case of space

✩ One Piece:

• slow mornings with the Straw Hats (imagine \\ 0.22k)

♡ Monkey D. Luffy:

• injured (imagine \\ 0.32k)

• core memory (oneshot \\ 1.2k)

• favorite color (oneshot \\ 0.97k \\ request)

• summer solstice (oneshot \\ 1/93k)

• pots and pans (oneshot \\ 3.76k \\ smut \\ request)

♡ Black Leg Sanji:

• dish duty (oneshot \\ 1.2k)

• timing is everything (oneshot \\ 4.68k \\ smut)

♡ Sniper King Usopp:

• his muse (oneshot \\ 3.07k)

♡ Red Hair Shanks:

• suntanning (oneshot \\ 2.54k \\ smut)

♡ Trafalgar D. Law:

• fourteen days (oneshot \\ 3.7k \\ smut \\ request)

♡ Soul King Brook:

• better left unsaid (oneshot \\ 5.3k \\ request)

• drunken lullabies (oneshot \\ 3.4k \\ request)

• his s/o on their period (imagine \\ 0.8k \\ request)

☆ Avatar:

♡ Ao'nung:

• meet me at our spot (oneshot \\ 1.86k)

☆ ITSV/ATSV:

♡ Hobie Brown:

• labels, consistency and predictability (oneshot \\ 3.68k)

☆ Frankenstein:

♡ The Creature:

• companionship (oneshot \\ 7.14k)

☆ JJK:

♡ Toji Fushiguro:

• his sweet, young girlfriend (imagine \\ 1.49k)

♡ Yuji Itadori:

• the pretty reporter that covers his basketball teams' games (imagine \\ 0.59k)

♡ Ryomen Sukuna:

• coming soon :)

☆ BNHA:

♡ Mina Ashido:

• not like this (pt. 1/3 \\ yuri \\ 2.32k)

• just like that (pt. 2/3 \\ yuri \\ 2.78k)

✩ The Bear:

♡ Carmy Berzatto:

• birthday boy (pt. 1/? \\ 2.02k)

• birthday girl (pt. 2/? \\ 2.63k)

✩ Call of Duty:

♡ Captain John Price:

• new to the T141 (pt.1/? \\ imagine \\ 1.05k)

• relieving stress for your Captain (pt. 2/? \\ imagine \\ 1.9k)

✩ Bullet Train:

Carmen opens his mouth, inhaling a breath as he searches for all the reasons he had ready at the back of his tongue. Oh, wait… That's not rational, that's not rational, nope, not that one, that one neither.

As his silence stretches, Richie lifts his hands in an 'I rest my case' gesture. "Oh go fuck yourself, Richie!" Carmen scoffs. "No, you go fuck yourself, my good man." "I'm not calling her!"

Richie jumps off of his stool, picking up the business card and shoving it in Carmen's face. "What if she's waiting for you to call!?"

Carmen smacks his hand away. "What if it was a prank!? And she's just waiting for my call so she can laugh at me!?" Richie rolls his eyes again. A few more of those and his eyes might pop right out of his skull.

"Did she really seem like that kind of girl? Really, Carm?" He asks the younger man. And he answers his own question for Carmen. "No, she didn’t. Because she seemed like a very sweet girl and I bet she's waiting for you to call her." He wiggles and flaps the card in Carmy's face, making sure it smacks him a few times. "You've been treating this thing like it's got the Black Plague for three days now, either you call her or I will, and I bet you won't like it if I invite her out."

Carm snatches the business card back, Richie's pathetic ultimatum making him grimace with annoyance. "If she picks up and makes fun of me, you're fired."

Instead of pointing out that Carmen had no authority to fire him, Richie keeps quiet and gestures for him to make the call.

The youngest Berzatto punches the phone number into his keypad a little too harshly and brings the phone to his ear. His grip around the device is too tight. His knuckles are white already. All the blood had rushed too his face, a blush fanning across his face in preemptive embarrassment of talking to you again.

What's the worst that can happen? What's the worst that can realistically happen?

Your voice spills through the speaker, your name falling from your lips in a professional greeting while simultaneously confirming who the phone number belonged to.

Carmy echoes your name with a quick hello and clears his throat. "Its Carmen, from the, uh, the other night…"

The silence stretches longer than he liked. He nearly hangs up the call since you still hadn't answered him yet. Was three seconds long enough of time to excuse his nerves? Realistically not. It sucked being so conscious of himself these days.

"Carmen!" You finally exclaim. He thinks for a selfish moment that he might hear a smile behind your words, but he extinguishes that thought. Why would you be so excited for him to call you?

"Its so good to hear from you! How have you been?" You ask, sitting more upright in your bed. You had a magazine open on one knee, a bottle of nail polish between two fingers and the nail brush tucked barely between two other fingers. Seven of your ten toes were painted, a cherry red, to go with your new lingerie set for work.

"Uh, I'm doing good, how are you, uh, how have you been?" He stammers. You smile at his nervousness, finding his shy demeanor quite adorable. "I'm doing great, Carmy. I've got off from work tonight, so I'm just relaxing at home."

You have off from work. You're not dancing tonight.

Carmen smiles to himself. A small portion of him was excited that he didn't have to share you with other men tonight. He didn't have to worry about other guys getting eyefulls and handfuls of you.

For tonight, for this precious phone call, for these fleeting moments, you were all his.

"I'm so glad to hear that," he says, slowly finding a confidence he didn't know he had. "Relaxing is important. Especially in your line of work. I bet you don't get much time to yourself, huh?"

"Oh, I get three nights off a week," you tell him, setting your magazine down. You scoot to the edge of your bed, setting the nail polish bottle down and closing it. "And the club isn't open in the mornings, so I usually have at least 6 hours to myself before work every night."

An unsung perk of the job was always having mornings off. Of course, the flip side of that was waking up later and later as the days went on. You'd need to take another week off to reset your sleep schedule soon.

"That's good. I'm glad. Work-life balance is very important, so I hear," Carmen tells you, recalling what Sydney would preach to him.

He didn't understand it, since he spent the past many years lacking a personal life. Culinary school, Noma, French Laundry, and now the Beef all took up more and more of his life with each passing day. Workdays bled into nights, into the next early mornings. His days blurred together. His time slipped away like sand through his fingers.

"I entirely agree," you say. He hears a giggle lighting your voice and he wonders if you're laughing at him because he was funny or because what he said was stupid.

"So, uh, what are you doing?" Carmy makes the mistake of catching Richie's gaze. The older man is giving him a teasingly enthusiastic thumbs up, his eyes mockingly wide with faux excitement for him. Carmen rolls his eyes and leaves the kitchen, going to his bedroom of the Airbnb.

"I'm painting my nails," you tell him. "I just got a beautiful red nail polish to match my new outfit for work."

The bedroom door closes softly behind him and he leans heavily against it. Carmen tips his head back against the wood, his eyes closing.

Outfit. How sweet of you to put it so gently for him.

Of course you remembered how he'd reacted when you told him he could call you a 'stripper', so you thought that saying the word 'lingerie' to him might elicit the same reaction.

Behind his closed eyes, he begins imagining what your new 'work outfit' could possibly look like. If the nail polish matches your lingerie, it must be something red. But what style? Two piece? Bodysuit? Another babydoll dress? Fuck, please let it be another babydoll dress. But only if he could see it.

Dear God, it's me, Carmy…

"What, uh, what's this outfit look like?" He asks, attempting to sound nonchalant. "Oh, it's just another babydoll dress. If you want, I can send you a picture."

His cock gives a hearty, excited kick in his pants and for a moment, Carmen nearly keels over. "A-a picture? Send me? Send me a picture?" He stumbles, moving to sit on his bed.

"Well, yeah, I mean, only if you wanna see it. I think it's so cute! It's got ribbons up the back of it like a corset. I always loved that style and now I've finally got one for myself," you ramble on, painting the rest of your toes.

You weren't stupid, you could hear his breathing shift.

Carmen really wanted that picture you offered.

You just needed to hear him say it.

"I-I mean, yeah, I guess… that would be alright," he murmurs into the phone.

He knew he sounded pained to act nonchalant. To speak with such an indifferent tone as a man from a family such as his, with emotions that run as high as his, it just didn't fit him. Carmy was a very chalant man. He didn't know why he tried to hard to pretend he wasn't.

"Oh," you start slowly, ready for the game he unknowingly started. "Well, I mean, if it's just alright then… I don't really wanna bother you."

"You're not bothering me!" He exclaims, too quickly. There he is. Your chalant prince. Returning to his roots. A smile sneaks across your face as his cortisol spikes. "I was just- Shit, I'm being stupid, I would really love to see a picture of your new, um, work outfit."

Wait just a bit longer, let him squirm. Fuck, he sounded so good nervous. "My work outfit?" You echo. "Y-yeah, your… Your lingerie," he mumbles, clearing his throat. "So, can you say it again?"

Carmy knows your playing with him, dangling the pictures he was desperate for just out of reach. It was so cruel, but so sexy of you.

"I would really love to see the pictures of your new lingerie, please," he whispers, your name slipping from his lips like honey- positively heavenly for such a big, strong man to beg so sweetly.

A thrill runs up and down your spine, settling warmly between your legs as you stand. You set your nail polish aside.

"Gimme five minutes," you breathe.

Tension rolls through Carmen's muscles in shivers of anxiety as he braves the five minutes of suspense until he received your pictures.

You'd hung up, claiming you needed to focus and fix your hair. So these were going to be new pictures. No stock photos from the website you got the lingerie from. Not just a reference image of it laying on your bed. You were gonna wear it. And take a picture of yourself wearing it. And send him that picture. Did this count as receiving nudes? You'd be wearing clothes still. But not a lot. What constitutes an image as a 'nude'? Did it matter!?

Five minutes and forty-eight seconds later, his phone lights up on the nightstand with a notification. A text. A message. From you.

Carmen scrambles for his phone, nearly falling out of the bed as he rushes to open the message. A groan tears from his chest once the images load and he's graced with more instances of you to file away in his memory.

His cock gives another kick in his pants, his heart racing as he opens the first image to Fullscreen with shaking fingers. You look positively stunning; draped in red silk, hugged by lace and ribbon. It was a mirror pic, with you slightly bent forwards, your head tilted to the side so he could see one of your eyes peeking out from behind your phone. The second was just as jaw dropping with you on your knees in front of the mirror.

Carmy's hand begins snaking towards his pants sometime between the third and fourth picture. A bit of guilt made itself known in his chest as he shoves his jeans down his thighs, but how in the world was he expected to pass up this opportunity?

You'd gone above and beyond with the pictures you sent him. How you managed to take all of them in five minutes, he'd never know.

Or did you have these previously ready?

Carmen feels a mix of excitement and worry bubbling in his stomach.

Did you have these pictures already taken before talking to him tonight? Were you hoping he'd call so you could send them to him? Or were they for someone else? For whoever else's lap you might fall into at the club? Don't think about that! Maybe you're just really good at taking pictures. Or maybe you took them for yourself.

By the sixth picture, Carm can feel that he's seconds from blowing his load. How did you always do this to him? Three days ago you had him busting in his pants only five minutes into your first interaction, and today all it took was six pictures of you in the sexiest outfit he'd ever seen before.

He felt like a teenager again, a virgin.

On your end of the phone, you wait for a response. Anything at all. Typing bubbles, a thumbs up, a heart reaction, but you don't get anything other than a small 'Read' underneath the photos you sent. It isn't until you text him do you finally get something in return.

You send a short message: "I take it you don't like it?"

Immediately Carmen's typing.

The typing bubbles appear, disappear. Appear, disappear, appear again, disappear.

This poor boy. Tongue-tied even over text. You almost threw him another bone, something to make his reply easier. But no. What fun would that be? You liked imagining his struggle. And what a blessing it was that you'd waited, because two minutes later, you get a voice note.

Carmy's words are short, clipped with fast and heavy breaths. "Fuck, that was- those are- oh my God." Your name falls from his lips over and over again, nearly every other word. There's an underlying sound beneath his words, beneath his praises and curses and many, many thanks, and it's a thick, wet sound. It's warm and it's heavy and once you notice it, you can't stop hearing it. It stutters, along with his breath and his words, faltering as he groans a low sound, deep in his chest. And then the sound stops, taken over by a long, keening whine that seemed so unlike him but was so fucking delicious to hear.

Carmen breathes your name one last time. "I really, really, liked those pictures," he admits to you. His tone is much shyer now, so different than how it was only seconds ago as he was choking through moans. But you'd be lying if you said that his changes in demeanor didn't make you want to work that much harder to draw more from him. More sounds, more curses, more praises and thanks, more moans and whines, more everything.

You finally send your own message back to him after taking in the voice note all of four times. "That was a delectable birthday gift, Carmen, thank you so much," you text, adding a heart and a winking kissy-face.

In his bed, still cleaning up himself, Carmen sits bolt upright once your message comes through. "Her birthday," he breathes. He glances at the clock. It was 12:02. 2 minutes into your birthday and he sent you an audio of him jacking off.

"Well, I hope I might be the first to say Happy Birthday," he sends quickly, praying no one else you knew would send their birthday wishes before he could. He was always selfish like that, needing the reward of being the first, the gratification of a last word, and everything that came in between.

[You]: You are, and thanks, Carmen.

[Carmen]: Of course

[Carmen]: This may be kinda weird, but do you think I can see you again?

[You]: I think there's a firm possibility that you totally could.

His heart races, his smile mirroring your own miles away as you both stare at the text thread. You wanted to see him again. He wanted to see you again. Gosh, what a start to your birthday.

It couldn't be the movies or dinner or shopping. Those were too overdone. You'd told her you'd plan it and she was trusting you to plan it. You needed to do something extraordinary. Something that would blow her away and show her that you were hers, that you wanted this more than you wanted to pass Aizawa's class. 

But it couldn't be too outright either. It had to be careful and roundabout, so she came to that conclusion herself, and it didn't seem like you were holding yourself back from dropping to your knees for her. 

The beach was a solid contender for at least a day. The idea of spending a few hours with her, lounging in the sand and playing in the water was all too enticing. Until you took a step back and realized you might come off as a pervert just wanting to see her in a bikini or a jackass with the “take her swimming on the first date” mentality, so that idea was quickly discarded. 

Another idea you had was a picnic. Adorable sundress, cliche red and white checkered blanket, basket overflowing with fruits and cheeses and sparkling drinks. But Mina didn't really like bugs and there wasn't much you could do about the possibility of nature interfering. So that one was out too. 

It all seemed like a trap. Every option had something wrong with it. There were too many bugs this time of year for hiking. The aquarium was so expensive, especially if you were to get her something from the gift shop or a snack. And there was no way you were bringing your own food, that would make you look cheap. A dance class would be nice, but Mina already knows so many dances it might be redundant for her and she probably won't enjoy it. 

Eventually, you settled on a pottery class. And it wasn't just because you were hoping Mina might need help on the wheel so you could sit behind her and guide her hands. 

You genuinely liked the idea of creating something with her, the intimacy of starting something together and seeing it through to the end. It was like having a baby, except it was clay and you were both women and teenagers, but other than that, same thing, right? 

Mina on the other hand, was stressed because she was worried she wasn't going to have the right outfit for whatever you proposed. You hadn't told her what the date was because you wanted it to be a surprise, so up until Wednesday, she was panicked. She ended up putting together 17 different outfit combinations, hanging them up around her room, one for each possible date outcome she could think of. 

When you finally texted that it was casual and lowkey and a bit messy, she decided she could put away almost all of her chosen outfits. Away went the bikini, the matching set, the leopard print mini skirt, the cropped Juicy zip up, the Prada belt, the white Adidas- all too loved and expensive to worry about your promise of ‘messy’, whatever that implied. 

You knock on Mina's door on Thursday, precisely at the time you told her in your text. She was already waiting on the other side and had been standing there for about 5 minutes now just in case you came early, but she waited a few moments before opening the door, acting casual as if she was just finishing up getting ready. One hand rests in her hair, giving it a bit of extra fluffing. She says your name with an excited tone that makes your heart race. 

“Hi, Mina. Sorry, do you still need time?” You ask nervously. “No, this is perfect, I'm all ready,” she promises. She grabs her purse and joins you in the hall, locking her dorm room before turning back to you. “So… What are we doing?” She asks, trying to sound casual as she attempts to scope out what you had planned so she might be able to change if her outfit was unfit for the activity. 

You, unknowing of her worry of being unprepared and already in love with her outfit, simply told her, “It's a surprise.” She tries to smile, the worry still creeping at the back of her skull. Mina doesn't want to ask you outright, but she realizes she might have to. 

“Am I dressed okay for whatever you have planned?” Your eyes flick over her again, as if you already didn't have her entire outfit memorized in your mind and you nod. “It's perfect! Casual and laid back. I love your pants.” “Thank you, they're Garage,” she gushes, tugging at her camo cargos. You smile, not recognizing the brand, but enjoying how she seemed to like your compliment. 

“Well, are you all ready to go?” You ask, playfully offering your arm. She takes it gently, resting her freshly painted nails on your upper arm as she follows you down the hall. 

The common room was mostly empty. It was too nice of a day out to be cooped up inside. The first nice day in a while too. No one wanted to waste this good weather. Which also meant, keeping your date on the DL. 

You and Mina agreed that you weren't necessarily going to hide your relationship- whatever it might blossom into- but you wouldn't exactly tell everyone about it either. If they figured it out, good for them. If they didn't, then they probably didn't need to know in the first place. 

Jiro figured it out because she knew you. And she knew that you knew she swung certain ways herself. So why would you come to her for dating advice if it wasn't about a woman? And deducing that it was with Mina was just as easy. 

But other than Kyoka, no one else was aware of this new development. Or at least you hoped that's how it was. You made your classmate pinky swear to secrecy and she was always good about keeping things quiet, especially when they weren't her business. 

The streets were full, busy with the life that reappears with warmer weather. An ice cream shop had a line out the door, flower stands were on every street corner that wasn't occupied by a musician or some sort of food kiosk. 

As you passed a large group of middle schoolers, still in uniform, Mina grabbed your hand to keep from being separated. An unexpected plus in your opinion. Your giddiness almost spills over, but you manage to restrain it to a smile. Desperation was unbecoming, but Mina wouldn't have noticed. Her heart was racing too fast. 

As you come up on the pottery studio, you pull her closer to the storefront side of the sidewalk as opposed to the street side. She notices your slowing in pace and realizes that it must be one of these stores. Flower shop? Movie theater? Ramen shop? …Pottery Studio? Yeah, it must be that one.

The interior is everything an art studio should be. It's welcoming, it's warm, it's colorful and bright and full of people who look like they could be on the cover of Zara or Vogue. You talk to the instructor at the desk, letting her know about your appointment you set up and that you don't need any teaching assistance. You had taken a ceramics class before over a summer for a bit of fun and still remembered the basics of vessel throwing.

Of course you'd be teaching Mina to throw. Being on the wheel with someone, your hands on their hands, your chest to their back, your chin on their shoulder, it was practically as intimate as foreplay.

You lead Mina back to the throwing room. They had seven wheels, six of which were already in use. Most of the other ceramicists seem to know each other, talking and joking and flicking slip water at one another. The other two had headphones on and seemed to be in their own worlds entirely. One was bringing up the walls of a vase that was already taller than your torso.

"Oh, there's... there's only one left here," Mina says softly. "You can throw on the wheel, I'll just watch." "What? No, I-I wanted you to learn- I wanted to teach you," you say quickly. "Do-do you want to learn?" "I'd love to, um... Should I... take off my nails?" She shows you her new acrylics.

You knew she had only gotten them last week. They were baby pink and complete works of art. One was fully cheetah print, another cheetah print French tip, one had a flower charm, one had a bit of gold. The middle finger and ring finger were shorter though. She had told you that they were a new trend- vampire nails or something. You were pretty sure she designed them herself. It would be entirely cruel and criminal to make her break them all off.

"No, no, no, don't take them off, we can get you some gloves or something," you tell her, taking her hand. "You need nail guards?" One of the girls calls over, popping her gum. She points across the room to a hand washing sink. On the clay-caked sink, there's a box of blue nitrile gloves. "Oh, thank you!"

Mina gets a pair from the box then returns, snapping the gloves against her wrists. "Alright, let's get started."

This was exactly what you wanted. To be holding Mina as she worked. To have your arms around her waist, your hands on hers, guiding her hands. Why was this so scary? You were creating something together. It wasn't just art, it was like... life.

Clay came from the ground, from the dirt, from the Earth. It was Mother Nature herself in your hands being molded into something just as beautiful as she was in the hands of a young woman possibly even more beautiful. It was Gaia, it was Terra, it was Jörd, Danu, Bhumi. Seams of natural material were called veins for a reason. It was the lifeblood of the Earth, things like this.

That might be why it was so scary. Because you kept romanticizing the creation process of a vessel of clay. Acting like you were making a baby. Fuck, don't think about that. Don't think about getting pegged- goddammit, why did you have to think those words. Thank God you didn't have a dick or you'd be in such deep shit right about now.

"Hey, this isn't actually half bad," Mina says softly. "Yeah, you're doing wonderfully," you whisper. "I can't wait to take this home." "Well, it's going to need some time to try out. And..." "And what?" She lets her foot off the pedal slightly, turning her head. Her nose brushes your cheek. Out of the corner of your eye Mina's gaze is intense. It's soft. Nerve-wracking. "And, um... we're gonna have to come back to glaze it," you tell her softly.

"Glaze?" She breathes. "That's like... paint, right?" "Yeah, just like paint, but for the clay." "How's it any different?" "Um... ingredients. Chemical makeup. It's designed to withstand the high heats of the kiln." "Kiln?" "Yeah, it's a... a giant oven basically and it gets to like... four thousand degrees or something." "Four thousand?"

You pause. A smile begins to form. Is she...?. You finally turn to look at her, your expression giddy and suspicious. "Are you... using the Solid Snake conversation method?" "Fuck," she hisses under her breath. "Yes, I am. How'd you know?" "How'd I know?" You echo, laughing. "Right, stupid question," Mina giggles. "I think it's cute, but... I never heard you ever use it before."

Shit is that too straightforward? Might as well just tell her you pay close attention to her mannerisms and speaking patterns.

"No, I, uh, usually don't, but I read online that it helps with speaking when you're nervous." "Nervous?" "Yeah, nervous. Anxious. Flustered. Like on a date. I was worried I'd might get nervous and tongue-tied, so I kept it in my back pocket." "Tongue-tied?" "Like-..." She trails off, a grin forming on her own face. "You sick bitch, you had me going there!" You laugh, releasing her hands to keep yourself from falling. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just had to try it out after you tried it on me."

"Well, you're much better at it than I am." "It's only because you're 'flustered' as you said... Do I fluster you, Mina?" She takes a moment to pretend to think about it, then nods. "Yeah, you do. Your cute and funny and smart and I... I really like you. Yeah, you fluster me." "Well, I'll be," you murumur.

.

..

...

What the fuck did you just say? 'Well I'll be', what are you, a gold prospector!?

"Oh, my God," you groan. You almost rub your eyes, hide in your hands, but theres clay streaked up to your elbows and you don't have the time for a double eye infection. "Oh, my God!" Mina squeals. "What the fuck was that!?" "I don't know!" "Oh, my God, what are you Stinky Pete from Toy Story!?" "Mina!" Her cackles catch the attention of the nearby group, who, upon sensing the good vibes, begin laughing as well.

"You are so stinking cute. That was hilarious!" Her raucous laughter dims to a giggle as she calms back down. "You're like Luz from the Owl House. How she said 'Crikey' after kissing the girl of her dreams." "God, don't give my subconscious any ideas," you groan playfully. "Last thing I need is for you to have two pieces of dirt on me."

Psssssssttttttttt...BOOM! (that was a firework sound effect in writing 🎇🎆, you're welcome)

Mina wasn't an idiot. She was far from it. Even if her Literature scores weren't the highest in the class, she could still read people better than anyone. She could pick apart statements and vocal tones and subtle meanings better than most BookTok girlies and female friend groups that didn't trust men. She knew exactly what you meant, what your subconscious wanted her to know.

She, Mina Ashido, was the girl of your dreams. You knew she knew it. She knew you knew she knew it. The people across the room knew you knew she knew you knew she knew it.

(Lord Almighty, was that a stroke?)

Gaping like a fish plucked from a riverbed, you stared at her. Your mouth opened and closed a few times, moving to form the beginnings of words that never seemed to find their endings. It was humiliating to be so stumped.

But Mina didn't look mad. No, she looked happy. Delighted. Tickled pink. "I'm the girl of your dreams," she giggles. "You are," you finally manage to whisper. "Good. You're mine..." The way your name falls from her lips is like Heaven. How does she manage to do that? To steal your breath and replace it with library's worth of words that you couldn't even begin to hope to express.

You hated her for it. No, you didn't. You loved her more than anything for it. For that little quirk and everything else she did. "So... you'd want to... come back with me then?" "When?" She murmurs, her already dark eyes becoming just a little darker.

Was this flirting? Were those bedroom eyes? What is going on?

"When the vase is dried out... so we can glaze it?" She pretends to think about it. Her playful smile was worth every star in the sky. "Yeah, I think I do." "You think you do?" "I think I do. I wanna come back with you. To glaze our vase." "Sounds good then," you breathe. "Yeah, I agree... Sounds really good."

Is she getting closer? Oh...

.

..

...

Yeah, she was.

somehow, over the years, a tradition had begun. every job well done deserved a reward. and the degree of that reward varied on speed of the job, cleanliness, the week out of the month and your own personal libido.

after especially good jobs, they'd return to the hotel, lemon would get a kiss and a praise before retiring to watch the game on the TV while tangerine buried his face between your thighs and ate your pussy until he had his fill.

after the bullet train incident, you thought they'd be too exhausted to even think about anything other than sleeping. you'd managed to keep in contact with them for most of the night, but once they both stopped responding, you raced to Kyoto to go get them.

the carnage was immeasurable and heartbreaking. you screamed for them until your throat was raw, digging through the rubble with Jo-burg and his Handler. finally, you found them both- bloodied and bruised, dazed from the crash and cursing like usual.

"oh my god, Lord above," you breathe, wrapping your arms around them tightly. "don't you ever fucking scare me like that again, you fucking dickheads! do you hear me!?" "we hear you peach," lemon murmurs, his large palm resting atop your head. "yeah, we'll be more careful next time," tangerine agrees. "I swear to God, we are investing in some earpieces for the next job. I'm tired of your phones breaking and losing contact." "agreed," they both sigh.

the hotel isn't far, especially not with the Dodge Charger you rented. it takes everything in you not to fuss over them. you know they don't like it when you worry, but you were truly worried about all of their injuries. you order room service, but once they're done cleaning up, the dinner is completely ignored.

seconds after tangerine left the bathroom- before you could even get a word out to ask how he was feeling- he stormed over to the bed, pushing you back against the mattress. his hair was still dripping from his shower, his bare chest shining in the low light. the sight made you embarrassingly wet.

"oi, let me at least leave the room first!" lemon yells, gathering his duffel for a shower. you weren't sure how tangerine managed to find any restraint, but he was able to hold out until the bathroom door closed. all bets were off then.

your pants were discarded, your panties hastily tugged aside and his tongue met your core with a warm eagerness. it felt right for him to be there, like coming home. his fingers dig into the plush of your hips, his rings cool against your skin. a gasp leaves your lips and he shushes you gently, whispering a hasty "itadakimasu" into your folds. 'when in Rome' they say. and you were still in Kyoto. guess he was really leaning into the culture of the country.

your giggle dies in your throat as he worms his tongue into your entrance, digging deep in search of your sweet taste he had become addicted to. "fuck- tangerine-" you gasp. one hand tangles loosely in his hair. the other digs into the sheets. he whispers soft praises and words of delight straight into you, melting into the embrace of your pussy.

"always so ready for me. so happy to see me, aren't you?" he whispers, his teeth catching your clit just long enough to make you arch, but not long enough to make you tremble.

he'd learned your body, your reactions, what pleased you, what you hated, how to get you to the point of screaming without tipping you over the edge. no one knew you as well as tangerine. and that fact terrified you.

his mustache nuzzled at your sensitive skin, making everything feel alight and more intense. "lord- tangerine-" you murmur. "youre so-" "I know I am, love," he whispers. "let me compliment you!" "hell no, it'll all go to my head and it'll get huge and how will I fit between these beautiful thighs then?"

he pulls away only enough to meet your eyes. his lips still press to your mound, not letting himself pull too far away. "and you're the only one who needs complimenting here. you and this beautiful cunt."

two orgasms in, the bathroom door swings open again. lemon emerges, dressed in comfortable pajamas with a towel around his neck. "ohhh, look at you, peach," he murmurs upon seeing you. "so beautiful. how many did he pull from you while I was bathing?" "two," you pant, incredibly flushed and breathless.

"beautiful thing," he mumbles. he bends, greedily taking his kiss reward while you could barely catch your breath. sweetly, he rubs your cheek. possessiveness is a given for men who grew up with very little. "positively stunning. i think I'll watch you both tonight instead of the game."

true to his word, lemon sits himself in the hotel lounge chair with a glass of ice cold water in his hand and a bottle of liquor on the end table beside him. his gaze is low and intent, swelteringly warm. it holds a promise, or maybe its just a deep interest.

all analytical thought left your mind as tangerine finally gave your clit some attention. he kissed it sweetly, as one would a lover. one could say that your pussy was in fact his lover. he's sweeter to her than he is to you. he says nicer things to her. he treats her like she's her own being.

his tongue curls around your clit, holding it like a pearl in an oyster shell. not sucking, not licking, just holding. the gentle easy pressure drove you crazy, but if you expressed this desperation, he'd only make you wait longer. he was cruel like that. loving, but cruel.

a third orgasm, a fourth, a fifth. tangerine never leaves your sweet embrace for longer than a single breath. lemon's eyes never leave your trembling body.

eroticism has nothing but everything to do with you. to the untrained pervert, you sprawled on a hotel bed getting eaten out by a sexy British man was practically pornography. but lemon knew better. this was art in motion. a beautiful woman and an equally beautiful man engaging in a beautiful act together.

if lemon was any dumber, he would find a way to compare it to Thomas the Train, but he'd previously learned his lesson and the knocks on his noggin' hadn't killed off all of his common sense yet. he knew to keep his mouth shut while tangerine was getting his fill of you.

sixth, seventh, eight orgasm. he slows, but never stops. every drop of arousal that your body gives him, he gratefully and lovingly accepts. by now, you might as well have been compressed in a Jello mold with how weak your muscles and movements were. they both notice the beginnings of tears forming in your eyes at the same time. this was your breaking point.

tangerine reluctantly leaves your pussy, allowing himself only three more soft licks before he sits up. he kneels on the floor at the foot of the bed, wiping the remaining slick from his chin.

"you alright there, love?" he murmurs, caressing your calf. it's hard to come up with words, so you simply give a weak thumbs up. "god, you almost killed her with that," lemon murmurs, finally standing from the cuck chair. he comes over to the bed, cupping your face in his hand. "but what a beautiful expression it gave her, hm?"

"are you breathing, peach?" tangerine laughs, getting up from his knees to sit on the bed beside you. you manage a nod and a fucked-out grin that had them both on the verge of continuing despite your exhaustion. "I'm doin' just fine," you whisper. "good. how are those legs feeling?" it was a silly question, they could see your muscle spasms and trembles perfectly fine.

"lets get you cleaned up, then, darling. can you stand?" "of course not, you jackass!"

a/n: been over a month since I posted any type of nourishment, I apologize deeply to anyone who cares. crazy how asking for more hours means actually getting more hours. rewatched Bullet Train and remembered the loml. I didn't think of any plot past getting eaten dizzy, so forgive me.

like this one? well, I got plenty more where that came from! I even made a Masterlist

it wasn't your business at all, but it just felt wrong to leave him alone drowning in A4 printer paper. if you stayed, he'd yell again and there was a chance you might even get some sort of punishment. if you left, you'd feel guilty about it for the rest of the day and probably just end up coming back later. better to stay now and save time...

"with all due respect, sir... I can't leave you," you tell him softly. Price lifts his head, eyes narrowed slightly. "...run that by me again, soldier?" "I can't leave you, sir. it wouldn't be right. you're clearly stressed and letting you take care of this all on your own would..." "would what?" he snaps. "would make me feel guilty, sir."

"oh? it would make you feel guilty?" he echoes, mockingly. "that empathy is dangerous in a field like this." "I can deal with some danger, sir. I wouldn't feel right leaving you alone with all of this... what can I help with?"

Price groans, rubbing his eyes at your insistence. "not much, kiddo, a lot of it is only for people with higher clearance, like myself." "I won't look at those ones then," you say with a smile. he rolls his eyes, stifling his own smile as he slides you a stack of papers. "organize those by the person who sent or filled them out, then by date." "yes, sir," you say, quickly donning your task.

about an hour goes by of sorting and when you finally finish the stack, you lift your head, rolling your neck with a soft sigh. "all done?" Price asks, glancing at you. "yeah. you got any more for me?" "no, that's all," he murmurs, beginning to sort another stack himself.

you took a look at the nearly dozen more stacks on his desk, raising an eyebrow. "sir, respectfully, there must be something I can do. you'll be here for days." "usually am. the 141 isn't as glamorous as everyone makes it out to be, hm?" you laugh softly at his tired attempt of a joke. "Price, please, I can't leave you like this. can I at least get you some tea? a snack?" he points at a shelving unit in the corner, stocked with snacks and a kettle with a box of teas beside it.

"wow... you're very prepared." a proud smile touches his lips, but you don't catch it in time before he stifles it once more. "damn straight. I'd better be, I spend most hours of the day in here." "sir, all due respect, you're insane." "well, don't get sappy on me now, soldier," he teases, letting you see a smile for a brief moment. "just wanted to share my genuine opinion, Captain." you return his grin. "well, I appreciate the sentiment. now get on out of here and go-..." he waves his hand vaguely. "make fun of Soap or whatever it is you do in your free time."

you laugh. "actually, I mostly tease Gaz, but close enough." he smiles again, but it's a bit more forced this time instead of natural. he was slipping back into that stressed out, burned out, pissed off state.

you hated seeing him like this. he wasn't an office man. he needed a secretary or something, but there weren't many listings out there or women looking to be the secretary of a man on a relatively secret military base. and even if there were, she'd need the same level of clearance as him. it'd be a nightmare to coordinate. for the current moment; an impossible feat.

you hesitate in the doorway, taking him in. Price had rolled the long sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, the bottom of a tattoo peeking out at you, daring you to ask or have a look for yourself. defined musculature- a delicious view even for someone of his age- stood out in his traps and forearms. tension made everything bulge out slightly.

your eyes flick downwards just slightly, taking in the tension in his legs as well, the constant shuffling of his boots across the scuffed linoleum. when you were certain he wasn't going to look your way in the next five to ten seconds, you let your gaze drift slightly.

an imprint sat in his blue jeans, thick even through a probably starched material. Jesus, he must be huge, you let yourself think for a moment. the sight of him was delectable. you didn't wanna go.

the thought of leaving him here now seemed just as impossible as staying.

you come back over to him, not even fully aware of your own steps. Price lifts his head, confused. "soldier, are you disobeying an order from your Captain?" he murmurs.

you swallow your nerves, lowering to your knees beside his desk chair. Price goes still, eyes momentarily widening before narrowing once more. "what are you doing?" you can't find the words to answer him, so you just look up at him.

his heart hammers in his chest. your hand outstretches and it seems to take years. "I don't mean to be so forward, Captain," you whisper, your fingertips inching into the waistband of his pants. you give a gentle tug, but his belt hinders much from happening. "but I just hate seeing you so tense."

your breaths flirt with his already noticeable bulge, sending a zip up his spine that activates a neuron he forgot he had. "will you let me help you? just this once?" you whisper, leaning in just a little bit closer to his growing erection.

"that is... highly inappropriate, soldier. stand down," he demands, his voice weaker than he planned. you hear the waver in his tone and decide to stand your ground, leaning closer, your chin resting on his thigh right beside the tent in his pants. "Captain," you murmur, pressing your lips to his belt. "please?"

he shouldn't. he knew he shouldn't. you were like a Jezebel, a harlot, a minx, his own personal temptation sent from the Devil himself to make him stumble.

Price wasn't usually so religious, but seeing you kneeling there, heaven and sin swirling in your heavy gaze, he felt the need to pray. for guidance, for strength, for anything, to anyone, to tell him what to do here. unfortunately, no one responded in time because your lips pressed to his clothed erection and all thought of 'right' and 'wrong' left his mind.

"oh, God, darlin'-," he gasps, his muscles going tense. "relax, Cap, I got you," you whisper, sensing his yield to you.

it takes mere seconds for his belt to be discarded, his buttons popped open, his pants unzipped by your teeth and shoved down just enough. you carefully tug at his boxers, watching his expression to make sure he wasn't going to change his mind. Price doesn't deny you, so you continue.

the second your lips wrap around him every ounce of stress seems to drain from his muscles. Price goes nearly limp in his chair, his head tipping back. you hadn't even taken half of him, you hadn't even sucked yet, just the simple wet warmth had him already dizzy and ready to risk it all. he couldn't even remember the last time he got blown. did it always feel this good or were you just a goddess with your mouth?

you press your tongue to his tip and he groans deeply, his face scrunching up. "Jesus, darlin', you're killing me. don't-" a gentle hum reverbs from your throat up his length and his complaint dies in his throat.

luckily for you, your inexperience and hesitancy appears to John as overcompensating gentleness.

in his eyes, you somehow knew he hadn't been sucked off in years and were being careful with him so he wouldn't freak out and dart off like a scared prey animal.

the sight was obscene despite your slowness. you kept pulling off for a deep breath, strings of your saliva mixed with his pre stretching between your pretty lips and his flushed tip. and every time that happened, Price grew exponentially closer to finishing on your pretty face in a very un-gentlemanly manner. not a good look for his reputation of being well in control.

of course, none of this was good for his reputation. but premature ejaculation would positively destroy his ego.

your lips wrap around him again, but this time you were pressing deeper, further, choking down his cock like pills too big for your gag reflex.

"Jesus- fuck-! gentle- easy, lass you're gonna-" he stammers breathlessly.

your nose was pressed to his happy trail, tears beading at your waterline while you stared up at him with a pleading look. his tip was curved slightly down your throat, deep enough to hinder your breathing and feel your esophagus begin contracting around his tip. Price moaned louder than he meant to, a desperate sound. "fuck- darlin', you're-! I'm gonna-!"

he knots his fingers in your hair, pulling you off of his length. the separation is punctuated with a disgustingly loud and wet pop! and a whine from you. "Cap-," you protest petulantly. "no. I mean it. you need to stop. I'm gonna-" "but, I wanted you to!" you insist, gripping his pants in both fists. "please, I wanna feel you finish down my throat."

"fuck, you're filthy, darlin'," he murmurs, your words making his cock twitch right in front of your face. "please, Captain, can i?" you beg him, trying to take him in your mouth again. he hesitates a moment too long and youre taking him in your mouth again.

it feels filthy letting you deepthroat him like this, but fuck if it wasn't a sight he could get used to. you try to take him as deep as you had before, but he keeps a hand firm in your hair to prevent you from choking too much. "easy, darling... I'm not letting you damage that pretty voice because you're too eager to suck me dry," John chuckles.

a relaxation begins to warm his voice. he was coming around to you and your unorthodox ways of unwinding. you try to smile around him. "you're so beautiful," he mumbles, finally saying your name instead of just calling you 'soldier'.

a small, coaxing moan reverbs from your throat up his length. barely a second later, he finishes with a shaky groan, clutching your hair like a lifeline as streams of thick spend spit down your throat. a whimper chokes out around his cock, tears brimming at your waterline. "oh Lord- heaven above, dollface, that was-... fuck, darlin' are you alright?" he pants, carefully pulling his now limp cock from your throat.

you manage a nod as you work to swallow every drop, proudly showing your tongue as all those beautiful women did in the videos you hid from your parents way back in high school. fuck. a natural. "absolutely perfect," Price whispers.

before he can stop himself or think this through any further his lips are on yours and he's licking his spend from behind your teeth.

"Captain," you whisper. "not anymore... usually I would get off on the power difference of being your superior, but I would prefer it if you called me by my name," he tells you, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs. "just call me John..."