he's trying not to unravel.
“I could smell him on you,” he says after a while, his voice calmer now but laced with restrained venom. “Like a stain.”
“He didn’t touch me,” you whisper. “He was being inappropriate, yes, but I didn’t engage.”
“You laughed.”
“I didn’t mean to. It was uncomfortable. I was trying to be polite—”
“You laughed.” His knuckles tighten around the wheel, the leather creaking. “Do you know what that does to me? Hearing that sound, knowing it wasn’t for me?”
You stay quiet.
“I won’t punish you for his stupidity,” he says, more to himself than to you. “But I will remind you what your smile belongs to. What you belong to.”
---
He doesn’t even wait for you to enter the apartment. He leans down as he opens the car door, presses a soft kiss to your temple, and murmurs, “Studio. Now.”
You obey.
Inside the space where he paints you daily, the scent of varnish and oil hits you like memory. It’s thick in the air—intimate, private. You notice immediately the cloth and basin of warm water, the soft silk rope, and the blindfold folded neatly on his stool.
It’s not a punishment.
It’s a lesson.
He enters a moment later. Locks the door behind him. Doesn’t say a word as he moves behind you and begins unzipping your dress. It slips from your shoulders like surrender, pooling at your feet.
You don’t fight him when he lifts you into the studio chair—the one you’ve posed on countless times, the one he’s immortalized you in. He moves slowly, methodically, securing your wrists behind the chair with the silk rope, then spreading your ankles to tie them to the legs.
The blindfold is the last thing. He slides it on gently, fingertips brushing your temples.
Darkness falls.
You can feel the shift in the air as he steps back. The silence lengthens. Then you hear it—the sound of his fingers dipping into paint.
When his touch returns, it’s cold and deliberate. He draws a line across your collarbone, slow and thick.
“This one’s black,” he says near your ear. “Do you remember what black means?”
You nod, throat dry. “Mine.”
“Good girl.”
He paints over your chest, dragging his fingers in spirals around your nipples until they harden. Down your ribs, across your stomach, then along your thighs—everywhere but where you need him most. He avoids your core deliberately, punishing you without pain.
The next color is red. “This is for shame. For forgetting—even briefly—that your smile is sacred. That it belongs only to me.”
The red stains your inner thighs, the underside of your breasts, your throat.
Then comes gold. He doesn’t speak as he paints a streak from your heart to your navel, a line of reverence amid chaos.
You sit there—tied, blindfolded, dripping in black and red and gold. Helpless. Waiting.
And still, he doesn’t touch you there.
He disappears briefly, and when he returns, it isn’t with fingers or paint.
It’s with warm cloth.
He parts your thighs and presses the soft towel to your center, cleaning you with the kind of care that borders on sacred. Each pass is gentle, almost worshipful, as he murmurs, “You think I’d risk your body for a lesson? No. I’d never hurt what’s mine.”
The moment the cloth drops away, so does his restraint.
He goes to his knees, and when his tongue finally touches you, it’s not tentative.
He eats you like a starving man—devouring every moan, every shudder, holding your thighs in place as you buck and cry out against the ropes. He doesn’t stop, even when you beg him to, even when you sob that you’re close.
Especially then.
He forces it out of you like confession, like sin.
When you fall apart, trembling and sobbing, he rises slowly. His belt unfastens. His zipper follows. You can hear the scrape of fabric, the rustle of movement, and then he’s there—pressing into you, filling you with a single, brutal thrust.
Your scream echoes.
He groans above you, voice rough with need. “You’ll never laugh for anyone but me. You’ll never write another smile that doesn’t belong to me.”
“I won’t,” you cry, already breaking again.
“You’ll write me into every draft. Every kiss. Every fuck.”
“Yes—yes—only you—”
His pace is merciless. The chair creaks beneath your bound frame as he drives into you, each thrust branding, each moan a claim carved into your bones.
You lose track of how many times you come. It blurs into rhythm—him, you, the ropes, his voice, the heat. You sob out his name, not from pain, but from surrender.
When he finishes, it’s with a growl pressed into your neck.
He unties you slowly. Carefully. Then carries you to bed like something fragile and beloved, laying you down in clean sheets even as your skin still bears his paint.
You don’t need to speak. His hands say it all. So do the kisses he trails across each bruised thigh, each paint-streaked breast.
---
The next morning, your coffee is hot, the sheets are clean, and your laptop is open.
There’s a new document saved on your desktop.
Eleazar – Part I
Beneath it, in the document’s header, a single note:
“Only I get to read you, darling. Write accordingly.”
TBC.
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noirscript © 2025
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Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans @ivantillenthusiast @missybabes
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koyagifs · 3 months ago
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𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭
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pairing: ot8 ateez x reader au: 9th member | poly genre: angst with comfort word count: 0.7k synopsis: excited to see atiny after your tour, no one expected for you to be crying. warning(s): solo atiny, cursing,
enjoyed the post? check out my masterlist!
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You giggled, a wide smile gracing your face as you looked up at the male ATINY while signing his album.
"Are you doing well, Noona?" he asked shyly.
You nodded, warmth in your expression. "I'm doing well. What about you? Doing well in school ?"
His face lit up with excitement as he nodded eagerly, a blush dusting his cheeks. Clutching his album tightly, his eyes shimmered with admiration.His eyes widened as he unhooked a small frog keychain from his belt loop, hesitating for a moment before shyly extending it to you.
"This is for you, Noona," he murmured, cheeks tinged pink. "For doing such a good job this year."
Your heart melted at the sweet gesture. Carefully taking the keychain from his hands, you held it up with a bright smile, posing with it just for him.
"I’ll cherish it forever! Thank you so much," you said sincerely, eyes shining with gratitude.
As the boy moved on to the next member, a girl stepped up, shoving her album toward you with little care. You gasped in surprise, barely stopping it from hitting you in time. A frown flickered across your face before you quickly replaced it with a polite smile, reaching for your Sharpie.
Before you could start signing, her hand shot out, pressing down firmly on the album.
"Oh? Do you not want me to sign it?" you asked, confusion and a hint of hurt lacing your voice.
She scoffed. "Of course not. You'll ruin it even more."
Your breath hitched as you looked up at her, shock written all over your face. "I-I'm sorry?"
"You heard me," she spat, her glare unwavering. "You'll ruin the album even more. I had to rip your pages out just so I could enjoy it."
Your hands trembled slightly as you pulled them back, discomfort sinking deep into your chest. A lump formed in your throat, and you blinked rapidly, trying to stop the sting of tears threatening to spill.
"I'm sorry then. Hopefully, you'll enjoy our next album," you said, your voice soft but unwavering.
She rolled her eyes, parting her lips to retort, but before she could, Mingi leaned in slightly toward you, his presence a quiet but firm shield.
"That's not how you speak to someone," he said, his tone calm yet filled with quiet authority.
The girl gasped, her frustration instantly melting into excitement as her eyes sparkled at the fact that Mingi was paying attention to her.
"But she's no one, Oppa!" she insisted, her voice eager now. "She ruins the album for us ATINY to enjoy."
Mingi exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Then you're not a real ATINY." His words were firm, unwavering. "Yn completes our team. Without her, we’d be in shambles."
His words hung in the air, heavy with truth. You bit your lip, warmth spreading through your chest as you glanced at him. He met your gaze, offering a reassuring smile—one that told you, without a doubt, that you belonged.
The girl opened her mouth to argue, but before she could, a staff member swiftly stepped in, grabbing her album and guiding her away from the table. She scoffed, looking both shocked and hurt that she was being removed, but there was nothing more she could do.
You exhaled softly, trying to shake off the lingering sting of her words. Turning to Mingi, you gave him a grateful smile. "Thank you," you murmured.
He simply grinned, nudging you playfully. "Always."
Before you could dwell on it any longer, the next fan stepped up, her warm smile instantly easing the tension in your chest.
"You belong because you make sure the boys stay healthy," she said sincerely, handing you her album. "Thank you, Unnie."
Your heart swelled at her words, and this time, your smile came effortlessly. "That means so much to me," you said softly, taking the album with newfound warmth in your heart.
TOKTOQ yn
thank you for all the gifts today atiny 🤍
it was so nice to see you all today teehee
and yes, i'm okay after that anti from today.
don't worry atiny, i know you all love me <3
so, in return i'll give you all a hint for my next solo!!
You're beautiful, Maria
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alicechess · 8 months ago
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Yandere art the clown x reader (part 1)
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2.5k words
Has not been proof read at all. Also why is he so fucking hot. No idea when I'll update next.
Part 2
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You got out of your car, the chilly autumn hair causes hairs to prick on your skin. You shuddered as you walked into the building. The warm air was rather welcoming, especially with the addition of the strong scent of freshly baked pizza. As you looked around, you noticed two women sitting at a booth, a man in a black and white outfit with a clown mask or face paint watching them, but as he heard the bell from the door, his gaze flickered to you. You gave him a polite smile, then sat down at one of the tables. You placed your bag onto the chair beside you, then looked over the menu. Once you chose F/P, you stood and went to the cash register and ordered. A man who seemed to be in his mid 30s approached you, "How can I help you?"
"Uh, can I please order one slice of F/P?"
"Dine in or takeaway?" He said, pressing buttons on the register.
"Dine in, thank you."
"Alright, $5 please. Cash or card?"
"Card." You said, while grabbing your card.
Once you paid, you sat back down at the table. You noticed the two women from before giving the clown weird glances. Thinking they were making fun of him, you decided to talk to him. You felt bad, as he was frowning.
"Hey," You said, causing the man in the outfit to look at you, a smile instantly forming on his face. Startled by the sudden change, you quickly sputtered out, "I-I just wanted to say your outfit looks cool!"
The man waved off your comment jokingly, making you awkwardly smile. The blonde woman at the booth in front of you giggled. You heard her whisper to the girl in front of her, "At least she got the attention away from you." 
You made sure to look down, so that they would think you didn't hear. The clown looked at the girls, his original from reappearing on his face, this time, it looked a lot more..... unsettling. His eyes almost felt darker, it sent a shiver down your spine. You went back to the register, ringing the small bell. After a few seconds, the same man came back out. He was covered in sweat, you felt bad, but still asked, "Is it okay if I could get it for takeaway instead? Sorry asking so late."
The man shook his head, "You're fine miss, we're almost done so just give us a few minutes."
You nodded, giving him a small smile and a thank you. You plopped back down, and went onto your phone. The feeling in the air was painfully uncomfortable, it felt so tense, like something was going to happen.
You overheard the black haired girl, whisper-yell at the blonde haired woman. "Please don't, it's not worth it!"
The blonde rolled her eyes, and sauntered over to the man with a cocky smile. The man gave her a death stare, his face almost looked as though it was set in stone. His expression didn't change at all as she sat down beside him. He merely turned his head to look at her, looking unamused. 
"Can I get a picture with you?" She leaned over, getting no response, she clicked, "Helloo?"
She sighed, lifting his arm up and wrapping it around her. "I'm gonna take that as a yes."
You gave her a horrified look, what the hell was she doing? The brunette and you met eyes, her face showing she was just as shocked and confused as you.
The blonde adjusted the small hat ontop of his head, causing it to fall. His eyes met hers with the most hate-filled look you've seen. The air thickened as she attempted to put it back on. She took multiple photos, as she somewhat posed him. The longer this want to the more agitated he was. 
"Thanks." The blonde said as she stood up, walking back over towards her friend. 
He continued to stare at the two girls, making you wonder if maybe he was the one creeping them out first? Regardless, he wasn't doing anything, you thought at least. Maybe he was just socially awkward...?
"Hey," You whispered, causing his gaze to slowly move towards you, the same, dead eyed stare meeting yours. 
"That was really rude... are you okay?" 
He didn't respond, his focus soon returning on the girl. You shrugged, deciding to go on your phone to waste the time, hoping your pizza will be done soon. As you were scrolling mindlessly, you heard footsteps. You glanced up from your phone, watching as the clown grabbed a coin, presumably a tip, from one of the tables. You felt the urge to say something, but decided to bite your tongue. You didn't want to get involved anymore. 
The man then went to one of those machines where you place a coin and get a toy. He placed one in, and took one of the balls out. He walked over towards you, his strong, but not-harsh stare focusing on you. You felt your heart race from confusion and mild fear. You glanced at the two girls, the blonde holding in a life while the brunette told her to stop, giving you a concerned look. 
He knelt down on one knee, opening the ball to show a cheap plastic ring. Some of the fear you felt was replaced by instead being flustered. You blinked, confused on how to react. Thinking it was maybe an act, as he was dressed as a clown, and it was Halloween, you didn't reject it. He gently grabbed your hand and slid the ring onto your hand.
"I...I.. thank you...?"
You mustered out, watching as he gave you an eery grin. 
You didn't take it off, as you didn't want to be rude. In return, you grabbed your bag and rummaged through it. The clown watched with a curious smile as you grabbed some candy. "Here, I was at a party earlier, I've got a lot of left overs at home anyway." You gave him a smile as you held your hands which were full of candy out. 
He clapped his hands dramatically, grabbed the candy with one hand as he then tipped his hat. You giggled at the gesture, he then sat back down at the other booth, putting the candy in the plastic bag beside him. 
The blonde looked over, judging you heavily. The brunette more confused by the interaction. Eventually, the man from earlier came over, "Here's your order, sorry it took a while, we came across some problems with the oven."
You thanked him, giving him a few dollars as a tip, "You're all good, things happen!"
You held the small box in your hand, then walked over towards the door, giving the clown a small smile for the gift. You thought that he really kept up the spooky act, while also being generous with giving you a small cute ring. You looked down at it while you walked towards the car. It was a red ring, it was rough around the edges, but you didn't mind. You weren't going to wear it forever, just till you got home, so you can put it somewhere else. 
You hopped back into your car then went home.
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The next morning, you hopped into the shower, enjoying the water and the heat as it washed away the makeup, sweat and alcohol-spills from the night before. Feeling more refreshed, you then plopped down onto your couch, placing your legs onto the coffee table. You flipped through a bunch of channels, trying to find something to watch. Eventually, you decided to just watch a news channel. You adjusted yourself as you saw 'breaking news come onto screen.'
"An hour ago, a man was reported to have been brutally stabbed to do death, his corpse being mutilated, his body unrecognisable, besides the nametag which was still attached to his shirt."
An image was then shown, it was the same guy who served you pizza last night. 
"A second body was also discovered, the owner of the restaurant."
The words slowly faded as your mind focused on last night. The place was meant to close at 12, you got there at 11. How the hell did someone get in? They probably broke in, but still, how would they absolutely destroy a corpse till the extent it was unrecognizable? As your mind wondered, you staired at the screen. An image then shown of a blonde woman and a brunette, also the same ones from last night. 
"Dawn ***** and Tara ***** was found at a warehouse on ripley street. The woman known as Dawn was cut in half with a chainsaw, her identity was only found as a result of her dental records. The other woman who fell victim was named Tara, who was shot and scalped. The scalp was discovered in another room on the crime scene. We will discuss the other victims after the break."
You scoffed, of course they choose to put ads in the middle of explaining a crime. Selfish fucks. You stood up and went over to your kitchen and prepared F/M. Might as well have something nice after that weird experience from last night. Once you were done, you plopped down back onto the couch, this time choosing to go on your phone. Once you were done, you went to work.
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Working after having a very..... exciting night before wasn't the best experience. You were tired, felt sick, and just wanted to sleep. But you needed money, and you couldn't have days off often. 
As you served customers, the thoughts of last night followed you. You tried to keep your mind on the work you had to do, but those two girls... and that clown. Who did that to those girls? Why is everyone who was there, besides the clown and you were dead. 
As you were preparing some coffee, you overheard some talking. "I can't believe that clown did that. And apparently he shot himself too! After torturing those poor women, he killed himself. Who does that!"
Well that explains it
"Wow really? What the fuck. Look I'm glad he's gone, at least. We don't need anymore psychos roaming around here."
"Yeah true, but still.... it was brutal too."
Understatement of the year
"I'm worried that people will take ideas from it, you know? What if those psychos think hmm that sounds fun, and then more murders pop up?"
"Doubt it," One said, stirring their tea. "Not many have the motivation to do it, or the strength."
"I guess so."
You continued doing your job, occasionally listening in to their conversation. You felt bad for being nosey, but at the same time, it was about a murderer, so maybe it wasn't too bad being a bit nosey? You mentally shrugged, pouring milk in latte. 
As you were serving the drink to one of the customers, you heard the little bell ring, alerting you someone else came in. Normally there was around 10-15 customers inside the Cafe. It was a small one, although sitting near a shopping centre, so people were constantly in and out. 
You did a small glance over, and noticed the man, in the same clown outfit as the day before. You thought maybe it was someone else dressing up to be edgy. The two your were listening to before looked up, a confused but dissapointed look on their faces.
"Look at that idiot," One whispered, "Jesus christ" The other murmured, shaking their head.
You looked away, you wouldn't get involved on the job. You needed money, after all. 
The clown strolled up to the counter, giving you a small wave then pointed at an item on the menu. You nodded, "that'll be $4.50." Giving him a polite smile.
He then dug into his bag for a few moments. Then pulled out a coin, then another, then another... You mentally sighed, but still keeping the smile on your face. After about a minute of him giving 5 cent after 5 cent, another person came in. They went in line, then sighed looking at the man in front.
"Dude, this isn't funny, this isn't Halloween anymore." The stranger said, crossing his arms. The clown then turned around slightly, a disturbing frown forming on his face. It looks the same as the night before, that same, unnerving frown. You felt your heart race as you thought of the news, it couldn't be the same person, he was dead. But... that same dead-eyed look...
You mentally shook your head, you were overthinking.
He then turned back, taking more coins out. Eventually coming to $4.50.
"Alright, thank you sir. I'll give it to you in a few moments." 
The clown suddenly smiled, bowing, then went to one of the tables. 
The man gave you his order, then apologised for the clowns behaviour. He shook his head, "I don't understand why some people act like that. So rude, it's not even amusing just annoying."
"It's fine, maybe he just had a lot of coins laying around." 
"Doubt it." The man murmured, paying with his card, then walked to his table.
You prepared the clowns pie, simply heating it up. You then added some whipped cream on top. Once it was done, you went over to his table.
"Here sir, hope you enjoy." You smiled, placing it down. 
He clapped his hands, then noticed you had a ring on. He pointed at it, causing your heart to stop for a moment. The clown feigned being flustered, but you couldn't stop just staring. Thoughts were rushing through your mind, surely he didn't know. It was just a random guy dressing up.
"Oh... yes..." You mustered out, "Someone gave it to me last night, I think it was to be nice since it was Halloween and all." You chuckled nervously. 
He then pointed at himself, silently chuckling back, then slapped his knee almost as if it was the funniest situation. This made the sinking feeling deeper. Almost as though your stomach dropped to your feet. 
"Haha yeah... Anyway, I hope you enjoy your meal. Let me know if there's anything I can help you with." 
The man from before noticed the uncomfortable look on your face and stood up, and came walking over just as you were about to walk away. 
"Mate, stop making her uncomfortable. Your making EVERYONE uncomfortable, just fucking eat then leave like the rest of us." 
The clown then rolled his eyes, doing the blah blah gesture, then waved him off. Then taking a bite of his food.
"Thats it, dipshit, one more fucking move and I'm calling the cops for harassment." He almost yelled, causing the clown to grab the plate then throw it at the man's face. Causing pie and cream to drip all down his shirt. 
The man stood stunned for a moment, trying to take in the situation. The clown then stood up, brushing his onezie, as though he spilt anything on himself. He shook his head with exaggerated disappointment, then looked at you, swirling his finger at the side of his head, calling the man crazy. As he walked out the door, he gave you one more small wave and a wink. 
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howlett-dekarios · 4 months ago
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𝚂𝚕𝚒𝚙 𝚘𝚏𝚏
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▏Hugh Jackman x Reader
▏Summary: A little accident on the premiere night when your dress almost slips off and Hugh steps in to protect you from cameras.
▏Warnings: just pure fluff | suggestive themes |
▏Word count: 1k
▏A/n: My inspiration was that one situation on Spiderman NWH premiere when Tom covered Zendaya. Such a sweet and lovely gesture.
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It wasn’t your first dance. Being one of many main x-men cast actors you probably been on more red carpets than first dates. So the premiere of Deadpool and Wolverine wasn’t anything new.
Though you had been surprised when Ryan called you to ask if you are on board for this movie. Sure, Hugh told you about him considering returning to his so loved Wolverine character, and you were playing his love interest in the previous series but you’d never had in mind that Ryan would want you in his film too. Nonetheless coming back and working with two of them and Shawn.. that was just a pure pleasure. Yeah sometimes things got messy or them losing their minds by laughing at the joke that stopped being funny hours earlier, but still those shootings were one of the most memorable and enjoyable events in your whole history in this industry. Maybe if not counting the morning wake up calls because Ryan ha one of his ‘oh my god, it is gonna be the best shot ever and we need the light’ moments.
You were walking down the carpet, smiling, the flashes and yells being a distant noise. Soon enough you’ve joined your two friends, greeting and hugging them even though you had seen just few hours before. Everything for fans, right?
“You alright?” Hugh whispered, hidden behind your head. You always adored it in him, how caring and full of understandment he was. Always making sure that people around him were fine. After so many movies made together, not only the x-men ones, you had been more than aware of it.
“Yes, so far no troubles.” You were still smiling to the photographers like this whole convo hasn’t had place.
The next minute three of you and Shawn had posed together so the cameras could take the main frames that will be all over the internet, used as the main ones for this movie premiere.
But couple seconds after everything was set, you’ve felt how your dress slipped down a bit, almost showing your breasts. In that exact moment the shiver of panic run down your body, fear paralyzing you from doing anything.
For your luck, Hugh immediately sensed that something was off and a quick look at you was enough for him to know what to do.
He stood up in front of you, his big posture covering you up completely from the praying eyes and lens of cameras, giving you space to adjust your outfit.
“I gotcha.” His gentle and polite smile made you feel safe and the fact he wasn’t looking anywhere else than in your eyes was another sign of him being a true gentleman. Not stealing any glance while you rearrange your boobs into the right spot under your dress. “You got it?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Your deep breath of relief was enough for him to retrieve to his previous position right beside you, showing his white teeth to camera like nothing happened.
After you were done with that segment, you grabbed his arm and led him aside for a moment.
“Thank you once again, it was fucking close.” You still weren’t fully relaxed, and he could tell that. Your arms visibly more tensed, or at least evidently to him after so many years of friendship.
“No problem, princess. I always got your back, remember that?” He put his palm on your arm and lightly squeezed it, trying to make you feel better. “Besides, I would rather want someone to do the same for me if my pants ripped off.” His little joke made you chuckle and that was exactly what he wanted to hear. “You’re fine Y/n, don’t need to stress about everything.” Delicate soothing over you bare skin made you relax a bit. “But we probably should find this moron before he’ll do something stupid with our movie, okay?” The common joke around the team, as Hugh treated the third part of Deadpool series as his own baby. Another Wolverine appreciation and where was Logan there was your character too. So to him, it was as much his time for shine as yours. 
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You and Hugh have been sitting on a couch of some interview, fulfilling your duty in the press tour of the movie. The journalist was a very nice and polite girl, probably few years younger than you. Whole interview went rather smoothly, both of you answering questions about the whole process and sharing funny details from behind the scenes. Time which was destined for it was almost out.
“Okay guys, I have one more question, which I would love Y/n to answer.” You smiled, encouraging her to go on. “So on the premiere night there was a moment in the middle of photoshoot when your dress slipped a bit and Hugh quickly came in to cover you from all our eyes. Was it uncomfortable for you? The knowledge of him seeing your chest?”
Her question made you laugh a bit, but she clearly couldn’t understand why.
“First of all, he did not in fact see it.” Your dress hadn’t fallen off completely and his gaze was focused on something else. “And second, even if he would’ve seen it, the answer is no. I mean we’ve been working together for years now, and we have seen each other’s bodies naked more times than I can count.”
“This gonna go viral.” Hich smirked teasingly which only was met with you hitting his chest softly. “Okay! Aright, alright,  I’m shutting myself up!” But you still could hear his quiet chuckling.
“I suppose I need to clarify. What I meant was that we’ve been playing these two characters that are in relationship and damn, you guys had seen it yourself. The bed scenes when Logan wakes up next to Aurora, both of them naked. Not quite that much left for the imagination, isn't that right? So it wouldn’t be the first time when Hugh would’ve seen them in their whole glory.”
“Yes, exactly. Nothing I haven’t seen yet.”  
Or touched, though people didn’t have to know it. But damn how he'd enjoyed it… maybe he should follow Ryan’s advice and finally ask you out? What bad could happen, right?
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wttcsms · 6 months ago
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anatomy of desire, satoru gojo
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part i. terminal velocity
with mysterious circumstances centering around a first year med student's "suicide", you do something stupidly noble: reporting to a detective that you saw satoru gojo slipping out the backdoor of the very same building yu haibara supposedly jumped from. in doing so, you start a twisted, sick game of cat-and-mouse with the most powerful and insane student on campus. the only thing keeping you alive? the fact that satoru gojo is apathetic towards everything and everyone, besides you. ( fem!reader )
chapter contains description of dead body word count 3.7k [ next ] [ masterlist ]
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There’s an ongoing joke that only those who attend Tokyo Metropolitan College are privy to. It’s posed as a question, serves to make people laugh, but like all things spoken by these students, the intention of the words said are different from what they’re truly asking. It goes like this:
How much was your application fee? 
The joke is the idea that any of them would ever actually have to pay something as plebeian as an application fee to attend a college their parents or family have attended for generations. The “joke” has layers to it, though: how much did your parents have to cough up to get you in here? Did they only “donate” a new building? Did they agree to sponsor the next charity event hosted by the university? Or did Mother and Father only have to invite the head of admissions to a dinner party? For children who come from money, social currency holds a significant amount of value in their eyes. 
With an acceptance rate lower than most of the Ivies, alumni that consist of the world’s most powerful political leaders, actual royalty, and the most influential celebrities in the public eye, and the prestige that comes from graduating from such a decorated institution, attending Tokyo Metropolitan College should have been impossible for someone like you.
Full ride scholarships to TMC are nearly unheard of and are only extended to the best high school athletes or the brightest minds of the current generation. You’re smart, of course, but not at the caliber Tokyo Metropolitan demands. 
With your worn-out bookbag, drugstore makeup routine, and outlet clearance shoes, it’s obvious that you’re a scholarship student. Your classmates might have been willing to ignore your crime of being poor, but not even being able to at least wear last season’s runway designs? Some sins are just unforgivable. 
It’s fine by you, of course. You’re nothing but honest, and so if you were to ever be asked the cost of your application fee, you’re not sure how they would react when you confess that it cost a life. 
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You fall in love with journalism when you’re ten years old. At the clearance grocery stores, the type of shops whose air conditioning never seems to work and there’s a perpetual leak at one area of the ceiling, there’s a rack of magazines (your mother tells you these are called “tabloids”) by the checkout line. Of course, there’s usually only one cashier working out of the entire store, and you spend most of your time waiting in line than you do actually picking out your groceries. 
While your mother shuffled her coupons clipped from last week’s newspaper, you would grab the latest issue of National Enquirer, your eyes eagerly soaking up every last word of the publication. Outlandish headlines, anonymous sources, poorly Photoshopped paparazzi photos — this tabloid is your first taste of journalism. It might not be Pulitzer Prize worthy articles, but it is the spark that ignites your insatiable, burning hunger for a story. A true story. 
As you grow older, you swap National Enquirer for National Geographic and Time, going so far as to even grabbing your father’s discarded newspapers from the recycling bin whenever you catch a glimpse of an enticing headline. Everyday, there are hundreds, thousands, millions of stories, all happening at once. Depending on who’s telling the story, the immortalized version of events could very well differ from the truth. And at your young age, when you declare to your entire middle school class that you’re going to be the world’s best investigative journalist who uncovers and reports only the truth, you are met with polite, bored applause. 
Looking back, you realize just how silly you were. You used to walk around with a Hello Kitty notepad, one of those jumbo sized book fair pens (the one where it comes with like, five different colors you can pick from), and an annoying habit of never minding your own business. It pays off eventually, though. Your inquisitive (all the adults call it nosy) nature and hunger to get to the bottom of things leads you to find out that your seventh grade homeroom teacher was stealing money from the classroom’s activity funds. You got your picture in the local paper (it still hangs on the kitchen fridge, even after all these years), and the school principal even encourages you to start a school newspaper club. 
You fear you’ve peaked in the seventh grade, though. It’s been nearly eight years since that incident, and you haven’t quite uncovered anything else that’s newsworthy. You suppose the hot topic on campus right now could be worth getting to the bottom of: did Mei Mei get a boob job or not? If you figure out the truth behind that, maybe then people will actually start to care about what you have to say. 
Good stories don’t just fall into your lap; most journalists don’t spend their time sitting at their desk, typing up their finds. Instead, they’re actually on the ground, actively hunting. 
You tell yourself — justifying your eavesdropping, really — that this is just you hunting for a good story. Besides, if the conversation was meant to be so private, why wouldn’t he at least have it in his dorm room? 
“Listen, Ken — after tonight, I’ll be set for life.” The hushed whisper immediately catches your attention. You pause, glancing behind you to see if anyone’s coming. They’re not. The Liberal Arts Education building houses the least amount of students here at Tokyo Metropolitan, and everyone’s either already in class or getting lunch off campus. No one even bothers with this outdoor walkway; it’s too cold to justify walking in the shade the overhead supplies, and the vending machines located here never have any of the good snacks — just stale packs of peanuts and the brand of soymilk no one likes. 
You don’t make a habit of listening in on people’s phone calls. You have some concept of boundaries. It’s just… The Liberal Arts class is such a small group of fish in an already small pond. You’ve run into everyone who has a reason to be in this building. You were forced to take Public Speaking with at least half of them, and this voice you don’t recognize. 
That, and everyone who can afford to spend years at college, stress-free and getting a degree in the arts, don’t need to make hushed phone calls behind unwanted vending machines to discuss how they’re going to be “set for life.” Ninety-nine percent of the student body here already are.
“Just trust me,” the voice mumbles. “I’ve got it all under control.” 
You’re really trying your hardest to fight the urge to listen, but you can feel it — that sense in your gut that tells you that this is a story worth pursuing. Who cares about whether or not Mei Mei got a boob job? Whatever this student is up to is certainly of more interest than breast implants. 
When he stops talking, you recognize that he must’ve hung up the phone. Trying to remain casual, you continue to walk towards the vending machines, and when he comes into view, walking in the opposite direction of you, you briefly glance at him. 
Brushed brown hair, slightly taller than you — kind of cute, actually.
“Excuse me,” you call out to him. He stops to turn at you, a polite smile stretching across his face. 
“Yes?” 
“Do you happen to know where room L203 is? I just switched to that Japanese Literature class, but I’m still trying to navigate this building.” 
“Hmm.” He takes a second to appear in deep thought. “I’ve never had to take the course, but L203 should be on the second floor, left side.” 
“Thanks!” You chirp out, letting him go on his way. A majority of the buildings here are built similarly; the first number always dictates which floor the room is on, and odd numbers go to the left, with even numbers on the right side of the hall. You know damn well where L203 is; you just needed a second to commit this student’s face to memory. That, and you wanted a good look at the embroidery on his black jacket. 
It says Tokyo Metropolitan College Zenin School of Medicine. 
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One thing about medical students is that they (and the college) can never seem to let anyone forget, for even a split second, that they are a medical student. 
You immediately head to your dorm, cracking open your 2006 MacBook that begs dearly for you to put it out of its misery every time you power it on, and wait impatiently as the website for the Zenin School of Medicine page to officially load. Every year, the administrative team at the med school makes a big deal out of welcoming the newest incoming class, and you’re hoping that he, whoever he is, has been enrolled within the last three years. You’re not sure your laptop can handle clicking through more than three links in the timespan of five minutes without excessively overheating and then exploding on your dorm room’s desk. 
You luck out when you realize he’s from this year’s incoming class. The picture is taken outside, in the familiar quad in front of the med school’s buildings. There’s only about a dozen students entering, and you spot his bright, smiling face. To the untrained eye, he fits in well with the rest of his peers. Nothing about him appears to be different, but three years learning to navigate this world has taught you well: he doesn’t have the same social standing as these students. In a sea of On Clouds (for the active students, you presume) and Dior sneakers, he’s wearing a pair of Skechers. 
You squint at the small font of the caption, listing the students from left to right. 
Yu Haibara. 
When you search his name on the school’s site, another article appears, confirming your suspicions. 
Yu Haibara, Latest Recipient of the Zenin Merit Medical Scholarship. Every other year, the Zenin Family provides a scholarship to a promising individual who will “change the medical field for the better.” With his easygoing smile and genuine attempt at being helpful, you can believe it. Yu Haibara seems like a very nice guy.
Which is why, in the glow of the setting sun, you feel a bit guilty for tailing him. No matter what he does, it’s not even like it’s going to be something publishable for the school paper. Putting a first year medical student’s side hustle on blast isn’t anything newsworthy; you know this. The rational part of your mind tells you to go back to your dorm and actually start working on your history paper due next week. You know, something actually productive and beneficial for your future. 
But the gut feeling you’ve never been good at ignoring… It tells you that the hunt is on. There’s something here for you to uncover, and even if you have to keep it a secret to yourself, the satisfaction of satiating your curiosity will be enough. 
Following Yu isn’t really a hard thing to do. This side of campus is unsurprisingly busier than the side you normally stay on. There are more bodies for you to blend in with, more noises to disguise your footsteps, and Haibara doesn’t even seem to be paying much attention to his surroundings. He walks with his arms swaying by his sides, and he makes casual, fleeting conversation with a few faces you recognize from the class photo on the school’s website. You’re hoping that wherever he’s heading to isn’t his dorm; if it’s secrecy he wants, it would make sense for him to do everything in the privacy of his own residence, but—
“Hey, girl, what’re you doing over here?” Distracted by the greeting, you take your eyes off of Haibara’s back to look at who’s speaking to you. Sakura; you share a good portion of classes with her. You remember her mentioning a boyfriend who’s in medical school. Something about her making an offhand joke about being a future surgeon’s stay-at-home wife. It’s not like working was something she was actively going to do in the future, anyway. Her mother is a hotel heiress, and her dad owns a hefty share of Vogue. 
“Sakura, hey!” You smile at her, trying to peek over her shoulder. Haibara makes a left turn, you note. “I wanted to meet with a professor here, actually. To see if he wanted to give an interview on his research. Running out of article ideas for the school paper, honestly.” 
She crinkles her nose. She works for the school paper with you, too, but she’s never paid much attention to anything beyond her submissions to the Beauty & Fashion column. “Have fun with that.” 
“Definitely will.” You chirp, glad that Sakura’s not the type to care about what some old doctor has to say about cancer. The sidewalk is crowded with students grouping together, discussing where they want to eat out tonight, but as you make a left turn, trying to follow Haibara’s steps, you notice that the lampposts lining the walkway are fewer and farther between. It’s still not dark enough to really need their warm, yellow glow, but you’re certain you’ll need them on the walk back. 
There are less students frequenting this area, too. The buildings here are older, less maintained. You doubt any of the major classes are held here, and the only building you can really justify Haibara disappearing into would be the one at the end of this walkway. A three story brick building, whose large sign can be read even at your distance.
OLD KASHIMO LABORATORY.
Old certainly seems fitting. You wonder if the building is even still in use. 
Leaves crunch under your sneakers (that are unfortunately not straight from Rick Owens’ latest drop) as you continue to move forward, heading to the lab. It’s a big building, and it seems a shame that it isn’t as well-maintained as the front-facing buildings that make up the medical school. Your legs are practically burning by the time you make it to the steps leading to the front door. If you realized just how far of a walk it is from your dormitory to the complete other side of campus, you would have at least stretched first. 
Anything to get down to the truth, though. 
Selfishly, you hope whatever Haibara’s up, it’s something scandalous. If it’s boring, and your gut feeling is entirely wrong, you’re going to be so annoyed that you got your daily steps in for no reason. 
Pushing through the large oak double-doors of the building takes some effort, but when you do, you realize the lights here, unlike the other buildings you’ve been in, aren’t triggered automatically by movement. At least the windows all over the walls allow the fading light of the setting sun to filter through the massive entrance. 
Way down on the other end, you see it. A silhouette of someone else; you see them, but you’re shocked you don’t hear them. 
Haibara?
No. Even from this distance, this figure seems taller than the brunet boy you’ve been stalk— following — for the past hour. The figure pays you no attention, but when it opens the backdoor, for a split second, they’re — he’s — bathed in the glow from the nearby lampposts and sunset. 
White hair, sharp jawline, broad shoulders, and even at this angle, his sharp, blue eyes that are recognizable anywhere.
Satoru Gojo. 
The difference between college and high school is that in high school, it’s pretty common to have a few people designated as “popular.” College is different. Everyone is a grown adult now, whether they like it or not, and concepts as juvenile and irrelevant as “popularity” no longer matter.
At a school like Tokyo Metropolitan, though, social hierarchy is everything. A school this small, this exclusive, this prestigious, thrives because parents send their little heirs and heiresses here in order to network. These kids grew up trading Pokemon cards by utilizing tips from The Art of the Deal.
In a small group where only the wealthy and influential are allowed in, Satoru Gojo comes from the wealthiest and most influential family there is. His father has global politicians trying to cozy up to him, and his mother comes from a family who supposedly made their fortune off of blood diamonds (naturally, the Gojos deny this claim, squashing any speculation about how the wife’s family made their money by spamming the news with nothing but reports of their charitable acts). Instead of pursuing business, Gojo makes headlines by his father announcing how proud he is that his son is choosing the noble path of medicine. 
“He’s all about helping people,” the reporter quotes Mr. Gojo. 
That must be true; it’s why Gojo’s so known all over campus. It’s not enough that socially, he’s better than all of them, which makes being his friend all the more appealing. It’s the fact that he’s just a good guy. You remember how last year, the school paper did an article on how Gojo funded the entire extravagant retirement party for a beloved professor at the school. You heard a rumor that the one and only time he was late to class (by three minutes) was because he was helping a student get her kitten out of a tree. During his undergrad, he was captain of the basketball team and took them to the championships every year. He does all of this while remaining absolutely humble, kind, and top of his class. 
You wonder if there’s a story there. If maybe Satoru Gojo, who is too perfect to be real, isn’t real. Maybe his parents figured out where to get their hands on an ultra-realistic robot, something that poses as the perfect son. That would explain his eyes, you think.
You’ve always tried to see the appeal in Gojo. He’s handsome, yes. He’s nice, no doubt about it. You don’t think you could find anyone with a single bad thing to say about him. But during your freshman year at this school, you think about the moment where you had to fill in for the school’s photographer. You had to photograph Gojo accepting an award for being MVP on the basketball team (once again), and while Gojo was charming everyone, from the coach to the dean of the school to the girls in the crowd cheering him on, there was your gut feeling telling you that something was just off. 
“You’re not the usual photographer, are ya?” He peers down at you, hands in his pockets, a big grin on his face. He’s not teasing you, at least, not in a rude way. He just has a light-hearted inflection on all his words that makes everything he says seem… warmer? Like, he’s trying to put you at ease. 
You’re fiddling with the settings on the camera, unused to the tech. “Um, yeah. I’m a freshman, but I’m just subbing in for my senior who got sick.” 
“Really? That’s neat!” He says it, and it sounds so sincere, that you nod along. Yeah, maybe it is neat. 
(Gojo’s good at that. Putting people at ease, getting them to see things from his point of view.)
“Try your best to make me look good, and I’ll do my best to make sure whatever shot you get is fine! Deal?” He’s still smiling at you, and all you can do is nod. Even at this point in time, a fresh-faced baby to this school, you’re aware of Gojo’s power. When you’re looking at him through the lens of the camera, you think it’d be impossible to get a bad photo of Gojo. 
The uneasy feeling you get around him gets chalked up to nothing more than nerves. You’re a writer, not a photographer. Gojo is a legend amongst men, and being in such close proximity to him would make anyone nervous. 
But when you look back at the photo once the article gets published, you know why you felt so weird around him. 
When Satoru Gojo smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes.
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You’re not sure why Gojo is — or, more accurately, was — in this building, but it’s none of your business. You’re here for Haibara, and whatever weird ass, secretive but lucrative side hustle he’s got going on. Probably dropshipping. Or, maybe he’s selling old test banks?  
Chances are, it’s nothing special or noteworthy. The reason why you haven’t gotten a good story lately might simply be because your senses, your so-called reliable gut instinct, has just gone dull. Maybe you’ve never even had a good instinct to begin with. Or, maybe losing it is just the karma you deserve for everything you’ve done to get to where you are now. It would serve you right, wouldn’t it? The universe must have a taste for poetic justice sometimes.
You’re hungry. Your legs are sore. It’s getting late. Whatever Haibara has going on, you don’t care anymore. You’ve got a paper due, and a protein bar somewhere in the bottom of your book bag that will serve as dinner for tonight because you don’t have enough funds to get anything halfway decent at the dining hall, and what a waste of time today was. 
You’re opening the doors of the building, letting the cool evening breeze hit you in the face as you exit. You still need something to write for the school paper; the lie you told to Sakura might actually be the only valid idea you have, and— 
“Holy fucking shit! Is he dead?!”
You look to your right. There’s a trio of students gathered around a lump on the ground. Someone’s screaming, then they’re all screaming. More students are flooding out of nearby buildings, and despite the protest of your limbs, you turn and head right where the screams are coming from. 
Bringing your hand to your mouth, you barely manage to hold back your own scream. 
Lying on the concrete walkway is Yu Haibara, with his neck and body at two different odd angles, his head cracked open and spilling blood that leaks onto the manicured grass of the campus.
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gotta-winwin · 7 months ago
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(🎞️) ... hit the road docu.<> speed isn't all that matters
masterlist | cyana's masterlist
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word count: 1.6k TW: slightlycold!wonwoo, tiny sliver of angst (we're getting there!), overworking, passing out, FLUFF, comfort italics are interview moments cut between other scenes a/n: second htr! we're starting that landslide into the angst (ദ്ദി ˙ᗜ˙ ) they are so cute in this omgomgomg
Wonwoo sat awkwardly on the pedestal, doing his best to balance while still posing for the camera.
"We had a lot of photoshoots and interviews while touring in Japan." Wonwoo explained to the camera. "Feels like we were posing for photos everywhere."
Wonwoo stood up once the photographer had finished his series of shots. He was tired and couldn't wait to get back to the hotel.
"Wait a moment, Wonwoo." Their manager called out to stop him. "They want a couple shots of you and Cyana."
Wonwoo sighed, nodding as he reluctantly returned to his seat. Cyana walked over, bowing politely to the staff. She stood awkwardly next to Wonwoo, a clear gap between them as she waited for instructions.
"Cyana-yah, can you stand behind Wonwoo?" Their translator smiled kindly as she directed the girl. "Wrap your arms around his shoulders, yes- that's good."
Wonwoo glanced up at the girl, looking away when their eyes met. He couldn't help but stiffen up as they both turned towards the camera. "I thought you went home with the others." He mumbled out of the corner of his mouth, smiling as the photographer clicked away. Most of the members had already finished their photoshoots and gone home.
Cyana's lips quirked down into a suppressed frown. "I stayed back. The car could only take four of us and Seungkwan looked dead on his feet."
"Look this way!" The photographer yelled, cutting off whatever had been Wonwoo's reply.
"Schedules forced Wonwoo to actually talk to me." Cyana couldn't help but grin despite the topic. "It was fun, I guess."
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"I've always been a very introverted person." Wonwoo said to the camera, wringing his hands nervously. "I enjoy having time to myself."
Cyana smiled when the interviewer finished talking. "Yeah.. Wonwoo's always been a bit of an enigma to me. Like a mystery I just can't figure out."
Cyana's sitting with Dino in their hotel room, busy eating the lunch they had grabbed from the staff room. They're both mid-bite when the door opens.
"Nana~" Seungkwan walked in, fixing his hat. He was dressed and ready to go out. "Are you sure you don't want to come with us?" Spotting the camera, he waves. "Oh- Hi~ We're going to Super Junior's concert."
Cyana shook her head, still chewing. "It's okay." She managed to say once swallowing. "I think I'm going to stay in today."
Seungkwan nodded, ruffling both her and Dino's hair before leaving. Neither maknae gave any indication they had even noticed the action, continuing to enjoy their meal.
"I'm gonna go to the sauna with Vernon later." Dino told Cyana through muffled chewing. "Do you want to come?"
Cyana made a face. "To the sauna?" She mimed gagging. "No thanks, Chan."
Dino made a face back. "I keep forgetting there are things you can't do that other members can." He smiled when she frowned. "I guess going to the sauna would be a little weird."
"I guess??" Cyana questioned, amazed at his lack of modesty. "A little??"
Dino shrugged. "You're a bro, bro."
"Where on earth did you learn that-" Cyana asked, though she already knew the answer. Vernon. Duh.
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Jun and Cyana lazed in bed, Cyana watching Jun's phone from next to him. The girl was half-asleep, eyelids drooping and head lulling against the wall.
Wonwoo walked in, fresh from a shower, double taking when he saw Cyana. Gears turning in his head, he reluctantly slid into his own bed, throwing his blanket over himself.
"What did you do today, Wonwoo?" Jun asked, eyes still focused on the phone. He looked over at Wonwoo before checking on Cyana, smiling to himself when he saw her tired expression.
"I played tennis." Wonwoo answered. "Worked out, went swimming, then ate with the others- what did you guys eat?" He subconsciously said guys, including Cyana into the question. She perked up from Jun's side, suddenly awake.
"I ate with Donghae and Eunhyuk hyung after their concert." Jun replied, nudging Cyana. "What about you?"
"I ate with Dino."
Both boys frowned. "I thought that was your lunch." Jun said, both confused and worried. "You didn't have anything for dinner?"
Cyana paused. "I had some snacks. Not that hungry, since I didn't do much today." She shrugged. "I ate a lot for lunch anyways." Redirecting the topic, she turned to Jun. "Was the concert fun?"
Jun nodded. "It was so much fun." Sitting up straighter, he placed down his phone, fully engaged now. "They speak Japanese so well."
Wonwoo hummed. "We should learn to do that."
"Jeonghan and Hoshi are both great." Cyana sighed. "I think if I have one more language in my head I might combust."
Her quip brought both boys to laughter. "It's okay." Wonwoo said quietly, once the laughter died down. "You can just speak a lot for our North American tours."
"I always had a kind of weak presence, and I never fit in well as a kid." Wonwoo told the camera. "But with Seventeen I didn't get that feeling. They made me feel welcomed, always made me shine without needing to." He paused for a moment, thinking. "They're very important to me- because of that."
"Mingyu once told me Wonwoo cared deeply about his place in the group - he said it might sound selfish but I don't think so." Cyana's eyes were a little sad as she looked at the interviewer. "Mingyu said Wonwoo only has Seventeen. I guess he was just trying to tell me Wonwoo's very protective over the people he loves - and that was the only reason why it felt like he didn't like me." Cyana shrugged. "It made me hate him less."
"Ah. Mingyu told her that?" Wonwoo grimaced once hearing what the interviewer told him about Cyana's interview before him. "I guess he's right. I didn't want Seventeen to break apart because of her." He looked away, embarrassed. "They were my first friends. I only have them."
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"What do you mean Dino's ill?"
Cyana stared at a worried Hoshi. "Is it serious?" She asked, verging on panic. It felt like the boys were dropping like flies around her - what with Jeonghan's body decay, DK's sore throat, Seungkwan's ankle, Seungcheol's unstable mind and now Dino.
"He's getting it checked." Hoshi told her, not wanting to worry her further with the details. "You won't do anything - panicking like that."
Cyana took a few breaths, knowing he was right. "You're right. Okay." She let out a deep breath. "He'll be okay."
"On in 3 minutes!" A staff member called from the door.
She stood up, following everyone as they shuffled out towards the stage. Wonwoo stumbled a few paces in front of her, making her look his way.
"You good?" She whispered, speeding up to stand beside him.
He only gave her a curt nod, refusing to look at her and instead focusing on the lift in front of them. They could both hear the cheers from here.
"Go, go!" A staff rushes them both onto the lift before either of them could break the silence. Cyana could only glance at him again as they were lifted up onstage.
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She thought she was mistaken when she saw him go down. The area behind the stage was dimly lit, and there was a commotion as the Hiphop Unit finished their stage and came down to switch with the Performance Unit. Cyana thought maybe her eyes were acting up, when she saw Wonwoo run down the stairs, take a few steps and drop.
Staff members were on him in an instant. Cyana was shoved aside as they rushed to lift him, moving him out the walkway and onto a table- it's sole purpose was to serve as a bed in case this very thing happened.
She felt like her limbs were falling her, leaving her frozen in place.
"Go." Mingyu mouthed the words at her, pointing at Wonwoo. He pointed next at the tent, gesturing that he needed to get his mic checked. "Stay with him." He pointed again at Wonwoo.
Cyana willed her legs to move, shuffling over to Wonwoo's side. The crowd of staff had dispersed, leaving him alone with two staff members- one with a fan and one with an oxygen tank.
She took the oxygen tank from one of them and told them she could do it instead.
"Wonwoo." She muttered, lifting the oxygen tank and placing it gently in front of his mouth. His chest rose dangerously fast as he tried to catch his breath. "Breathe." She found only English in her mind as she tried not to panic. "Please breathe."
His eyes darted around until they landed on her face. Eyebrows furrowing slightly, he raised a hand and pushed the oxygen tank weakly away from his face, trying to speak. "What- what's going on." He panted out, his speech slightly slurred.
Cyana felt her heart crack. "Don't try to talk." She reprimanded him, gently pushing him back down to rest. "You passed out."
If Wonwoo could breathe, he would've snapped at her to leave him alone, that he could take care of himself. He couldn't. Instead, he closed his eyes, allowing her to take care of him. Just this once.
"She was gentle with me." Wonwoo recalled. "Even though I hadn't been kind to her."
"Breathe." She mumbled again, mindlessly repeating it as her brain turned numb from everything going on. She stayed next to him, raising the oxygen tank to his lips whenever his lungs failed to do the job. "It's okay."
"She stayed throughout the whole thing." Wonwoo looked sheepishly at the camera. "I don't think I even said 'thank you.' We just returned on stage."
Cyana shrugged at the interviewer's question. "He didn't need to say anything. Sometimes words fail us - his eyes said enough."
307 notes · View notes
dirtyvulture · 1 year ago
Text
Envy and Venom
Heiress!Natasha Romanoff x CEO!Beefy!Fem!Reader
18+ only, read at your own risk
Summary: You are the notorious playboy who just inherited one of the biggest tech companies in the world. Your first move? Sleeping with the heiress of your rival company.
Word count: 4190
AN: Randomly came up with this idea, it's a little different than my other stuff, but give it a read. :)
DAY 1
“You couldn’t have picked a better person for the job,” you tease, gripping tightly onto your father’s hand as the sea of flashing lights fifteen feet away practically blinds you. The reporters call out for your attention but you ignore them, pausing in the awkward, hand-holding pose with your father so the photo can be plastered across the front page of news outlets around the world. 
“I trust you. Don’t ruin what I’ve started,” your father says, grabbing onto your shoulder and pulling you into a tight embrace. “And please try to keep your…escapades…a little more under wraps, okay?” he whispers into your ear. 
“I’ll try, Dad,” you say, but it isn’t really your fault that the public was so interested in what goes on in your bedroom. Then again, you hadn’t exactly been trying to be subtle when you were fucking your secretary against the penthouse window of your apartment, but people should try to mind their own business more. 
Your father pushes you back and the two of you turn in unison to wave at the crowd once more. 
“Congratulations!” you hear them echoing. “To Envy Industries’ new CEO, Y/N!”
***********************************************************************
Naturally, to celebrate your latest achievement, you host the party of the century, inviting other world-renowned millionaires, fellow tech company gurus, actors, singers, celebrities, and pretty much anyone else who fit society’s thinly-veiled description of “famous.” You initially show up with two models you had already spent the afternoon with, but you weren’t interested in stringing them along and were excited to find some new target to chase after. 
The first hour alone is spent wading through faces you recognize from online but have no personal connection with, and you have to pretend that you’re grateful when they take enough interest and ask about the future of your company. 
“We’ll probably stick to the production of GPUs for a while,” you say, yelling to be heard over the music and rumble of people. “We just signed a huge contract with Tesla, so we’ll be supplying all the hardware they need for their next products. They have a big need for AI software, and we’re one of the few companies that can build exactly what they need.”
“Wow, that’s very impressive.” The short-haired blonde woman suddenly throws herself at you, her nails digging into your bicep so hard you can feel the prick through your burgundy silk jacket.
“Thank you.” You’re not sure you’ve ever seen this woman before in your life and you wonder if she even understood half of what you were saying or she was just trying to get into your pants.
“I’m Carol, by the way. Do you want to get a drink?”
“I would never say no to a drink.” You let Carol lead you to the bar (that you are footing the bill for) and she orders for you, picking an old-fashioned cocktail for you. A decent choice, but if she had read your interview in The Chief Executive Magazine, she would have known that your favorite drink was actually a vodka martini. You join her at an empty table.
“So, what do you do for a living?” you ask out of politeness, taking a sip and letting the whiskey burn your throat.  
“I’m an influencer,” Carol says. “I have one-point-seven million followers on Tik Tok right now. I mostly post fitness routines or travel vlogs. And I also stream video games on Twitch.”
“Ah.” Now it’s your turn to act like you’re impressed when you have no idea what she’s talking about. 
Carol drones on about her next project, which involves a collaboration with another influencer you’ve never heard of. Your eyes scan the people walking by, looking for a new object of infatuation. It doesn’t take long until you make eye contact with a beautiful, redheaded woman, her voluptuous body hugged by an emerald green dress. Immediately, your heart rate spikes as you scan her up and down, not predatorily, but admiringly. The neckline of her dress plunges down to her belly button, a tasteful hint of her cleavage showing through, highlighted by a long  silver necklace with a thin gold bar tassel. 
You perk up, smoothing your hair back and puffing out your chest like a proud pigeon when she starts walking over.
“Congratulations,” the redhead says. “Your family must be very proud of you.”
“My dad didn’t want to give it to me,” you admit, completely oblivious to Carol’s pout as you instantly give your attention to this new woman. “But I convinced him the company would be in good hands.”
“I bet.”
“Can I get you a drink?” you ask, desperate to keep around for the conversation (and perhaps more).
“I should be the one treating you,” the redhead says. She takes the cocktail out of your hands and brings it to her lips. “Hmm. I didn’t think this was your taste,” she notes. “How does a vodka martini sound?”
You know instantly this is the woman you’re taking home with you tonight. “That sounds delightful.”
***********************************************************************
You ditch Carol without a second thought and follow the redhead back to the bar, where she picks up two vodka martinis. She brings you to a private booth, sitting so close to you that your knees are touching hers. You can almost feel her body heat through the fabric of your clothes. 
“To Envy Industries’ long and prosperous future,” she says, raising her drink in a toast.
“Cheers.” You clink your glass to hers and drink half of it in one long sip, smiling in satisfaction. “I didn’t catch your name,” you say.
“Natasha.” It sparks a familiar memory, a name you’ve heard before. But she’s so intoxicating that you give it no second thought. Natasha is one of the most gorgeous women you’ve ever seen in your life and you can’t believe she’s sitting here talking to you and you alone.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” you say, formally offering her your hand. She shakes it, and you gently bring her hand up to your lips to kiss her knuckles.
“Likewise,” she says, crossing one perfectly toned leg over the other, her foot nudging the back of your calf. “Not to eavesdrop, but I overheard you mention a contract with Tesla. Say what you want about that company, but you can’t deny the evidence that they’re one of the highest valued companies in the world. I wouldn’t be surprised if Envy Industries is soon up there with them.”
“Exactly.” Your interest in this woman skyrockets, because you know she isn’t bullshitting you. She isn’t like Carol. She knows what she’s talking about. 
“We’ve been trying to strike deals with the automotive industry for years,” Natasha goes on, “But you’ve beat us to it. And now that you’ve partnered up with Tesla, you’re basically unstoppable.”
“Not quite,” you correct, now unable to stop yourself from unraveling the schemes of your company’s next five years. “Our research on artificial intelligence is just getting started. We just applied for ten new patents within computing technologies and we’re on track to absolutely dominate the market for discrete graphics processing units by the end of the year.” 
Natasha grins at your enthusiasm and you feel yourself blush in embarrassment. You know the media often labeled you as stupid, reckless, irresponsible, unfit to lead, and constantly bashed your sexual appetite, but you were all those things and a technology genius. Your father had built this company from the ground up, but you had been there alongside him the past six years. While everyone classified your promotion to CEO as nepotism, you felt you had rightfully earned it. 
“I don’t know how you do it,” she comments.
“Well, it definitely wouldn’t be wise for the new CEO to be giving away all the secrets, now would it?” you chuckle, even though you’ve definitely already said more than you should’ve. 
“Your success is no trade secret.” Natasha turns her whole body to face you. The attention she’s giving you is almost more than you can bear. Your heart pounds against your chest. No woman has ever made you this excited before. “But if you want, maybe we can go somewhere a little more private, where you can share whatever else you’d like.”
“Hmm.” It was rare for another woman to be so bold with you. But you’ve never lusted after another woman like Natasha before. Arousal heats up in your stomach as Natasha leans forward, resting her hand on your thigh and squeezing it teasingly. Her breath fans over your face and you can smell the vodka and her cherry lipstick. You lean forward to meet her, moving like you’re in a dream, fireworks sparking in the back of your head the moment your lips touch. 
Suddenly, you’re overcome with the carnal desire to drag this woman up to your penthouse and have her squirming underneath you, crying out your name as she comes undone.
“Um, would you like to…” You can hardly think straight. “My room…apartment…is upstairs…if you want to…”
“Show me the way,” Natasha says, standing up and offering you her hand.
***********************************************************************
Your brain is swirling in a fog as you follow Natasha to the elevator. You don’t even register any of the people you pass, fully aware of the fact that someone will report this headline to the National Enquirer, at the very least. But all the worries of the future disappear the moment the elevator doors close and Natasha throws herself at you, her legs hooking around your narrow waist and her heels digging into the small of your back. Your hands support her supple bottom, squeezing in appreciation as her lips crash against yours in a desperate frenzy. 
You stumble into the wall, smashing your hand onto the top floor button and feeling the elevator start to rise, but not fast enough. 
“Lucky me,” Natasha pants between kisses. “Getting to go home with the newly-christened CEO of Envy Industries.”
“You’re the most beautiful woman here tonight,” you respond, heat rising between your legs. “Of course you were coming home with me.”
Natasha glows with the praise and pulls your head into her chest, where you instinctively lick and nip at the flesh of her exposed breasts and she keens at the attention. When the elevator doors open again, you stumble out with her still in your arms, your feet automatically taking you down the path to your apartment. Thankfully, your apartment door opens automatically when your key card is in range, so you’re able to kick it open with your foot, without having to put her down.   
You carry her straight to the bedroom, dropping her on the freshly-changed sheets you had housekeeping put on after you were done with the two models from earlier. You can hardly remember your time with them and your body is practically vibrating in anticipation like you haven’t had sex in years. You crawl on top of Natasha, lowering yourself to kiss her again, this time with more passion and her arms snake over your broad back, pressing your body against hers.  
“I need to get you out of this dress,” you pant, desperate for skin-to-skin contact with her. 
“You first,” she says, releasing you as you sit up, yanking off your jacket and throwing it to the floor. You’re annoyed at your choice of shirt, a white button-up that has way too many buttons, as you impatiently pop them off one at a time and remove your bra. Natasha watches you with hunger in her eyes and you’ve never felt more proud to reveal yourself to another partner. The daily, painful 2-hour visits to the gym and strict adherence to a customized diet showed in your chiseled physique, your biceps bulging like you had baseballs under your skin, your perfect washboard abs, and your thighs were sturdier than tree trunks. 
“Fuck,” she mutters, reaching up to run her hand across your abs like she can’t believe you’re really in front of her. “I could look at you all day.”
It’s a common reaction most people have, but it definitely heats you up more when it comes from Natasha. “Your turn, gorgeous.” 
She sits up and turns around so you can access the zipper of her dress. You sweep her hair to the side, stealing a kiss to her neck because you really can’t help yourself. Natasha hums in appreciation and you lower her zipper slowly. Her dress pools at her waist like a glimmering green puddle. She isn’t wearing a bra so your hands immediately gravitate to cup her breasts, and she arches her back against your bare chest. 
“Are you gonna fuck me the same way you do to every girl you have in here?” she asks, placing one of her hands over yours and guiding it down her stomach, where your fingers part through her soaking folds. 
“If you want me to,” you say, pressing deeper into her and she whines at your touch. “But I’ll give you whatever you want.” Normally, you enjoy being in full control in the bedroom, but you are absolutely willing to give that up if it pleases Natasha. 
She suddenly pushes your hand away from her center; you can still feel traces of her stickiness on your fingers. “Do you have a strap? I want to ride you.”
Your stomach flips at the thought of her on top of you, grinding down on you until she finishes. Her heaving bosom in your face for you to suck and kiss while she enjoys the orgasm you gave her. 
“Yeah, let me grab it.” While you launch yourself off the bed to go fishing around your nightstand drawer, Natasha nudges her dress to the floor and delicately removes her long necklace, settling back comfortably on your king-sized bed while she waits for you. You take off your pants and pull the harness over your waist, turning back to the mouth-watering sight of her naked and ready for your taking. Her body is toned and curved in all the right places: clearly, she respected her body as much as you did to yours. There are few things you love more than a woman who takes care of herself.
You climb back onto the bed and Natasha pounces on you while you’re still getting into position, holding onto your biceps to pin you down. You catch sight of her glimmering wetness as she drags herself along your abs, pressing back against your cock until it rubs against her butt. You reach over to grab the bottle of lube always present on your nightstand and squirt a generous glob onto your strap, not that it looks like Natasha will need it. 
“Look how wet you are. You’ve been waiting for this all night, sweetheart?” you tease, your hands running up and down her sides. Natasha takes you by surprise when she shoves you back against the headboard.  
“Shut up and let me fuck you,” she growls, her voice dangerously dropping an octave. Natasha lifts herself up to line herself with the head of your cock and slides down in one move. The slick noise as it fills her is downright sinful. Your big hands wrap around her tiny waist, guiding her to bounce in an aggressive rhythm as the two of you watch your cock disappear inside of her. 
“Fuck, Y/N,” she moans, throwing her head back, red hair spilling over her shoulders. “That feels so good.”
“Look how well you’re taking me,” you praise, your hips jerking up to match her rhythm. Even though you can’t necessarily feel it, you swear her pussy is clenching around the toy, greedily sucking you in and requiring physical effort to pull out. Your own clit is throbbing as the toy bumps it every time Natasha slams down on your thighs. 
“Deeper, babe. Go deeper,” Natasha begs, moving her hands from your shoulders to the headboard, grabbing it so firmly you hear the wood crack. You change the angle of your hips, punching them up to satisfy her command. The bed frame creaks and shakes; you know your father would be unhappy to hear he has to order you a new one so soon, but you can’t be bothered to care right now.
“Fuck, right there. That’s it,” Natasha moans, rolling her hips with such fluidity it makes your stomach clench. She looks down at you, admiring the flex of your muscles as you do your best to please her, a singular bead of sweat running over your collarbone and sliding down between your breasts. 
“I’m close. I’m almost fucking there,” she warns, her hips beginning to lose their rhythm. But you keep your intense pace, until your abs are cramping and you’re certain there are bruises on your thighs. Your own arousal burns like a ball of white-hot fire and you so desperately want to make this woman cum you will gladly ignore the ache of your own orgasm for hers. 
“You’re fucking me too well, baby. I’m gonna lose it,” Natasha pants and the praise almost breaks your control. She throws her head back as she finishes and you bury your face in her heaving chest, tasting the sweat on her skin and sucking one of her nipples into your mouth. Her hand abandons the headboard to tangle in your hair, yanking almost painfully at your roots while you feel her cum spill onto your lap. She pushes your head away once she’s done, your lips parting from her nipple with a string of saliva, and lifts herself off your cock. The two of you are panting in unison, while you’re still fighting the simmer of arousal in your gut.
“Hmm, that was nice. Do you normally let your partner finish first?” she asks, resting her hands on your chest again. “I didn’t think you were the type.”
Your face burns in embarrassment because she’s not wrong. “Um…no,” you admit, knowing full well you could lie, but you feel like she’ll be able to see through it.
Natasha smirks. “Such a gentlewoman with me,” she says, bending over to kiss you, this time much more softly than before. 
“Only for you,” you murmur back, shocked at how whipped you already are for her. 
“You want me to help you finish?” Natasha asks, pushing the strap aside to brush her fingers across your hot center. Your hips jerk off the bed, almost launching Natasha into the air. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she giggles, climbing off your lap and helping you pull the strap off your waist. You’re practically frozen in anticipation, watching with bated breath as Natasha scoots herself down the bed and lowers her head between your legs.
You melt at the feeling of her mouth against your center, perfectly hot and wet. Your back arches off the bed when her tongue glides through your folds, lapping up the mixture of body fluids like it’s some kind life-saving elixir. 
“Shit, baby, that feels amazing,” you moan, burying one of your hands in her red tresses, motioning with your hips that you want her deeper. She obliges by wrapping her lips around your clit and giving it a few hard sucks that have you seeing white stars behind your eyelids. You let go of her hair, afraid you’ll tear it out and grab onto the Egyptian cotton sheets tightly. Her tongue pushes into you and you swear you convulse around it, already leaking into her mouth when she’s only just started to go down on you.
Natasha’s arms wrap around your powerful thighs, trying to force them apart as you close them around her head. You don’t mean to put her in awkward, even dangerous position, but you can’t think about anything other than the pulsing in your center, soothed and encouraged by the heat of Natasha’s mouth. You dig your heels into the mattress to prevent yourself from bouncing across the bed at the rocking motion your body had adopted to maximize your pleasure. Every time her tongue slips into you, the muscles in your stomach contract so sharply it almost hurts, and when she laps at your clit, the stimulation is so great you feel immediately dizzy.
“Natasha,” you pant, unable to hold out any longer. “I’m gonna…Please let me…” 
She presses into you with even more enthusiasm than before and your body seizes as you release yourself into her mouth. Natasha eagerly collects all your slick, her red lipstick smeared on the insides of your thighs.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” you moan, feeling your high is going to last forever. But just the sensations start to fizz, you realize Natasha still has her iron grip on your legs, keeping them spread apart.
“I want another,” she demands, in a sultry tone that almost pulls the second orgasm from you right there.
“Natasha,” you whine, fearing you are too sensitive to deliver her wishes. You twist your body back and forth, half-heartedly trying to free yourself. But Natasha won’t let you, lowering her head to your heat and taking what she wants. Overly stimulated, every muscle in your body goes rigid as fireworks of pleasure, bordering the line of painful, explode inside of you. Natasha’s tongue somehow reaches even deeper than she had the first time, the tip pressing against your front ridged wall and you lose it for the second time in minutes.
“Oh, fuck!” you cry, your back arching off the bed but Natasha holds your waist down, determined to not let a drop of your essence go to waste. Your head is spinning and your body is like a live wire of excitement, twitching and trembling until you have no more energy left and and you melt into a limp mess.
Natasha kisses up your abs, between your breasts and licks at the column of your sweaty throat. Her lips finally connect with yours and you can taste a hint of yourself mixed with hers. You can’t wait to taste her straight from the source, but it’s going to take a bit of time to find the strength to move after two back-to-back orgasms. She wraps her arms around your torso, nuzzling into the side of your chest and inhaling deeply.
There is a long, but not uncomfortable silence as you two of you find your breath.
“I’m not letting you leave until you sit on my face,” you finally say. Natasha looks up at you with a satisfied grin.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” she says, crawling up so she can do just that.
***********************************************************************
The moment Natasha made eye contact with you, she knew you were done for. You were far too predictable. She knew exactly the kind of woman you chased after. She knew what she needed to say to catch your attention, to convince you that she deserved a private moment with you.
You were too easy.
When you were so busy looking at her lips, trying to figure out when the right moment to kiss her was, you didn’t notice her take your phone out of your pocket, plug a flash drive into the charging slot, and return it back to your pocket in record time.
As you carry her in the elevator, your face buried in her breasts while she slips a tiny audio recorder into the pocket of your blazer. Through the fog of pure lust for you, Natasha struggles to but succeeds in making a mental map of your apartment. Where your office is, how many computers you have.
After numerous orgasms, she’s sufficiently fucked your brains out and cuddled with you long enough for you to pass out into an impossibly deep slumber, she gets up and heads into your office. She doesn’t need more than five minutes to hack into your devices and steal all the data saved on them. She chuckles to herself at how easy the task is; if she had known it would’ve been this simple and enjoyable, she would’ve come after you a long time ago.
Natasha gathers all her things and excuses herself from your apartment without a good-bye.
***********************************************************************
DAY 2
When you wake up the next morning, your mind a haze from the absolute debauchery that occurred the previous night. You rub your eyes and roll over, finding yourself naked and alone in bed. There is a deep soreness in your body, in almost every muscle, and some you haven’t felt for a long time. Natasha’s scent of vanilla and cherry lingers, but she’s nowhere to be found.
“Fuck,” you grumble, reaching for your phone on the nightstand. It’s been blowing up with notifications, which is a little unusual, but you assume it’s mostly from friends still congratulating you on your promotion. You open a text from your best friend and work partner, Tony.
From Tony: You fucked up, dude.
He included a link to a TMZ article. You click on it, half-wondering if it’ll send you to some troll site. The headline reads:
New CEO of Envy Industries Y/N spotted getting cozy with Black Widow Corp. heiress Natasha Romanoff 
Everything clicks to you now.
“Oh, fuck.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
AN: Click here for Part 2!
Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰
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beelanddiavolosimp-blog · 7 months ago
Note
Hi~ Hope you're having a gud day. So I'll like to request a scenario where the brothers receive a really suggestive pic from MC on their chat and when they're about to tell how sexy she looks, MC deletes the pic and types out "Oops sorry sent it on the wrong number". The next thing is probably them bursting into MC's room in their demon forms and shaking MC while asking "Who tf were you sending this to then?!" (Poor MC, it was a prank tho😞). Thanks bbg!
To help Mc's case I will let them say it's a joke afterwards 😅 Aw you're welcome I hope you enjoy!🫶🏼
The brothers react to MC texting 'oops wrong number' after sending something suggestive
Lucifer
He was working of course never really doing much outside of it. He looked over at his phone and was going to ignore it until he saw it was MC and then immediately looked at it. As he opens the text he sees MC in a very suggestive pose along with an explicit text over the image before it was quickly deleted and MC sent "oops sorry wrong number". He stares at his phone for a good few minutes before suddenly standing straight up and rushing over to your room. He still knocks politely before slamming the door open a scary fake grin on his face. "MC what was that text I hope you know I read and saw it thoroughly." He says his tone is unreadable. MC looks startled then laughs nervously "ah sorry Lucifer it was meant for someone else..." He immediately moves closer "and who would that be huh? Don't lie to me I can read right through it." MC sighs loudly and pouts "why do you always know when I'm messing with youuu" MC whines
Mammon
He sighs bored out of his mind sitting on the couch. He then scrolls through his phone instead seeing Mc texted. He immediately opens it and sees a very suggestive photo before it was deleted and a text was sent. "Oops sorry mam's wrong number!" Now he is by no means a calm person but he stalled for a few minutes because DAMN that photo was a blessing to his eyes. Yet that immediately dropped when he saw that text. What?. WHAT?. He immediately rushed to find Mc and once he spotted them he shoved his phone in their face. "WHAT IS THIS! WHO ARE YOU SENDING THAT TOO? WHY WOULD YOU SEND ME THAT! ARE YA DUMB?" he continues to yell and make a scene. Once MC calms him down Mc finally admitted it was a joke and he immediately huffed. "Dumb human" and he snatched Mc's phone. "Don't send that picture to anyone else got it?" He says now moody.
Levi
As if he would be anywhere else he was sitting in his room playing video games when he heard his phone ping. He looks down and checks it since it was from Mc and immediately drops his phone and lets out a loud shriek. MC what the hell!!! He immediately scrambled to grab his phone with a red face and then got Mc's text. He frowns and texts back 'oh....okay....enjoy your time together then ig' and sets his phone down. He continues to sulk until Mc enters his room and scolds him for just accepting what happened and not questioning it. He is happy it was a joke though.
Satan
He was reading quietly trying to keep his mind off of something Lucifer said that had set him off. He checked his phone and once he saw Mc sent something he immediately went to open it. His eyes widened and his face immediately reddened at the photo sent. He immediately went to type something. Yet before he could say really anything MC sends "oops sorry wrong number". He immediately closes his book and within minutes was storming around the house in his demon form getting that pissed off. He continued to be a royal asshole until Mc practically yelled at him it was a joke. "Don't do it ever again or I'll cut that person's head off in a heartbeat."
Asmos
He was busy doing his skincare routine humming to the music he had playing in the background until he heard his phone vibrate. He checks it and immediately lights up seeing it was from Mc. Once he sees the picture he immediately saves it without thinking and responds quickly "oh my MC trying to rile me up are you?~" MC was shocked at how quickly he responded and texted "oh asmo I'm so sorry it was for someone else" he pouts yet responds anyway "oh? How sad...who was it for hm?" MC tried to continue the lie and couldn't eventually telling him it was. He responds "oh! Great. Now that photo can be for me only~"
Beel
He was currently in the middle of a workout. He was half way finished taking a small break noticing when Mc texted him. He opens the text and his entire face heats up a pretty red. He goes to respond before you text out "I'm sorry this was for someone else..." He stares at the message a little too long. In real time he was going through so many questions. Who was this supposed to go to? Why did you look that way? What's your relationship with that person? Did he eat more or less today? Too many questions he just responded "oh ok" and set his phone down. He felt an odd aching in his heart not liking how much a simple text bothered him. You immediately spam his phone with "IM SORRY BEEL I WOULD NEVER DO THIS TO YOU 😭." "IT WAS JUST A JOKE PLEASE BELIEVE ME AND PICK UP YOUR PHONE!" he eventually looked and sighed in relief texting back "Oh good I was a little hurt..."
Belphie
He surprisingly wasn't asleep when Mc texted. He immediately responded when Mc did text though. He sits up straight when he sees the image sent and immediately responds "oh? What's this MC? Miss me that much?" He says cocky as all hell. He was until Mc's next message "sorry belphie this wasn't for you. Someone else actually" he immediately scoffed and stood up texting Mc as he walks "where are you?" He storms around the house looking for Mc. "None of your business" Mc responds. That didn't last long when he suddenly appeared next to Mc within a few minutes. "Who was it meant for." He asks with a glare that could kill on his face. After Mc burst into laughter Mc then explains it was a joke and he then proceeded to say some cuss words before going somewhere to sleep away from Mc.
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