Double post omg
First up is Iris/Adelheid. She's hard because she's still essentially souless (Hibari clone?) but hey, big titties.
Few people know just how radiant Iris' hair is in the light, when it's straightened out and left to hang like a silky raven curtain about her bony shoulders. Everyone can appreciate it, yes, it's only natural- she knows the way her pet scientists' eyes used to follow the long sweep of her hair, daring to droop downward as she swayed past, to linger tantalizingly on the rounded shape of her ass. Everyone can appreciate it, but few have ever seen it.
This girl had now. This girl here with the tightly strung back locks to rival hers, thick cascade of charcoal that glistened in the sun. Iris never knew a girl with hair like hers. And it wasn't the only thing she was sporting.
When they are pressed together, sides painfully slammed against the chilly brick of a deserted alley, spindly fingers popping open shirts and decorated lips slamming together, smearing lipgloss; Iris is surprised when the warm, pert breasts that spill of the uniform are every bit as ample and soft as hers. They even feel the same, when she takes them in her hands, massaging them harshly, rolling skin against skin and trading spit and sacrificing air and ripping nylons until they're panting and wet and wondering where a hotel might be.
They have the same cup size, she finds out later, peering at the little tag on the back of the other's lacy bra as she unclasps it. And by the way the girl smirks about her 'Liquidation Committee' and swings her hips side to side with a superiority complex, and the way Iris laughs about her researcher pets and their muscle regeneration, they both have the same pride.
Iris resolves, admist the clattering of long nails and earrings, the headboard and the harsh yelps of swollen lips pressing into the sweat dampened mess of sheets, to find out how far the similarities reach.
And now for some female Yamamoto, with a male Xanxus. The word 'suffering' was used in the request so I'm gonna assume alittle bit of sadism is ok here.
Yamamoto hadn't been paticularly on her toes when she had been training with Squalo that day in the estate, laughing and making dumb jokes as the other's piercing war cry got louder and louder with annoyance. She'd been having so much fun, a dancing figurine of sweat slickened mocha skin with bruises from the sparring swords and a loose, breezy navy hakama, that she hadn't even given thought to the ominous stomping that had approached the doorway, too busy aiming for the silver waterfall of Squalo's hair and laughing at how upset he got over it.
The door slid open, and Squalo had paled. The happy light in her eyes hadn't even completely turned into confusion before the sword emporer was nailed by a half empty bottle of whiskey, and her wrist was grabbed harshly.
"Shut. The. Fuck. Up." he growled, a snarling, burning ball of handsome foreign rage right in her face. She had rubbed her wrist as he stomped back out, thinking about the strangely pleasant smell his broad body had. She had always thought Italians would smell like garlic or tomatoes, but laughing, decided otherwise as she ran over to help the bleeding, glass covered Squalo who now reeked of alcohol.
When she next visits, she finds herself thinking of the incident again. The way his thick brows had furrowed so much, how those rose colored eyes had stared right inside of her petite, athletic frame in a way that made her stomach and spine quiver like jello. She finds herself asking Squalo about the strange man Tsuna had beaten years earlier, finds herself purposely being occassionally loud near his room despite Squalo's nervous protests. Eventually, one day, she even finds herself standing right outside his door, alone, just laughing and thinking about how even through the door, she can catch a whiff of that husky, rumbling scent. She decides maybe that's what Italy smells like. Not like wine or garlic bread.
So when he rips open the door with murder and a scowl on his tanned face, she's grinning doofily at her own imagination. She hardly has the time to stumble back in fear at his aura of hatred before he's tugging her inside, making that curious knot in her belly quiver and tremble again.
He slams her against a fancy peice of upholstery, red like the glass of wine on the coffee table, wood thick and scented like a baseball bat. He demands in a snarl to know why she's so fucking noisy and why "you Vongola bitches can't just keep to your pen like good sheep,", she's cheerfully honest, offering a friendly white grin that speaks nothing of how his rough, calloused hands are gripping her petite wrists over her head.
She just tells him she thinks he smells nice. And that he doesn't look so bad when he's angry.
The look she gets just makes her giggle warmly, golden eyes closing in an accepting smile, cropped hair curling close to her cheeks.
He lets her go, strangely enough, with just her aching wrists, and that growing knot in her stomach that's telling her to be back again the next time.
She goes again. And again. Until she finds herself pressing up against his angry body, taking in a blissful breath of that musky odor. His hands move for the first time to somewhere other to her wrists, other than the collar of her shirt when he flings her out the door. This time, it's heavy and warm on her thigh, and Yamamoto has no choice but to mewl when that tangled knot in her belly finally trickles down to dampen her panties.
He's not gentle, and his thick fingers draw blood when he pushes them past her sticky, aching lips, plunging inside of her shuddering body. Toes curl near the small of his back, legs wide and bent around him, and she laughs through the stinging, lips pressed against his ear and hands tangled in his wild mop of hair. The room is always hot, with the fire roaring, the lights off, no fans or anything save for a glass and bottle of booze and maybe a few books. Yamamoto's surprised though at how flushed her body is when her hakama is peeled off, sports bra all but flung across the room, and his rough, scarred lips were at her throat, his hands touching her and hurting her and pleasuring her all at once. Moving with a vengeful hurt, moving with a strong pleasure- and Yamamoto finds herself more thrilled than afraid when her sock clad foot, twitching as he swirls a thick thumb around her clit lubricated with her own juices, knocks against the tent in his pants.
The thick scent of rubber when he tears open the condom makes her noise twitch, she kisses him for the first time to try to win back his scent. He almost tears the rubber, fumbling to get it over his throbbing girth while he kisses back hard, warm, muscular frame crushing her against the couch cushions as he stabs that hard thing between her eager thighs and
push push push pop,
Yamamoto's no longer a virgin.
And now for something we all enjoy. Good old MilleDera gang rape.
Gokudera is thinking of soft snowy hair, a beaming pearly smile, and a spotless white suit. A gentle tattooed face, soft porelain skin, and hands that hold a bag of marshmallows, and with that, all the power over his body, mind, and soul.
Gokudera is thinking about crisp lilac eyes and the way a pastel pink tongue would sometimes slide over those powdered sugar lips while speaking, and the way the sky ring glistened on pianist's fingers as he orchestrated his feelings.
Gokudera is thinking of this while Kikyo invites a no name A-class subordinate to come and cram his cock down his throat. The A-class does just that, and Gokudera is left gagging on a hot, dribbling length as the teal haired man laughs, drilling his cock deeper into his abused rear. Somewhere to the right, there's Zakuro, that lazy asshole excuse for a Storm, and he focuses all his power to keep from digging his nails in and drawing blood when the redhead shoves a beet red, sticky cock into his palm, forcing him to pump.
He doesn't know who's on his left, whose length he's pumping in time with his strokes on Zakuro, his bucks against Kikyo, his slurps and suckles on the A-class infront of him. Kikyo's hair is tickling the small of his back, and only a little bit higher he can feel the dried cum caking on his backside. The Cloud's cock hits something sore and eager inside of him, and his tied up, denied cock dribbles a little more onto the carpet with a groan, back arching.
Byakuran watches from his armchair, smiling pleasantly, and swirling the cherry of his sundae around lazily in the whipped cream. The way his movement slows when Dera's hazy green eyes meet him seems bored, so with renewed passion he darts his tongue across the underside of the man's dick, and twists his wrists as he rolls his hands rapidly over the two beside him. He even spreads his legs wider and greedily swallows up the handsome bastard drilling him, earning a gasp that makes his mutilated pride raise its head just barely.
When Kikyo has waved the smirking blonde, Gamma, over to join him, he finds himself choking on Mr.A-rank's cum along with a scream as the second cock pushes into him, forcing him open wide and letting all the accumulated cum from before dribble down his thighs.
He's sure there's blood there too. But with one last look at the amused Byakuran, his god, he knows he's going to have to grind his hips into it anyway.
The show must go on.