#yams imagine

[yameoto]

COACH KNOWS BEST. ART, TASHI, PATRICK.

synopsis; you fucked up an important match. your punishment? a one-on-one match against patrick zweig. in your tiny tennis skirt. without your underwear. don't worry, baby. it's a private court.

✗ warnings ; coach!artashi, protégé!reader, dom!art/tashi/patrick, dubcon, foursome, double penetration, unhealthy power dynamics, large age-gap, slutshaming, exhibition, humiliation, sex on tennis courts, anal (you only have so many holes). this is NOT a classy party.

"DO i really have to wear this?" you hiss, indignant. fruitlessly attempting to tug your skirt down—if you could even call it that. a flimsy scrap of fabric, more like. (god, you think maybe it was tashi's when she was what—eleven?).

the hem just barely skims over your upper thighs. you can feel a goddamn breeze between your legs. you're eternally grateful for art and tashi, really, but this is fucking insane—

no— it's fine. it's fine. they’re your coaches, they know best.

"maybe if you hadn't fucked up that last volley." tashi scolds, harsh — her tough love familiar. though, there's a delighted glint to her eyes as you subconsciously squeeze your thighs together, trying your best to ignore the fact your ass is peeking out from under the bottom. your cheeks flare red.

“it’s a private tennis court.” art reassures, the warmth of his palm on your shoulder being far less comforting than normal. you scowl at the ground, knuckles clenching tight around your racket.

"oh, don't be so skittish. he's not that good." tashi coos, as if facing patrick zweig is the reason you're shifting your weight from foot to foot, hand squeezed determinedly at your crotch. tashi smiles. cradles your jaw, fingers swiping along your bottom lip—bitten raw and glossy. "just play your best." an hour later, and you’re not playing your best. you can’t play your fucking best—because with every movement, every hop, skip, and fucking jump; your skirt is fluttering upward and flashing your bare cunt to patrick motherfucking zweig.

this is hell. hell.

you're stiff as you move about the court, hyper-aware of the feeling of wind rushing between your legs. you’re sluggish in your pace—far too pre-occupied with yanking your skirt down every few seconds rather than actually focusing on the match.

how can you? especially when patrick's staring at you like he's trying to rip your thighs apart with his eyes. art and tashi are no better. you jump to return a ball, and your skirt flies up; displaying your ass spectacularly. you almost get whiplash with how fast you go rigid. “open up your form.” tashi chimes in. you shoot her a desperate, pleading look. she just arches a brow, expression impassive—though you don't miss the subtle quirk to her lips. she’s enjoying this. suppressing a whine, you broaden your stance obediently—legs sliding apart on the court. patrick's pupils dilate, and he not-so-subtly presses the hilt of his racket into his groin.

you swallow, hard. his eyes seem to follow that, too.

you're about to serve, before art’s voice cuts in from the sidelines—soft, low and yet—effortlessly authoritative.

"lower."

heat floods up to your ears. you bend down, feeling the fabric of your skirt hike even higher up your exposed asscheeks. you direct him a desperate glance, eyes wide—a bid for approval.

art smiles. "lower." a low whimper slips from your lips, but you obey because they're your coaches, of course you'll do what they say. patrick grunts in barely concealed disappointment as the front of your skirt drapes further over your cunt. your blush is violent. fuck, you look like the intro to a porno; back arched, ass perked so high the goddamn sun is warming your cheeks. you want to crawl into a hole and die.

though, when you finally risk a glance back; the feeling turns into a strangely pleasant heat, unfurling in your gut. tashi's eyes are lidded, sunglasses slid halfway down her nose. art's pupils are so dark his eyes have lost their blue. his thighs are quivering.

"good girl." tashi purrs. you shiver, and you almost drop your racket. "

"oh, fuck this." patrick growls, and then all of a sudden his racket has clattered to the ground and he's lunging for you—two hands clumsily seizing your hips and shoving you to the ground. he doesn't even have to hike up your skirt. his knee is shoved up between your legs, meaning he has full access to everything. he stares, greedy—and you stare back; specifically at the way the swollen tip of his cock hangs out from the side of his shorts. his slit drools, and a fat glob of pre-cum splats on your thigh.

he shrugs at the way your jaw drops—wry grin splitting his lips. "what? didn't want you to feel left out."

"patrick." art stands, voice low with rare warning. possessiveness. patrick only shoots back a broad smirk—lifting his hand up to give him the finger—before sticking up his index and wagging it in a stupidly lewd motion. if possible, it makes your cheeks glow even hotter than they already are—it's type of thing boys your age would do, not a grown-ass man.

"what, man? you can't tell me this isn't exactly what you wanted."

art scowls, though he doesn't say anything—the massive hard-on he's sporting speaks for itself. tashi's expression is unreadable from behind her shades; but nothing ever happens without tashi's say so.

"dude, she's so wet." patrick grins, and to your rising horror—you are. he spits on his palm before roughly thumbing the slick down your thighs, smearing, before popping it in his mouth. he swirls his tongue over the nub of his thumb, waggling his brows.

"of course she is." tashi hums, and a whine tears from your throat. shaking your head adamantly because for some reason tashi’s instantaneous, patronising nod of assent makes you feel more like a whore than patrick’s fingers sliding up your skirt. no, no. i don't. it's sweat. i swear, swear to god—

before the slew of protests can find its way out of your throat; three fingers are shoving themselves up your cunt and you gasp—back thrashing against hot concrete.

“oh, you didn't want this?” tashi’s voice drawls, low and slow and deliberate in your ear, hips rolling into yours. you whine, drawing a white-hot blank as her fingers slide deeper into your cunt, “because i don't see any tennis players on the court. just a couple of sluts.”

you barely even register patrick's aggrieved "hey!" from offside, the unfairness of it all bubbling up in your stomach and dizzying your head because what the fuck— that's not— you made me— but you can't force the words out; not when you can feel two hands wrest behind you by the shoulders. the feeling of callouses against your skin familiar—disarming. you whimper, a plea for salvation. "art—"

''shush." art hisses, roughly seizing the band of your tennis skirt and jerking it entirely up your mid-riff, so you're completely exposed waist-down. your eyes blow wide at the humid air that rushes against your crotch—back arching when his hand snakes under your top and pinches at your nipples.

"i'm surprised you even bothered with these." he remarks as he shoves your bra aside, not unkindly—but hardly considerate either, with the way his fingers squeeze and pinch and twist meanly. your knees almost buckle from under you.

not that they can, not with patrick holding you up by the backs of your thighs, shorts slid midway down his thighs. his cock throbs, swollen and needy as he pushes his groin up against yours. "m'shocked you even let me through the gates," patrick hums, and you don't have to look to know he's breathing down art's neck. "to break your little rookie in, no less." he's so cocky, spit flecking your pussy—talking like you aren't even there.

you squirm, but art is groping your tits and patrick is wrenching your legs apart and tashi has thrust a fourth finger up your pussy and fuuuuck—your limbs are reduced to jelly. thrust and tied up on a ridiculously hot torture wrack; tugged and pulled and twisted in three directions at once.

"not so fucking fast—the deal was if you won. you didn't fucking win." that's tashi. her fingers curl harshly, knuckles pressing against your walls. you take in a shuddering breath, eyes rolling back into your head.

"what the fuck? that's so unfair." patrick's voice is an indignant whine as tashi yanks him back by the hair. "i was winning! how the hell was i supposed to control myself—" you can feel his hands clamping over your ass, rough and domineering. his dick insistently wedges into the corner between your thigh and folds, as if trying to force entry.

"maybe if you had a little self-discipline, for once—"

"oh, that's fuckin' rich of you to say, making her come out here and—"

"shut up." art pants, low and hot in your ear, and you almost forgot he was there. you don't know how, with the way he's grinding his length furiously against your bare ass—damp in the way you know he's already creamed his pants already. his fingers wrest the nub of your nipple at the same time that patrick brute-forces his way inside your cunt. your body contorts between the three of them—a choked, rattled cry ripping from your throat and sending your vision dancing into spots. for a terrifying, blissful moment, your brain empties completely.

"god—" patrick grunts, shoving himself deeper, nails digging into the flesh of your ass as he pounds, with great effort. tashi's eyes flash with annoyance, though she doesn't physically wrench him off. not one to be one-upped; the next time art bucks his hips, you realise he's ditched the pants entirely—head of his cock dragging against the crease of your ass. it's a slick, slow friction—tender—dripping a glistening trail down your crack. and then, his hips snap back, and then he's plunging into your hole—the wet, slapping sound of his balls against your ass almost as loud as patrick's moans as he stuffs your pussy full. the two ram into you with vicious ferocity—like they're seeing who can come inside you first.

it hurts it hurts it hurts. as if the insides of your body have been set alight, limbs writhing uselessly—a bubbling, curdling heat deep in your belly. but it also feels good, somehow. when your head lolls forward, boneless and fuzzy; you can see the way your stomach distends with each of patrick and art’s brutal thrusts. the outlines of their cocks, cramming into you—fierce, desperate. tashi can see too, clearly. her free hand delicately runs over your abdomen—nails scraping. you can’t even gasp at the cool sensation. not when you’ve felt fuller than you ever have in your life.

it’s just like tennis. just like tennis. no pain, no gain—right?

art comes first, because of course he does. letting out a soft, keening hiss of his own as he slams his hips into you, palm squeezing your tits so hard you think you're about to burst. he shoots his load into you with a choked whine. he doesn't pull out—doesn't want to abandon the tight warmth of your hole, hugging his cock like the world’s prettiest little fleshlight. he simply fucks back into you with a blissful groan. slowly, painfully, knees quivering as his seed squirts out with every thrust.

patrick is louder when he does it; grunting with a guttural "mmf— fuck!" hips stuttering jerkily as a torrent of sticky warmth floods into you, oozing out from between his cock and tashi's fingers. it dribbles down your legs and spatters wet splotches against the tennis court. you can't even speak anymore, lips parting in wordless gulps of air.

that's when tashi yanks her fingers out from you—strings of cum trawling, stretching out of your pussy as she does so. you don't even have time to mourn the loss before art's stuffing you full of his dick again and tashi is cramming her warm, wet fingers in your mouth.

art is simply jerking in slow, torturous movements, and tashi is sliding her hand so far down your throat you almost choke. she smiles. "suck." it’s an order—not that she has to. you're already wrapping your tongue around her digits, mindless and drooling. patrick slumps between your knees, tongue greedily lapping at the spurts of his cum lazily dribbling from your pussy, in time with art's thrusts.

the concrete sizzles against your back, sun warming your limbs—dried cum smeared on your cheek. you feel dizzy, you feel good. warm. this is everything you've ever wanted—everything you‘ve ever needed.

(your coaches really do know best.)

[mvtchayam]

My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of visible delight, but necessary.

[asterparfait]

[fallingyams]

A little thing I wrote a while back when I was revisiting KHR... basically my very self-indulgent thoughts on a BAMF!Skull who decides the best strategy to survive the underworld is by letting everyone else underestimate him.

I've never really been fond of the way he's treated by others in canon, and it completely baffles me why they'd choose to characterise him like this if he's supposed to be one of the strongest seven.

There are ways of making supposedly OP characters weaker - inner fears, disagreements, conflicting loyalties, a person who is their achilles heel, a lack of motivation - you DON'T need to make someone into a bullied lackey.

----

As far as navigating the wild seas of the mafia goes, Skull believes that being underestimated is the best strategy.

Skull is a method actor.

And that means embodying clumsiness and hysteria.

He makes mistakes. He plays up his confusion. Joins the weakest family that he could find (With some sense of ethics that he could stomach, obviously. He'd be speeding down the highway in the opposite direction if he so much as caught a whiff of the Estraneo. Ugh, hurting children.)  He botches his jobs. He falls and screams and cries and shrieks. He lets himself get hit and made fun of.

He picks himself up and dusts himself off at the end of every day.

It's a fine balance, this game of being just competent enough to affirm his status as the Cloud Arcobaleno, and yet leaving others completely baffled at his continued survival.

It's a risky game to play, stringing some of the world's most powerful along and playing them for fools.

He is Skull, the world's greatest stuntman. Taking big risks is just another day to him.

You see, those who are born and raised in the mafia have a complacency to them. They look at civilians and think weak.

They look at Skull and see nothing but civilian. Weak. Coward.

These mafia men forget that stuntmen like Skull actively run into death with their eyes wide open. 

They forget that being born a civilian means that they have actively chosen this life of danger. They have seen it all and decided to stay.

So Skull lets the other Arcobaleno have their fun at his expense. He takes on the role of useless lackey and screams into all their ears at the first sign of danger. Makes them forget that he's the first one to spot any danger at all. Lets them gloss over the fact that appearances aside, he was also chosen to stand beside them as one of the strongest, in spite of his civilian background.

It feels like a huge prank he's playing on them, one that may never see an end and it tickles Skull deep inside that these mafioso who pride themselves in their strength and intelligence and spy networks have never quite figured out that Skull is simply performing a role in front of them.

He's content to let life continue on this way. He has no qualms allowing their arrogance to one day cause their demise. After all, the fall of many great men has been caused by their very own hubris.

That is, until, he catches wind of something very interesting.

Reborn has been assigned to tutor the up and coming candidate for Vongola 10th.

A civilian candidate.

And Skull has never quite been interested in involving himself in mafia affairs, but just perhaps…

He could impart some teachings to help a kindred soul navigate this world.

And really honestly, it seems like it'd be fun to fuck around with Reborn. Just a little.

-fin-

Like I REALLY don't get canon. He's a STUNTMAN. Danger is pretty much his job??? He actively chooses to jump through rings of fire and taunt death and the mafia decides he's weak?????

[alliebirb]

hits them with my sapphic-inator

[sunstxr]

Short Tsukkiyama story, no plot just angst

Words: 592

He stood frozen, the candy bar hanging loosely from his hands as he stared across the aisle at Yamaguchi. He hadn’t been spotted yet, but the sight of Yamaguchi chuckling began to ease the tension that had taken hold in his chest. Tsukishima unwittingly stepped forward, relief almost overflowing his veins, but then the realization took hold.

Yamaguchi. With Oikawa.

Yamaguchi laughing with Oikawa without a care in the world, like Tsukishima hadn’t been the one to make him laugh just two weeks before in that very same spot, like he wasn’t even needed.

And why should they need him? He was far too grumpy, far too rude, far too judgmental. Tsukishima remembered how it felt to absently say something scathing. He recalled with a distant ache the feeling of shame and guilt that had risen unbidden when Yamaguchi and Oikawa failed to laugh, when his words had just stopped coming for fear of ruining things again. That never happened to Oikawa. Not to proud, invigorating Oikawa, who could carry conversations without a thought. Tsukishima’s cold care could never compare to someone who could express his love and affection without shame. Oikawa lived and breathed attention and exuded confidence in every breath. Tsukishima’s confidence always came off as demeaning, his smiles threatening, his comments cutting.

Doubt took root in Tsukishima, paralyzing him where he stood. He could see as Oikawa reached behind Yamaguchi for a fruit, casually wrapping his arms around Yamaguchi’s waist and smiling as he swung him around to face him. There was an effortless grace in his movements that Tsukishima’s lanky limbs could never match. Yamaguchi smiled up at Oikawa in a way he hadn’t smiled at Tsukishima in a long time. The kind of smile that reached his eyes, that brought a happy flush to his cheeks, that made him look like a glowing star. The kind of smile that says “I love you”.

Tsukishima took a slow step back, eyes unable to break away from the scene. A bitter feeling was building in the back of his throat, muscles stiffening and fingers trembling. He wanted to look away, to shun the image from his mind and refuse to accept it. Refuse to accept that there could ever be a world in which Yamaguchi didn’t need him anymore, a world in which Yamaguchi moved on happily and he was left behind. But as Oikawa grinned back at Yamaguchi and tugged him closer, Tsukishima’s eyes tracked every miniscule movement. It was in his nature to watch, to anticipate motion and build a wall so vast no opponent could ever breach it. Yet as he tracked the smooth sweep of Oikawa’s hand across Yamaguchi’s face, there was nothing he could do to block the realization that Yamaguchi had stopped waiting for him.

Tsukishima felt a sharp sting in his chest and abruptly took a step back, removing Yamaguchi from his sight. It was strange, really. To anyone watching, there was no visible change in Tsukishima’s countenance. He always held himself a bit stiffly, too tall and lanky in his own body. With each step he took, however, he could feel his mood darkening. He supposed he could have tried to loosen up a little bit, to be more open to Yamaguchi. Tsukishima knew, though, that he could never compete with Oikawa’s exuberant affection. Not in the way that Yamaguchi wanted, or deserved. And if he never stood a chance, why even try?

He didn’t glance back up at Yamaguchi and Oikawa when he left. They wouldn’t have noticed either way.

[iridescentis]

I just absolutely love the idea that even when they're adults and Yam is a professional designer, Jim still models her clothes and puts on pretend runway sessions in their living room when Yam makes a new design maybe even inviting everyone else over to join in and eventually the kids join in too just strutting in the cutest little half-finished designs, that was my favourite thing I thought of when writing the fic

[rosedhall]

ADON wiki summoning information I don't even think is mentioned anywhere canonically. Where did yall get this nolej? You on speaking terms with the ghosts or smth?

(If I'm mistaken and Rose's DOB is mentioned somewhere in game or by Tim/Huld/whomever, please correct me and link it. I'm very curious)

[wigglybug]

i cannot unfortunately make @bathylychnops an Actual Real Cake for his birthdya i CAN however, DRAW a cake!!!!!

[heartual]

waaaaghhh

[weirdthoughtsandideas]

Yam is not only the most sapphic out of the teenage characters, she's also favorized by the two most sapphic adult characters (Mora and Juliana), who both say she reminds them of themselves when they were her age and gladly help her out and gives her lesbian life advice

[mobolanz]

Not sure how to feel about the fact that

*some personal occourence makes me cry*

Me as soon as I'm done: man that'd make such good inspo for Evelyn's background 🤧

[sunchipz]

I’ve been mad about getting ripped off for dry shampoo that doesn’t work too well and I realized I’ve been applying it wrong lol

[tumblyam]

Costello: Now I throw the ball to first base, whoever it is drops the ball, so the guy runs to second. Hu picks up the ball and throws it to Watt. Watt throws it to I. Donough. I. Donough throws it back to Tom Morrow—a triple play.

Abbott: Yeah, it could be.

Costello: Another guy gets up and it's a long fly ball to B. Koss. Y.? I. Donough. He's on third and I don't give a darn!

Abbott: What was that?

Costello: I said, Aidon Gévaudan!

Abbott: Oh, that's our shortstop!

who's on first characters ranked by how plausibly you can respell their names to look like real names

[iridescentis]

I can imagine Jim and Yam being convinced that Nina is at least bisexual for a while, eventually they figure out she's not but they never even think to consider if Luna likes girls at all.

Then one day they're having a sleepover or something and talking about celebrity crushes and Luna mentions several women and Jim and Yam are like. What. Because of course Luna never thought to tell anyone because she just assumes everyone likes everyone.