in the way that made your breath catch when he got too quiet, too heavy, too warm at your back.
he was always like this when he was tired.
when work had drained him down to the bone and left him moving like sleep itself had gotten caught on his shoulders.
all slow blinks because the world had finally worn him down enough to make him greedy for something soft.
and you were soft.
too soft for a man like him to keep his hands off for long.
Tonight, you were propped up against your pillow, the blue light of your phone illuminating the dark room as you scrolled aimlessly through TikTok.
Megumi was a heavy, radiating weight behind you, his large frame curled around your side. His hands, calloused and scarred from years of combat, were wandering, sliding possessively over the curve of your waist and the soft pudge of your stomach, his fingers digging in just enough to let you know he was there.
He was breathing heavily, a ragged, rhythmic sound that puffed hot against the crook of your neck. It sounded almost like he was in heat, his face buried deep in your hair, inhaling your scent as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded.
You felt the friction of his joggers against your thigh as he began to dry hump you, a slow, desperate grind that spoke of a bone deep hunger he was too exhausted to fully act on.
He leaned in, pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to the back of your shoulder, his stubble grazing your skin.
Then, without a word, you felt him shift. The sound of his boxers being tugged down was followed by the sharp snap of your panties being hooked by his thumb and dragged ruthlessly to the side.
You gasped, your thumb hovering over the screen as he guided himself to your entrance.
He didn’t wait; he just pushed, a slow, heavy invasion that filled and stretched you to the absolute hilt. A deep, guttural sigh of pure relief escaped him…a sound that vibrated through your entire body as he finally planted himself fully inside your pussy.
To open you up further, he hooked a large hand under your knee, dragging your leg over his thick thigh. You waited for the first thrust, your body tensing in anticipation of the feeling of him fucking you, but it never came.
Megumi just went still.
He stayed buried deep, his cock pulsing and twitching inside your tight, soaking walls as his breathing began to even out. He wasn’t looking for a climax; he just wanted to be inside you, anchored by your softness.
You let out a soft breath, realizing he was already drifting off. Shifting slightly to get comfortable, you went back to your phone, the quiet sounds of TikTok videos filling the room while Megumi remained rooted inside you, his heavy weight pinning you to the mattress.
I mean .. he pays the bills ( and ofccc u lauveee himm ) so if letting his cock sit inside of you eases his stress, you couldn’t be more glad.
It became a habit after that.
Every time he came home drained, his shadows heavy and his eyes dark with fatigue, he would seek you out. It didn’t matter if you were reading, scrolling, or trying to sleep; he would find his way into you, sliding his thick length into your pussy just to feel the soft throb of your pulse against his own.
Sometimes he’d wake up in the middle of the night, his cock having softened inside you, only to grow hard again the moment he felt you move. He’d grunt, a low, possessive sound, and shift his weight to bury himself even deeper, his hands never leaving the soft flesh of your stomach.
It reached a point where you didn’t even have to look up from your screen anymore.
You’d be halfway through a video, the tinny sound of a trending song filling the quiet bedroom, when the mattress would dip with a familiar, heavy gravity. Megumi didn’t announce himself; he just arrived, a silent shadow that smelled of rain and the faint, metallic tang of blood.
His hands were always the first thing you felt—large, blunt fingered, and possessive. They’d slide under the hem of your oversized shirt, seeking out the soft, vulnerable skin of your stomach. He’d knead the pudge there, his thumbs digging in with a grounding pressure that made your breath hitch.
He was greedy for your softness, his face already buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling you like you were the only clean air left in the world.
“Megumi,” you’d murmur, your thumb pausing over the scroll.
He wouldn’t answer with words. Just a low, vibrating grunt against your skin, his breathing turning ragged and hot. You could feel the rigid, pulsing length of him through his joggers, a hard line of heat pressing into the back of your thigh as he began that slow, desperate grind.
He was like a man in a fever, his hips stuttering against yours in a dry hump that was more about friction and proximity than actual sex.
Then came the shift you’d grown to expect.
The rustle of fabric as he shoved his joggers down, the cool air hitting your skin for a split second before his hand hooked into the side of your panties. He didn’t pull them off; he just dragged the lace to the side, exposing your clit to the night air and his own searing heat.
He’d guide himself to your entrance, the broad, blunt head of his cock already weeping with precum, and then he’d just… sink.
It was a slow, agonizingly deep invasion. He didn’t thrust; he just leaned his entire body weight into the movement, burying himself until he bottomed out against your cervix. A long, shuddering sigh of pure, unadulterated relief would leave his lungs, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder blade.
“Babe…,” he’d rasp, his voice so thin and exhausted it barely sounded like him. “Don’t move.”
He’d reach down, hooking his arm under your knee to hike your leg over his thick, corded thigh, opening you up so he could settle even deeper. And then, he’d just stop.
You’d go back to your phone, the blue light reflecting in your eyes as you scrolled past memes and dance trends, while Megumi remained rooted inside you. You could feel every throb of his pulse against your internal walls, his cock twitching and expanding as it soaked up your juices.
Sometimes, you’d lose track of time. You’d be twenty minutes deep into a thread when you’d realize his breathing had changed—turning deep, slow, and sleepy. He was out cold, his heavy weight pinning you to the bed, his cock still thick and buried deep inside your soaking heat.
It was a strange, silent intimacy. To anyone else, Megumi Fushiguro was the stoic, formidable head of the Zenin clan, a man of shadows and sharp edges. But here, in the dark, he was just a man who was so hollowed out by his duties that he needed to be physically anchored inside you just to feel whole enough to sleep.
He’d wake up hours later, the room pitch black, and the first thing he’d do wasn’t pull away. He’d feel you shift, feel the way your pussy clenched around him in your sleep, and he’d just groan—a sweet, possessive sound—and bury himself even deeper, his hands tightening on your stomach as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go for even a second.
You were his sanctuary, and as long as he was inside you, the rest of the world couldn’t touch him.
Bro yall im actually so hungry rn and im craving a seafood boil
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Warnings: language, public embarrassment, lando norris being a dramatic idiot
Pairing: lando norris x fem!reader
Summary: In 2021, Lando exposed Max’s secret girlfriend on stream. Years later, Max gets the ultimate revenge when Lando accidentally lets his secret slip. Chaos, payback, and a very unimpressed girlfriend ensue.
Words: 3K
The 2021 stream is infamous.
Lando, barely legal and full of chaos, spills Max Fewtrell's biggest secret like it's nothing. "Max have a girlfriend." Just drops it. Live. To thousands of people.
Max's relationship was three months old. Private. Fragile. Something he actually cared about.
And Lando just told everyone.
Max didn't speak to him for a week. When he finally did, his voice was calm. Too calm.
"I'm not going to get mad," Max said.
"Good," Lando replied, already relaxing.
"I'm going to wait."
"...Wait for what?"
Max smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "For you to fall in love. And then I'm going to do exactly what you did to me."
Lando laughed. "Never happening. I don't do relationships."
Max just nodded. "We'll see."
Four years pass.
Lando does what Lando does: races cars, streams games, dodges commitment like it's a torpedo. He's convinced he's untouchable. Too smart for love. Too busy for feelings.
Then he meets you.
It's at a mutual friend's party. You're not famous. You don't care about his job beyond being happy for him. You make fun of his haircut within the first thirty seconds.
He's hooked immediately.
"You're different," he tells you on the second date.
"That's what they all say," you reply, stealing a fry off his plate.
"No, I mean it. I don't—I don't usually do this."
"Do what? Eat fries?"
"Feel things," he admits, then looks horrified at his own honesty.
You laugh. It's not mean. It's warm. Real. "That's terrifying for you, isn't it?"
"Yes," he says. "Absolutely terrifying."
You're together by the end of the month.
Lando had never been so happy and nervous at the same time. It had been so long since Lando had been so excited about a relationship.
The apartment is dark except for the glow of two monitors. It’s late—or early, depending on your relationship with sleep—and Lando is streaming. Just a chill one. No agenda. Definitely not because you’re in the next room, wrapped in his hoodie, reading a book on his bed.
He told you to stay quiet. “Just for a bit, baby. I’ll be done in an hour.”
You rolled your eyes but kissed his cheek anyway. You’ve been together for eight months. Private by necessity, but soft in ways that make his chest ache. No one knows. Not the fans. Not the press. Not even most of his friends.
Max Fewtrell knows.
Max has known since week two, when Lando showed up at his flat at midnight, drunk on something stronger than confidence, rambling about "this girl, Max, she’s different, I swear to god.”
Max listened. Max nodded. And then Max smiled—slow, terrible, beautiful—and said, “So. A girlfriend, then?”
Lando had gone pale. “You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
But Max kept the secret. For months. Lando almost started to trust him again.
Foolish, really.
Until Friday arrived and with it a streaming of Lando.
The stream is going fine. Lando is racing, cracking jokes, dodging questions about his love life with the practiced ease of a man who has lied to the entire internet for fun and profit.
But then he hears it.
A soft thud from the bedroom. Then your voice, sleepy and sweet: “Lan? Where’d you put my phone charger?”
Lando’s soul leaves his body.
His hands hover over his keyboard. His eyes go wide. The chat, sensing blood, accelerates into chaos.
WHO WAS THAT
LANDO???
GIRL?? IN THE BACKGROUND???
HELLO???
“No one,” Lando says, too fast. “That was—that was my—my Alexa. My Alexa sounds weird. British update.”
The chat is not buying it.
ALEXA SAID ‘LAN’
ALEXA DOES NOT HAVE A BEDROOM
LANDO NORRIS YOU ARE LYING
He’s about to fumble his way through another terrible excuse when his phone buzzes.
Max Fewtrell: is that her?
Max Fewtrell: is that the girlfriend?
Max Fewtrell: lando i swear to god if you don’t invite me to this stream right now.
Lando types back frantically: max don’t you dare
A second later, a notification pops up.
maxfewtrell has joined the stream.
“No,” Lando whispers. “No, no, no.”
Max’s face appears on screen. He looks like Christmas came early. His grin is so wide it’s almost obscene.
“Evening, chat,” Max says smoothly. “Lando. Mate. Sounded like you had a visitor.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? Because chat says they heard a girl call you ‘Lan.’” Max leans back, arms crossed, the picture of smug patience. “Want to explain that?”
Lando is sweating. Actually sweating. “It was—my sister.”
“Your sister calls you ‘Lan’?”
“Sometimes.”
“At 1 AM?”
“She’s… an insomniac.”
Max hums. He pulls out his phone, scrolls for a second, then looks directly into the camera with the energy of a man about to commit a felony.
“You know,” Max says, loud and clear, “it’s funny. Because I could have sworn—and correct me if I’m wrong, chat—that Lando told me, in confidence, about eight months ago, that he’d met someone. That she was ‘really special.’ That he wanted to ‘keep her a secret because he didn’t want to mess it up.’”
Lando makes a sound like a dying animal. “Max.”
“And I remember thinking,” Max continues, unstoppable now, “how familiar that sounded. How much that reminded me of someone else I knew. Someone who had a secret girlfriend. Someone who got exposed on a live stream by a certain—what was his name again?—oh, right. Lando Norris.”
The chat has achieved light speed.
MAX IS SAVAGE
HE REMEMBERED
THE LORE
LANDO HAVE A GF?????
KARMA IS REAL
Lando drops his head into his hands. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” Max grins. “You love me. Just like you love your secret girlfriend who is definitely in your bedroom right now. Hi, by the way! You deserve better than this idiot.”
From the other room, barely audible, you laugh.
And Lando—despite the disaster, despite the betrayal, despite the fact that his phone is now exploding with notifications from every driver, every journalist, and his own mother—smiles.
Just a little.
Worth it.
"Say it," Lando grumbles, crossing his arms even with a smoldering smile on his face. "Say the phrase you want to say"
Max leans into his microphone. He's enjoying this. Really, truly enjoying this.
"Lando have a girlfriend," Max announces, perfectly enunciated. "And he is whipped. And I have screenshots. And voice memos. And approximately fourteen hours of him talking about how pretty her laugh is."
"You're a monster," Lando whispers.
"I learned from the best."
You kept laughing while you were watching everything from your laptop
Later. After the stream ends. After Max logs off cackling. After the internet has fully lost its mind.
You walk into the living room, still in his hoodie, hair messy, holding your phone charger like a trophy. You look at Lando—slumped in his gaming chair, face buried in his hands, ears bright red—and raise an eyebrow.
“So,” you say. “Karma’s a bitch, huh?”
Lando looks up at you, utterly defeated. “He’s never going to let me live this down.”
“Nope.”
“The entire world knows now.”
“Yep.”
“My DMs are going to be hell.”
“Probably.”
He sighs. Then holds out his arms. “Worth it, though.”
You roll your eyes but walk over anyway, letting him pull you into his lap. He tucks his face into your neck, breathing you in, and you can feel him smile against your skin.
“I love you,” he mumbles. “Even if Max Fewtrell is the actual devil.”
“I love you too,” you say. “Even if you did kind of deserve that.”
From somewhere across the city, Max Fewtrell opens a bottle of champagne and tweets a single word:
@maxfewtrell: karma.
The internet explodes again.
Because Max isn't cruel. He's just patient.
And revenge, served cold, tastes best with a side of love.
When youre reading a fic and y/n’s lowk just a pussy who’s letting themself get walked all over on instead of standing up for themselves and clapping back
cw: sorry… angst angst angst, character death, hurt no comfort, longing, dealing with loss, pre-established relationship, post-awow, all characters are 18+, proofread, I miss neteyam with my bleeding heart
animated divider by @/anitalenia, blue star divider by @/cursed-carmine, art by @/Lil_flower_x1 on twt
“Neteyam.”
Eywa’s wind carries your voice into the empty night as you lie restlessly in his hammock, alone in a home you once shared with your lover.
Each breath you take feels strangled, lips quivering while the cold nips away at your wet, tear-streaked face.
You miss him.
You miss his warmth, his reassuring voice, the way his arms wrapped around you during long, quiet nights.
Resentment digs its claws into you—toward yourself, toward Eywa for taking your love, and toward him, for his selflessness and his big heart.
As time passes by, the silence inside consumes your thoughts, piercing your already bleeding heart.
You bury yourself a little deeper in his hammock, wanting to remember the fading traces of his smell.
Exhaustion from grief slowly takes over you. Your eyes grow heavy, and your mind drifts, taking you to places darker than the deepest ocean of Pandora—places forbidden, places that can drive one to insanity.
You can’t help but dream of him. Of a time once spent with him.
A time when Neteyam had you in his arms, sharing warmth between you two. When you could rest your head against his beating chest, listening to the rhythms of his heart.
A time when his fingers traced the curves and dips of your spine, sending shivers down your body before gently lulling you to sleep.
But now, in the cold silence of lonely nights, his absence weighs heavier than ever.
And your mind torments you with a realization you were too afraid to even whisper.
You will never see him again.
You will never get to feel him again.
You will never hear his voice, saying “I love you”, while his lips brush against your ears.
He is out of reach now. Gone. Leaving behind only memories of him.
His body long gone cold, and his life touched by the unforgiving hands of death.
a/n: been on a neteyam grind, and I have an upcoming series for him which I already started writing! My final midterm is this week, so BEST BELIEVE that THE gojosoups is BACKKKKK
👽: (Taking place both before Kuai Liang’s relationship with Harumi and Bi-Hans betrayal.)//Full Kinktober list here ➜ 💌
🖇️: Kuai Liang x gn!Reader x Bi-Han
✅: Proof Read
⚠️:NSFW/SMUT/afab reader/Manhandling/They take turns/good ninja bad ninja kinda vibe/quite dubious with consent in this one/slight temperature play/a little bit of riding, a little bit face fucking/Have fun getting fucked :3
★ The snow tastes like iron and failure. You realize this approximately two seconds after Bi-Han slams you into the drift, your body folding against white that swallows sound, swallows screams, swallows everything except the crushing weight of him. His fingers—cold, so cold—find your wrists and pin them down like he’s done this before. Like you’re not the first spy he’s ever buried.
★ The mission was supposed to be clean. Surgical. You were supposed to be invisible. Instead, you were very, very seen.
★ “Stop struggling,” he growls into the nape of your neck, breath misting against skin. There’s no heat in his voice. That’s what terrifies you most—how methodical he is, how patient. Like you’re a problem being solved—not a person being destroyed. His knee presses between your legs and—
★ Yoink. Your arm twists—a flexibility trick, desperate and stupid—and you manage to wrench free just enough to throw an elbow, connecting hard with his jaw. There’s a moment, one moment, where you feel the satisfaction of bone against bone, where you think maybe, maybe—
★ Then he’s everywhere.
★ Flipping you like you weigh nothing, pressing your face down into the snow until your vision whites out, until you can’t breathe without tasting crystals and your own panic. His forearm is a bar across your back. Immovable. Final.
★ This is how it ends. In a snowbank, with a man who wears cold like armor and probably collects teeth as souvenirs after victory...
★ “Bi-Han.”
★ The voice cuts through the moment like a blade—warm where Bi-Han’s is frozen, uncertain where his is stone. Kuai Liang. You’ve never been so relieved to hear disapproval in two syllables.
★ The pressure on your back doesn’t ease, but Bi-Han’s hand shifts. That’s something.
★ “What exactly are you doing?” Kuai Liang’s footsteps crunch toward you both. You can feel him before you see him—heat, worry, the particular flavor of a man about to start a conversation he’d rather avoid.
★ Bi-Han scoffs, not answering immediately. Instead, his grip shifts to your hair—fists a handful of it—and wrenches you upright onto your knees. Rough. Brutal. Exposing you like contraband, like something that needs naming and shaming.
★ Your scalp screams, your body still half buried in white, exposed and trembling. You can feel the sweat cooling on your skin, mixing with the snow melting against your face.
★ “They’re a spy,” Bi-Han says it like it’s obvious. Like it answers everything. His fingers stay tangled in your hair, a leash, a threat. “Lin Kuei traitor.”
★ Kuai Liang’s eyes—gods, his eyes are so worried—search your face like he’s looking for a reason not to believe his brother. You’re giving him nothing. You’re giving him everything. Your whole body is screaming.
★ “Is it truly necessary?” Kuai Liang asks quietly. There’s something underneath the words. Something that sounds like please.
★ Bi-Han doesn’t respond with words. He moves instead—hand releasing your hair to trace the curve of your jaw with fingers that have gone impossibly colder. Ice spreads beneath his touch, crystallizing, forming. An ice blade takes shape like he’s singing it into existence. He presses it against your throat with the kind of tenderness that makes your heart stutter, stop, restart all wrong.
★ The blade is sharp enough that you feel blood bead, just one dark line of red against your skin, dripping into the white. Your eyes squeeze shut, accepting fate. The world narrowing to Bi-Han’s face close enough to kiss, expressionless—Kuai Liang’s hands clenching at his sides—the weight of the Lin Kuei’s judgment against your skin.
★ “Wait—“ Kuai’s voice wavers, stepping forward. His hand is raised, placating. “Brother. Reason, please. Perhaps interrogation. They could have information. We could—“
★ Your throat moves against the ice blade. A dangerous gesture. Bi-Han’s head tilts. Considering. And in that pause, the whole world holds its breath.
★ “Very well,”he says finally, and each syllable falls like a block of ice into still water. “Bring them.”
★ Kuai opens his mouth. Closes it. There’s a war happening on his face—duty versus doubt, order versus instinct. You see him lose the battle before he speaks.
★ “Brother, I meant—
★ “As your Grand Master,” Bi-Han cuts him off, cold and final, “I’m ordering you to secure the prisoner.” The word prisoner settles over you like a shroud.
•••
★ The Lin Kuei outpost is carved into a mountain like a scar—all shadows and concrete and the kind of silence that makes you hyperaware of your own breathing. You were difficult. Purposefully so. And so Bi-Han froze cuffs on you—and decided it was best that both him and his brother dragged you through corridors. And gods—they smelt of metal and something older—something that’s been frozen so long it was forgotten. Faded.
★ Your body aches in colors you didn’t know existed. Seriously. Bruises bloom across your ribs like flowers. Your head pounds—probably where Bi-Han’s fist caught you. You’re alive, though. That’s the thing that keeps circling your thoughts like a vulture. You’re alive. And that within itself was a small victory in this huge hole you’ve dug yourself. Right?
★ Youre thrown into a cell like room. Not gently. The door slides shut with a creak of cold that makes your teeth chatter. “Get comfortable,” he says. His hand lingering on the door. “We have all night.” And then he’s gone, leaving only the hum of quiet behind. There was a seat, a table, or a large rock that served as one anyways, and a small inescapable window with bars over it, up too high for you to even consider trying anyways. You shattered the ice cuffs on the stone table.
•••
★ Hour one was mid. Kuai Liang enters first. He brings water. A cloth for the blood. His eyes are soft in a way that feels calculated—which might be worse than if it felt honest. “Your name,” he says gently, stayinf at a careful distance. Not close enough to threaten. “Start there.”
★ You look at the water. Look at him. Then you smile. “It’s a very nice interrogation room. Really brings out the warmth in your eyes….”
★ His mouth tightens. Not angry. Disappointed, maybe. He tries again. “Who sent you?”
★ “Your mother, probably. She seemed really invested in my career trajectory.” Kuai sighs. He’s patient, though. So patient. He asks about the organization, the mission parameters, the safe houses. He asks like you’re a person. Like you might actually want to tell him.
★ You tell him absolutely nothing of value. At one point, he brings a chair of his own and sits across from you. There’s something almost friendly about it. Almost conversational. He talks about the Lin Kuei like he’s trying to convince you of something. Like if he just explains it right, you’ll understand and agree.
★ “They trained you well,” he says, and there’s genuine respect in it. “But you’re caught. You’re here. There’s no shame in—“
★ “Oh! absolutely there is,” you interrup. “Shame is like ninety percent of my brand.” He leaves. Returns with tea. Sets it between you like a peace offering. You kick it over gracefully, watching the cup fall from the table.
★ The liquid spreads across the floor in a dark stain. Kuai watches it for a long moment, then nods—like he expected that, like he respects the choice somehow—and stands to leave.
•••
★ Hour four was less mid, to say the least. A shift change—of course. Bi-Han doesn’t enter so much as arrive. The temperature in the room drops fifteen degrees just from his presence, and you watch Kuai’s shoulders tense at the doorway behind him. No pleasantries. No tea. “Oh good,” you say brightly. “The angry one.”
★ His jaw works. “Who. Sent. You.” You consider this. “Define ‘sent.’ Like, existentially? Because my parents sent me out into the world, and look how that turned out, amirite?” He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t laugh. He moves closer, and the cold intensifies until your breath comes out in visible clouds.
★ “Answer.”
★ “Sorry—I’m having trouble hearing you over the sound of your own desperation….” Kuai shifts in the doorway. A warning, maybe. To both of you. Bi-Han pulls a chair around—drags it, metal scraping against stone—and sits backward on it, arms folded across the back. He’s close now. Close enough that you can feel the cold radiating off him like a physical thing.
★ “Name,” he demands.
★ “Boingaloing”
★ “Organization.”
★ “The Sparkly Sunshine and Glittery Rainbows Coalition..”
★ “Location of your handlers.”
★ “Atlantis. Second star to the right—no—to the left.”
★ His hand shoots out—grabs your chin, forces your eyes to meet his. The cold of his skin burns. “Are you trying to make this worse?”
★ “I mean, you guys are the ones making it worse.” you say, and you’re proud that your voice doesn’t shake. “I’m just here for the ambiance.”
★ He releases you. Steps back. Runs a hand through his hair in what might be frustration or might be the prelude to something worse. Messing it’s perfect look. Kuai watches from the doorway, his expression unreadable but concerned.
★ “Leave us,” Bi-Han says without looking at his brother.
★ “Bi-Han—“
★ “Leave.”
★ Kuai leaves. The door clicks behind him.
•••
★ Now it’s just you and him. “You think this is a game,” he says. It’s not a question. He’s pacing now, restless energy barely contained. “You think you’re clever.”
★ “I don’t think it,” you say. “I know it.”
★ He stops. Turns. And the look in his eyes is something sharp and dangerous and so far past patient it’s almost beautiful.
★ He flicks his wrist, and ice spirals across the floor in a pattern that cages your feet. You can move, technically, but there’s a threat in it. A promise of what could happen if you push further. “Your team,” he tries again, voice dropping to something that feels like winter itself. “Who are they?”
★ “No idea. We never met. Very professional that way…” He moves fast. Grabs your wrist—the one that punched him, because of course he remembers—and twists it just enough to hurt. Not to break. Not yet. A warning written in pain.
★ “Try again.”
★ “I already told you, I don’t—“
★ The ice around your feet creeps higher. Climbs your legs. It doesn’t cut, but the threat is certain, suspended in the air between you like something alive. “Your handler’s name.”
★ “Not telling you.”
★ “Your mission objective.”
★ “Absolutely not.”
★ He releases your wrist, steps back. The ice retreats. For a moment, you think maybe he’s calming down, and relief starts to bloom in your chest—
★ Then he slams his hand against the stone table, ice crackling from under his fist. Controlled, though. Precise. It doesn’t touch you, but it rains ice shards so close you feel the wind of them. “Talk.”
★ You’re breathing hard now. Adrenaline singing. But you look him dead in the eye. “Make me.”
★ The silence that follows is deafening. He grabs your collar—not gentle, never gentle—and hauls you up from the chair and against the wall. His forearm presses against your throat, not cutting off air exactly—but suggesting that he could. That he will, if this continued. “Who are you working for?” His voice is a growl, his questions relentless—very one the same just worded differently—all barely contained rage. “What is your mission?”
★ Your heart is pounding. Your pulse is hammering against his arm. And you—despite all your training, despite everything you know about interrogation and leverage and survival—you laugh. It’s a small, breathy sound against the pressure of his arm, but it’s there. His eyes narrow. “You think this is jest worthy?”
★ “I think,” you gasp, “you’re trying really hard.”
★ He leans back just slightly—not enough to give you real air, just enough to process what he’s about to do—and then the door opens. Kuai stands in the doorway, his expression carefully blank. “Enter—and lock.” He doesn’t elaborate.
•••
★ Your laughter dies in your throat as the door slams shut behind Kuai Liang, the sound echoing like a final seal on your fate. A quick motion from Kuai’s hand and the three of you seemed locked together. The room feels smaller now, the air thicker with unspoken threats. Bi-Han’s grip on your throat loosens just enough for you to breathe—but his eyes—those cold orbs—pin you in place. You’re the enemy, captured after a brutal skirmish, and laughter was your last defense. Now, it’s crumbling.
★ Bi-Han doesn’t waste time. His hands tear at your clothes with savage efficiency, fabric ripping under his fingers as he exposes your skin to the chill of the room.
★ Bruises from your battle earlier, the ones he made, he pressed, the purple marks throbbing under his rough palms as he shoves your shirt up and yanks your pants down. You twist against him, but it’s futile—his body is a wall of muscle and intent. Naked now, vulnerable and…not completely against this tactic, if you were being honest. You feel the wall bite into your back as he forces you up more against it.
★ Kuai Liang stands frozen in the corner, his arms crossed, face a mask of conflict. His eyes flick to you, then away, the heat radiating from him like a distant fire. “What is this?” he mutters, voice low and edged with doubt. “Yeah—Grandmaster, what?” You provoke, having nothing to lose at this point.
★ Bi-Han doesn’t look at him, his words eerily calm as his hold on your tightens in warning. “Come here—touch them with me” your heart drops straight to your core—slicking your inner thighs just from Bi-Han’s words. Maybe you had a little to lose…
★ Kuai hesitates, the room hanging in tense silence, broken only by your ragged breaths. Bi-Han’s head snaps toward his brother. “I gave a direct order. Or do you need me to remind you of your place?”
★ The bark in Bi-Han’s voice cracks the air like ice. Kuai moves then, steps deliberate but reluctant, approaching you with the wariness of someone stepping into a trap.
★ His hands—warmer than the room’s stale air—hover near your hips before settling on them. He massages down to your thighs, spreading them apart slowly, fingers kneading the tense muscles with a gentleness that contrasts Bi-Han’s roughness.
★ His fingers trail upward, circling your entrance with deliberate care, teasing the slick folds before he pushes two inside you, deep and unyielding. You gasp, the intrusion sending a jolt through your core, your body betraying you with a clench around him.
★ Bi-Han claims your mouth then, crashing his lips against yours in a dominating kiss. His tongue invades, thrusting deep as his hands roam to your chest, pinching and twisting your nipples until you squirmed, arching from the wall. The dual assault builds a pressure you fight to ignore, your hips bucking involuntarily.
★ They pull away only when you’re panting, flushed and aching. Bi-Han spinning you around, slamming your front against the cold wall of the room. The stone bites into your cheek as he kicks your legs wider. His cock presses against your ass, hard and insistent, before he drives into your pussy from behind with short, brutal thrusts. Each one slamming deep, making you grunt as he stretched you around his thickness, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
★ “Pathetic,” he growls against your ear, his voice a blade. Frost creeps from his fingertips, ice forming thin trails along your skin, letting the freezing chill seep into where his cock pistons inside you.
★ The cold radiates from him, turning your inner walls numb then hypersensitive, the icy burn contrasting the friction of his relentless pounding. It feels like shards of winter embedding in your heat, making every thrust a shocking contrast—your pussy clenching tighter around the frozen length of him, the temperature drop stealing your breath. You whimper, the sensation overwhelming, secretly craving the way it sharpens every nerve.
★ Kuai watches, his hesitation fracturing as Bi-Han’s pace quickens, the wet slap of skin echoing. Bi-Han pulls out abruptly, leaving you empty and trembling, the sudden absence of his cold cock making your body ache. He shoves you toward Kuai, who catches you almost gently, guiding you to straddle him as he sinks into the nearby chair. It creaking under his weight.
★ Kuai’s hands steady your waist, and you lower onto his length, naturally straddling him. His cock is thicker, hotter, scorching as it fills you. He groans softly, the heat from his power pulsing through his skin, warming your pussy from the inside out.
★ It’s the opposite of Bi-Han’s icy assault—it felt like waves of fire licking at your walls, making you slicker, sweat beading on your forehead not even two minutes in as you ride him. His thrusts upward are measured at first, building to a steady rhythm, his palms sliding up your back, leaving trails of warmth that make your muscles melt. You were burning up.
★ Bi-Han circles like a predator, his voice dripping with utter disdain. “Look at you, enemy whore, sweating already?” His words sting, fueling the dark thrill coiling in your gut, but you glare at him, even as your hips grind down harder, chasing the blistering heat that counters the lingering chill in your veins.
★ You make a show of it—sinking down slowly onto the scolding cock beneath you, eyes half lidded in exaggerated bliss. A low, throaty moan escaped Kuai as heat enveloped you. He groans softly, and you moan again, “Yes, juust like that,” loud enough for Bi-Han to grit his teeth, your nails digging into Kuai’s shoulders as if he’s your salvation.
★ You turn your head toward Kuai, murmuring, “Don’t stop,” with a softness that borders on affection, your body arching into his touch while you pointedly avoid Bi-Han’s eyes. That irks him. Severely. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, the frost thickening on his fingers. Good. Let it fester. If he snaps at Kuai now, it just gives you an opening to slip away in the confusion.
★ Kuai’s heat intensifies with each bounce, his cock throbbing inside you, your pussy clenches around Kuai deliberately, milking him as you ride faster, sweat beading down your back.
★ Bi-Han grows more agitated, his hand twitching at his side as he fights the urge to stroke himself through his pants—or strangle you for being so audacious. (He’s uncertain which would bring more pleasure.) His breaths come sharper, ragged, the air around him dropping degrees as his control slips, chills prickling your skin even from afar.
★ “Enough,” he snarls finally, stepping closer with intent. But you meet his gaze with a smirk hidden in your moan, rolling your hips harder against Kuai to push Bi-Han further toward the edge, daring him to break, to do something like lashing out at his brother for fucking you better.
★ He broke alright. Just not how you had hoped for. In a blur of motion, Bi-Han’s hands clamp onto your shoulders, pressing you down further onto Kuai Liang’s cock with brutal force. Punishing force. The sudden depth rips a gasp from your throat as Kuai’s tip slams against your cervix, his heat surging wildly.
★ Your pussy spasms uncontrollably around him, the overwhelming pressure igniting an unexpected/forced orgasm that rips through you both. Kuai bucks up involuntarily, his groan turning into a guttural roar as he cums hard, flooding your insides with hot spurts that mix with your own release, dripping down your thighs in messy rivulets.
★ Before the aftershocks fade, Bi-Han yanks you up like a rag doll, your body limp and quivering from the climax. Kuai’s hands linger on your hips for a heartbeat, fingers trailing possessively before they drop defeated into his lap, his chest heaving.
★ Bi-Han forces you down onto your knees before him, the cold floor biting into your skin. His eyes burn with possessiveness as he frees his cock—thick, rigid, and already leaking from the tip. “I’ll make use of this defiant mouth you have,”
★ You barely have time to part your lips before he grabs a fistful of your hair, thrusting forward to fuck your face without mercy. His cock stretches your jaw wide, the salty tang of him filling your mouth as he drives deep, hitting the back of your throat with each punishing snap of his hips. Gags escape you, saliva dripping down your chin, but he doesn’t relent, using your mouth like a tight, wet hole for his pleasure.
★ The frost from his powers seeps into his skin, cooling the shaft against your tongue even as his pace turns frantic, drool coating down your chin. Bi-Han’s grip tightens, his breath hitching as he swells impossibly harder. With a final, savage thrust, he cums, the first thick ropes shooting straight down your throat, forcing you to swallow or choke.
★ He pulls back just enough to pump the rest across your face—hot, sticky strands painting your cheeks, lips, and lashes in humiliating white streaks. Your body slumps, spent and trembling, as he shoves you aside onto the floor. “We’ll continue our conversation once you’ve cleaned yourself.” Bi-Han says as if it were pity on you, before nodding toward his brother. “Kuai Liang.” The two hastily straightening their selves out before exiting. Leaving you to your own devices for fifteen minutes.
★ You panted, shakily dressing yourself and trying to ready up as best as you could. Not planning to break even the second go round. If withholding information meant getting your brains fucked out like that—then so be it. (And you would SOOOO be it.)
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✉️- hey guys!! this is just something i made a few days ago with soft cozy vibes, it’s not a lot but that’s all it really have time for atm so i hope you enjoy lmk how u find it!!
BANG! The sound of hail starts slapping against your window which almost instantly makes you jolt up. You slowly sit up in your bed, sleep-dazed and still exhausted from last night's study session to see Jungkook still fast alseep next to you. God, this man can sleep through an earthquake!
“Jungkook!” you exclaim.
Nothing.
Your eyes scan the room to find the nearest thing in sight to throw at him. The pillow. Dramatically, you lift it above your head and thump it right on his head. A low groan leaves his mouth as he rubs his eyes slowly.
“What was that for, baby?!” he complains as he sat up, desperately searching your eyes for an answer. A mischievous smile spread across your face before leaping out of bed to pull up the blackout blinds that makes his whole room turn into nothingness, except the soft blue glow coming from gaming monitor that he never turned off just in case he needed to rush on the game for ‘something important’ which he almost never did.
Jungkook instantly pulls the covers above his head before letting out what seemed to be a yell.
“Oh grow u-” BANG! A pit in your stomach starts to form before instantly glaring out the window before seeing lightning strike the sky. The smile that was just on your face instantly drops. Jungkook looks at you, puzzled.
“Baby… are you okay, are you scared of lightning?” he wraps his arms around you as you nod and brings you back to the bed. The soft glow that was coming from his gaming monitor abruptly shuts off which makes you flinch and bury your head in the crook of his neck, while smelling the aroma of Jungkook’s woody, fresh and strong perfume that lingers in the air..
Immediately taking action, his eyes soften as he starts placing soft kisses on your forehead while tracing patterns on your back while reassuring you in your ear. You lay down as he scans your face with concern and worry.
“Go back to sleep, I’m right here baby.” he whispers as he places a kiss on your lips. Nothing deep. Nothing significant. Just his way of saying ‘I’m here’. Gently, he pulls you closer towards him, tracing patterns in your scalp as you go heavy in his arms. A soft smile creeps on his face as his eyelids start to go heavy too. Hail and thunder sounds blurs in the background, because nothing really matters anymore. As long as you’re with him everything will be okay.
Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!Reader Word Count: 306
Warnings/tags: fluff, doting!clark
Summary: When you suddenly trip, your lovely boyfriend Clark Kent is there to nurse you back to health.
a/n: I’ve never written an X reader before, and this is kinda like the first fic ive ever posted, so I’m really nervous. Feedback and reblogs are appreciated!
“Shit!” you say after you take a particularly nasty tumble to the ground. You look around your apartment, trying to find something to lift you up, but the only thing in front of you was your two thousand dollar tv, which you were definitely not risking. You feel the needles of pain shoot up your leg, rendering you unable to stand up.
Suddenly, as fast as you fell, your boyfriend Clark came to your rescue. Sweet, gentle, handsome Clark, always there for you when you need him. “Are you alright, my love?” he asks, wrapping his arms under yours and swiftly lifting you up.
“Yeah, thanks for helping. I think I twisted my ankle though.” Clark’s face immediately changes from worried to panicked, kneeling on the floor and inspecting your now swollen ankle. “Come on, let me carry you to your car, I'll drive you to the hospital,” he says as your eyes widen. “Nope nope nope. No. I'm not going to the hospital babe, I just need to ice it and not put any weight on it. If we go to the hospital, I'll waste my entire day waiting in the shitty ER and have a ton of medical bills just for the doctors to tell me what I already know.” Your boyfriend is not impressed, trying to convince you the doctors know best, and that maybe ice alone won't suffice, but you shut down all of his attempts with a well timed glare.
After a couple minutes of debating back and forth between you too, Clark eventually lays you down gently on the sofa, using his superspeed to run to the freezer and grab an ice pack and crouch down next to you, placing the pack on your ankle as gently as he could. But not before softly kissing your swollen ankle, of course.
