Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The dorm room was quiet, curtains drawn, the kind of silence that felt intentional. Hirata lingered by the door for too long before stepping in, his pulse racing as though he were crossing into forbidden territory. The faint glow of streetlamps bled through the edges of the curtains, outlining the world outside — a soft night sky scattered with stars, the distant rustle of leaves carried on a breeze. It was beautiful, almost innocent, and yet it only sharpened the tension inside the room. The contrast made Hirata’s chest tighten; here he was, heart pounding with something raw and dangerous, while just beyond the window the world looked calm, untouched, as if mocking how far from pure this moment was about to become.

Ayanokōji didn’t move from where he sat, back straight, expression unreadable. He simply tilted his head, eyes on Hirata like he was another problem set to be solved.

“You said you trusted me,” he said, voice calm as always. “Let’s test how much.”

The words were clinical, almost sterile, but Hirata felt his body heat up.

“…You make it sound like an exam,” he muttered.

“In a way, it is,” Ayanokōji replied. “I want to see how much you can endure.”

When the peeled piece of ginger appeared in his hand, Hirata’s throat closed. He opened his mouth to ask, then closed it again, shame prickling through his chest.

“That’s—”

“Unorthodox? Painful? Stimulating? All of the above,” Ayanokōji cut in smoothly. “You’ll find out.”

Hirata’s breath hitched. And if I can’t handle it? he almost whispered, but Ayanokōji beat him to it, tone measured:

“Then you’ll have failed. But I think you want to pass.”

The words left no room for argument.

Moments later, Hirata was kneeling, head lowered, stripped of everything that made him the “perfect classmate.” His skin flushed hot under Ayanokōji’s gaze. Hirata slowly removed his tie, tossing it aside like it was trash, then his belt, then his shoes, then his shirt and finally his pants were also discarded and tossed away like they weren't important, which in that moment was very true. Ayanokōji watched Hirata do all this, strip himself of his own dignity like a beggar putting everything into a performance just for a bit of cash. However, the difference between the beggar and Hirata was that the beggar had no choice but to beg to purely survive; Hirata, on the other hand, chose to be here. He could leave at any point, even now, pretty much completely naked with only his underwear on, yet he didn't. He didn't have to be humiliated right now, yet he didn't leave. He stayed. He wanted this. Ayanokōji knew he wanted this. He was just a slut after all. A slut for his fellow classmate. The same classmate who had manipulated more situations by his will than Hirata would ever want to admit. And yet. Knowing all the pain and humiliation he was about to go through, Hirata didn't leave.

Every brush of fingers against him felt deliberate, too calm, too composed.

Ayanokōji snapped the ginger in half, revealing the creamy yellow inside of it and started prepping it. He pulled out a lube bottle from somewhere, and started squirting it all over the exposed part of the ginger, massaging it ever so carefully, as if it was a pre-warning to Hirata, but Hirata realised that Ayanokōji wasn't putting any of the clear gel on the inside of the ginger, probably too make sure the stinging and pain of it would still be there and not numbed by the coldness of the lubricant. Then, all of a sudden, Ayanokōji grabbed the Class Rep and bent him over the bed with such force, that if Ayanokōji really wanted too, he probably could have snapped some of Hirata's bones. Slowly teasing Hirata's asshole, with first his slick fingers, watching it tighten despite not even doing anything to it yet. Ayanokōji decided to be somewhat kind to the rep and first started with 2 fingers, going at a slow, steady pace, prepping Hirata for what was about to happen. The room was filled with moans and groans from Hirata alone, but even Ayanokōji was slowly getting turned on by the view ahead of him. Here he was, the beautiful, perfect pillar of Class D, acting like a perfect little slut around only 2 fingers.

Without warning, Ayanokōji removed his hand, in which Hirata almost started crying; he was just so close. So close to being done with this. So close to leaving. But even he knew, through all that was racing through his mind, that there was no way Ayanokōji would just leave him alone like that.

Then the ginger was there, pressed against him, pushed in without hesitation. At first, it felt like nothing, then it hit. A sudden burning sensation filled the lower half of his body and slowly made its way up all the way to his brain, which now was probably racing at a million miles per hour. He felt like he couldn't control his body anymore, his muscles started spasming, and he couldn't control what was coming out of his mouth. The room was filled with cries of pain and lust every time Ayanokōji thrust the plug in and out of his ass, at a painfully irregular pace. It wasn't too fast to the point where Hirata could come comfortably, but it wasn't slow enough for Hirata to just lie there doing nothing. He tried arching his back more to see if he could get more friction, but Ayanokōji quickly shoved his knee into Hirata's back, shutting it down just as quickly as it had started.

"You think I'm going to let you finish so quickly?" Ayanokōji whispered into Hirata's ear as he shoved the blonde's face deeper into the bed.

The burn started as a spark — then flared, sharp and relentless. Hirata gasped, his body jerking before he could stop himself. His hands clutched the sheets, knuckles white, as heat spread through him in waves.

“It’s— it burns—”

“That’s the point,” Ayanokōji said, voice flat, almost bored. “Breathe. Don’t run from it.”

“I can’t—ah—”

The words dug deeper than the sting. Hirata clenched his jaw, trying to control his body, but it betrayed him — the shame of it pooling hot in his stomach. He looked as far down as he could to confirm what he felt. Even though it hurt so much, this is what he dreamed of every night. Ayanokōji above him, shoving his face into the cotton, sweat-spotted bedsheets as his thoughts and body argued about whether Hirata actually wanted this or not. His mind was telling me to get the hell out of there as quickly as he possibly could in his current state, but his dick clearly had other plans, pushing hard against his stomach and the bed, trying to grab for every piece of friction that it possibly could. Hirata was hoping that he could suppress all this long enough for it all to be over. Hoping that he could pay no mind to it...

Ayanokōji noticed, of course he noticed. His eyes didn’t miss a thing.

“Look at you,” he murmured, leaning close enough that Hirata could feel his breath. “You say it hurts, but your body disagrees.”

“Please—don’t say it like that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth. You’re burning, and yet you’re begging for more.”

The humiliation left Hirata trembling. Ayanokōji definitely didn't help as his hand slithered up and down Hirata's back, touching every crevise and flex of muscle carefully, as if he was moulding the boy out of clay right there, making sure he got every last inch of him; teasing, stroking and most importantly, keeping the blonde at the edge, right where Ayanokōji loved to see the man. Every shift of his body pressed the fire deeper, every brush of Ayanokōji’s hand against his skin teased him toward the edge. He didn’t know if he wanted to beg for release or for mercy.

When it finally broke — when his body gave out under the twin assault of pain and unbearable pleasure — it wasn’t graceful.

It was as if he were having a seizure, or if he were to have one, Hirata guessed it would feel like this. Every muscle in your body giving in to the temptations, flailing around with no control, and he fucking loved it. The feeling of the foreign object bringing him to his painful end, Ayanokōji's hand resting on his lower back, the humidity of the room suffocating him. It was everything he wanted, everything he needed. All of it. It was shameful, overwhelming and yet Hirata wanted to do it all again. His breath came ragged, his voice cracked, the loss of control humiliating and yet inescapable.

“I can’t—I’m—ah—”

“Then give in,” Ayanokōji said softly, almost amused. “You’ve already lost control. Let it happen.”

The words sank into him as surely as the burn did, and Hirata shattered with them, body collapsing under the weight of it.

Slowly, methodically, Ayanokōji pulled the ginger free. Hirata shuddered as the raw sting lingered, muscles twitching, body too exhausted to resist. He dropped his head onto the sheets, red-faced, throat tight with shame and something he didn’t want to name.

Ayanokōji watched him in silence for a long moment. Then, finally, he brushed a lock of hair from Hirata’s damp forehead, voice still calm, still cold.

“You lasted longer than I expected. Impressive.”

Hirata’s laugh was weak, broken. “…That was… too much.”

“And yet you took it,” Ayanokōji replied. “Remember that.”

Chapter Text

The steady sound of volleyballs echoed in the gym, sneakers squeaking against polished wood. Takeda had been meaning to focus on the players—on their footwork, on the rhythm of the game—but his gaze kept slipping back to one thing.

Ukai’s hands.

The way they curled around the ball when he demonstrated a toss. The quick snap of his wrist when he corrected Asahi’s form. Even when he leaned casually against the post, fingers loose and flexed, Takeda felt something tighten in his chest. He tried not to be obvious, but it was hopeless. Every movement was mesmerising—roughened skin from years as a setter, veins standing out just beneath the surface, strong and practised yet capable of such precision.

By the end of practice, Takeda’s throat was dry, his notebook half-filled with chicken-scratch notes he barely remembered writing. He bowed goodnight to the boys, adjusting his glasses with shaky hands, and turned to leave—

Only to find Ukai blocking his path, leaning one arm against the wall behind him.

“Takeda-sensei,” Ukai said, his voice low, dangerous in its amusement. “You’ve been staring all damn day. Wanna tell me why?”

Takeda blinked, startled, his back already pressed to the wall. “S-staring? I—uh—you must be mistaken—”

Ukai smirked, and before Takeda could finish, those same hands slammed gently against the wall on either side of his shoulders, caging him in. “Don’t play dumb. You think I didn’t notice your eyes following me?”

Heat shot up Takeda’s neck. “I-I was just… observing!”

“Observing my hands, huh?” Ukai drawled. His fingers shifted, grazing down Takeda’s arm, pinching lightly at his elbow before skimming lower. Takeda jolted with every touch. Ukai’s calluses dragged against fabric, rough but deliberate, until his palm flattened over Takeda’s waist. “You like them that much?”

Takeda couldn’t answer. His lips parted soundlessly as Ukai’s thumb dug teasingly into his hipbone.

“They’re not pretty, y’know,” Ukai muttered, watching Takeda squirm under his touch. “Years of setting tore ‘em up. Callused, scarred, rough.” He held one hand up between them, turning it so Takeda could see every line, every scrape. “But you’ve been looking at them like they’re some kinda masterpiece.”

Takeda’s breath hitched. His fingers itched to reach out, to trace every ridge of muscle and tendon, but he stayed pinned.

Ukai leaned closer, close enough that his breath brushed against Takeda’s ear. “You’re not wrong, though. They’re strong. Know exactly how to control a ball. Or a person.”

His hands moved again—poking at Takeda’s side until he yelped, pinching gently at his thigh, then slipping up to press firmly against his chest, right over his racing heart.

“See? Responsive,” Ukai teased, his grin widening as Takeda gasped. “These hands can do a lot more than just set a measly little volleyball.”

Takeda finally let out a small, helpless sound, tilting his head back against the wall. Ukai’s rough palms slid up to cradle his jaw, fingers spreading across his flushed cheeks with surprising gentleness.

“They’re gorgeous,” Takeda whispered before he could stop himself.

Ukai’s eyes darkened, satisfaction glinting in them. “That’s what I thought you were thinking.” His thumb stroked across Takeda’s lower lip, and the smaller man trembled. “Good thing you finally said it.”

Ukai didn’t pull away. His palm stayed firm against Takeda’s cheek, thumb stroking lazily over flushed skin as if testing just how hot he could make him burn.

“God, you really do love my hands,” he muttered, voice low, a little rough with amusement. “The way you’re shaking just from me touching your face? Pathetic, Sensei.”

Takeda whimpered, eyes darting everywhere but Ukai’s. The taller man caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“Look at me,” Ukai ordered, tone sharp. “If you’re gonna ogle my hands all practice, you better be ready for what they can do.”

His other hand slipped lower, tugging at the hem of Takeda’s button-up. Normally pristine and neatly tucked perfectly into his slacks, Ukai shoved the fabric up without ceremony. His calloused fingers met bare skin, warm and firm. Takeda gasped, arching against the wall as Ukai’s fingertips traced idle circles over his stomach.

“So soft,” Ukai murmured. His nails scraped lightly, then pinched at the sensitive skin just above Takeda’s hip, pulling until Takeda squeaked. “You like that?”

“U-Ukai-kun—!”

Another sharp pinch made Takeda’s words dissolve into a helpless moan.

Ukai chuckled darkly. “Didn’t think you’d be this sensitive. Bet I could map your whole body with just these hands… poke here, tug there—” he twisted a bit of skin between his fingers, making Takeda buck forward—“and have you begging before I even get serious.”

The hand on Takeda’s face slid lower, fingers wrapping around his throat—not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressing lightly at the pulse point. Takeda’s breath stuttered, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the sensation of being pinned, handled, owned.

“Yeah,” Ukai whispered, lips brushing his ear. “That’s it. Let me feel how fast you’re beating for me.” His grip flexed gently at Takeda’s throat, measuring each frantic thrum beneath his thumb. “You want more, don’t you?”

Takeda nodded frantically, shame burning through him even as his body shivered with need.

Ukai grinned, hand sliding further under the shirt, up over Takeda’s ribs. He poked deliberately between each one, slow and methodical, enjoying the way Takeda squirmed under the attention. Then he dragged his nails back down, catching on skin just enough to sting before soothing it with a broad, warm palm.

“Every little twitch… every noise you make,” Ukai drawled, his tone dripping with smugness, “it’s all mine. Just from my hands.” He pinched Takeda’s side again, harder this time, and the smaller man yelped.

Ukai’s laughter rumbled low in his chest. “Fuck, you’re addictive. Makes me wanna see how far I can push you. How much I can make you beg with nothing but these rough, ugly hands you can’t stop staring at.”

Takeda, breathless and flushed, finally whispered, “They’re not ugly… they’re perfect.”

Ukai’s grin turned sharp, dangerous. Both hands pressed hard against him now—one at his throat, the other squeezing his hip, calluses digging into his skin.

“Then let me show you just how perfect they can feel.”

Takeda’s head lolled back against the wall, his chest heaving as Ukai’s hand teased and tormented every inch of exposed skin. The hand at his throat shifted, thumb brushing over his lips, pressing until Takeda parted them instinctively.

“Open,” Ukai commanded, his voice deep but still whispering into Takeda's ear, almost feral.

Takeda obeyed without thought, lips trembling. Ukai slid two fingers past the seam, calluses dragging against his tongue. Takeda moaned around them, the sound muffled, obscene.

“Shit,” Ukai hissed, watching as Takeda’s lips closed hungrily, cheeks hollowing as he sucked. “You’ve been dying for this, haven’t you? All that staring—you weren’t just thinking about how my hands looked. You were thinking about what they’d taste like.”

Takeda whimpered, heat coursing through him as he licked between Ukai’s fingers, sucking harder. His own body betrayed him, hips twitching forward, desperate. Ukai pressed his other hand firmer to Takeda’s side, nails scraping cruelly over flushed skin as if to test how much more he could take.

The noises Takeda made grew wetter, louder, desperate with every drag of calloused skin over his tongue. His whole body shuddered, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, hair sticking to his damp forehead.

“Fuck, look at you,” Ukai groaned, voice hoarse. “Climaxing just from my fingers in your mouth? Pathetic little tease.”

Takeda’s body convulsed as the tension snapped, muffled cries spilling around Ukai’s fingers as he came undone. He sagged against the wall, trembling, Ukai’s hand steadying him while the other slid free from his lips with a wet pop. A thin string of saliva connected them before breaking, leaving Takeda gasping.

Ukai leaned in close, smirk dangerous, thumb wiping across Takeda’s spit-slick chin. “We’re not done, Sensei. Not even close.” His voice dropped to a growl. “We’re taking this to my place. And tonight? These hands are gonna ruin you.”

Takeda’s knees nearly buckled at the promise, but Ukai didn’t give him a chance to falter. He grabbed his wrist firmly, tugging him toward the doors. Takeda stumbled, flushed and breathless, still fumbling with his shirt as Ukai all but dragged him from the gym.

The slam of the doors behind them echoed like the start of something inevitable—something Takeda knew he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. And with Ukai’s hand wrapped tightly around his own, he didn’t want to.

Chapter Text

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the carved wood of the bedposts. Lady Macbeth stood before you in her nightgown—though it was more a formality than modesty, the fabric slipping from one shoulder, the firelight licking at the curve of her throat.

"You kneel as though you pray," she said coolly, tilting her head. "Are you seeking forgiveness… or permission?"

You swallowed thickly, your eyes trailing over her form, regal even in undress. "Permission, my lady."

She smirked, stepping closer, one hand gliding along the carved desk where ancient flasks, ink bottles, and ornamental relics stood. Her fingers settled on a smooth, obsidian-handled perfume vial—long, cold, and narrow—and her gaze snapped back to you.

"How fortunate," she murmured, lifting your chin with the edge of the glass. “That I have a mind for ambition… and a tool for discipline.”

You watched as she walked behind you, the clink of her rings echoing as she oiled the surface of the vial with methodical care. You felt the drag of silk fall away from your hips under her hands, her breath ghosting over your ear.

"Lay over the furs. Hands flat," she ordered. "You’ll thank me for the ache, pet."

You obeyed, your skin prickling as she guided your body into place—her hand firm between your shoulder blades, pinning you as though she were taming a beast. But it wasn’t cruelty in her grip—it was hunger. Intent.

The chill of the glass made you flinch, but her free hand stroked your lower back gently. “Do not dare pull away. You begged for my power, and now you’ll wear it.”

She didn’t ease you in all at once—Lady Macbeth was calculated.

The vial’s cool glass kissed against your entrance, slick with oil and sin. You gasped, thighs trembling under her iron palm pressing your back down into the furs. Her voice spilled down your spine like heated wine.

“Even now,” she purred, dragging the tip in circles, teasing, never breaching, “you hold tension like a guilty man at the gallows. Loosen for me. Yield. ”

Then she pushed—slowly, deliberately—allowing only the tip to sink in. Your breath caught as the pressure bloomed white-hot through your core. She waited. Held it there, just enough to burn, not enough to satisfy.

“You beg so prettily when you’re stretched thin,” she mused, lips brushing your shoulder as she licked the words into your skin. “And I haven't even given you all of it yet. Greedy little thing.”

Another inch slid in—cool glass and unrelenting command—making your hips jerk reflexively, only to be steadied by her thigh pushing yours apart.

“Oh no,” she chided with amusement. “You will take this like a throne is taken— with submission, not struggle.”

She rocked it deeper this time, glass gliding in inch by inch as she whispered filth into the shell of your ear. Her other hand snaked around to grip your throat—not enough to choke, just enough to make your pulse throb beneath her fingertips, to remind you whose name you belonged to.

“This body of yours,” she hissed, thrusting with more force now, the vial glistening each time it withdrew, “is mine to conquer. Mine to ruin. Mine to leave trembling like a prayer on Sunday.”

Each stroke sent your knees buckling, your cries muffled into the bedding as pleasure and degradation curled inside you like smoke. The cold of the glass was cruel, but her rhythm—slow, hard, then suddenly shallow and fast—made it maddening. You couldn’t think. You didn’t want to.

You only wanted her voice—those honeyed threats dripping with power and perversion.

“You’ll come from this,” she growled, grinding the vial into you, her hips riding the motion as though she were fucking you herself. “You’ll come without me touching a damn thing, because you know you’re just a hole for your Queen to use.”

Your body betrayed you, tightening, breath catching—and she felt it.

“Mm. There you are,” she whispered against your nape. “Let go. Let them hear you scream for me, pet. Let the stone walls know you were claimed. ”

And when you came—wrung out, shaking, your voice hoarse with whimpers—Lady Macbeth didn’t stop.

She didn’t let go.

She thrust again , slow and merciless, dragging it out with a feral smile. “Oh no,” she breathed, biting down against your shoulder, “You’re not done yet. A Queen takes everything. ”

Chapter Text

Viktor rarely allowed himself indulgence. His body was frail, his time was limited, and his mind was always focused on Hextech. But with Jayce, indulgence wasn’t just permitted — it was demanded.

Tonight, Jayce’s hand was warm around his wrist, grounding him, guiding him toward the bed. The lamplight softened the sharp edges of Jayce’s broad figure, his chest rising and falling with anticipation.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Jayce asked, his voice low and steady, though his eyes betrayed just how much he craved Viktor’s answer.

Viktor exhaled, lips quirking faintly. “Da. Enough to let you try this.”

Jayce’s pupils darkened, and he kissed Viktor hard before easing him down against the pillows. The mechanical whir of Viktor’s brace filled the air as he shifted to get comfortable. Jayce’s hands lingered on his thighs, thumbs stroking tenderly over fabric before tugging it away.

Jayce didn’t rush. He never did when it came to Viktor, not when every part of his partner’s body demanded both precision and patience. His hands, calloused from work, stroked along Viktor’s thighs in slow, grounding circles, easing the tension in muscles already taut. The slick sheen of oil on his fingers caught the lamplight as he began to press carefully, letting Viktor feel the glide before any true stretch. Viktor’s breath stuttered, his sharp eyes fluttering shut as he tried to keep control, muttering something half in Piltover’s tongue, half in Zaun’s. Jayce murmured back encouragements, low and steady, leaning over to kiss Viktor’s jaw as his hand moved with deliberate slowness. One digit slid in, then another, each movement measured, deliberate, watching Viktor’s expression like a blueprint. He wanted Viktor pliant but not overwhelmed, wanted him to feel every inch of care threaded through his touch. Jayce could feel himself straining with the effort to go slow, to savor the way Viktor gradually yielded to him, tension giving way to heat.

Viktor’s breath hitched when Jayce finally began. His knuckles brushed where Viktor’s body clenched tight, Jayce whispering encouragements as he carefully eased further in.

“Breathe for me,” Jayce murmured. “I’ve got you.”

The trust Viktor placed in him made Jayce dizzy. His usually sharp-tongued partner was trembling beneath him, back arched, fingers curling into the sheets.

Jayce’s fingers moved with steady insistence, stretching Viktor by degrees. The first had been met with a hiss and a sharp glare — not from anger, but from sheer effort to keep composed. “You’re—mmn—testing limits again,” Viktor muttered, his accent thicker when his control began to slip.

Jayce only smiled, brushing his thumb across Viktor’s hipbone as though to soothe him. “That’s what we do best, isn’t it? Innovators push boundaries.” He pressed a second finger in beside the first, slow enough for Viktor to feel every millimeter.

Viktor’s body fought it at first, clenching around the intrusion, his breath caught between sharp inhales and shuddering exhales. He turned his face into the pillow, teeth clenched, until Jayce leaned closer and whispered, “Breathe with me. Just like that. You’re doing perfect.”

Another ragged sound slipped from Viktor — something between a groan and a laugh. “Perfect… hardly.” His legs trembled faintly where Jayce held them apart, his mechanical brace humming softly as he shifted. The irony wasn’t lost on him that his body, always betraying him in one way or another, was now betraying him like this — opening under Jayce’s relentless patience.

Jayce waited until Viktor’s breathing leveled before easing in deeper, curling his fingers just enough to draw a startled noise from Viktor’s throat. “See?” Jayce said, voice warm and awed. “You’re taking it. You can handle more.”

Viktor’s hand clawed at the sheets, then at Jayce’s shoulder, gripping tight. “Do not—presume—” His words fractured into another involuntary sound as Jayce pushed further. The genius of Zaun, always precise and controlled, was unraveling under him, each clipped syllable betraying need more than resistance.

Jayce slipped one more in, then another just right behind, feeling Viktor's muscles stretch from his own hands, and that turned him so incredibly on; just watching Viktor squirm under him with no way to escape was so breathtaking that he could feel himself get harder by the moment.

By the time Jayce’s whole hand was inside, Viktor was gasping, flushed, his hair sticking to his forehead. His legs shook around Jayce’s broad shoulders, but he refused to look away.

“Jayce… you are… obscene,” Viktor rasped, though his voice cracked as Jayce curled his fingers just so.

Jayce grinned, sweat beading along his temples. “And you love it.”

Viktor’s laugh dissolved into a moan. His body betrayed him, shuddering, clenching greedily around Jayce’s hand. Jayce leaned down, kissing Viktor’s knee, his thigh, the jut of his hip.

Viktor was trembling by the time Jayce’s hand settled fully inside him, his body stretched to its limit. Every breath came out in a ragged gasp, sweat streaking his temple, hair plastered to his forehead. He had always prided himself on discipline, on control — yet here he was, undone, his legs quivering around Jayce’s shoulders, unable to stop the moans spilling from his lips.

“Vik,” Jayce murmured, kissing the inside of his thigh, “you’re incredible. Look at you… taking me like this.” His voice was thick, reverent, as if he couldn’t quite believe the sight himself.

Viktor let out something between a laugh and a sob. “You… you are insufferable.” His words shook as Jayce curled his fingers inside him again, finding that spot that made his whole body jolt. He couldn’t hold himself back anymore, couldn’t bite back the noises, couldn’t stop his hips from twitching up to meet Jayce’s movements.

One of Viktor’s hands fisted in the sheets, the other sliding shakily down his stomach, desperate for relief. Jayce caught the motion and leaned closer, voice hot against his skin. “Do it. Show me how much you need this.”

Viktor started touching himself with whatever strength he had remaining, and while he tried to match Jayce's continuous pace, he just couldn't and was then left so incredibly close for what felt like hours, but it couldn't have been more than a minute, and his climax was building faster than he could control.

The sharp, precise Viktor dissolved completely, his back arching off the bed as his release tore through him. His voice broke, echoing raw and unguarded, his whole body convulsing around Jayce’s hand.

Jayce held him through it, murmuring praises — “that’s it, that’s my genius, let go for me” — even as Viktor writhed and gasped, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity.

When it was finally over, Viktor collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, eyes glazed with exhaustion and satisfaction. Jayce carefully, reverently, eased his hand free, immediately soothing Viktor with kisses along his trembling thighs and murmured reassurances.

Viktor let out a low, broken chuckle. “…You are impossible. I will… not be able to work tomorrow.”

Jayce grinned, pressing a kiss to his damp forehead. “Then I’ll just have to keep you in bed.”

Chapter Text

The room was already heavy with warmth — not just from the radiator humming faintly in the corner, but from the heat of their bodies too close, their breaths overlapping in uneven rhythm. The air smelled faintly of skin, sweat, and something like candle wax.

She was pressed between them, every inch of her trembling with the thrill of it. One of them murmured her name — low, rough, reverent — while the other brushed his thumb along the back of her neck, sending shivers that had nothing to do with the chill outside.

Neither of them said stop.

They’d done this before — a few times, always when the night got too long and their affection too heavy to hold in one pair of hands. It wasn’t about jealousy; it was about the shared understanding that love could spill over and still be safe.

She turned her head, lips brushing the corner of his jaw. His hand found her hip. The other’s palm slid up her thigh, patient, teasing, as if daring her to decide which direction to lean.

Then she felt his mouth between her legs, breathing hot air onto the sensitive skin, causing goosebumps to start coming up almost as if they were trying to pull him closer onto them. She heard his slight chuckle, probably coming to the same realisation as her, which somehow just made her wetter than she already was, and without knowing it, she arched her back slightly more in the direction of his mouth, begging him to do something. But instead, all he did was continue touching her inner, upper thigh, slowly stroking it in the direction of the hair that was growing there and drawing little shapes on it, but she was far too distracted by the rough tongue invading her mouth more and more by each second to figure out exactly what the shapes were meant to be.

When she breathed out, it came out as a laugh — short, breathless, delighted. “You two are going to kill me,” she managed, her voice husky with warmth.

“Not the plan,” one of them whispered, kissing her shoulder. “But we can make you forget your name for a minute.”

Finally, she felt his tongue slowly lapping against her lower stomach, trailing kisses all the way down, and finally, finally, her very ignored pussy was getting all the attention it wanted. It was finally being sucked, touched, fingered, loved, abused in all the right places. Behind her, she felt someone kissing down her ear, whispering words that she once never thought someone could ever think of her as, and all she could reply with were high-pitched moans that, if you listened closely, sounded like words that had been sucked out of her.

The sheets tangled around their legs. Someone’s hand found her wrist and guided it higher; someone else traced lazy circles along her spine. Their movements were almost synchronised, unspoken but practised — a language built out of trust and desire.

She closed her eyes, let them move her where they wanted, where she wanted, every sound swallowed by the low thrum of music playing from a speaker they’d forgotten to turn off.

She knew they were only pleasuring her tonight, but she still wanted them to feel good tonight as well, so, with whatever strength she had left, she reached out for both of their dicks and started stroking them with an uneven pace that slowly calmed itself down. The effect was immediate and the room was now filled with not only her whimpers but deep groans that turned her so on she thought she could come from just hearing those noises without evening touching herself, and it just became too much, so with one last push using both her hands at the same time, she covered the whole bed with a sticky, white substance.

Afterwards, they just stayed like that. Breathing. Warm. One of them reached for the blanket, another brushed hair from her face, and no one said anything for a long while.

It wasn’t awkward. It never was.

It just felt like quiet satisfaction — the kind that came from knowing there was no competition, no confusion, just three people who understood each other far too well.

“Next time,” she murmured, “we’re not leaving the lights on.”

“Next time,” he replied, grinning against her skin, “you’re the one explaining that to him.”

The laughter that followed was lazy, drowsy, and real.

Chapter Text

The morning light spilled across the living room floor, catching on the edge of a small, metallic object that gleamed faintly under the couch. Yor, in the middle of her weekend cleaning routine, tilted her head curiously.

Bending down, she reached for it — only to freeze when the object clinked softly in her hand.

Handcuffs.

Her eyes went wide. “Wh-what are these doing here…?” she whispered, cheeks blooming scarlet. For a moment, her imagination betrayed her—unspooling images she had no business thinking about, especially about him.

Yor fumbled, trying to shove them back under the couch, just as the sound of the bathroom door opening filled the quiet apartment. Steam drifted out, followed by Loid in nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his hips.

“Yor?” he asked, running a hand through his damp hair. “What are you—”

He stopped. His eyes landed on the handcuffs glinting in her trembling hands.

The silence stretched.

“Oh—! I was just cleaning and found these! I swear I wasn’t—!” Yor blurted, flustered beyond reason, her voice higher than usual.

Loid’s brain whirred faster than any mission report he’d ever fabricated. For a split second, he froze. Those were from last night’s cover mission, he realized, pulse ticking up. I was supposed to hide them—how did I forget? I’ve never forgotten a single piece of equipment before.

He forced a practiced smile, trying to look calm even as his mind scrambled for a believable answer. “Ah. Those.” His voice came out smoother than he felt. “They’re… not work-related. Just something I, ah, use… recreationally.”

Yor blinked in confusion. “Recreationally?”

He hesitated, then sighed quietly, knowing a lie half-told would be worse. “Before we were married… I used them once or twice.” He cleared his throat. “Strippers, mostly. Just too keep myself busy when Anya was dropped off at pre-school.”

Her face went crimson, and Loid quickly lifted a hand. “I never used them after that, and I should’ve thrown them out. I just—forgot. That’s all.”

He offered a careful smile, equal parts reassurance and embarrassment. “You don’t need to worry. They’re harmless.”

Her blush deepened to crimson. “O-oh! I see! I’ve, um… never done anything like that before.”

Loid opened his mouth to respond—and for once, his calculated composure slipped. “Would you… like to try?”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them. Both froze. This was not in their agreement.

Yor’s fingers tightened around the handcuffs, her breath catching. “I… I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to… learn?” she whispered, not meeting his gaze.

Loid’s heart thudded once, hard. He stepped closer, gently taking the cuffs from her. His fingers brushed hers, sending an unexpected current up his spine. He exhaled slowly, trying to keep his composure. The air between them was thick — not with danger, but something equally disarming. Yor was still blushing furiously, fidgeting with the part of the cuffs that were still in her hands, eyes darting anywhere but at him.

He could see the confusion written across her face turn more and more into lust, the way she wanted to understand but didn’t quite know how to ask. With a quiet sigh, Loid stepped closer and rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Yor,” he said softly, “why don’t we talk somewhere more private?”

Her eyes flicked up to his, uncertain but trusting. She nodded.

He guided her gently toward her bedroom, closing the door behind them to give her a sense of safety from Anya’s curious ears. The familiar space felt suddenly different — quieter, more personal.

Loid then grabbed her wrist, not aggressively like the men she had fought before, but more like he knew what he was doing, which she supposed he did. So quitely Yor followed Loid to the side of her bed and patiently waited for the next instruction her husband woul give her.

"Lie down flat on the bed," Loid pointed at the railing, "and put one of your hands up here."

Yor did exactly that, fully trusting him for some reason, she still couldn't grasp, and lifted her right arm next to where Loid was standing over her, watching her every movement, like a Hawk watching its prey. But Yor wasn't scared. She knew she could easily break out of those handcuffs if she wanted to; flimsy metal was the least of her problems, but she also had another feeling. Almost like she has full faith in Loid, which just couldn't be true.

He guided her wrists gently to the wooden railing of the bed, the metallic click echoing through the quiet room. “If you want me to stop at any moment, say so,” he said, voice lower now, steady but edged with something new.

Yor nodded, heartbeat quickening. The sound of the lock sliding shut filled the space between them.

Loid exhaled, studying her expression — the mixture of shyness, curiosity, and trust. For all his missions, disguises, and calculated deceptions, nothing had ever made him feel quite this real.

He quickly pushed her shirt all the way up to her neck, exposing her bare stomach, ribs and bra. Loid didn't miss the whine and gasp that came out of her but he did try to ignore whatever was going on in his pants then. However, he wanted Yor to enjoy this so one quick glance up and a final nod of approval, Loid started to explore her torso with more enuthsiasm than he thought he had ever felt. He felt like he had only one duty at that moment, and it wasn't related to a single government or country or anything to do with politics; he had to make Yor let go of everything she had. He wanted to see her pink and flushed. He wanted her to moan his name like the anthem. He wanted her to pull him closer and beg for more.

Loid snapped himself back into reality when he finally got to Yor's bra. He looked at her again, and this time she was wearing an expression he had never seen on her before, and it was dangerous. It was a mix of pure lust and obedience that he had never seen it before, and now he believes he is completely addicted to it. God how can someone look so beautiful and vulnerable at the same time. Loid ripped the bra of her in an instant and started touching her again but this time he didn't take his eyes of her face. He soaked himself in ever noise she made, every whine, every gasp, every moan, every whisper was made by him and he fucking loved it.

Yor on the other hand and actually lost all control. This had never happened. She prided herself in never losing control and now here she was unravlling like a peice of ribbon. All because of his hands. His hands had this rough texture that felt like more elctrifying thing against her skin and now all she could think of was how they felt inside of her and the more he grabbed at her skin the more that thought became less of a want and more of a need.

Yor lifted her head slightly, eyes half-lidded, voice trembling. “Loid…”

That was all it took. He closed the distance, lips hovering just above hers before stopping himself. “We shouldn’t…” he murmured, though his tone betrayed that he already had and before he knew his lips were pressed against hers.

Loid slowly dragged his mouth down her cheek and down her neck, leaving little love bites the entire time which he was sure would bruise later but right now he could care less. Then slowly he got inbetween her thighs. He pulled her pants and underwear all down in one go, like a desperate dog looking for it's white, shiny bone. They with no warning Loid licked Yor and she could have sworn that she saw the gates of heaven for a second. But it didn't stop. No. Oh no. It got worse. First there was licking, then sucking, the fingering until Loid had 3 fingers inside her and hitting all the right spots. It felt like a fever dream, and it was overwhelming in the best way she could have ever imagined. This was what she needed. She needed to be put in her place, arms high over her head, cuffed to the bed, even though she knew she could break out of them within minutes, with Loid between her thighs, treating her pussy just right.

Then, when it finally became too much, with a guttural moan and whimpers that followed like verses in a song, Yor let go and Loid's face and fingers were covered in white, and without hesitation, he licked them off like they were ice cream on a hot summer's day.

When the moment finally quieted, Loid rested his forehead against hers. The cuffs still bound her wrists lightly, but neither seemed in any rush to remove them.

He whispered, “You’re full of surprises, Yor.”

She smiled shyly, cheeks still flushed. “So are you.”

Neither would know the full extent of each other's secrets, or would they?

Chapter Text

The lights were low when Yosano finally slipped her key into the lock. It was almost ten. The apartment was quiet — too quiet — and she already knew she was in trouble.

She eased the door open, the faint click of her heels echoing across the polished floor. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and roasted garlic. Dinner had been made hours ago. She bit her lip.

“Kouyou?” she called softly, setting her bag down, voice already careful — reverent.

From the kitchen came a sound — the gentle clink of ceramic against marble. Then:

“You’re late.”

The voice was calm, rich, and unhurried. Kouyou always spoke like that when she was holding back something sharper.

“I know,” Yosano said quietly, walking in. The scene made her chest tighten — the table set perfectly for two, one plate untouched, the other covered neatly to keep the heat in.

Kouyou stood by the counter, a silk robe cascading down her frame like molten gold in the lamplight. Her hair was pinned elegantly, a few strands framing her face. She didn’t look angry, exactly. Just... disappointed. Which was worse.

“I told you dinner would be at seven,” Kouyou said, turning slightly, her dark eyes unreadable.

Yosano nodded, voice small. “The hospital—”

“—is always busy,” Kouyou finished for her, stepping forward. “And yet, somehow, I still find time to make sure we eat together. I suppose I’m the only one who believes in our rituals.”

Yosano’s breath hitched. She wanted to apologise, but Kouyou’s gaze pinned her in place.

“Come here.”

The command wasn’t loud, but it didn’t have to be. Yosano’s pulse jumped as she obeyed, her heels clicking softly until she stood before her wife.

Kouyou gestured to the floor. “Kneel.”

Yosano swallowed. The marble was cold, even through her stockings, but she lowered herself without a word. Her knees pressed into the smooth surface, and she looked up at Kouyou, who towered over her with a faint, knowing smile.

“That’s better,” Kouyou murmured. “Now, since you’ve missed dinner, you’ll eat here.”

Yosano blinked. “Here?”

Kouyou reached for the plate she’d saved, uncovering it. The aroma of the meal filled the kitchen again — seasoned vegetables, tender meat, still warm enough to release steam. Kouyou lifted a small bite with her chopsticks, holding it just out of reach.

“Open,” she said.

Yosano’s lips parted automatically, but the food stayed where it was.

“Not yet,” Kouyou said softly, eyes narrowing. “You haven’t earned it. Tell me what you’re sorry for.”

Yosano’s cheeks warmed. “For coming home late.”

“And?”

“For making you wait.”

Kouyou hummed approvingly, lowering the chopsticks just a little. “And?”

“For forgetting… who I belong to when I walk through that door,” Yosano whispered.

That did it. Kouyou smiled, slow and satisfied, before feeding her the bite. Yosano accepted it obediently, eyes fluttering shut as she chewed.

“Good girl,” Kouyou said, her tone rich with approval. “You’ll beg for each one.”

And Yosano did. For every morsel, every sip of tea Kouyou lifted to her lips, she whispered please and thank you like confessions. Kouyou took her time, alternating between soft praise and a featherlight touch beneath Yosano’s chin, tilting her face up after each bite.

When the plate was finally empty, Kouyou crouched down until their eyes were level. She brushed her thumb across Yosano’s lower lip, her expression softer now.

The ginger's dark cherry eyes glinted as she reached for something beside the plate. The faint scrape of metal on marble made Yosano’s breath catch, and she could have sworn that she felt something drip into her underwear.

It was only a small paring knife, the kind used to slice fruit, its edge clean and gleaming in the warm kitchen light. Kouyou held it delicately between two fingers, the gesture graceful, almost ceremonial.

“Hands behind your back,” she said.

Yosano obeyed, heartbeat rising. The world seemed to shrink to the steady rhythm of her own breathing and the whisper of silk as Kouyou stepped closer.

Instead of her thumb now, the cool flat of the knife’s tip lifted Yosano’s chin. A sharp inhale escaped her lips, but Kouyou only smiled faintly.

“Look at you,” she murmured, voice a silken thread. “So good for me, even when you don’t know what I’ll do next.”

The knife traced slowly along Yosano’s jawline—not cutting, not even pressing, just gliding with dangerous precision, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

“You trust me this much?” Kouyou asked quietly.

“Yes,” Yosano breathed.

“Completely?”

“Completely.”

Kouyou’s gaze softened at that, though her tone stayed low and commanding. “Then remember this feeling. The edge, the waiting. I want you to carry it with you next time you think of staying late at the hospital.”

She lowered the knife, setting it down with care, and let her fingers finally take its place—warm where the metal had been cold. Her touch lingered beneath Yosano’s chin, tilting her face up once more, watching Yosano's every movement, memorising her gorgeous face flushed and clearly turned on. It made Kouyou so incredibly happy that even afer 5 years of marriage and 7 years of being together in total she was still able to get the exact same reaction out of Yosano each and every time no matter what she did; whether she touched her, edged her, spoke to her, dominated her, insulted her, her gorgeous wife would also react in just the way she liked. 

“Good,” Kouyou whispered. “Now, stand up, doctor. Dinner’s over—but I’m not done with you yet.”

Yosano rose slowly, breath unsteady, eyes never leaving her wife’s.

Chapter Text

The couch had become their battlefield.

She was sprawled against the cushions, her back pressed into the armrest, breath already uneven from his earlier teasing.

“Don’t,” she warned, voice low but shaky. It wasn’t a command—more a plea she knew he wouldn’t grant.

He smirked, kneeling beside her. “You really think you get to tell me what to do right now?”

His fingers skimmed over her ribs, feather-light. She squirmed immediately, hands gripping the throw pillow like it could save her. Her laughter came in short bursts—half amusement, half desperation—but he could hear the tremor underneath it, the part of her that was enjoying every second of being at his mercy.

He leaned down, lips brushing her ear. “I told you earlier, you shouldn’t taunt me if you’re not ready to deal with the consequences.”

Then his hands slid under the hem of her shirt, fingertips tracing the sensitive lines of her sides. She arched away instinctively, but his body was already braced over hers, keeping her pinned.

Her laughter turned breathless. “You’re— you’re evil.”

“Mm. And you like it,” he murmured, catching her wrists with one hand and holding them above her head. The other continued its relentless exploration, gliding from her ribs to the curve of her waist, sometimes slow enough to make her gasp, sometimes fast enough to make her squeal.

Every movement was deliberate—less about making her laugh and more about making her lose control entirely. His smirk deepened when she bit her lip in a futile attempt to muffle herself.

“Look at you,” he said softly, a teasing dominance in his tone. “All I have to do is touch you like this, and you can’t even think straight.”

She tried to glare at him, but the heat in her eyes betrayed her. “Maybe I’ll— get you back later.”

His chuckle was low and promising. “Oh, sweetheart… you’ll still be catching your breath later.”

Her breathing was ragged now, laughter having melted into soft, helpless gasps. He finally slowed, letting his fingers drift lazily over her skin, almost soothing — though she could feel the tension in his touch, like he was deciding his next move.

“You’re so sensitive tonight,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the edge of her ribs in a way that made her shiver. “It’s almost unfair.”

Her wrists were still caught in his hand, held gently but firmly above her head. The shift in his tone sent a warmth curling through her chest, replacing the frantic laughter with something deeper.

He bent down until his forehead nearly touched hers, his voice dropping lower. “You know what I like about this?”

She swallowed. “What?”

“That you can’t hide from me.” His free hand slid along her waist again, this time slower, tracing the contour of her hip before slipping beneath the fabric of her shirt. “No matter how much you try, I’ll find every spot that makes you squirm.”

Her back arched slightly as his fingers brushed a particularly sensitive place, and the smirk that tugged at his mouth told her he’d noticed.

“You’re mine like this,” he said softly, leaning in to press a kiss just under her jaw — unhurried, claiming. “Completely.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment neither of them moved. The room felt warmer, the air heavier, his hand resting just at the curve of her waist as if he was savoring the stillness before the next spark.

When he finally let her wrists go, she didn’t move them far — just let her hands slip to his shoulders, pulling him closer. He chuckled against her skin.

“Now,” he said, his tone playful again but edged with promise, “where were we?”

He leaned back just enough to let his gaze trail over her, the weight of it alone making her pulse quicken.

“Take this off,” he said softly, tugging at the hem of her shirt.

There was no mistaking it as a request.

She hesitated just long enough for his smirk to deepen, then she sat up and pulled the shirt over her head, the cool air rushing against her flushed skin. Before she could reach for him in return, his hands were already at her waist, undoing the button of her jeans with a practiced flick.

“You really thought,” he murmured, voice brushing over her like velvet, “that I’d stop with just my hands on your sides?”

He slid the denim down her legs, slow enough to make her breath hitch. By the time they pooled on the floor, he had already stripped off his own shirt, the lines of his shoulders catching in the dim light.

Her fingers itched to trace over him, but he caught her wrists again, holding them at her sides as he lowered his mouth to her collarbone, kissing his way down with a maddening patience. The mixture of tenderness and control in every movement had her leaning into him without thinking.

When he finally released her wrists, his palm settled against her hip, warm and steady, guiding her back into the cushions. “I want to feel every reaction,” he said, brushing his thumb over the edge of her thigh. “Every little twitch, every sound… you’re going to give me all of it.”

She couldn’t stop the small sound that escaped her — not when his touch slid higher, not when his lips followed, marking a path along her skin. His dominance was threaded through everything: the slow, deliberate way he explored her, the way he made her wait for each next moment until she was almost trembling with anticipation.

His touch slowed again, hovering close enough to make her breath catch but not close enough to satisfy.
She shifted under him instinctively, but his hand on her hip held her still.

“Patience,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. “You’ll get what you want… when I’m ready to give it to you.”

The deliberate control in his voice made heat coil low in her stomach. Every second of waiting seemed to sharpen her awareness — the warmth of his body over hers, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the slow drag of his thumb over her skin.

Then, without warning, his hand slid between her thighs. Her gasp broke the silence, and his smirk told her he’d been waiting for that exact sound.

“Mm. There it is,” he said softly, his eyes locked on hers. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

His touch was confident, unhurried, mapping out every shiver and small arch of her back. He watched her as though he was memorizing every flicker of expression, adjusting with subtle, deliberate precision to draw out more.

Her hands fisted in the cushions, but she didn’t try to move away. If anything, she leaned into him, letting him dictate the pace, knowing he’d only give more when she surrendered completely.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmured, his free hand sliding up to cradle her jaw. “Every reaction… mine.”

The room seemed to shrink until there was only his voice, his heat, and the building intensity between them — each moment drawn out until she was teetering right at the edge, right where he wanted her.

She tried to hold herself together, to bite back the sound building in her throat, but his focus was absolute — relentless in its precision. Every time she thought she might catch her breath, he shifted just enough to unravel her again.

Her fingers caught in his hair, half anchor, half plea. “Please…”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Please what?”

She swallowed, the words sticking in her throat, but the look he gave her told her he’d wait as long as it took. Finally, she whispered, “Don’t stop.”

A low, satisfied hum vibrated against her skin. “Good girl.”

That was all the warning she got before his movements deepened in rhythm and intent, every pass stealing a little more of her control. The air between them grew thick with heat and the quiet, broken sounds she couldn’t hold back anymore.

He kept her there, right at the brink, drawing it out until her body was taut with it, until her voice broke into a desperate cry. And then — he gave her exactly what she’d been begging for.

It crashed through her in a shiver that stole her breath, her grip tightening on him as though he might disappear. But he didn’t. He stayed with her, guiding her down gently, his voice low and steady in her ear.

“That’s it,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “I’ve got you.”

She sank against him, the last tremors fading as he wrapped an arm around her. His hand, warm and steady at her back, was the last thing she felt before she let herself melt entirely into him.

Chapter Text

When Chase had called Felix, on one of Chase's very rare days off (because it seemed his dick of a boss never let him have any holidays) saying he bought him a surprise, he never expected the guy to come to his place with a new toy. Better explained, a chastity device.

They spoke a lot about their kinks and fantasies, and Chase was the one who usually fed all his ideas and desires, mostly cause he had more knowledge on this topic than Felix did. They would work on new ones pretty often, but this one was pretty random since they talked about it just once or twice and didn’t organise anything.

They were now sitting on the couch of Felix’s apartment while Chase was explaining to him how the little evil toy worked.

The brunette boy was chewing on his bottom lip; he was pretty nervous despite trusting Chase with his own life. The thought of having his dick caged in such a small device for God know how much time made him desperate even before starting.

“See this little lock? I’ll keep the keys so you cannot free yourself anytime soon.” Chase said, holding the metal device in his hands as well as the key to open and close it, his accent thick with excitment. “I also bought a cute little paddle for you.”

He took out of the bag an dark brown paddle with deep magenta accents, “I thought of you when I saw it. It’s the same colour as your hair and your eyes.” He continued, smirking, trying the paddle on his own palm.

Felix was still shitting himself but he quickly swallowed and composed himself, “S-So… What should we do now?” he asked the older guy who was clearly more experienced in this stuff. Felix knew about Chase's extensive sexual history, even before he left the Catholic Seminary he wsa basically raised in, and it was definitely more exciting than Felix's. 

Chase looked at him as if he had been waiting for that question his all life. He sat back against the couch, “Try it.” He simply answered before clearing his throat, “More specifically, you undress and then I put this on you before trying the paddle.”

Felix nodded and slowly took off his shirt, then his pants. He blushed as he only had to take off his underwear now- despite the numerous times they fucked, he never stopped being shy, which may have been something that Chase absolutely loved about him but he would never tell him that.

Chase urged him to get close, and he wrapped his hands around those milky thighs. “Precious little prince is embarrassed for his private doctor still, mhh? Come on, I’ll get them off you for you.” He said, and so he did, pulling Felix's underwear down and then throwing it somewhere in the living room.

After that, Felix had to sit on the couch naked as Chase opened the lock of the chastity device, “It won’t hurt much, alright? Just be a good boy.” He reminded him before taking Felix’s small dick and putting it inside the metal toy.

Chase closed the lock and done, the kid was caged. For how long? He still had to decide, but one thing was for certain: he was about to have the absolute time of his life right now with his precious boyfriend. 

The light-haired guy grabbed the paddle and slapped it softly against the boy’s thigh, “Come on now, face down and ass up so we can give those balls a treat, yeah?” He said, and Felix followed the doctor's order perfectly.

He lay his head on a pillow and arched his back so his ass was up, his hands were down, and between his legs, as he knew Chase didn’t like being physically stopped — it happened a lot, especially because Felix was quite sensitive.

The older guy got a hold of his lover's ass, squeezing his cheeks and planting a couple of kisses here and there. He teased his hole but not quite penetrating him yet, only wanting to get him hard.

“Mhh… So soft… And soon to be so red.” He whispered before grabbing Felix’s balls, slapping them softly. The brunette whined and closed his eyes painfully.

Felix panted heavily with anticipation, he groaned as his dick twitched but was immobilised by the cage. “Mhh… Please, be nice…” He begged but that led to him getting his first hit.

It stung more than he expected, his whole body went weak. Each time he throbbed he bore with a stab-alike pain in his testicles and the constant, but not enough, pressure around his cock.

It didn’t take long for the second hit to be delivered just as he started calming down from the previous hit. This once, his eyes watered and he had to bit the pillow down to suppress a scream.

Chase smirked proudly, taking in all of his reactions. He fidgeted with Felix’s genitals and thought how hot the kid was.

“Does it feel good, sweetheart?” He asked, the pet name a strong contrast compared to what he was up to.

Felix sighed loudly, and he had to fist his own hands not to cover his balls and start beg for mercy. “I-It… Hurts…” He whispered, hoping he wouldn’t start hitting him again but unconsciously knowing Chase would have been at it for a while.

“Good.”

Another hit, another loud moan and so on for what seemed an infinity to Felix. His testicles felt like he was being stung by thousands of bees at the same time, the pain going all the way up to his stomach, giving him nausea.

But it was lowkey addictive, especially the way his mind would suddenly switch to the throbbing of his caged cock. It got hard against the metal bars, pressing but finding no relief. Precum was falling down his cockhead but he never been so distant from a climax.

On the opposite hand, Chase was having the time of his life watching his best friend’s balls getting red, almost purple. The pretty paddle collided with his skin so innocently, making such pretty sounds mixed with the painfully whines of the kid.

He didn’t stop until he was satisfied, squeezing his scrotum and trying to rub away some redness, or maybe adding some.

He spanked Felix’s ass to warn him that he was done with him and let down the paddle, taking a moment to enjoy the sight: the kid was trembling, sobbing into the couch as his back pounded painfully.

He softly brought the brunette's head to his chest, making sure not to touch his genitals too violently. He caressed his face, “Such a good boy, you took the paddle so well, mhh? Now, how about we put some soothing cream to help those poor balls of yours? Of course I thought about it, couldn’t leave my baby in pain.”

Chapter Text

The apartment was too quiet for how small it was. The kind of quiet that pressed against Armin’s chest and made breathing feel like a chore.

He stood by the window, staring out at the street below — the market stalls, the people laughing, the smell of bread and dust. He was supposed to be writing a report. Instead, his hands shook against the sill.

“Armin,” Annie’s voice cut through the silence. “You’ve been standing there for twenty minutes.”

He didn’t answer. She could hear the small tremor in his breath even from across the room. Oh god, please don't tell me he's going into one of his episodes.

“Again?” she asked, her tone flat but edged, treading gently to test whether she was going to be busy or if her fiancé was simply admiring the view. “You’re doing it again.”

He finally turned to her, eyes faint and unfocused. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about how—”

“—how it all went wrong?” she finished for him, stepping closer. “You say that every time you start thinking too much. You’re like a broken record.”

Armin’s jaw tightened. He didn’t fight back. He never did. Guess I'm doing this.

Annie stopped in front of him, looking him up and down. Then, her voice softened — not with sympathy, but with precision. “You know what I think, Armin? You’re still ten years old.” Annie emphasises that last part in a way that physically made Armin jump, not of fear though (as she learnt over the years), but of excitment.

Armin loved being degraded by Annie, though he would never admit it to anyone. Admit that he was just a slut for his gorgeous girlfriend. That because of everything that had happened to him, he wanted needed to be put in his place, just like someone should have all those years ago.

He blinked. “What?”

“You act like it. You talk like it. You think every mistake that happened since Shiganshina was somehow your fault. That’s what a child does.”

“I’m not—”

She cut him off, stepping forward, pushing herself into his space until he flinched. “No. You are. You’re still that scared little boy who watched his home burn and decided he wasn’t allowed to grow up unless he made it right. You’ve been stuck there ever since. Do you want too escape? Do you want me to help you escape? Do you trust me Armin? Do you trust your mommy? I promise I'll take good care of you.”

Armin’s throat went dry. He wanted to look away, but she wouldn’t let him.

“Say it,” she pressed. “Say what you’re thinking.”

"I want your help, mommy," Armin blushed, and he really looked like an innocent child for a bit, which stabbed Annie a bit in the heart, but she ignored it. After all, the show must go on.

"Go on then. Tell me what's on your mind. What's been bothering you, baby?"

“I— I should’ve done more,” he whispered.

“More?” Annie scoffed. “You were ten. What were you going to do, fight Titans with your bare hands?" She pulled her hands up dramatically as if showing just how stupid his idea was, proving to him what an idiot he was.

Her voice cracked like a whip. “You couldn’t have saved anyone. And yet you’ve been carrying that guilt like it’s your job.”

“I know,” he muttered, but the words didn’t sound convincing.

Annie’s hand shot out, catching his chin and forcing his eyes up to hers. The touch wasn’t gentle, but not cruel either — firm, grounding, everything Armin dreamed of.

The smooth, cool skin of her inner wrists grazed his collarbone just before her fingertips feathered the sensitive area where his neck meets his jaw. There was a softness to the pads of her fingers as they settled, but still aggressive, making sure she was using enough strength to make sure Armin couldn't move his head, but not enough to properly injure or put him in any pain. Her thumb curved up to cup the hard line of his chin, tracing its contour with a light pressure, while the slight, warm indentation of her palm rested flat against his throat.

“Stop saying you know,” she said quietly. “You don’t. You believe you’re still the boy who ran away while others died. You think every act of mercy, every mistake, means you failed again. You’re living like you’re still waiting for someone to scold you.”

Her tone sharpened. “Fine. I’ll do it for you.”

He blinked in confusion just as she flicked his cheek lightly — a sharp, stinging reminder rather than a strike. His breath caught. He felt himself get harder the more the stinging lasted, and he could have sworn he saw Eren himself standing there.

“Wake up,” she said. “Look at me. You’re not ten. You’re twenty-two. You’ve done enough to last ten lifetimes. So stop apologising to ghosts.”

“I—” Armin’s voice broke. “I’m sorry.” Oh he was so close...

Annie’s eyes softened, but her grip didn’t. “Not to me. To yourself.”

He swallowed, trembling, his throat tightening with tears he’d refused to shed for years. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, quieter this time, like it hurt to say it, but he was shaking for other reasons as well.

And for once, Annie didn’t interrupt. She just watched him crumble — shoulders shaking, words spilling out between breaths — and when he finally looked up, she was still there.

“Good,” she said softly, releasing his chin. “Now grow up.”

The words weren’t cruel this time. They sounded like permission, and with that his trousers and underwear were completely soaked from one of the best orgasms he'd had in such a long time.

Chapter Text

The fire of battle still burned in their veins, but the drink had thickened their limbs and turned their laughter into something breathless and unrestrained. Their steps faltered over roots and stones, the forest spinning around them as the night air bit at their flushed skin. Macbeth threw his head back with a laugh, the cold a stark contrast to the heat that thrummed beneath his skin, the remnants of battle and drink mingling into a dizzying haze. His pulse pounded in his ears, his breath fogging in the chill as he glanced toward Banquo, whose own grin was loose, his gait unsteady yet somehow still poised, still watching.

"By my troth, Banquo, thou dost walk as if the earth were the sea and thou a ship tossed upon her waves."

Banquo scoffed, swaying slightly but regaining his footing. "And thou art no better. Had I a looking glass, thou wouldst see a face so rosy, so flushed with wine, it might make a maid blush—or a lover tremble." His gaze lingered on Macbeth, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips. "Aye, if thou wert seen now, breathless and undone by mere drink, what whispers might follow thee?"

They walked side by side, the tension of war and death behind them, the drunken haze making everything feel lighter, looser. Banquo nudged Macbeth's shoulder. "Tell me, good friend, hast thou ever known a woman in such a way that she calls out thy name in the night?"

Macbeth gave him a bemused look. "Wouldst thou have me spill my sins upon the open air?"

"Aye, for I shall judge thee not, only envy or pity thee," Banquo grinned, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "What of that maid in Inverness? She did look upon thee with such longing eyes."

Macbeth smirked, but the way Banquo watched him—eyes dark, gaze lingering—made something twist low in his stomach, a heat that had nothing to do with wine. There was something unreadable in Banquo’s expression, a slow unravelling of restraint, a hunger just barely veiled beneath the smirk on his lips.

"She was fair, aye, and willing," Macbeth murmured, though his voice wavered as Banquo’s eyes bore into him, "but my mind is oft occupied elsewhere."

Banquo’s gaze dragged over him, deliberate and heavy, as though peeling back layers, exposing something raw beneath. The weight of it left Macbeth breathless, his pulse quickening beneath the scrutiny. He swallowed, but the heat in Banquo’s eyes did not wane—instead, it deepened, smouldering like embers waiting to ignite.

"Elsewhere?" Banquo slowed his steps, turning toward Macbeth with a knowing smirk. "Perchance on matters of battle… or on a man who shares thy wine and walks beside thee in the dark?"

The air shifted. The warmth of the drink did nothing to temper the sudden, heavy stillness that stretched between them. Banquo had stepped closer, his breath warm against Macbeth’s cheek.

"Thou art drunk," Macbeth murmured, though he made no effort to move away.

"Aye," Banquo admitted, voice softer now, a low rumble, "and yet still I see thee clearer than ever."

Macbeth’s back hit the rough bark of a tree, Banquo’s body pressing close, all heat and firm muscle against him. The tension between them, once playful, now burned with something darker, something unspoken.

Macbeth swallowed hard. "This is folly."

Banquo smirked, his fingers ghosting along the edge of Macbeth’s collar. "Mayhap. And yet thou dost not pull away."

Macbeth’s breath hitched. His hands curled into fists at his sides, fighting the urge to grab hold, to push, to pull. "If thou dost jest—"

"I jest not."

Banquo surged forward, their lips crashing together, rough and demanding. Macbeth gasped against him, the taste of wine and fire filling his mouth. Banquo’s fingers tangled in his hair, yanking sharply, forcing Macbeth to arch beneath him with a hiss.

The world tilted, the night air biting against Macbeth’s skin as he landed hard upon the earth, Banquo above him, the weight of him heavy, grounding, consuming. Another sharp tug at his hair sent shivers down his spine, a delicious burn radiating from where Banquo held him firm.

"Damn thee," Macbeth breathed against Banquo’s lips, his voice unsteady, caught between defiance and surrender.

Banquo only chuckled, his grip tightening as he pulled Macbeth’s head back further, exposing the line of his throat. "Thou dost curse me, yet see how thy body bends to my touch. Aye, thou art a warrior, yet beneath me, thou art something else entirely."

"Oh the lord and christ," Macbeth moaned in pleasure.

Banquo grinned, his fingers threading into Macbeth’s hair. "Too late for that, my friend."

Banquo's grip tightened as he pressed Macbeth further into the earth, his voice laced with amusement and command. "See how thou dost yield beneath me, Macbeth. So fierce in battle, yet here—so pliant, so wanting. A king brought low, nay, made delicate beneath my hand."

Macbeth shuddered, the words seeping into him, setting fire to his blood. "Speak not such things."

"And yet thou dost tremble at them," Banquo murmured, tracing the curve of Macbeth’s jaw. "Thy body betrays thee, soft and eager. Almost feminine, in the way it melts beneath mine."

Macbeth turned his face away, heat rising in his cheeks, but Banquo grasped his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Nay, hide not from me. Let me see thee undone."

A broken sound left Macbeth’s lips, a mixture of frustration and longing, swallowed by the night. Banquo only smiled, revelling in the sight of a warrior unravelling beneath his hands, the proud Thane brought low by desire and dominance alike.

With deliberate slowness, Banquo twisted his fingers into Macbeth’s hair once more, yanking his head back so their gazes met, Macbeth’s eyes dark and glazed. "Look upon me, and know thy place," Banquo murmured, his voice a heated whisper against Macbeth’s parted lips.

Macbeth shuddered, his breath uneven, his body arching into the pain, into the pleasure. Banquo traced a roughened thumb over the pulse hammering at his throat, his smirk deepening. "A man who commands armies, yet here, thou art naught but trembling and wanting beneath mine hand. How sweetly thou dost yield—how beautiful in thy surrender."

Macbeth’s fingers curled into the dirt, his pride warring with the fire coursing through his veins. His lips parted as if to speak, but Banquo silenced him with another sharp tug, the pain drawing a strangled gasp from him.

"Good," Banquo hummed, his lips ghosting along the shell of Macbeth’s ear before dragging down the column of his throat. "Let me hear thee break again."

With slow, deliberate movements, Banquo’s hands found the fastening of Macbeth’s tunic, his fingers unhurried, yet possessive, as they tugged at the fabric. The worn cloth slid from Macbeth’s shoulders, pooling around his elbows before slipping further, leaving him bare beneath Banquo’s scrutiny. The night air was cruel, a stark contrast to the heat blooming across Macbeth’s skin, but it was not the cold that sent a tremor through him—it was the way Banquo looked at him, dark-eyed, sharp as a dagger, as though committing every inch of him to memory.

Banquo’s fingers ghosted down his chest, tracing each ridge and hollow with agonizing slowness, his touch firm yet teasing, igniting sparks in their wake. He dragged his nails lightly over Macbeth’s ribs, making him jolt, a sharp gasp catching in his throat. Banquo’s lips curled, his gaze flicking up to drink in the sight of Macbeth—breathless, trembling, caught between resistance and surrender.

"How easily thou dost unravel," Banquo mused, his voice rich with satisfaction. "A warrior, a Thane, yet here—naught but trembling beneath mine hands."

Macbeth’s breath hitched, his fingers curling against Banquo’s arms as though to steady himself. "Mock me not."

Banquo chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. "Nay, I mock thee not. Look upon thyself—so eager, so undone. Thou art beautiful in thy surrender."

Another sharp tug at his hair sent a gasp spilling from Macbeth’s lips, his back arching involuntarily. Banquo’s smirk deepened as he leaned down, his breath warm against Macbeth’s cheek, his fingers trailing lower. "Shall I lay thee bare, my fierce one? Shall I take thee apart piece by piece?

As the night air bit at their heated skin, Macbeth's breath came in ragged gasps, still unsteady from the wine and the lingering effects of battle. The forest around them seemed to dissolve into shadows, leaving only Banquo and the blazing tension between them. Banquo's fingers never left him, pulling and pushing, exploring the limits of what could be said and done in the darkness. The unspoken hunger between them crackled like static.

Macbeth’s eyes followed Banquo's every movement, his mind caught between defiance and something far deeper, something darker. The raw need in Banquo’s eyes—undeniable, unrepentant—pulled at him like a current, drawing him in.

Banquo’s smirk never wavered, even as he watched Macbeth’s hands, rough and sure, begin to undo the fastenings of his own tunic. The motion was slow, deliberate, as though Macbeth was teasing, each tug of the fabric more intimate than the last. His fingers brushed across Banquo’s chest, the material slipping free, exposing the taut muscles beneath.

Banquo’s breath hitched, and Macbeth’s pulse quickened. He ran his hands over Banquo’s broad shoulders, down his arms, the strength and power evident in the way Banquo stood before him—unfazed, yet undeniably yielding to the moment.

"Thou dost not hesitate," Banquo murmured, his voice low, teasing, as Macbeth's hands slid over his waist. There was an undeniable challenge in his gaze, daring Macbeth to continue. "Do thou wish to see me undone as I have seen thee?"

Macbeth's eyes darkened, his fingers working with increasing urgency now. "I wonder, Banquo," he murmured, the words tasting strange on his tongue, "what thou might look like beneath all this armor, beneath thy pride. Do you fear that I will see something less than the mighty warrior?" His voice was laced with a sharp edge, one that danced between mockery and something else entirely.

Banquo’s grin deepened, but his eyes flickered with something unreadable. He did not resist, did not pull away as Macbeth’s hands moved lower, brushing over his chest and stomach, caressing the taut skin, sending shivers through him.

"No, my lord," Banquo said with a quiet, almost smug confidence. "Thou hast not the strength to break me. Thou art undone, but I—"

Macbeth silenced him with a sharp look, his fingers moving to the fastening of Banquo’s trousers. His hands shook slightly as he pulled at the cloth, revealing the lean muscles of Banquo’s legs, his body as much a weapon as it was a temple of endurance.

The tension between them thickened, and Macbeth swallowed hard, fighting against the desire that surged through him. With each new layer of Banquo’s clothing removed, there was a deeper feeling—an almost uncomfortable vulnerability that tugged at Macbeth’s chest. Yet it was not weakness he saw in Banquo; it was something far more dangerous. It was the stripping away of not just garments, but of the barriers they had both built over the years.

"You think me broken?" Macbeth’s voice was raw, more of a rasp than anything else. He stepped closer, feeling the heat of Banquo’s body against his own as he reached to remove the last of the cloth from Banquo’s chest. The warrior beneath him stood tall, his presence unyielding even in this moment of exposure.

Banquo, once again, met his gaze with a challenging smirk. "Nay, mighty Thane. Thou art the one who trembles, who cannot resist."

The heat between them flared again, a blaze that was impossible to ignore. Macbeth’s breath came in uneven bursts, his hands finally stilling as Banquo’s chest was fully revealed to him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of it—lean, muscled, the faint sheen of sweat still lingering from the battle, from their frantic dance of power.

Banquo’s voice was a low murmur now, a challenge that pierced through the air. "And what of thee, Macbeth? Can thou bear to see me so? To know me in this way?"

Macbeth’s chest tightened. "I will know thee," he whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of something he could no longer deny. With that, his hands went lower still, and Banquo’s body responded to his touch, every movement a slow surrender to the inevitable.

Macbeth's hands slowly follow the shape of Banquo's bare body, so slowly and carefully as if this would be the last time they would see each other, as if death was soon upon them, "What? Shall one touch me like a King? So carefully as if the stars themselves are watching. Am I your shield against them?"

"You humour yourself far too much pretending that you are the Lord's father himself," Macbeth retaliated against the soldier above him.

"Perhaps I do, my Thane. Who knows what this night yet has to hold for us?" 

Banquo leaned down for one last time that night blissful as he hoped the angels would forgive him this one time. 

Chapter Text

The chapel was almost dark, the last of the candles guttering beside the altar.

The man knelt in the first pew, fingers locked so tight around the beads that they cut into his skin. He had come to confess, but the words never seemed to come out right.

Footsteps echoed from behind him — steady, deliberate.

Father Andrew’s voice broke the silence.

“Back again,” he said, the faintest edge of disapproval under the calm. “You’ve been here three nights in a row.”

The man bowed his head. “I can’t seem to stop thinking—”

Andrew’s tone sharpened. “Thinking of what you shouldn’t. That’s what you mean.”

He circled around to face him, candlelight striking the planes of his face — the pale gold of his hair, the controlled line of his mouth. His hands rested behind his back; even that looked like command.

“Stand.”

The man obeyed. The priest’s gaze lingered on him, measuring, judging.

“You believe guilt cleanses you,” Andrew said, “but all you do is return to it, again and again. Do you enjoy your suffering?”

“I deserve it,” came the quiet reply.

Andrew stepped closer. The scent of incense clung to his robes, heavy and intoxicating. “No,” he said softly, “you crave punishment. You think pain is penance.”

He reached out, caught the man’s chin in a firm grasp, forcing him to meet his eyes. “If you truly seek absolution, you will do as I say.”

The man swallowed hard. “Yes, Father.”

Andrew’s thumb brushed just beneath his lower lip — not tender, but assessing, as if testing obedience.

“Good,” he murmured. “Then kneel again.”

The man sank to his knees on the cold stone floor, hands trembling. Andrew moved behind him; the hem of his robe whispered against the marble.

A flicker of candlelight caught in the holy water font. Andrew reached for it, dipping his fingers into the chilled basin. Droplets fell onto the man’s bowed head.

“Cleansing,” he said quietly. “But it never lasts, does it?”

The man shook his head.

Andrew’s voice dropped lower. “Then I’ll make it last.”

The air grew thick with incense and breath. The only sounds were the dripping water and the uneven rhythm of hearts.

Father Andrew’s voice cut through the thick air.

“Stand.”

The word struck like a bell. The man rose slowly, unsteady, his breath caught somewhere between obedience and fear. Candlelight trembled across his face, revealing the flush of shame and something darker beneath it.

Andrew moved closer, the sound of his steps deliberate on the stone floor. He circled once, the sweep of his robe brushing faintly against the man’s legs.

“Still trembling,” he murmured. “Even now, when you asked for this.”

The man’s throat worked, but he didn’t answer.

Andrew came to stand behind him. The faint heat of his presence bled through the inches between them. He let his hands hover—never quite touching—just close enough that the man could feel the air shift with every breath.

“You imagine punishment as pain,” Andrew said softly, “but sometimes it’s simply being seen.”

He leaned nearer; his breath touched the shell of the man’s ear.

“Do you feel what you’ve made of me?”

The man’s breath hitched, and a sound escaped him—half-startled, half-pleading.

Andrew straightened, drawing back just enough to reclaim the space between them. The air still quivered where he’d been.

“Control yourself,” he ordered quietly, though his voice wasn’t steady anymore. “If you falter, you’ll lose whatever forgiveness you’ve earned.”

Andrew leaned close enough for his breath to ghost against the man’s ear again, teasing him with every moment.

“Look at me.”

He obeyed — and saw not mercy, but command.

Andrew’s expression didn’t soften. “Confession is over,” he said. “Now comes repentance.”

The words hung between them, heavy as the silence before a storm.

Then the last candle flickered out.

Chapter Text

The street was quiet at this hour—just beyond the edge of Grimmauld Place, under the flickering orange glow of a street lamp. Sirius stood with his back pressed to the cold metal pole, arms lifted above his head where enchanted silk ropes held him firm. His shirt hung open, half-off his shoulders, revealing pale skin and the glint of a single bite mark near his collarbone.

"Remus," Sirius drawled, voice low, taunting. "You're dragging it out on purpose."

A shadow shifted just out of reach. The werewolf stepped closer, slow and measured, his boots tapping against the pavement. His wand twirled in one hand, but it wasn’t magic Sirius was focused on. It was the riding crop held in Remus’s other hand—well-worn leather, familiar.

"I always drag it out, Pads," Remus said quietly, voice like smoke curling around the heat between them. "You like to be seen."

Sirius grinned wickedly, breath fogging slightly in the night air. "So do you. You're just better at pretending you don't."

Remus’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened. One sharp crack echoed off the buildings as the crop struck Sirius's ribs, firm but not cruel. Sirius hissed, a shudder of pleasure laced in the sound. His hips arched forward instinctively.

"Look at you," Remus said. Another strike—lower this time, just above the waistband of Sirius’s trousers. "The infamous Black heir. Tied up like a pretty little delinquent in the middle of the street."

Sirius moaned— genuinely moaned—and Remus had to bite his cheek to stop himself from reacting too much.

"Say it," Remus said.

"What?" Sirius whispered.

"Say you like being mine."

A beat passed. Sirius tilted his head back, silver eyes catching the lamp's glow. There was pride there—always pride—but also want. Raw and open.

"I love being yours," he said.

Remus pressed his hand to Sirius’s chest, just above his heart. It was thudding fast.

“Good,” he said, quiet again. “Now beg me to keep going.”

Sirius’s breath hitched as Remus’s hand drifted lower, brushing the edge of his hipbone before retreating again. The street around them remained silent, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The lamp above flickered once.

“You’re shaking,” Remus murmured, tracing a single line down Sirius’s chest with the tip of the crop. “And we’ve barely started.”

Sirius laughed—half-mad with want, half-defiant. “You’re just jealous I make a prettier picture than you do tied up.”

Remus arched an eyebrow. Then, without a word, he stepped back and struck again—clean, sharp, just to the side of Sirius’s navel.

Sirius jolted, groaning as his hips bucked forward against nothing. The silk ropes above creaked slightly as he pulled against them.

“That’s one,” Remus said softly.

Sirius blinked, panting. “One?”

“You’ll count every time I strike you, Sirius. And we’ll see how many you can take before you come undone just like this—tied up in the open, aching and filthy.”

Something in Sirius’s groan was guttural. “Fuck, Remus—”

“That’s two. Don’t forget your job.”

Another lash—just above his waistband again. Sirius gasped, this time forcing the number out through clenched teeth.

“Three…”

Remus circled him now, a predator in no rush. His voice dropped near Sirius’s ear.

“If you forget to count, I start again.”

The fourth strike came—low and just on the edge of cruel . Sirius let out a broken moan.

“Four,” he gasped.

“Good boy.”

That nickname hit Sirius just as hard as the leather did. He whimpered, head tipping back as the next strike landed.

“Five—Remus, please…”

“Please what ?” Remus stepped close again, his free hand trailing along Sirius’s jaw, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. “Please stop? Or please make me come with nothing but a whipping and your voice?”

Sirius whimpered. “You know which it is.”

Remus smiled.

“Then keep counting, starboy.”

Sirius was a mess of panting breaths, trembling limbs, and flushed skin by the time Remus delivered the seventh lash. His hands flexed against the binds above, fingers twitching like they were trying to hold on to something that wasn’t there. His head lolled forward, dark hair clinging to the sweat at his temple.

“Seven,” he whispered, voice wrecked.

Remus was quiet now, watching him carefully . His movements weren’t rushed— never rushed—but there was an intensity behind his eyes, the way only Remus could look at someone like they were both the most precious thing and the most wicked thing he'd ever seen.

“Can you give me three more?” he asked, voice low.

Sirius nodded, then whimpered, “Don’t stop.”

The next came fast, biting and low on his thigh.

“Eight,” Sirius gasped.

Another—closer to his hip, where the skin was sensitive.

“N-Nine…”

Remus moved behind him, one hand brushing Sirius’s hip as the final strike landed just beneath the curve of his arse, sharp and echoing in the quiet air.

“Ten— fuck —Remus, I—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. His entire body arched, trembled, and then broke . His hips bucked forward as a moan was ripped from his chest—raw, beautiful, humiliating, perfect . He came hard in his trousers, head thrown back against the metal pole, legs trembling as he sagged in the ropes.

Remus moved instantly.

With a flick of his wand, the silk bindings vanished, and Sirius collapsed forward—straight into Remus’s arms.

“I’ve got you,” Remus murmured, guiding them gently to the ground, his back to the cold stone, Sirius in his lap. “I’ve got you, love.”

Sirius was shaking—wrecked and glowing in the aftermath. His hands fisted in Remus’s jumper, seeking something solid. Something safe.

“You did so well,” Remus whispered, pressing a kiss to Sirius’s temple, then his hair. “You were… incredible .”

Sirius didn’t answer, not with words. But the way he buried his face into Remus’s neck, letting himself be held, said enough.

Remus rocked him slowly, stroking sweat-damp hair away from his face.

“I’m so proud of you, Sirius. So fucking proud.”

The night was still around them again—except now, the space beneath the lamp was filled with the soft rhythm of breathing, the whisper of fabric, and the quiet, steady love of someone who knew exactly how to break Sirius open—and exactly how to put him back together again.

Chapter Text

Ciddy felt her eyes roll towards the back of her head as she felt Wilson press against her back, followed by his rough hands settling heavy on her hip and his lips pressing against her collarbone and trailing it up and down. She let out a breath and relaxed into his warmth— solid and steady against her curves. She then felt the hand on her hip travel down, stroking her thigh and then back up, up her waist and arm, nearly to her breasts when it started its gentle downward motion again and with every motion she jerked harder and harder, desperate for more action. 

“Don't be shy.” She murmured as his lips worked their way up her neck. “You can touch me, I want you to.” She felt Wilson nod and his hands found her breasts this time on his way up her body. His hands were big and warm and so tender, somehow both skilled and shy at the same time. It made her shudder to think of what those hands will do to her tonight.

Wilson's breath shuddered in her ear and he murmured, “He's watching.”

She opened her eyes and immediately met the blue eyes across from her on the couch. There was a shadow covering most of him, but light flooding in from the kitchen cast sharp shadows across the living room, cutting off the bottom half of House's face. But his eyes were as intense as ever as he watched his best friend's hands caressing his girlfriend.

One of Wilson's hands tilted her chin so he could kiss her over her shoulder. Oh, his lips were divine, soft and plush and tender, so easy to melt into and allow his tongue to meet her own for a moment. It was sensible— calculated. This was just as much for House’s pleasure as it was for hers and knowing that sent a thrill through her. 

“He’s practically drooling already.” Wilson chuckled in her ear when he noticed House’s squirming.

“Oh, you should've seen him last night after you agreed to this. He was practically weeping before I got my top off.” 

“That is so not true.” House huffed, only to snap his lip shut when two intense pairs of eyes landed on him. He knows he's not supposed to talk yet, that was the rule.

First, he has to sit and watch like a good boy, and only when he's proved he can be good, they'll let him join in. House doesn't know how he let them rope him into that one, as keeping quiet has never been his strong suit, unless of course his mouth was busy being occupied in other areas.

He was definitely not weeping last night. Passionate, sure, enthusiastic, even. But he most definitely wasn't weeping—

“Don't worry, I'm sure you'll get to kiss his tears tonight too. It's the sweetest thing, when he starts falling apart and the tears start coming. God, Wilson— he just looks so pretty.”

House felt like he was on fire. His entire body buzzed with the need to get up and pace and shake off the nerves or whatever this feeling was. He bit his tongue and sank a little deeper into the couch, shrinking into their shadows. 

“I think you embarrassed him, Lisa.” 

“No.” The argument slipped before House could stop it. 

“Isn't it adorable? Who would've known shameless Greg House could even get embarrassed?” Cuddy joined in on the teasing.

“I don't.” House huffed.

“You're not following your end of the deal, House.” Wilson reminded him, his hand never stopping as it slipped under Cuddy's bra and massaged her perfect breasts. “If you don't follow your end of the deal, we won't follow ours. I'm more than happy to take her into the bedroom and you can stay out here and just listen.”

It didn't sound like a complete loss, he'd still get to listen. But if he's good, he can do so much more than that. He's wanted this so bad. He can't screw this up because the only two people in the world capable of embarrassing him are working together to drive him completely insane.

“Can't you just gag me?” House whined.

“Nope.” Wilson answered as he began unbuttoning Cuddy's top. “Wouldn't want to tire your mouth out already. I have plans for it.”

House couldn't help but moan at that. He nodded his head and swore that he'd shut up. As House watched his best friend slowly strip his girlfriend— their boss, he couldn't help but marvel at the perfect lighting of the room. How the moonlight hit all of Cuddy in just the right ways that made her seem like the most perfect woman to have ever existed, fuck it, she was the most perfect person to exist to House. If House had believed in God and the heavens, he probably would have thought that he was already there, but being in pure euphoria worked just as well.

He watched as Wilson stripped her one layer at a time— first her blouse and then her bra, taking his time to admire and adore her topless before he started on her skirt, dragging the zipper down slowly while murmuring about how beautiful she is, how he's thought about this more times than he can count. Next thing House knows, she's stepping out of her thong, and Wilson is letting out a low whistle as he spins her slowly and breathes out.

“Jesus Christ…” 

Cuddy couldn't help but blush. The way Wilson was looking at her was disgusting, licking his lips and devouring her with his eyes like a hungry animal.

“You are far too dressed.” It felt filthy to be standing naked in front of them like this. “Both of you, undress.” 

They didn't have to be told twice. Their shirts came off quick and easy, but as they both reached for their belts, their eyes met across the room. They were really doing this. 

House, shameless as always, was first to shuck his jeans and boxers in one go. Wilson took a long moment to drink in the sight of them both before he kicked the rest of his clothes off. Cuddy immediately pulled Wilson in and kissed him hard, gasping at their bare skin pressed together for the first time. Wilson’s hands were hesitant, hovering just above her skin.

“Touch me.” She murmured against his lips. “Show him how you’ve always wanted to touch me.”

Wilson’s hand crept further down, slipping between her legs, just barely teasing her and waiting for her reaction. Cuddy spread her legs a little more, inviting him to venture further.

Wilson gasped, “Christ— you’re soaked. Were you two fooling around without me?”

Cuddy shook her head. “I’ve been thinking about this all day, it’s a miracle there isn’t a wet spot on my desk chair. House wanted to fool around, but he got plenty this morning as it was. I’m sure he told you all about that, didn’t he?”

Wilson blushed. “Perhaps, you know him and his loose lips.”

“Does he tell you what happens in the bedroom often? In detail?”

“Not as much as you’d probably think. But I have a feeling that’s going to change after tonight.”

“Good.” Cuddy smirked and sauntered over to the couch, sitting down right next to House, who was doing his very best to ignore his own painful erection. “Hey, sweetie.” Cuddy gave House one quick kiss before turning her attention back to Wilson, beckoning him over with a finger.

Wilson didn’t have to be told what she wanted, as soon as she spread her long gorgeous legs, he sank down onto his knees right in front of her. There was something deeply erotic about House watching him so closely, his own hard cock just to his left. It would be so easy to—

“There will be plenty of time for that later. I need your mouth first.” Cuddy giggled as she held him by the chin and redirected his face back to her.

Wilson was practically drooling over the sight of House’s cock leaking against his thigh. He blushed and nodded before kissing his way up Cuddy's thighs, working his way closer and closer as she ran her hand through his hair. He looked up at her for final confirmation and she practically dragged him the rest of the way, desperate for it.

Oh, she tasted divine. He immediately moaned into her and buried his face deeper, feasting on her from the very beginning. He eats pussy like he's starving for it, like the answer to the universe is buried between Lisa Cuddy's legs.

“Oh fuck- god-.” Cuddy moaned, reaching for House next to her, needing to touch him too. He took her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing every inch he was allowed. She pulled his hand down, all the way down to Wilson’s head and threaded House’s fingers into his hair along with her own. It was somehow the most erotic thing he’s ever done, even if he’s not even the one being touched, stroking his best friend's hair while he eats his girlfriend out, feeling those silky strands he’s wanted to play with a million times before.

Cuddy was lost in how good Wilson is at this, like an instrument he’s played a hundred times before. She didn’t even realise she was moaning Wilson’s name until House leaned in close and kissed just below her ear, murmuring, “You sound so pretty, baby. You don’t even know how many times I’ve imagined the way you sound moaning his name, and it’s even better than I thought it would be.”

“House, god—” 

Wilson pulled away to breathe heavily, his face glistening as he mouthed at Cuddy's thighs and murmured, “You taste so good, Cuddy. I'd stay right here all night if poor House wouldn't die from lack of attention.”

House made an offended sound, but couldn't really argue either, only pressing his best friend’s face back to where it belongs and listening to Cuddy gasp as his tongue went back to work. 

“How do you expect me to just sit here and be quiet? Do you know how difficult that is for me?”

Cuddy nodded and kissed him. “And think of how much you'll be rewarded for it. When I'm done rewarding Wilson for this, of course.”

House didn't know if he'd be able to make it, not with the wet sucking sounds and Cuddy's pretty moans and the way Wilson kept looking up at him. House was desperate to be touched, his cock throbbing against his thigh, twitching and leaking without ever being touched. 

“I want you to fuck me.” Cuddy gasped as she pulled Wilson's face back. “I have no doubts that you could get me off like this, but I've wanted to feel you inside me, and I can't wait anymore.”

“Yeah?” Wilson asked with that ridiculous boyish smile. “You've wanted me that long?”

“Too long. I should've taken you the moment Julie let you go.” 

“That makes two of us.” House murmured, nearly drooling as he watched Wilson's cock bob as he stood. 

“You could've had me.” Wilson murmured as he pulled Cuddy to her feet and kissed her. He looked at House, “Either of you.”

“How about both?” Cuddy purred as she took Wilson's cock into her hand and stroked him. “You can have us both.” 

Wilson's breath hitched and he nodded. “I want that. Want you both.” 

Cuddy let him go and draped herself over the arm of the couch facing House. “Come take me.”

House was positive for a moment that he must be hallucinating. It doesn't matter that he hasn't touched Vicodin in months; he must be hallucinating because not even in his wettest, filthiest dreams has anything ever been so erotic and lascivious as Wilson stepping behind his girlfriend and looking House deep into his blue eyes as he sinks his cock into Cuddy.

“Oh my god— fuck,” Wilson moaned as he slowly sank every inch to her, Cuddy whimpering under him. “So good— christ, you feel so good.”

“Like heaven.” House breathed, looking straight into Cuddy's eyes.

“You don't believe in heaven.” She giggled and then gasped as Wilson adjusted his position.

“Your pussy will have a man questioning his whole life, his entire existence. The afterlife too.”

“Oh, look how sappy and poetic he gets. He's really trying to lay it on thick, isn't he?” Wilson teased as he draped himself over Cuddy's back and kissed her shoulders. He was grinding ever so slightly deeper, but not yet thrusting.

Cuddy giggled and nodded. “He always does. He's such a romantic, he just doesn't want anyone to know.” 

“No one needs to know.” House pouted as they talked about him like he's not even there.

Cuddy was making such pretty sounds with each thrust Wilson made and the asshole looked like he was on cloud nine as he watched himself disappear inside her over and over. Her ass was immaculate, full and curvy in his hands and she was so wet that it made her thighs glisten in the low light. 

Cuddy reached out towards House, needing to feel him in her hands even if they said he's not allowed to touch. One hand found his arm and the other his thigh and it didn't take long for the hand on his thigh to find his throbbing cock. House moaned and his head fell back, his entire body responding to just a simple stroke of her hand.

“Hey, I thought we were going to make him wait.” Wilson chuckled and gave Cuddy's ass a sharp slap. 

Cuddy gasped and giggled. “We said he couldn't touch himself, not that we couldn't touch him.” Wilson couldn't argue with that and started fucking her harder, his eyes set on House's cock, wet and shiny from how much he was leaking in her hand. 

He opened his eyes and found Wilson already watching him intently. It's like he couldn't pull away, feeling his gut coiling and coiling with each moment that Wilson's dark brown eyes looked deep into him.

“I-I—shit, I'm too close.” House gasped out and Cuddy reluctantly let him go, making hot little whimpering sounds against the couch as she started approaching her own orgasm.

“That good, honey?” House asked, running a hand through her hair. “How's his cock feel?”

“So good. God — you'll love it.” 

Wilson moaned and nodded in agreement, clearly thinking about having House in this position too. He'd love to have both of them bent over the way Cuddy is now, on display for him.

House and Wilson's eyes met again, more and more heated each time. “Isn't she as perfect as I told you? Perfect boobs, perfect ass and a perfect pussy. She's amazing from all ends.” 

Wilson nodded and House watched his hand slip between his girlfriend's legs. “She is perfect, I think I may just have to keep her for myself after this.” He teased, knowing House has a wild possessive streak over the things he loves.

Cuddy was too busy moaning at the way Wilson was stroking over her clit again and again to say anything about their banter. She was right where she wanted, needed, to be for the rest of her fucking life.

“As long as you keep us both, I think I can handle that.” House responded and Cuddy's moans got louder and frantic as she started getting close, whimpering “Oh god, fuck, just like that, fuckfuckfuck—”

“That's it, baby. C’mon, show us how good it feels.” House murmured.

She practically showed the whole neighbourhood with the sounds she was making, begging and pleading Wilson not to stop, whimpering that she was so so close. Wilson was mesmerised by her, her skin glistening with sweat, her thighs trembling, her divine pussy wrapped around him so tightly.

For all the noise she was making, her orgasm was nearly silent, only an adorable kind of squeak leaving her before her body went stiff and her mouth dropped open in a silent moan. Once he felt her relax under him, Wilson slowed his thrusts and leaned over her panting body again, kissing her back and shoulders and murmuring sweet praises against her skin as he caught his breath...

Chapter Text

The dorms were quiet that night, quiet in the way that only meant everyone else had either passed out or snuck off campus. Gojo sprawled across Geto’s bed like he owned it, hands laced behind his head, sunglasses perched lazily at the tip of his nose.

“You’re staring again,” he teased, smirking when Geto didn’t immediately deny it.

Geto rolled his eyes but didn’t look away. “Hard not to, with the way you spread out like a cat. You should at least have some shame.”

“Shame’s boring,” Gojo grinned, stretching until his shirt rode up. “Besides, you like watching me.”

Geto’s lips pressed together in the faintest twitch of a smile. “You talk too much.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—if anything, it buzzed. Gojo sat up abruptly, close enough that their knees brushed. “So, Suguru,” he drawled, voice a low purr, “wanna try something fun?”

Geto raised a brow. “Define fun.”

Gojo’s grin turned sharp. “Ever heard of edging?”

A flush touched Geto’s cheeks, but he didn’t flinch. “You mean… making someone come close and then stopping?”

“Mmhm,” Gojo hummed, tilting his head, blue eyes bright. “Thought we could test how long you can handle it.” His hand ghosted over Geto’s thigh, barely brushing. “Wanna play?”

Geto inhaled slowly, studying him, then let out a soft laugh. “You’re ridiculous.” But he didn’t move away.

Gojo leaned in until his lips nearly touched Geto’s ear. “That’s not a no.”

The next few minutes blurred. One second, they were trading smirks, the next, Geto’s back sank into the mattress, the sheets cool against his overheated skin. Gojo straddled his hips like he was born to pin him there, long fingers curling firmly around him without hesitation.

Geto’s breath caught, his usually composed expression breaking into something raw—eyebrows drawn tight, lips parting with a quiet gasp he couldn’t swallow down.

“Sensitive already?” Gojo teased, voice low and syrupy, though his own pulse was racing in his throat. The grin on his face was sharp, almost triumphant, but there was a flicker in his eyes—thrill, curiosity, maybe even nerves at testing this line between them.

Geto tried to school his face, but every slow drag of Gojo’s hand made it harder to hold onto composure. His knuckles whitened against the sheets, and when he finally met Gojo’s gaze, the blue of his eyes was so bright it was dizzying.

“Shut up,” Geto muttered, but his voice cracked, betraying just how much he was fraying under Gojo’s deliberate pace.

Gojo leaned down, the weight of him pressing closer, their foreheads nearly touching. “Why would I? You look way too good like this, Suguru.” His words were playful, but his breath hitched when Geto arched involuntarily into his grip, a strangled sound spilling out between clenched teeth.

That noise made Gojo’s grin widen into something feral, and he tightened his hold just a fraction, stroking him with slow precision, savouring every twitch, every hitch in Geto’s breath.

Geto’s chest rose and fell rapidly, strands of dark hair sticking to his damp temples. He hated giving Gojo the satisfaction, hated how good it felt to be unravelled under his touch—but the heat pooling low in his stomach was undeniable.

And when Gojo suddenly pulled away, stopping just shy of tipping him over, Geto’s frustration showed plain in his eyes. It wasn’t just annoyance; it was need, sharp and aching, that left his throat dry and his heart pounding too fast.

“You’re already hard?” Gojo teased, stroking slow and deliberate. “Guess you’ve been waiting for me to bring this up.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Geto muttered, but the way his breath hitched betrayed him.

Gojo’s pace was steady but unhurried, his thumb brushing just enough to make Geto arch into the touch. Then—he pulled back entirely.

Geto let out a frustrated groan. “Satoru.”

“Relax,” Gojo said with mock innocence, though his grin gave him away. “We’re just getting started.”

Each time he brought Geto right to the edge, he’d pause—sometimes teasing his chest with sharp little pinches, sometimes pressing his lips to the side of Geto’s neck, lingering just long enough to make Geto shudder.

By the fourth time, Geto’s hair clung damp to his forehead, jaw tight as he panted. “You’re cruel,” he managed.

“And you love it,” Gojo murmured, pressing their mouths together in a kiss that was all teeth and heat. His hand worked Geto again, faster this time, only to slow at the last second, pulling a strangled sound from Geto’s throat.

Geto gripped the sheets like they were the only thing grounding him. “If you stop again—”

Gojo chuckled against his lips. “What, you’ll curse me? Oh wait—” His words broke into a hiss when Geto bucked up hard against him, nails digging into Gojo’s side.

“Finish it,” Geto growled, voice rough in a way that made Gojo’s grin falter into something hungry.

The next strokes were merciless, and this time, Gojo didn’t pull away. Geto came undone with a sharp gasp, chest heaving, and Gojo’s satisfied laugh filled the room.

“Told you it’d be fun,” he said, wiping his hand on the sheet with zero shame.

Geto shot him a glare, though his cheeks were still flushed. “You’re cleaning this.”

Gojo leaned down, sunglasses slipping further, lips brushing Geto’s jaw. “Mm. Or we could go again.”

Chapter Text

The penthouse windows stretched from floor to ceiling, spilling the gold of the city into the room. Neon signs pulsed in the reflection on the glass; traffic lights blinked far below, their glow flickering across the polished floor. The air smelled faintly of rain and wind — the trace Hawks always carried with him when he flew in from the night.

They stood near the window, their back brushing the cold surface, the vibration of the city humming faintly through the glass. When Hawks lifted a hand, his feathers stirred, rising and spreading like an ember-colored storm.

He didn’t step closer. He didn’t have to. The feathers glided forward, hovering near their throat, soft and threatening all at once.

“Careful,” he said, his voice smooth but threaded with authority. “You know what happens when you push me.”

They drew in a shaky breath, and his smile widened. The feathers tightened just enough that their next breath came shallower. Not enough to harm — only enough to remind. Remind them who was actually in control here.

“You know,” he murmured, circling them slowly, boots whispering over the marble floor, “I’m the Number Two Hero. An example for everyone out there.” His tone dipped low, almost teasing, almost cruel. “And yet, look at me—” one feather brushed their jaw, tracing the line of their pulse, “—I still make time for you.”

He leaned close enough that they could feel his breath against their ear. “You should be grateful.”

Their chest rose and fell too fast, every inhale caught between fear and something dangerously close to awe.

Hawks chuckled under his breath, stepping back as the feathers tightened, the air between the feathers and their neck snapping away in an instant. “See?” he whispered. “Even your breathing listens to me.”

He let the silence stretch for a beat, watching them try and find their breath again, but struggle more and more by the moment. Then, softer: “Next time,” he said, “maybe I won’t be so gentle.”

He watched them struggle now as he continued ever so slowly to close the weapon around their neck. He knew they loved this. Loved being put in the place by him, on the top floor of his office, right in front of the glass window, for the entire world to enjoy. For the entire world to know that Hawks wasn't just good at being a pro hero and saving lives, but also at manipulating people, so in the end, they were nothing but his sluts, asking, begging, gasping for air

Hawks felt himself get harder as well, the longer he watched upon his gorgeous lover, now sweating with visible tears forming at the corner of their eyes. It was such a mesmerising sight that he would have liked to take a picture and share it on the internet right there and then, but he knew the moment he did that the fuckasses in the Hero Public Safety Commission or whatever would be on his ass within seconds; so he just had to settle for memorising every inch, every sound, every jolt, every moan, every gasp, not that that would be vert hard for him as he couldn't take his eyes of them. 

"Are you having fun, baby?" He asked, stepping forward slightly. All that responded to him was a sight and then a loud moan, which probably came from the fact that Hawks had now positioned a feather between their legs, and it was now slowly slithering up, flying between the two, making sure to touch every crevice. 

Hawks then smiled — that same mix of warmth and danger as before — and with a flick, the feathers slid back into place along his wings, crimson fading into the dark skyline beyond the glass. The city noise filled the space again, but the echo of the noises made just moments ago remained, fading ever so slowly into the background as they claimed their breath back, and Hawks watched with a keen eye. 

Chapter Text

Eren thought that he must have been an absolute saint in his past life if he got to see his girlfriend like this. She was far too good for him in every way, always winning every sports competition when they were younger, top marks on all tests and somehow friends with so many people, despite her hatred of most of humanity, but god, wasn't he glad that for some reason she loved only him.

"Do you like it?" she shyly asked, turning slowly to give him all the angles.

IF HE LIKED IT? HIS FUCKING DICK WAS ABOUT TO FALL OFF. 

But Eren didn't say a single thing in response. Instead, he just stared at his girlfriend like a lost puppy, trying to figure out where he should eventually land his flying eyes: hair, face, eyes, lips, neck, collarbone, tits, stomach, ass, legs, thighs, holy fuck...

Black, red and lace were now his favourite things in the world next to his girlfriend. The colours looked beautiful on her, and the lace made her even more sexy than she already was. The thin material covering between her legs accentuated everything; her ass looked amazing, and it was practically staring right at him, beckoningly. Her breasts looked ready to burst out of her bra and into his hold, and if somebody asked him right then if he preferred her with or without the lingerie, he wouldn't be able to answer.

Mikasa was getting restless with the boy's lack of answer, but she figured that his starstruck expression was a good enough sign, and quite funny as he looked like someone high on drugs. She opened her mouth to ask again, but Eren beat her to it, grabbing her by the hips in a flash and placing her on his lap, straddling him. She gasped when Eren's hard erection rubbed against her core perfectly in that position, and couldn't help but move against it, hearing a deep grunt getting out of her boyfriend's mouth. His hands went to her ass and squeezed them firmly, feeling the soft skin but firm muscle.

They met in between and kissed deeply, Mikasa's hands going into Eren's long hair, pulling him impossibly closer to her. The boy's hands had left her ass and were now kneading wantonly on her breasts, rubbing the perky nipples through the lace, eliciting moans from Mikasa.

She muttered something that Eren didn't catch as they shared another passionate kiss, this time her being the one to leave kisses all over Eren's jaw and neck, making a beeline for his ear and biting the lobe gently before whispering I want you to eat me out.

Not wanting Mikasa to change her mind, he flipped their positions and started kissing down her body eagerly. He kissed her lace-covered breasts, loving the little moans coming out of her. Deciding he wanted her to keep the lingerie on, he simply took them out, loving how the fabric squeezed them in together. He took one nipple into his mouth while he fingered and tugged on the other. He kissed and licked all around, wanting to leave any kind of trace of him.

Mikasa's hands were pulling on his hair desperately, as he went to kiss the other one, giving it the same attention. His hand moved down her stomach, fingering the edge of the sexy panties before plunging his fingers inside and rubbing her just the way she needed.

"E-Eren, oh please"

"Baby, you're already so wet for me" Eren was grinning mischievously down at a dishevelled Mikasa, flushing from her face down to her chest. He didn't take her eyes off hers as he continued to rub her pussy, paying special attention to her clit.

"Don't close your eyes Mikasa, I want you to see what I do to you"

She opened her eyes with effort and saw him winking at her before his mouth slowly went to join his hand, kissing down her quivering stomach. He took his time appreciating her body closely before mouthing at her underwear, getting it wet.

"Eren, oh my god, stop teasing!" she cried out.

He ignored her order and continued to rile her up as he got comfortable between her thighs, holding her legs further apart to gain more access and resting them on his shoulders. His small kisses and teasing tongue were making her lose her mind, desperate for the real skin-to-skin contact. Eventually, the bastard tugged the panties down her legs, throwing them somewhere on the bed. He felt a little breathless at having her so close to his face, and a little nervous too. He wanted to make this really good for her.

He covered her with his mouth tentatively, tasting the warm and wet skin with every lick. Mikasa trembled under him, fisting the bedsheets hard at the foreign feeling as his tongue moved all over her in circles, reaching places no one had before. He used his fingers to part her lips and go deeper, her sweet and salty flavour making him hungry for more and more.

"Mikasa, baby..." Eren said huskily as he stopped for a moment to breath a little. "I love hearing your moans, but if you continue screaming like that, the neighbours are gonna worry, and we definitely don't want anyone interrupting this, do we?"

She distractedly nodded her head and clapped her hands around her mouth as Eren resumed his actions. He started getting confident at the signs of pleasure on Mikasa's body. His fingers joined his tongue, rubbing her clit in rhythm with his tongue until Mikasa started moving her hips harder against his mouth, chasing her high.

"Eren, just like that please. I-I'm close"

He followed the orders and kept hitting her exactly the way she wanted. Mikasa's whispered yes, yes, yes and those were his final warnings for her climax before her legs started shaking and a breathless 

Fuck Eren came out her mouth. As she rode out her orgasm, he kept giving her small kisses to her centre and inner thighs, caressing lovingly her stomach.

God he needed to get more lingerie...

Chapter Text

The house was quiet, save for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the muffled sound of Yamaguchi’s ragged breathing. His back arched against the sheets, sweat cooling on his skin from their earlier touches, legs spread open and trembling with exhaustion and need. Strands of his damp green hair clung stubbornly to his forehead, plastered there by sweat, while the rest stuck out in messy tufts from where Tsukki had tugged at it earlier. His freckles stood out stark against flushed cheeks, lips swollen and parted, drool catching at the corner of his mouth as he panted. His chest rose and fell sharply, each breath a desperate gasp, his whole body caught between the raw edge of overstimulation and craving more.

Tsukishima sat between them, blond hair damp at the edges from his post-game shower, still bandaged fingers working mercilessly inside his boyfriend. The Shiratorizawa match had left him raw in more ways than one, and Yamaguchi could feel the determination and frustration in every push of his hand.

“God, you’re tight,” Tsukki muttered, low and venomous in his throat, voice edged with the same sharpness he used to slice down opponents across the net. “Clenching on my fingers like you’re desperate. You are desperate, aren’t you, Tadashi?”

Yamaguchi choked on a sound, hips twitching as he nodded helplessly.

The tape around Tsukishima’s knuckles finally slipped loose, damp and curling at the edges from sweat. He barely noticed at first, too focused on the way Yamaguchi writhed beneath him, body straining around every push of his hand. But then he pressed in deeper, and the sting made him suck in a sharp breath—warm liquid sliding down his skin. Blood. It welled up fast, slicking his fingers, smearing across Yamaguchi’s rim in dark streaks that stood out against flushed, trembling flesh. Tsukki froze for half a second, teeth gritted at the sting, but Yamaguchi’s reaction hit him harder than the pain—his eyes went wide, lips parting on a shaky gasp, and his cock twitched back to life against his stomach, leaking again. The shame on his face was obvious, but so was the raw hunger burning behind his expression. The sight made something twist low in Tsukki’s chest, equal parts dark satisfaction and a dangerous kind of arousal, the control of knowing his body breaking down was turning Yamaguchi completely undone.

“Oh?” Tsukishima’s mouth curled into a sharp smile. “You like this. You’re getting off on me bleeding inside you, aren’t you?”

Yamaguchi’s face burned, shame and need colliding, but his hips rolled up helplessly against Tsukki’s hand.

“Pathetic,” Tsukki hissed, pushing his bloody fingers deeper, twisting just to hear that strangled moan. “You see a little red and you’re fucking hard again. My blood makes you needy? You’re disgusting, Tadashi Yamaguchi… and you’re mine.”

His slick, crimson-stained fingers drove in harder, the wet slide made obscenely smooth by the mix of blood and arousal. Each thrust was precise and merciless, curling deliberately against Yamaguchi’s prostate until sparks shot down his spine. The mess spread with every push, smearing heat and copper between them, the sharp scent of iron clinging to the air. Yamaguchi’s nails raked helplessly at the sheets, leaving faint tears in the fabric as his thighs quivered, muscles straining j and jerking with every brutal curl. His voice broke on half-sobs, caught between shame and ecstasy, but his body betrayed him—clenching down around Tsukki’s fingers as though begging to be split open further.

“Say it,” Tsukki pressed, voice a dark whisper against his ear as he leaned over him. “Tell me what you’re getting off on while I ruin you with my broken hand.”

Yamaguchi gasped, trembling, before finally breaking. “Y-your blood… fuck—Tsukki, it’s your blood—”

That admission made something in Tsukki snap. He pumped harder, forcing Yamaguchi’s body open, relishing the obscene sound of slick and the raw whimpering beneath him. “That’s right. You’re so fucking messed up for me, hard because I’m hurting. My pain gets you off. And you’re going to come just like this, aren’t you? On nothing but my bleeding fingers inside you.” He leaned closer, voice sharp and cruel against Yamaguchi’s ear. “Bet you’d love if the rest of the team could see this—how their sweet, quiet pinch server is nothing but a filthy slut for me. Imagine Kageyama or Hinata walking in and watching you fall apart on my bloody hand, begging for more. You’d be humiliated, wouldn’t you? And still you’d come all over yourself, because you can’t help it. That’s who you are when you’re with me.”

Yamaguchi shattered with a loud cry, his cock untouched, spilling across his stomach as his body convulsed around Tsukishima’s hand. Tsukki didn’t let up, fucking him through it, making sure every aftershock came with the squelch of blood and slick together.

When Yamaguchi finally went limp, chest heaving, Tsukki withdrew his fingers slowly, watching the mess he’d left behind. His gaze was sharp, mocking and proud all at once.

“You’re sick, Tadashi,” he said, smirking as he licked the copper tang from his own knuckles. “And you’re mine. Don’t ever forget it.”

Chapter Text

Caitlyn sat on the edge of the bed, fingers drumming lightly against her thigh as Vi struck a match. The flare of light reflected off the copper in her hair, painting the room in a molten hue. She tilted the candle, letting the wax pool slowly around the wick before glancing at Caitlyn.

“Still sure about this, cupcake?” Vi asked, voice low and rough.

Caitlyn nodded once. The tension in her shoulders wasn’t fear; it was anticipation, the kind that made her pulse stutter. “I trust you.”

Vi’s smirk softened for just a second, then she stepped closer. The candlelight turned the scars on her hands into shifting lines of gold. She trailed her knuckles along Caitlyn’s jaw, tilting her chin up.

“Good. Then don’t move.”

The first drop of wax fell with a quiet hiss, the sound swallowed by Caitlyn’s sharp inhale. Heat kissed her skin, sharp but fleeting, leaving behind a bloom of sensation that spread through her chest and down her spine.

God, it felt so good. Her handsome girlfriend was basically punishing her like she needed to be. It was the most turned on she had ever been, and she had done some wild shit with Vi already. She was so grateful every day that Vi loved her back, even after her little fling with Maddie, and that Vi still wanted to take good care of Caitlyn, that she still wanted to eat her every day for the rest of her life.

Vi’s voice broke through the haze. “That’s it. Breathe for me.” Another drop. Then another, a slow rhythm she controlled with infuriating precision.

"Ugh Vi-I- Can't.."

"Yes, you can, baby. I know you can. My gorgeous, smart, sexy fucking girlfriend can do everything, can't she? Yes, she can. Oh, baby, yes she can."

Caitlyn’s hands curled into the sheets. Every sound — the crackle of the candle, Vi’s breath near her ear — grew louder in the stillness. She wanted to speak but couldn’t find words. Vi moved behind her, close enough that Caitlyn could feel the whisper of her breath on her neck.

Another slow tilt of the candle. A thread of wax traced the line of Caitlyn’s collarbone, cooling quickly but leaving behind that unmistakable sting. Vi’s laugh — low and satisfied — was almost a purr.

“Didn’t think the Enforcer liked a little fire.”

Caitlyn’s answer came out as a tremor, more breath than sound. The words hardly mattered; Vi heard everything she needed in the way Caitlyn’s body tensed beneath her touch.

Vi set the candle aside, fingertips hovering over the places where wax had hardened, the city’s hum faint beneath them both, as Caitlyn came from just that, just her voice; just like a good girl.

Vi chuckled, a deep laugh that stirred something through Cait again, even though she was barely finished with the first one. If Vi kept this up, Caitlyn was about to get very overstimulated, very quickly, and to be honest, she had absolutely no objections. Fuck, she needed to feel something down there. Something. Anything. Even just her breath.

"What's wrong, cupcake?" Vi asked, knowing exactly what was wrong.

"Ahh, please..."

"Use those wonderful words, honey,"

"PLEASE. I NEED SOMETHING!"

And that was all Vi needed.

Chapter Text

NO CHAPTER TODAY CAUSE IT'S DIWALI AND A BUNCH OF REASONS ATTATCHED TO THAT (Im tired, I need a break, I was busy celebrating 🤪)

TMR I'LL POST BOTH XXXXXX