#Vibration Pad For Machine

[sixeyesonathiel]

you should’ve read the damn contract.

but you were desperate. truly desperate. broke to your bones, barely scraping by on instant noodles and tap water. you had holes in your socks, a phone with a shattered screen, and a wallet so empty it echoed. the idea of splurging on a sex toy? laughable. you couldn’t even afford a second-hand toothbrush. so when the sign-up form for "assistant tester" promised fast money with zero qualifications, you didn’t hesitate. clicked agree. no reading. no questions.

and now?

you’re strapped to a glossy, too-clean chair in a sterile lab with your legs spread wide, bound in place. and between them, humming softly with unholy precision, is a goddamn vibrator from the future.

silver, contoured, sleek—latched in place by soft restraints, the head of it resting firm and perfectly angled against your clit. it’s warm from its internal thermal sync, fitted with pressure-reactive gel pads and frequency mapping. you hadn’t even known vibrators could do this. it’s more machine than toy. and you are its first test subject.

“no offense,” satoru drawls, voice impossibly casual as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “but you’re twitching like a virgin in a wind tunnel. and this is literally the lowest setting.”

he grins around the end of a candy stick he’s been chewing for the last ten minutes, bright blue eyes tracking the shivers running down your body. his lab coat hangs off one shoulder like he forgot it halfway through putting it on, and his black compression shirt clings tight to his lean frame beneath it. his pants ride low on his hips where he’s slouched, thighs spread, casual in posture but intent in gaze. the goggles meant for "serious" testing sit uselessly on his forehead, pushing back his mess of white hair, strands sticking out in static waves.

his eyes flicker with amusement, mouth quirking as he watches your body react, fascinated. “don’t tell me,” he says, spinning slightly in his chair with a nudge of his heel. “you’ve never used a toy before.”

you jerk when the vibrator pulses, and your breath shudders. your thighs tremble as you try to close your legs on instinct—only to be kept wide open by the straps. your brows knit, lips parting in a soundless gasp, skin flushed from your cheeks to your collarbones. “i... haven’t,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

satoru blinks. then brightens. “what? oh my god. you’re serious?”

his grin widens—vicious and delighted.

“holy shit, this is even better than i thought. you signed up for high-grade prototype testing and your poor little pussy’s never even met a toothbrush’s vibration mode?”

“satoru!” you cry, humiliated, squirming against the relentless buzz between your legs. your hips twitch with every pass, toes curling in their restraints, spine arching slightly as the pleasure sneaks up your nerves.

he laughs like this is the best thing that’s happened all week. “nah, this is so good. write that down,” he mock-mumbles, pretending to scribble on his tablet. “subject is hopelessly inexperienced. results? extremely promising.”

he rolls his stool closer, the wheels creaking as he leans in. his breath fans across your thigh. he moves with lazy confidence, legs spreading slightly wider, hands loosely folded over his knees.

“can you even tell what part is making you moan like that? is it the pulses? the heat setting? or is it just the fact that someone’s finally paying attention to that sad little clit of yours?”

your hands grip the armrests harder, knuckles white. your face twists with the effort to stay composed, but another whimper escapes, and your lashes flutter from the building sensation. every hum of the vibrator sends your hips bucking.

“stop staring,” you choke, voice breaking from the mix of shame and pleasure.

he snorts. “what, you shy now? sweetheart, you’re on my table, strapped open, soaking my tech. i’m doing you a favor.”

he flicks a finger against the side of the vibrator casually. it twitches in response.

you gasp, whole body jolting. your eyes fly open wide, lips quivering as your muscles lock up for a moment.

he watches your back arch, eyes sharp and entirely too smug. “god, that’s adorable. you really don’t know what to do with it. how long you been walking around with a cunt that’s never been spoiled?”

beep.

he taps the tablet.

the vibration intensifies.

your whole body jumps, a startled moan ripping from your throat. your eyes squeeze shut, face contorting as your chest heaves in shallow gasps.

“ohhhh yeah,” he says, eyes gleaming. “now that’s the sound i needed on record. keep goin’, princess.”

you shake your head furiously, tears pricking at your eyes. your shoulders twitch with every wave of stimulation. “satoru—i c-can’t—”

“you can,” he says, nudging your thigh with his foot. “that’s literally the point. now stop whining and let the tech do its job. unless you want to redo all the calibration logs.”

he leans forward suddenly, forearms on either side of your thighs. he’s close now, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, the sharpness in his gaze as he watches you break apart. “you’re already crying and we haven’t even hit auto-rhythm. wanna see what happens when we let it pick the pattern it thinks you like best?”

“no—!”

beep.

too late.

he watches you twitch and writhe, cheeks flushed, lips trembling from overstimulation. your cunt is soaked. the toy hums louder. your jaw slackens as you pant, barely holding onto your sense of self.

“god,” he mutters, not even trying to hide the awe in his voice, “you’re gonna short-circuit the sensors with how wet you are. is this what happens when broke girls finally get some tech between their legs?”

you let out a strangled sound—half moan, half sob—as your body twists against the restraints, chest heaving in shallow bursts. your head tosses to the side, hair clinging damply to your temple, strands sticking from the sheen of sweat along your brow.

satoru tilts his head, one white brow arching lazily as if he’s genuinely puzzled. his lip tugs up in amusement, eyes gleaming with mischief under the fringe of silver bangs. “what’s wrong? you wanna stop?”

your voice breaks on a whisper, barely audible through your trembling breath. “yes,” you whimper, eyes glassy, lashes wet.

he flashes a grin—wide and obnoxiously bright, the corner of his mouth dimpling as he leans back on his stool, spine stretching in a casual roll like he’s just lounging at a bar, not orchestrating your unraveling. “too bad. you signed a full-cycle clause. twenty minutes minimum.”

his wrist lifts casually, tablet tilted toward him with a flick of his fingers. his thumb scrolls the screen like he’s checking a grocery list. “we’re only at seven.”

“satoru, please—” your voice cracks on the plea, lip quivering as your hips instinctively try to shy away from the overstimulation.

he doesn’t even blink. “oh now you’re begging. yeah, that’s goin’ in the notes.” he mutters it more to himself than you, tapping something in lazily, though his eyes never leave the way your body squirms.

his hand comes down slow, deliberate, resting lightly on your hipbone. the heat of his palm spreads through the thin fabric of the gown they’d given you, and his fingers flex slightly, just enough to feel the way your muscles tremble beneath his touch. you flinch—just barely—but he catches it, and his lashes lower in interest.

“try to keep your voice down, though,” he says, tapping your thigh twice like it’s nothing. “walls are thin. or don’t. up to you.”

then he leans back again, reclining just slightly in his seat, one knee bouncing idly, clipboard resting across it. the corner of his smile twitches as he watches your face twist again, eyes fluttering shut. “science is beautiful, huh?”

[traffys-heart]

one piece men + sex toys | nsfw

alr so this got way out of hand. originally all of these were supposed to be short paragraphs per man but they turned into small short stories. the lengths vary and the tone changes in each one but i hope u guys enjoy (∩˃o˂∩)♡

characters: monkey d. luffy, roronoa zoro, vinesmoke sanji, portgas d. ace, sabo, eustass kid, killer, trafalgar d. law

cw: lowercase, afab! reader, vibrators, fingering, dildos, female masterbation, fleshlight, drinking, blindfold (on reader) , handcuffs (on reader), vaginal sex, biting, sex machine, mention of anal, dildo receiving oral, body pillows, virgin! loser! law, no beta

cw nicknames used: atta girl, lady, chic

monkey d. luffy

u and luffy were resting in your bed, enjoying some of the rare leisure time the crew had. u were reading a book robin lent u while he laid over ur lap, lazily soaking up some warmth. he had been fishing w usopp and chopper earlier when he got kicked our of the group for 'free balling' some sashimi and eating chopper's catch raw. eventually he got too bored of staying still and began to shift around on ur legs, deciding to move his hands around ur sheets.

his nimble fingers moved in patterns, drawing random shapes until he came across a bump in between ur blankets. it was sort of in the shape of a slender pill bug which excited him. pulling the mysterious shape out, it was in fact not an insect but something pastel and smooth. this both disappointed and intrigued him.

“hey what’s this pink thing”

ur novel flew across the room faster than usopp’s legs when he sees a new island. u attempted to grab the small vibrator out of ur captain’s hands, horrified of the situation u had found urself in. while u and luffy have been in a loose romantic relationship for a while neither of u had made any moves into sex territory, so the prospect of him finding ur vibrator was very unprepared for.

unluckily for u before u could take it back he had inspected it closer and came to a realization on his own. his own cheeks becoming a faint red color to match the ribbon on his hat.

“oh i know what this is. i think sanji’s magazines w naked people had one of these before”

u weren’t exactly surprised at his exclamation, but also a little peeved considering u were hoping to exit the uncomfortable situation by lying to him about the actual use of the toy.

“do u want me to use it on u?”

if ur eyes could bulge out like a rubber hose cartoon character ur sure they would have bc that was the last question u expected him to ask. his eyes sparkled with something akin to hope and paired well w his cheeky smile urging u to say yes.

u hesitated on ur answer so luffy tried to provide further explanation.

“sanji says girls use these to feel good, yea? well we’re together and i wanna make u feel good. so u shouldn’t have to use this alone, i’ll be there w u”

cursing and praising the pervy cook u nod ur head, feeling heat rise to ur face at his proposal.

-`♡´-

ur captain’s fingers piston themselves in and out of ur sloppy cunt w cute clicking noises as he holds the vibrator steady on ur clit. u can feel urself becoming over stimulated from the amount of pressure he’s applying on the bundle of nerves. the consistent rhythm of the toy massaging ur clit along w the rough pads of his fingers massaging ur g spot send u to ur climax sooner than anytime by urself.

as u pulse on his hand he watches in awe as more sticky fluids seep onto his palm, coating him in glossy slick. big dark eyes peer up at u and maintain eye contact as he removes himself and licks all of u off his hand. luffy returns the stationary vibrator to ur clit but this time moves spreads ur thighs wider allowing his head to be slotted right in front of ur cunt.

his tongue accompanies the low buzzing sound and u never want to feel good alone again.

roronoa zoro

u and zoro were working out together above deck until u both decided that u needed to take a break. he mostly spent all his time doing weight training that hardly seemed practical while u stuck to more traditional forms of exercise. u left to go hit the showers while he did whatever ppl who only shower once a week do.

after u got out of the showers u noticed the girls room door was already open, but u didn’t think much of it considering it meant either robin and nami had enough of the boys for today or zoro still wanted to hang out.

turns out the latter was true, which was fine, however there were two things that kept u from truly being just fine.

the first of them being that u were still in a towel and needed to both dry off, as well as clothe urself before u could let ur human moss stink up ur room. the second being that as u walked in ur eyes immediately zeroed in on ur dildo in his hands.

one of his eyebrows was already raised but when he noticed ur presence he shot a devious smirk ur way that told u u were not leaving this situation without fourth degree embarrassment.

“i mean i knew u were flexible and all but i didn’t think u had this in u”

ur mouth hung open at his comment, and he gestured the silicone cock closer to u for emphasis. sure u had gotten a toy that was somewhat larger than the average size, but was that not the point of plastic? and who is he to judge u?

“oh please judging by ur reaction u’ve never seen something so big. must be nice to finally hold something larger than a pencil”

his eyes narrow, but squint at the challenge u seem to be presenting.

“yea? and i’d like to see u take half of this without giving up or passing out”

-`♡´-

zoro never considered himself a gluttonous man, however the way u take ur dildo makes him want to consume u. the fat lips of ur cunt squeeze the faux veins of the toy as u slowly shove it inside of u. he swears he can almost feel the way u clench down when the silicone tip rubs against ur sensitive walls.

finally as the base kisses ur ass u let out a small cry from the feeling of being so stuffed. u never had someone watch u as u mounted the dildo before and the prominent hard on in zoro’s pants made it hard to think abt the bet he gave u. the pride inside of u was already fed from successfully shoving the whole thing inside of u, however the shallow breathes from the guy in front of u wasn’t bad either. in small thrusts u started to fuck urself w the toy, bathing in the sounds and smells of lube and sex.

ur vision trailed up when u noticed zoro’s hand slip under the waistband of his pants. when u got a view of his hard cock u almost came on ur toy right then and there.

well, u can’t always be right.

vinsmoke sanji

u enjoyed helping sanji in the kitchen esp when he allows u little tastes of the meal before it’s served here and there. u guys were cooking up a wonderfully savory soup and luffy already had to be kicked out thrice before he ate any of the ingredients. sanji was chopping up some vegetables while u monitored the pot. occasionally u stirred it around and accidentally u splashed some of the broth on his dress shirt.

being the sweetheart he is, he waved it off and told u it was no problem and only asked if u could bring him a new one from the guys room. obliging and feeling mighty guilty u dashed off and went rummaging through his dresser.

to ur surprise u not only found him a new shirt but what u first thought was a flashlight (in the drawer?) however under further inspection found out it was a flashlight. gripping the toy with surprise, u don’t hear the blond come up behind u to retrieve his garment only to be shocked by ur discovery as well.

the looks of horror exchanged by the both of u bounce of the walls of the ship as he stumbles to articulate the words for an explanation.

However, before he can get a sensible sentence out, u take the initiative to step closer with both the fresh shirt and pocket pussy in arms. placing a hand on his chest u attempt to calm him and offer much needed relaxation in his time of stress.

“how abt u loose the stained shirt and i give ur hands a break?”

-`♡´-

sanji’s naked torso bared itself to u almost as deliciously as his flushed out face. his hair was sticking to his forehead from the copious amounts of sweat that ran down his body after u ripped orgasm after orgasm from him. his hips bucked uselessly into the toy despite already being fully flush with the silicone. u were sat on the side of his bed jerking the toy up and down his needy cock.

lube and semen covered his own trail of hair from the base of his shaft to his navel. ur soft hand ran through the mess and in tickling fashion caused his eyes to snap shut and his back to arch into ur touch. he hoped and prayed to the gods above that u would offer the feeling of ur own real pussy to him. how he dreamed of being inside of u instead of his stupid toy, fucking it pathetically each night to ur name.

his eyelids fluttered open when he felt something lacy lightly slap his face. some prayers truly r answered.

portgas d. ace

ace was a regular when it came to the infirmary on the moby dick. technically all u girls were really meant to care for whitebeard, however when u weren’t monitoring his bloodwork, ensuring he takes his medications, and hooking up his ivs, u had fire first ace to take care of.

for a logia user he sure got hurt a lot, cuts and bruises always seemed to appear on his skin despite the ability to easily burst into flames when he needed to avoid danger. u didn’t mind fixing him up, however, he was always a good chat as well as a pretty face to warm ur day.

this particular night a large portion of the crew was celebrating an intense battle they faced. due to ur captain’s large territory throughout the grand line, u often needed to defend islands when rival pirate groups underestimated the older generation’s strength.

booze, greasy food, and music danced jovially around the deck and while u would’ve loved to join in on the festivities, u also had quite a long day.

so u slinked back into ur cabin where the other nurses stayed as well and enjoyed the rare moments of solitude on the ship. ur uniform was replaced w ur evening slip and u snagged an unopened bottle of wine to pair w a book u had begged ace to retrieve while he was away.

dimming a few of the candles that lit the room, u bent over to blow out one further away from ur bed when a large flame shot out of the wick. before utter fear could take root in ur face, however, thick eyebrows and sun kissed freckles smiled back at u from the embers.

ur self restraint allowed u to wait until ace fully completed his transformation to shove him playfully in the ribs.

“i didn’t see u at the party!”

a twinge of guilt was overshadowed by awe when u saw how genuinely concerned ur second division commander looked at u. explaining the situation to him he merely raised one of those thick eyebrows, ran a hand through his dark greasy hair, and shot u a sly grin.

“ah no i get it. sometimes u just gotta rub one out. or in? is that what chics say?”

staring at him w incredulous shock u tried to comprehend how he for some reason interpreted ur words as code for u needing to masturbate. either he got hit in the head one too many times or u were more tired than u thought.

ace walked past u and nudged ur vibrator peaking out from underneath ur sheets. the pretty pink silicone almost glowing the atmosphere u set for the room. ur mouth hung wide open, aghast u made such a mistake of leaving it out like that, and in front of a cremate no less.

he turned back to u and plopped himself on the bed, arms stretched out behind him. patting his thigh with one hand and using the other to remove his hat he gestured over to u.

“c’mon let me take care of u tonight”

-`♡´-

the low hum of ur toy sent perfect waves of pleasure into ur clit and throughout ur body. with both of his arms hooked under ur knees ace easily spread u wide for ur little vibrator to gently massage ur nerves. despite ur begging for a higher setting or his own fingers, he denied ur requests until u orgasmed again in his lap. he wouldn’t even talk to u, he would just suck sweet hickies onto the side on ur neck and collarbone and shake his head no, tickling ur face, when u asked him to go harder.

eventually u felt the knot twist and tighten in ur belly. ur pelvis shifted around in his grasp, attempting to free u from his constricting hold and take control. luckily u were no pirate and ace held u down w no problem, letting u cum all over ur vibrator as u whined abt nothing in particular.

ace removed the toy from ur puffy clit and allowed u a few seconds of respite before plunging his thick fingers into ur welcoming cunt. yknow he actually thinks he’s beginning to understand this whole care taker thing.

“atta girl”

sabo

u really needed to clean ur room. to be honest it wasn’t as bad as koala claimed it was, but u’ll admit w all the missions and paperwork u may have been slacking in the organization department. it was easy to loose track of the lesser important tasks at hand when ur trying to bring down the world government.

ur very lucky ur boyfriend was there to help u tidy up ur place, esp considering how packed his schedule is, the two of u barely spend alone time together as it is.

as u pushed open ur door w ur hip, u already found the blond hunched over ur small desk trying to sort all the stationary u’ve left array over the past few months. sighing u kiss the top of his head and get to work underneath ur bed, dusting off what seemed to be library books far past their due from another island.

tucking those away for future u to worry abt, u crouched next to sabo in his chair. u dreaded looking through ur drawers, quite frankly not remembering what sort of junk u threw in there in the past. u asked him if he could get the left side so u could focus on the right and almost immediately he got to work. guess thats why he’s chief of staff.

while u were rummaging through a bunch of knick knacks, some including memories u happily showed ur boyfriend, sabo also found something of interest.

“hey, u never introduced me to these before”

glancing in his direction u saw the pair of leather handcuffs dangling from his index finger. ur expression switched from nostalgic to humiliated immediately, cursing urself for allowing such a thing to be carelessly thrown in w the rest of this junk.

up until now, u and sabo never used anything besides a bit of lube when it came to sex, so for him to discover something so different of u was nerve wracking. snatching the cuffs back from him, u patiently waited for some sort of reaction from him.

what u were met w was not the disgust or uncomfortable u expected but in fact a ‘wait a minute’ and after a quick jog down the hall to his own quarters he returned w a silk sash in his hands.

“when i first started yknow um, yea, i was nervous to see my partners’ reaction to the rest of the scarring on my body. the blindfold helped me ease them into it, and i guess myself as well”

u didn’t really have any words to share, ur own kink hardly stemming from something as sentimental or sweet as his own. u were glad he felt like he could share something so personal like that, as well as seemingly come over that hurdle, considering it’s ur first time hearing of it. after taking a break on ur room cleaning, the two of u conversed deeper into the topic until u decided to take his hands in urs and acknowledge the looming conversation to be had.

“so neither of us have really discussed toys in our sex life before. if that’s something ur also into, im up for it as well”

-`♡´-

ur arms were raised above ur head and bound together by the thick leather of ur handcuffs. ur chest was forced upwards in this position giving sabo easy access to trail his tongue around ur perky nipples. the silk blindfold deters ur vision so every chaste touch he leaves on ur body leaves u wondering were the next one will be. sweet licks trail up from ur tits to ur collarbone, giving the skin a harsh nip. u cry out from the pressure, shivering from the way it left tingles running up ur spine.

his swollen cock head rubs circles around ur cunt, gathering slick until he’s ready to push in. the feeling of ur heat already sending beads of precum dripping out of his tip. u want him to stuff u with his cock already, the lack of mobility and vision making it harder for u to wait. when he finally allows himself to cave into ur welcoming pussy ur hands want to instinctively grasp his shoulder blades, hindered by the chains.

the afternoon ended up being full of sweat, orgasms, and kink discovery, leaving ur bedroom floors messier than when u started.

eustass kid

kid was always inventing something new, even early into his childhood he enjoyed playing in the scrapyard and putting together whatever he could find. he enjoyed reworking the metal gears and bolts inside of smaller mechanics washed up on the south blue shore and studying their deconstructed parts. his devil fruit only made this hobby of his easier into adulthood.

when u joined kid’s crew he felt the immediate spark between the two of u. it was just something u knew as the magnet magnet devil fruit user. killer told him everyone can actually feel shared feelings and it was called ‘mutual attraction’ but quite frankly he thinks that’s a load of bs. if that was really true than a lot more ppl should’ve made moves on each by now.

either way, excited by ur presence on his ship, he took out most of his exhilaration in his workshop. working on something that would really woo u. not that u needed to be impressed, but he still wanted to make u feel special. what was meant to be a few pieces of scrap welded into the shape of roses turned into a full scale sex machine.

focusing on what would increase ur pleasure to the maximum his contraption would not only penetration all ur cute holes but give him a good show as well. after weeks of progress he really only had a single problem. u guys weren’t together yet.

only after a handful of months and then some did u two officially begin a relationship, what felt like eons of destroying rival pirates and marines w u finally developed into a fully fledged commitment. it had been a while since he had touched that 'gift' he made for u in the beginning, so long he had forgotten it sat in the back of his workshop during ur grand tour.

ur eyes shone w wonder as he showed off all of his private inventions, not yet revealed to the rest of the crew, nonetheless the broader public. his ego felt like a golden retriever puppy brought into a kindergarten class with all the praise u shed him and it was only when u pointed to the strange chair thing that he began to waver.

the design was not exactly discreet, having multiple sex toys and dildos attached to the pistons on the end of the seat. he refused to lie and claim it was something he used on himself, he doubts that would exactly add to his rough and tough persona (no kid we love pegging in this house) so his only option was to awkwardly reveal the truth. u were already stuck w him this far in, surely this couldn't be that bad of a deal breaker.

"soo have u tested it?"

sheepishly he answers with a small "no", that sounds a little too high pitched in his usual rougher scottish drawl.

"then what r we waiting for?"

-`♡´-

it took him a while to fully strap u into the chair and position u perfectly. w enough lube and heavy petting u were successfully restrained, with ur holes stretched just enough to be penetrated easily. siting back on his own stool, kid watched intently as ur cunt began to swallow the smooth head of the dildo. u both decided that the one tapping ur ass would only be used if u could handle the first.

ur legs shake as u take more and more of the plastic inside of u, feeling the intricate and creative ridges on the mold. when one of the ribs presses against a particularly spongey spot ur back arches against the restraints. ur tongue lolled out from the intensity of being fucked by something so non-human and u began to let out moans u don't think u've even heard in porn.

through the reflection of the goggles on his head u could see ur pathetic body twist and turn from getting fucked by a machine. how u loved the mind of ur perverted genius.

killer

u and killer got along as the rational duo in the kid pirates. with ur batshit crazy captain and equally as riled up crew mates both of u found solace in being the only ones without loose screws. it was nice being the sensible pirates in a group of barbarians.

which is why despite killer being first mate and second in command, he often found himself in ur presence. whether it be helping u w chores, asking ur opinion on the next route, or even just chatting abt daily life, the two of u got along better than almost kid and him.

which is why it confused and hurt him to hear that there was something that u haven’t talked to him abt.

this all started when he overheard hip and house gossiping w each other and he noticed ur name drop. walking over he tried to gain a better picture of what they were discussing but noticing his presence the two girls abruptly stopped and scurried away. knowing ur good relationship w the two he doubted it was anything malevolent, however even as first mate what was so secret that even he couldn’t handle it?

the second time he was thwarted by this topic was during dinner. he had cooked a rather impressive large hog for the entire crew, but the pork chops were the last thing on his mind when quincy leaned down and whispered something in ur ear while giggling causing u to blush. while washing the dishes together he asked what her joke was and u dodged the question like he was shooting bullets at u. u always let him in on jokes :(

during the monthly girls sleepover night (u all sleep in one cabin anyways. no one really gets it.) emma challenges u to a truth or dare, absentmindedly u pick dare and all the girls in the room share devious smirks of mischief. a quick conference of whispers r shared and then adjourned before they give u ur dare.

“we dare u to show killer ur little, sorry no actually big secret!”

ur shoulders dropped in defeat as the second u saw their grins u knew ur fate was sealed. u also knew truth or dare was scared on the victoria punk so there really wasn’t any getting out of this either. gathering the designer shoe box from underneath ur bed u trudge out of the girls room in defeat with the sound of high pitched squealing and laughing behind u.

first mate came w some privileges. one of which was not having to share a room w the rest of the crew, save for kid. although kid hardly spent any time in their shared room, usually down in his workshop tinkering away on some new shit. so when u showed up in killers doorway with ur dildo in hand and a prayer he wouldn’t end ur friendship right then and there, at least u knew ur captain wouldn’t have to experience the worst second hand embarrassment of the century.

if u could see killer’s eyes u would assume they were as wide as saucers. before u could continue ur semi-planned explanation he dramatically scanned the rest of the hall for bystanders and then pulled u inside his bedroom, slamming the door shut.

“u actually use that thing? and u put it inside u?!”

“uh yea”

silence overtook the two of u and for the first time u felt the judgement that the both of u normally expressed for others turned on urself. the gravity of ur mistake began to overtake u and shame started to bubble and toil within ur chest.

“i mean, i’m here”

ur eyes flick up to the taller man, unfortunately not only is his statement confusing, his expression is concealed with that stupid mask.

he cleared his throat and tried again. “if u ever wanted to try out a real person that is”

-`♡´-

killer’s thick cock bullied its way into ur cunt, stretching ur walls more than ur toy ever did. the soft stinging left pricks of pleasure after a few seconds and every little shift made u appreciate the heaviness of his shaft. ur mouth was busied on ur dildo, sucking on the squishy plastic and working it down ur throat. u made sure to make a show of taking the next few inches knowing that killer’s intense gaze would be focused on ur lips.

his hand began to massage ur stomach, pressing down and rubbing the layers of flesh separating him from his cock. the pressure felt oh so perfect and u couldn’t help but clamp down on him, especially after his fingers dipped to roll small soft circles on ur clit. killer thrusts shallowly into ur cunt, savoring the way u hug him and practically drag him back inside of u. ur muffled moans reverberate on the silicone and he groans at the thought of u taking him in ur mouth as well.

ur somewhat perplexed ur never bothered killer in taking care of ur sexual needs but ur happy u let him have his way w u that night. after all, it’s the sensible thing to do.

trafalgar d. law

law enjoyed his private space. that much could be seen by anyone who knew him after five minutes. he especially enjoyed keeping his personal collections private. such things range from his coins, sora warrior of the sea comic books, and yes sora merchandise.

there was one person he was willing to show his things to though, and that special lady would be u. he loved going through his glass case of special addition figures and explaining the rarity and backstory behind each one, all while u listened intently. u treated him almost as if he wasn’t a twenty six year old man obsessed w fiction and he loved it.

very few people, (besides the sora fan club) cares to hear about his interests so when u excitedly sat urself down on his bed and urged him to explain to u why sora’s giant robot kinda looks like a bug he couldn’t stop his mouth from moving.

however, he supposed, all good things must come to an end. after all u’ve been so kind to him, but he couldn’t find a well worth explanation to give to u when u discovered his ‘secret’ piece of merchandise.

for starters, he hasn’t used it in a long time. no, after he met u he was smitten and he’s had no need to resort to such things. but it’s not like he was just going to throw it away. a limited edition piece should never be discarded with such ease. law truly thought he would just discreetly hide it and never bring it up.

that is until u decided to go find some extra blankets and pillows for a movie marathon w ur boyfriend and u checked in his closet as he told u, only to find an extremely provocative body pillow of who u think (ur still learning) is pink poison from the antagonists germa 66.

still, deciding the pillow was actually quite soft u brought it out and tried to think of silly ways u can tease law abt ur discovery.

placing the pillow in front of ur face u crept up on him until he finally noticed u and when he did u thought u might’ve scared him to death. his face fell to depths u didn’t think existed and u had to tackle him to stop the devil fruit user from shambling himself out of the situation.

after explaining to him that u don’t particularly care if he likes to fuck pillows w comic book characters on them and he confesses that ever since he met u he’s only ever jerked off to ur image in mind (how kind) u two were able to put the topic at ease.

however a lingering question persists in ur mind.

“so how does a guy like, get off on a pillow?”

still red in the face, law turned to u, hair covering his eyes as he spoke

“um i could show u”

shock hit both ur faces but seeing as u had no apprehensions, u lay down for another explanation.

-`♡´-

shiny lube covered ur entire torso, allowing his hard on to easily glide across ur stomach. ur shirt and bra were long discarded, nipples hardened at law’s insistent pawing and sucking. he was straddling u from above, taking in the sight of u all perfect underneath him. his cock was angry, throbbing, and extremely excited to be this close to a woman for the first time.

when he started to hump ur body, u had to will urself from not reacting to the ticklish movements. next time u’ll have him mount ur ass or something bc the feeling of his cock slipping through the slick on ur belly instinctively made u want to tense up and giggle. law ended up cumming really quickly so it never ended up becoming a problem though. one of his hands reached for a tit while the other went beside ur head so he could quickly press his mouth to urs.

ur teeth clashed together and he gripped the fat of ur breast a little roughly, but god if the whimpers coming out of the this man while he spurted ropes of semen across ur chest weren’t the hottest thing u’ve ever witnessed.

as he pulled away u smiled and reached out to fix some of the hair that stuck to his sweaty forehead.

“hey at least u don’t have to wash any stains outta me”

[superhoeva]

making out with robby during your 15min, his hand sliding in your panties and him groaning "oh, you're soaked, sweetheart. what made you wet like this?" but he wasn't prepared for your answer and now he can't stop thinking about fucking your ass every damn surface. the worst part? abbot knowing smirk because of course it was him that was sexting you insteof sleeping before his next shift.

holy shittt

"nine minutes and counting," robby mumbles against your mouth and you shut him up with a yank to his jacket and swirl of your tongue around his. 540ish seconds is all the man has before he'll be forced to slip out of the on call room, wipe hand to his swollen lips, and not imagine himself taking you for another four fucking hours.

a rough tug of his bottom lip between your teeth returns him to reality, and robby feels you grin at the growl he rumbles out. you're playing dirty and the attending adores it. fucking lives for your purposeful provoking of buttons only you know the site of. (plus the extra ones that jack taught you.)

"fuck," robby grunts, drawing you closer to him with an even tighter grip. "do that again, and you'll be fucking limping to your next patient."

when you smirk at robby, he stares back at you with a lowered chin and a challenge in his eyes. inching to him slowly, you make sure take a few extra seconds before catching his lip back between your teeth. you drag it into your mouth and suck with a moan that melts him into a nothing but a whimper.

before you can blink, robby spins your body and pins you against his front. with a grip on your face and hand tucking into your waist band, robby rolls his hips into you backside with a choked moan.

his cock sits thick and throbbing against his scrubs, and doesn't know how the fuck he's going to last the rest of his shift.

"i wanna taste you but you might lead somebody to us with all your squeals." not that he doesn't love them.

"if i remember correctly, it was your mouth i had to cover the last time we fucked in here," you fire back, and both of you have to grin at the memory.

"well maybe i just want the whole damn hospital to know how fuckin' well you take my cock," robby husks out, fingers finally reaching behind your thin layer of underwear. he huffs, chest heaving at the mess he finds. it coats and slicks against his fingers, causing robby to blow out a breath. "jesus, 'm surprised you haven't leaked through these scrubs. been reading my thoughts, angel?"

"mmhm," you mewl, hips flinching up into where he presses your clit. "plus jack keeps texting me about all the horrible things he wants to do to me this weekend... you're invited, by the way."

robby uses a laugh to cover the way his head starts spinning.

"oh, i am?"

"yeah," you nod, reaching to hold his forearm in place so the pads of his fingers stroke against you just right when you flick your hips again. "but only if you let me use that new vibrator jack got me on you. wanna how many loads i can milk outta you before you tap out."

jesus fucking christ. he used to joke about how you might make him pass out one day. funny enough, he doesn't currently find his wobbly knees and swimming brain all that amusing...

"oooh, you're horrible," robby rasps, pressing his digits down harder. you gasp and he breathes in the sound, head shaking with another heated chuckle. "i'm serious. fuck you, sweetheart."

a giggle shakes you along with him, and robby kisses your neck.

"you could at least buy me something from the vending machine first."

four long hours later, robby's hiking his backpack over his shoulder and shutting his locker. he pauses as abbot rounds the corner and tilts his head at the other attending, who's doing a bad job at hiding his growing smirk at the look on robby face.

jack whistles a song to himself as he punches in his combination, eyes peeking over to where robby's watching him with crossed arms.

"long day?"

"yeah. yeah, they usually are when i got someone sexting one of my best senior residents," robby throws back, making sure to keep his voice down and eyes peeled for any wandering ears, eyes, earls, or myrnas.

jack breaks his unknowing facade, warming with a pleased snicker. "she teach you that word?"

"yep," you answer for him, bag and thermos already in hand as you appear. you smile and head for jack, who gives you a sweet hey, baby before kissing you. rubbing a ghosting touch against his back, you grin. "then he spelled it out with his tongue inside my pussy. not as long as robinavitch, but it still did the trick."

jack coughs out laugh, eyebrows shooting upwards.

"she's on one today," robby exhales, reddening as he looks at jack. "thanks a lot."

jack replies to the words with an unbothered wink, closing his locker and leaning with an arm around your waist while he whispers against your ear. "stay sweet, yeah?"

melting, all you can do is hum out a dazed reply at his heat. jack pecks your cheek one more time before squeezing a hand onto robby's bicep.

"and try not to wake her neighbors," jack teases the other, eyes cutting to you with a wicked twitch of his lips. "might have to move in with one of us if you get dinged with another noise complaint."

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[homeofthelonelywriter]

gamer!Ghost x f!gamer!reader | Previous Part

This was a bad idea. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself as you stood in front of the train station and waited for any sign of Simon. Your train had arrived early, and you messaged him as soon as you realized that, but he had yet to show up. Part of you was starting to worry if he was pranking you. Maybe even filming you for a video. But when a motorbike came to a stop right in front of you, you knew that he wasn’t pranking you. You smiled as he got off and walked over to you with confidence. He stopped right in front of you, his hands settling on your hip as if it were the most natural thing to do.

“’ello, love.” You couldn’t help but grin up at him. “Hey, Si.” He still had his helmet on, but the visor was up, so you could see the crinkling skin around his eyes as he smiled. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?” Still grinning, you nodded, linking your fingers with his as he caught your hand to lead you back to his bike. There, he pulled an extra helmet out of thin air. “Ever had one on?” You quickly shook your head no, but Simon just smiled.

“Okay, look up for me.” As if to emphasize his point, he placed his pointer finger under your chin and tilted your head back. With ease, he slid the helmet over your head and got to work, closing the buckle and making sure everything fit well. You felt like one of those girls in the TikToks you saw sometimes, feeling yourself blush underneath the helmet.

Once Simon was happy with everything, he gently bonked his head against yours before closing your visor. He then showed you how to get on and how to act while riding. “Sorry, I wanted to pick you up with my truck, but getting it through traffic would’ve been a nightmare, and I didn’t want to leave you waiting any longer.” You smiled as he helped you swing your leg over the machine, before settling your arms around his waist. “All good, Si. Just glad you’re here.” He looked over his shoulder at you, and gently padded your hand, before starting the bike. The vibrations scared you for a second, but adrenaline quickly filled your veins, and you couldn’t help but laugh. “Hold on, yeah?” I nodded against his back, and then we took off.

Riding was…exhilarating. The wind in your hair, the blurring of cars and buildings around you. And Simon, right there, right underneath your hands. You couldn’t help but move them around from time to time, grabbing his muscular tits, drumming on the bike in front of him when you were at a red light, et cetera. Sometimes, you even felt Simon chuckle under your hands.

But all too soon, it was over, and you pulled into a driveway. Once the bike was off and Simon had kicked down the stand, he helped you off before following you. “How was it?” You chuckled, shaking your head in disbelief. “Amazing! It was so much fun, I want to do it again!” This got him laughing as he gently tilted your head up again, working on opening the strap, so he could get you free. While he was working, you couldn’t help but hold onto his hoodie, both fists curled up in the material. Simon quickly noticed, but didn’t say anything, instead, he stepped even closer.

Once the strap was open, he pulled your helmet off your head, and only then did you notice that it said your name in small letters on the back. “Is this…?” He glanced at it before shrugging. “Had to get you one. Couldn’t have given you one of the ones my mates use. They stink.” You chuckled and watched as he took his own helmet off, revealing half of his face. Finally, you could see him. And you just smiled at him, so long until he cleared his throat, the tips of his ears slightly red.

“Do I…do I have something on my face?” You chuckled and shook your head. “No…no, sorry. I just…hi.” His eyes betrayed the smile hidden underneath the mask as he looked at you. “Hi, love.” You continued to stare there, just staring and smiling at each other, until the bark of a dog pulled you out of the moment. Only then did you notice the cold wind and start to shiver. “Let’s get you inside, yeah?” You nodded and followed, but only after you had handed your backpack, which had everything you needed to stay with him for a few days, to Simon. “Not gonna let you carry stuff, lovie.” You would be lying if you said you didn’t swoon when he said that.

Next Part

A/N: This is a shorter one, sorry about that. I just got started with an immunosuppressive therapy today and also got two shots, so I'm feeling very sleepy, forgive me! I hope you still enjoy it! Also, let me know if you want to be on the perma taglist! Just say if you want all of COD or specific characters. Although I mostly post Ghost.

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[getouyuri]

one mimir, two mimir

pairing: oyabun!gojo x secretary!reader (fem!reader)

author’s note: got a little carried away with this cos wdym I wrote a 2.2k (unedited) drabble about satoru acting like you killed his grandma because you started napping without him 😭 here’s a little background info on my yakuza jjk au but it’s not necessary to read. masterlist. happy reading mwaaah 🫶🏽🩵

writing © getouyuri. dividers © thecutestgrotto. fanart © satsu1640.

Satoru loves taking naps.

The yakuza boss always looks forward to curling up close to his wife for a quick nap in the middle of the day, stretched out like the most comfortable of cats until he’s forced to pop right back up later and go straight back to work. Bi-weekly snooze sessions are the only thing that keep him powering through each week without collapsing like a house made of popsicle sticks.

(Aside from your very creative ways of motivating him, of course. You, on top of him from dawn to dusk, no breaks, raw, disgustingly sweaty, toes curling, bones cracking, bodies contorting in the most impossible angles that challenge what you both know about physics.)

Especially when he’s as tired as he is right now— he nearly ran into a wall while stumbling his way through the Gojo estate, delirious in his excitement to climb into bed and snuggle you to death.

So when he walks into your shared room and finds you already conked out, curtains drawn and room submerged in shadow, exaggerated betrayal flickers across his face. His left eye twitches like a machine gun. You were napping. Without him.

The deep-set fatigue that dogs him is impossible to miss; it’s in the way his eyelids droop just a fraction too long between blinks, the faint shadows beneath his usually bright ocean-blue eyes, the slight sluggishness to his movements. His temples throb, like a not-so-subtle reminder that his energy is a ticking time bomb.

In truth, Satoru hasn’t slept properly in days, between dealing with the Tora-gumi’s constant petty attacks and the Gojo clan’s elders that have been particularly relentless recently, questioning his leadership decisions, nagging about eventual succession (as if Yuuta’s presence in his life and role as his designated successor didn’t already shut those concerns down), and generally being a pain in his ass.

Nothing he couldn’t handle, of course, but dealing with them always left him drained in a way that no amount of violence or business negotiations ever did. But he refuses to admit it outright— pride and stubbornness are two of his most defining traits, after all.

Satoru crosses his arms, still squinting and pouting at you. This was unacceptable. Inexcusable. Not telling him that you were retiring for a quick nap might as well be considered treason.

Where was his nap invitation? Where were his snuggle rights and little coupon card paired with it? Who gave you permission to get all cozy enough to doze off without him plastered right next to you, drooling all over your shoulder and hogging the blankets?

Satoru’s entire being vibrates with the need to rectify this egregious injustice immediately.

“Oh, you’re in so much trouble, baby,” he breathes, tutting. Instead of deigning him with a proper response— you should be falling to your knees and sobbing your apologies, begging for his forgiveness, even though you’d never in your life do that— you give a soft, muffled smack of your lips that escapes the mountain of blankets on the bed. Clearly, someone’s having a good ass nap.

Your hair pokes out from the top of the covers in an adorable tuft. He’d recognize that messy mop anywhere, even if the rest of his wife was currently snuggled deep beneath a fortress of blankets and pillows, entirely hidden from view.

Satoru’s adorable pout instantly morphs into a shit-eating grin. His heart squeezes in his chest, his earlier excitement bubbling over again as he pads closer, fingers itching to mess with you. Crouching down beside the bed, he rests his chin on the edge of the mattress, palms sinking into the plush duvet to keep himself steady. His blue eyes gleam with a sleepy mischief as he studies the rhythmic rise and fall of the blanket pile— proof that you were very much alive, very much cozy, and (more importantly) very much about to have your nap ruined by your clingy-ass husband.

His long, ring-clad fingers curl into the blanket’s edge and peel it back just enough to reveal your face. For a second, Satoru just stares, mesmerized. His wife is gorgeous. Like, criminally, absolute-obliteration-of-self-and-other type of beautiful. Your hair is a softly frizzy mess, lips puffy with sleep and slightly parted as you breath slow.

"My angel is so pretty," he murmurs, utterly besotted as he presses a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. You look so peaceful.

Normally, he’d feel a little bad waking you up— but no, not today. Today, he’s been deprived of you for three whole hours (the horror), he’s so tired that he’s seeing the hat man in the corners of his vision, and he’s not about to let you sleep without him.

Grinning, he bounces up from his spot crouched on the floor like a frog to instead lean over you, white hair flopping lazily over his forehead. Satoru guides that open jaw of yours shut with his fingertips, then squeezes your nostrils closed— just to be annoying.

"Pssst. Angel." He whispers, grinning when you snort in your sleep as your body starts to register that your airways are sealed off. "Baaaaabycakes. Wakey wakey, I missed you."

Only when you start to stir does he release your nose (he mimes pocketing it in his slacks). Then, for good measure, he blows a playful, obnoxiously loud raspberry right against your neck— because what better way to wake someone up than by being the absolute worst?

“Pooooo—“

“You will die in seven days.” You suddenly grumble in a sleepy rasp, not even opening your eyes. “In three, you’ll begin to cough. In five, you’ll begin to break out into hives.”

“—kie… oh, okay. That’s mean, princess," he huffs with faux hurt— but he’s still grinning like the lovestruck idiot he is. "But not as mean as you napping without me. I was hoping to get some shut-eye with my wife after a whole ass threeee hours of being away like the booked and busy man that I am, only to find that you had the audacity to go ahead and sleep without even considering me. Tch. Real cold, sweets.”

He’s being a petulant menace. Needy. Pathetic. He doesn’t care that he’s not at all the ruthless crime lord that he typically is right now. Satoru’s as heartbroken as the day he found out that that one place in Shinjuku stopped selling their chocolate and caramel stuffed mochi. It was his favorite. He weeped a little outside of the store as you gently tugged him away, fond exasperation glittering in your eyes.

How can he call himself the oyabun that has it all when he can’t even get his favorite fucking sweet treats? And now, apparently, can’t even get sleepy time with his wife?

You shuffle in place with a grumpy furrow between your brows, silently simmering at being shaken out of dreamland, and he snatches at the edge of the blanket again right as you try to tug it right back up over your head. “I didn’t realize I had to fill out a time card recording when I’ll nap or not.”

“Baby,” Satoru gasps. He leans in closer, forehead nearly bumping yours, blue eyes wide and watery with crocodile tears. You crack your own eyes open at that, blinking tiredly at him. Your lashes clump together, sticky with sleep. “Are you kidding me? You should’ve already been marking time cards. Naptime isn’t just sacred— it’s special. And I thought we had something special!”

A staged sob rattles his chest. He presses his free hand against it, clutching at the fabric of his dress shirt as if trying to keep his heart from leaping out and splatting at your feet. “This is why they say the prettiest ones can’t be trusted. I should file for divorce over this heinous act of betrayal, wifey. I don’t know if I can ever recover from this.” His tone drips with the emotional maturity of a golden retriever with separation anxiety.

You thump your head back against the pillow, praying that someone ends your suffering early. “You’re dramatic.”

“No, I’m not. I’m real. I’m authentic. I’m hurt. My feelings are sooo valid, baby, and you’re dismissing them like I’m one of your side hoes!” Satoru wails.

His face scrunches up in exaggerated offense, his pout making a grand reappearance even as he, devastating gentle, wipes a dried line of spit from beneath your lip with his thumb. Quietly, Satoru preens a little at being able to see you at your most unguarded, your most ungraceful.

“Toru?” You call out in a little croak instead of bothering to play into his bullshit.

Oh, he’s already dead. He’s cooked.

Satoru’s big blue eyes round out impossibly further as if he’s been struck by Cupid’s arrow— which, admittedly, he kinda has been every single day for the past few years since he started seeing you.

You sound so fucking adorable when you’re half-asleep. That groggy little mumble of his nickname that you only pull out when you need to tug at his strings, the way you lift a hand to cup his that lingers beneath your mouth and you nuzzle your cheek into his calloused palm... it makes his head spin with an overwhelming wave of affection. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if there were cartoonish birdies twirling around him. He could just eat you up.

You’re clearly utilizing his weakness for that nickname and your adorable sleepiness to your advantage to sway this in your favor (and he falls for it).

And people say that he’s the conniving menace…

You purse your lips in a little pout, a rare sight outside of your most private moments that you share with him (even though this pout’s awfully calculated), and Satoru’s heart damn near explodes. “Just come cuddle with me, baby. ‘M so tired… and so cold without you,” you complain.

His aloof, sarcastic, prideful wife? Whining for cuddles like a lovesick kitten? You’ve got him hook, line, and sinker. Of course you want him close; who wouldn’t want to bask in his heavenly presence? “Aw, look at you, all clingy and sweet!” Satoru coos, gently stroking your cheek and peering down at you with sparkling eyes. He just barely resists pinching your soft skin, knowing that you’d probably bite his finger off for that. “I could never say no to you, even if you’re trying to pull the wool over my eyes.”

You sleepily smile up at him, smug.

The oyabun of the Gojo-gumi wastes absolutely no time in shoving his pants down his long legs, toeing off his socks with zero grace, and kicking them aside on the floor (he’ll pick them up later… probably). He’s left in just his black button-up and boxers, but even the button-up is quickly unbuttoned and discarded too, because he’s been in business attire for too long today and he wants to be comfortable. It joins the pile on the floor.

Right now, the only thing that matters is snuggling. His. Wife.

With zero hesitation nor warning, Satoru takes a few steps back, rolling his neck and bouncing a little on his heels. “Satoru,” you immediately warn, more lucidity coloring your eyes as you start to tense in on yourself. You quickly grasp at the blankets, starting to bunch them up around you again and burying your head right back beneath them— as if they’ll even do anything to shield you. “Don’t. If you fucking land on me, I’ll—“

You cut yourself off with a disgruntled groan as Satoru takes a running jump and vaults over you to land on the free space next to you, making the mattress bounce and nearly launching you through the high roof. He doesn’t give you time to complain, practically diving into the lump of blankets that house his precious wife with the smoothness of a damn seal sliding into water.

He worms through the blankets until he finds your warm, soft body, his bright blue eyes squinting playfully in the dim warmth of your little hideaway. You meet his gaze with an unimpressed tilt to your lips, jutting your chin out, and immediately, he flips you around, pulling your back flush against his chest until you’re tucked together like two spoons in a drawer. Satoru’s long limbs drape over you in a possessively needy tangle.

“Mmm… this is what I’ve been missing,” Satoru sighs gratefully, finally content. His aching body sinks into the memory foam beneath him, the blankets cushioning you both in their cloud-like embrace and chasing out the air chugging through the Gojo estate’s vents. “It’s nice and cozy in here with my wifey.”

He buries his face into your nape, inhaling your scent deeply. There’s your natural scent paired with something warm and sweet, comfortingly so; cocoa butter and freshly baked shortcake. Satoru makes a mental note to ask if you actually made one or if you’re trying a new body wash after you two wake up in a few hours. He presses a slow, wet kiss right under your ear, smiling into your skin when you shiver a little.

“Are you happy now that you’ve ruined my peace?” You mumble dryly, yet you sink into him all the same. Your tone is sarcastic (as per usual) and tinted with a drowsy sort of warmth that makes him want to kick his feet like a schoolgirl. It’s his fuel. You wiggle back against him to slot yourself against him more comfortably, the backs of your knees pressed against the tops of his and your ass sitting in the cradle of his pelvis.

(Don’t get hard, don’t get hard, don’t get hard, he silently coaches himself. If Satoru kept you awake any longer by whining and begging you to deal with a throbbing boner, you’d mercilessly toss him in a dog cage. And he very much likes sleeping in this expensive ass bed with you, a splurge he justified as necessary, because god forbid his wife doesn’t get to rest in pure luxury.)

“Yup. But it’s okay, princess, I’ll send you right back off to dreamland. It’s my job as your devoted guard dog, your vice president, and your humble servant. And are you ashamed now that you see how much your hubby needed this?” Satoru murmurs, but there’s no real bite to it. If anything, he’s pitched softer now, the playful facade slipping out with the exhale he expels through his nose.

The tiredness in his voice makes you pause. With that, you start to shift in his arms, and thinking you’re trying to escape (when really, you’re just trying to properly assess him despite the fact that you’re already half-asleep again), he latches on tighter. “I thought you wanted me here? C’monnn, gimme all those cuddles you owe me,” he complains, trying to kiss your neck until you give up, which you laugh softly at.

“Satoru. Let go, I’m trying to turn around,” you yawn, and he complies even though he’s content in this position. The second you shift to face him on your side, he’s already adjusting, tucking an arm beneath your head as a makeshift pillow and draping the other over your body to pull you in close. Satoru takes a moment to admire your camisole and satin sleep shorts, but your eyes draw him right back in.

Your half-lidded eyes flit over him with a sharpness befitting of you. You’ve always been too perceptive, always seeing right through him. It’s one of the many things he adores about you, even when it’s inconvenient. Like now, when you take in the way his shoulders sag ever so slightly under the weight of exhaustion he’s been hiding, usual boundless energy dampened, and how the circles under his eyes (usually hidden behind his sunglasses) are strikingly visible this up close.

The Gojo-gumi doesn’t slow down just because Satoru’s tired. Ryomen doesn’t stop plotting against him just because he wants a damn nap. But for this moment, with his wife’s leg hiking up around his waist to keep him trapped (thank god) and your breaths fanning over his neck when you tuck your face there, both of you hidden away beneath the blankets like children at a sleepover, he can pretend the world stops for you both.

“Let’s go to sleep. I still have an alarm running that’ll wake us up,” you yawn again, long and near-silent; cat-like. Satoru hums, a soft rumble that radiates through your squished-together chests, already half-lost to drowsiness. He settles his chin on top of your hair, a few unruly strands of which tickle gently at his lips, and his breathing begins evening out.

“‘Kay… Mmm, you’re so warm. Comfy as hell, too. Love you," he mumbles. His words are slurred with exhaustion, but the devotion behind them is undeniable. He’s already melting into you, body lax against yours that’s already soft with sleep from your interrupted nap, eager to get some z’s.

When you don’t respond, he figures you’re gone with the wind already. Satoru works his jaw a little bit until something clicks and loosens, then closes his eyes. He could stay like this forever, honestly. He presses his fingers just a little heavier against the exposed skin of your lower back, just a subconscious need to touch, to remind himself you’re really here, and passes out just like that.

perma tags: @libr4sonsa @spirit-kat @kaitospo @m1nrrva @enchantinghonymoon @shokogasm @dairyfaerie @pvmpkingod @skz8stay @floriophrastus @originalsaucy @loyalguma @wormplant @amane1271 @oporotheca @teachmehowtodokiaye @dogwhiskey @sunnydayqq

[noorpersona]

Pregnancy: Iwaizumi

The second the double doors of the weight room open, it’s like you’ve stepped into a different universe—a world of metal clanks, low grunts, chalk-dusted air, and the constant thud of iron plates hitting the floor. And now, slicing clean through that rhythmic storm of testosterone and hyper-focus, is you: very pregnant, slightly annoyed, and holding the wallet your husband managed to leave behind on the kitchen counter this morning. You didn’t think twice about walking the ten minutes over from your place. It’s not like you hiked a mountain—you waddled across pavement in sneakers. But by the way the entire Olympic volleyball team turns toward you in unison, you might as well be carrying a live grenade instead of a baby.

“WOAHHH—LOOK OUT! Civilian on the floor!” Bokuto’s voice booms across the room, sweaty hair sticking up, arms mid-air like you’d broken the rules of gravity just by showing up.

Atsumu, flat on a bench press with Kageyama spotting him, twists his head far too dramatically toward you and lets out a long, low whistle. “Ain’t no civilian, Bo. That’s Iwaizumi’s wife. And she’s lookin’ like she’s about to drop that baby right here in front of the dumbbells.”

You don’t even get the chance to sigh before you spot him—Hajime, towel around his neck, clipboard tucked under one arm, halfway through barking cues at someone doing squats. His head snaps toward you the second he hears Bokuto’s yell, and his entire body goes rigid. The clipboard hits the bench with a clatter. The towel is forgotten. His mouth moves, but there’s no time for words—he’s already weaving through machines and teammates, practically charging toward you like the floor itself might crumble under your feet.

“You walked here? Alone?” he demands as soon as he’s within a few feet, eyes scanning you from head to toe like he’s checking for bruises.

“I’m not made of paper, Hajime. I walked from the apartment. Not across a battlefield.” You hold the wallet up between two fingers, giving him a pointed look. “You left this on the counter, by the way.”

He takes it, but barely spares it a glance. His attention is completely on you—his wife, his very-pregnant-wife, standing in the middle of the Olympic team’s weight room surrounded by free weights, kettlebells, unstable mats, and volleyball players who think balance training on BOSU balls is a personality trait.

“This place isn’t safe for you,” he mutters under his breath, eyes narrowing at a barbell someone just let crash onto the floor nearby. “You shouldn’t be around this equipment. There’s too many ways you could trip, or get knocked, or—hell—slip on a chalk patch.”

You raise your eyebrows and gesture around you. “I am standing still, Hajime. On flat ground. Wearing shoes. Holding a wallet. This is not a life-threatening activity.”

His lips flatten into a tight line. “You’re thirty-eight weeks. You should be sitting, preferably somewhere padded, with a bottle of water and a snack within reach.”

You blink. “Are you reading off a checklist right now?”

He doesn’t answer.

At that moment, Komori jogs up with his usual bounce, sweat still gleaming on his forehead and a towel slung haphazardly over his shoulder. “Wait—this is your wife? The one we keep hearing about?”

“He doesn’t talk about her,” Kiryu calls from the dumbbell rack, not even bothering to look up. “He says stuff like ‘my wife made soup’ and ‘my wife needs pickles.’ That’s it. That’s all we get.”

You offer a small, amused smile and rest both hands on your stomach. “Hi. Yes. I’m Soup-and-Pickles. Thirty-eight weeks along. Full of baby. And apparently one bad step away from being put in a medically induced nap.”

There’s a chorus of laughter, though it’s mixed with soft whistles of awe as more of the team gravitates toward you. Aran strolls over with a light smile, while Hinata’s practically vibrating behind him.

“You really came all the way here?” Aran asks.

“It’s ten minutes from home,” you reply, shooting a glance up at your husband who still looks like he’s trying to map the safest escape route out of the gym for you. “I’m pregnant, not cursed.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Iwaizumi mutters. “You’re standing next to iron weights in Converse. That’s a hostile environment.”

You roll your eyes, adjusting the strap on your bag. “They’re high-tops. Extra support.”

Before he can scold you further, Hinata suddenly leans forward with stars in his eyes. “Is the baby kicking?”

“Oh yeah,” you nod, hand moving instinctively to the right side of your belly. “She’s training for nationals, I think. My ribs are her new personal practice net.”

“Can I feel?” Komori blurts out, his expression open and hopeful.

You’re about to say yes, but Hajime moves before you can answer, shifting his stance ever so slightly to put his body between you and Komori with the quiet intensity of a dad who’s already protective before the baby’s even born.

“She’s not a mascot,” he says flatly.

You place your palm on his chest. “Hajime. It’s fine.”

His eyes flicker to yours. He relents with a small sigh, stepping aside like it physically pains him to do so.

Komori gently places his hand on your stomach, and when the baby kicks, his face lights up like someone handed him a puppy. “Oh my god. That’s incredible.”

Kageyama peers over curiously. “Does it feel weird?”

“Like an alien living under your skin,” you say cheerfully. “And sometimes the alien cries when you don’t feed it grilled cheese at exactly 3 a.m.”

“Sounds terrifying,” Sakusa mumbles nearby, adjusting a band on his wrist.

“Iwaizumi,” Yaku calls from where he’s doing banded lunges, “you better give that kid rock-solid calves. I don’t care how. It’s your duty.”

“Oh, we’re starting this already?” you laugh. “Pressure before she’s even out of the womb?”

“Oh, we’ve been taking bets,” Suna says, finally looking up from his phone with the laziest smile. “Due date, hair color, position they’ll play.”

“Definitely not libero,” Bokuto adds, puffing his chest. “That baby’s got outside hitter energy.”

“I swear to god,” Iwaizumi mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

You press a soft kiss to his jaw and whisper just loud enough for him to hear, “You love it.”

He doesn’t answer. Just wraps one arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side, hand resting low and protective on the curve of your stomach. He kisses the top of your head. Quiet. Steady.

You nudge him lightly and lift a brow. “Still mad I walked into the weight room?”

He looks down at you, expression flat. “I am always mad when you walk into a room with flying metal plates and men with the coordination of blindfolded rhinos.”

“I brought you your wallet.”

“And almost gave me a stroke in the process.”

You grin, dig into his pocket, and pull out one of his protein bars. “And I’m stealing your snack.”

“…Unbelievable.”

[jesuisstay]

Listen… I’m ovulating so this post isn’t my fault

✨Christopher x housewife!reader (AFAB)

Contains: smut, breeding kind, dirty talk, lactation kink (hinted), mentions of an existing child

MINORS DONT INTERACT (I will tell your legal guardian)

“Chrisss! Baby!” The words barely scrapped out with the effort to keep all other sounds at the minimum.

The ache of your legs was starting to seep in, but with the vibration of the dryer under you and the way your husband was moving in and out of you dulled the ache to near negligible.

”Let me hear you, pretty girl. No one’s gonna hear us. Not over the washing machine and Delta’s noise machine.” His sultry trance kept you locked in as he lowered his forehead to your’s. No time to worry about the pristine image you had crafted as he had your skirt rucked up to your stomach and perspiration on your brow.

The rough pad of his finger was ruthless on your clit, sending you clench erratically around him. His grunts were intoxicating whenever the slipped between the magnetic pull of his lips on yours.

”I come home to my girl all pretty. Pretty as the day I first saw her. Only now I can do all the things I dreamed about to ya.” Another chuckle at the shiver of your body. “You’d let me do what I want, right baby? In the state your in?”

Some form of a mangled moan left your hips as you buck into him harder.

“How about another baby?Oh fuck baby don’t clench too hard. I bet we could just make another baby right now. Make Delta a big sister. What do you say? Let me fuck another one into you?”

“oh fuck baby. You’re so fucking tight. Don’t worry baby, I’m gonna make it so good. Gonna bury myself so deep in you that none of it will be wasted. Fuck just thinking about you swollen with my cum and my child.”

“You’re tits are leaking baby. You’re body s’already knows what’s coming. Don’t worry Delta or I won’t let it go to waste while we wait on our next little ones.”

“Come with me baby. I want you clenching around me when I fill you up.”

[toshisdecadence]

ERROR 404: Overload!

PAIRING: svarog x mechanic!fem reader

TAGS & WARNINGS: dark content, dubcon (reader says it’s too much but svarog has a mission to collect data), rough sex, multiple rounds, dom!svarog, sub!fem reader, svarog is Massive, cervix mentions, tummy bulge descriptions, multiple rounds, overstimulation, size difference, power dynamics, size kink, fingering, unrealistic sex, robot fuckers unite!, can you tell i have a size kink?

WORD COUNT: 5.1k

SUMMARY: You discover the reason why Svarog wears pants.

© toshisdecadence

The repair bay smelled faintly of heated metal, coolant fluid, and faint traces of alcohol; a sharp tang that clung to the sterile air. You barely noticed it anymore, accustomed to the hum of machinery and the faint vibration of tools against metal. But today, that hum was louder, and the vibrations sharper, emanating not from your usual repair work but from the massive, battle-worn war machine sitting across from you.

Svarog loomed over the room, his 8’11 frame too large for the reinforced chair you’d hastily reinforced when he arrived. His joints hissed faintly, micro-servos struggling to compensate for the damage he’d sustained during the Wardance duel against Luka earlier that day. Faint dents marred his reinforced dark blue chest plating, and faint sparks sputtered from the exposed wiring along his arm.

You reached for your tools, hyper-aware of the pinkish-red glow of his cyclopean optical sensor tracking your every movement.

“Superficial damage sustained. Functionality remains above 90%. Repairs are non-essential.” His voice rumbled, a deep, mechanical timbre that sent a shiver up your spine.

You regarded him critically. “Non-essential? Your vents are overheating, and you’re rattling like a dying starship. Sit still and let me work.”

He didn’t argue. Svarog was nothing if not logical, and logic dictated that he allow himself to be repaired. Still, there was a tension to him, a stiffness beyond the rigid design of his armor. He didn’t like being examined, didn’t like lowering his guard to anyone else other than Clara, even in the hands of someone who statistically meant him no harm or stood a chance against him.

You stepped closer, tools in hand, and gently pressed against the plating on his shoulder. His frame vibrated under your touch, a subtle hum you might have missed if you hadn’t been so close.

“Core temperature stable,” he intoned. “Subsystems fully operational.”

“Your fans tell a different story,” you muttered, running diagnostics through a handheld scanner. “You’re burning hotter than you should be.”

Svarog didn’t respond right away, but you could feel his pinkish-red optic watching your hands as they worked, tracking each movement with the precision of an apex predator. The thought sent an odd warmth through your body, and you tried to shake it off. 

You needed to focus.

The repairs took you lower, inspecting the dents along his torso plating. The main brunt of the damage he took from Luka’s mechanical arm focused around his torso. One of the seams had split, exposing a layer of reinforced polymer beneath the outer shell. Carefully, you reached for the damaged panel, fingers brushing against the edge of the pants covering his lower half. It was an unusual addition for a machine built for combat, and one that always raised questions in your mind.

You tugged lightly at the material, intending only to check the joints underneath, but your fingers brushed against something unexpected beneath the fabric.

Your breath hitched.

The surface wasn’t the cold hardness of metal or the pliable texture of synthetic padding. It was smooth, warm, and distinctly… organic in shape.

You froze, pulling your hand back as though burned.

His optic dimmed slightly in a flicker that you’d come to recognize as his equivalent of a blink.

You swallowed down the saliva that had gathered in your mouth, gesturing vaguely at his lower half, struggling to form the words.

Svarog tilted his head, the motion eerily human. “This component was included in my original design for biological infiltration protocols.”

You stared at him as if he grew a second head. “Biological… infiltration?”

“My model is the third series of the Monitoring Automaton Prototype, engineered to simulate human anatomy. The purpose was strategic manipulation through intimate interactions if required by mission parameters.”

Your throat felt dryer, and the question that left your mouth sounded ridiculous even to you. “You’re telling me someone thought it’d be a good idea to put a dick on a war machine?”

“Affirmative.”

His voice remained perfectly calm, but your face was burning. A sneaky glance at his lower half rendered you speechless once again. Whoever designed Svarog certainly made his… appendage proportional to his hulking body.

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out strained. “And… what? You’ve just been...” You made an awkward gesture with your hand, “carrying it around this whole time?”

“Correct. The feature has never been activated.”

He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world, and somehow that made it worse.

You stared at him in disbelief. “Do you even know how it works?”

Svarog paused, the glow of his optic focusing intently on you. It flickered momentarily.

“My systems include theoretical data on function and compatibility. However, no practical demonstrations have been performed.”

The room felt hotter suddenly, and you were certain that it wasn’t because of Svarog’s malfunctioning fans. Your mind raced with countless possibilities. Given Svarog’s size, you weren’t even sure how anyone was supposed to take that. Did it have a shrinking feature? Did it automatically adjust with Svarog’s… partner? 

You swallowed, trying to steer the conversation back to something technical and banish the questions swirling in your head.

“Right,” you muttered, clearing your throat. “Well, let’s make sure you don’t explode first. Then we’ll worry about your…” Your traitorous gaze flickered down again, swallowing, “attachments.”

You regretted the words the second they left your mouth. Svarog’s optic dimmed again, and he shifted in his seat with a faint creak of metal.

“Acknowledged.”

You groaned internally and forced yourself to focus, pulling open the next panel and reaching in to check his sensor nodes. But you couldn’t help the way your mind kept wandering to the warm, flexible material hidden underneath that fabric. Whoever invented Svarog’s model was an absolute pervert and lunatic, you thought to yourself. A war machine equipped with a dick? You still could not wrap your head around it. To the way Svarog had described it so matter-of-factly, like it was just another tool in his arsenal.

And yet… the tension in his frame, the way his systems overcompensated whenever you touched him, those weren’t reactions you’d expect from a simple machine.

Your hands hovered above the exposed sensor nodes, still adjusting the connections, but your thoughts were no longer entirely focused on the task at hand.

It was impossible to ignore the strange electric tension in the air between you and Svarog. Every time your fingers brushed against his cooling panels or adjusted a wiring interface, you felt it; the subtle hum of his systems, almost like a heartbeat. Or maybe it was just the increasing proximity to his form, which felt more real with every touch, even if you knew he wasn’t alive in the traditional sense.

The heat beneath his outer plating felt too organic, too alive. The warmth spread further with each subtle shift of his hulking frame as you adjusted his internals, a mechanical symphony of soft clicks and hums that made your breath catch in your throat.

This was nothing like the Intellitrons.

You had worked with hundreds to thousands of them over the years, and each time it had been the same routine: simple diagnostics, quick fixes, nothing too complicated. They were built for efficiency, cold efficiency. Their systems were bare-bones, nothing more than a body of metal and circuits with only the basic instincts to follow commands.

But Svarog…

He was different. Complex. His systems, his body, everything about him screamed intricacy and human-like design. A part of you resigned yourself to further look into Svarog’s specific model. Perhaps it was time to take a deeper look into Belobogian technology. Even the way Svarog’s body responded to your touch felt foreign. He was more than just a machine, wasn’t he? He wasn’t just a war machine, a combat tool; there was something underneath, something untapped, a feature of his yet to be understood.

And that thought… that burning curiosity clawed at you.

You’d always prided yourself on being a mechanic. You understood machines, systems, the cold logic of how things worked. But Svarog wasn’t cold. Wasn’t simple. The way his body responded to your movements, the imperceptible shifts in his temperature, the faint, almost unnoticeable changes in his posture whenever your fingers brushed too close to certain sensitive spots—all of it made you wonder.

What if I pushed him further?

A thought you could barely even process, but it lingered, stubborn. The daring curiosity that ran deep within you as a mechanic—was this not what you lived for? To understand the unknown, to push the limits of what could be fixed, adjusted, modified? Svarog’s design wasn’t just mechanical, it felt like a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve, like a language you only understood in fragments.

Your hands moved to reconnect a set of wires, but you barely felt the tools in your grip. The warmth from his frame was distracting, constantly pulling your focus away from the task at hand.

You set your tools down with a sharp click, exhaling as you leaned back from Svarog’s towering frame. The repairs were done. Functionally complete. His damaged plating had been reinforced, circuits reconnected, and his sensor nodes recalibrated. Everything checked out.

Or at least, it should have felt finished.

But you lingered.

Your gaze swept over him again, tracing the seams of his armor and the smooth lines of his construction. Svarog wasn’t like the Intellitrons. His design was deliberate. Every joint, every harsh angle of his frame, was crafted with an almost human elegance that made your brain stutter every time you tried to compare him to standard machinery. Even the sections hidden beneath his plating—the ones you briefly glimpsed while making repairs—were unnervingly realistic in their precision.

And then there were the features he’d kept covered.

You dragged your gaze back to his waist, to the reinforced plating that remained stubbornly intact throughout the repairs. That section.

You hadn’t needed to touch it, hadn’t even dared to ask about it again, but the shape and positioning had made it impossible not to notice. That, combined with the suspicious necessity of his pants, had left your mind spiraling with questions you couldn’t shake.

Why go to such lengths to simulate humanity in that area?

You knew you shouldn’t care. You were a mechanic. Curiosity was natural. It came with the job. But no matter how many times you tried to frame it as a purely technical interest, your pulse told you otherwise.

It wasn’t just simple curiosity. It was a fixation.

You reached out, under the pretense of double-checking one of his sensor-nodes, but your fingers hesitated. You could feel the faint hum of his systems through the plating, steady and constant, and for reasons you didn’t want to unpack, it made the room feel smaller, like the two of you were occupying too much space at once.

“You are hesitating,” Svarog declared suddenly, his mechanical voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

You froze, pulling your hand back like you’d been caught committing a crime. “No, I was just making sure everything’s—”

“False,” he interrupted. His optic seemed red as it regarded you. “Your behavior has deviated from standard patterns. Focus is inconsistent. Eye movement suggests distraction.”

You swallowed hard, heat rushing to your face. Svarog wasn’t wrong, and worse, he wasn’t letting it go.

“Your gaze has returned to my lower half multiple times,” he continued, his tone as flat as ever. “Body temperature elevated by 15.3 percent. Heart rate increased. These patterns suggest heightened interest.”

You felt your stomach flip as he laid out your reactions like cold, hard data. And yet, his voice was so mechanical, so calm and detached, that it made the weight of your embarrassment feel even heavier.

“I can conclude the source of your distraction,” Svarog added. “You are exhibiting curiosity regarding the anatomical structure concealed beneath my armor.”

You didn’t know whether to flat out deny it or run out of the room entirely. Neither option felt viable. At least, not with him towering over you like that, unflinching, his glowing optics locked onto your every move.

“I—no, it’s not like that,” you stammered, even though you knew it was exactly like that.

“Your biological responses contradict your statement,” he said simply. “You are aware of the human-like components integrated into my design. Your fixation suggests a desire to understand their functionality.”

Your breath hitched. The words functionality and components should have grounded you. It should have made this situation feel as clinical as he seemed to think it was. But instead, they only fueled the heat already curling in your stomach.

Because Svarog was right.

You wanted to know—Aeons, you’ve been dying to know—how far his human design extended. And now that the repairs were done, now that he’d laid the truth bare, it felt impossible to stop.

“You are not the first to display interest in this feature,” Svarog continued, as though he were listing out schematics. “However, prior inquiries did not progress past verbal questioning. You are demonstrating physical tension indicative of deeper investigation.”

Your throat felt dryer than the desert.

“I propose a solution,” Svarog said, tilting his head slightly. “Controlled exploration. Further data on synthetic anatomy is limited. Your curiosity provides an opportunity for analysis and documentation.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He wasn’t joking. He couldn’t joke.

“You are suggesting we… test this?”

“Correct.”

His lack of hesitation made your pulse stutter. He saw this as a logical step, nothing more than a means to gather data, and yet, the way his frame loomed over you, the hum of his systems almost vibrating through the air, felt anything but detached.

“Decision required,” Svarog said after a beat. “Proceed with testing, or terminate this interaction?”

Your body betrayed you before your mind could catch up.

“Proceed,” you said softly.

His optics flared slightly—almost imperceptibly—before he nodded.

“Acknowledged. Experiment initiated.”

Svarog wasn’t designed to rush.

He worked methodically, his plated fingers tracing along your thighs—testing, measuring, pressing into the soft flesh as though assessing the tensile strength of your muscles. Assessing how much you could take.

“Body temperature elevated by 1.8 degrees,” he noted, his optics narrowing slightly. “Pulse irregular. Predictive analysis suggests heightened arousal.”

You whimpered as his thick mechanical fingers dipped lower, sliding between your legs without hesitation. He brushed against your heat, deliberately testing the slickness already building there.

“Lubrication present,” he said. “Preliminary preparation observed. Additional stimulation required.”

You barely had any time to register his words before his thumb pressed against your clit. The motion was slow, deliberate, grinding down just enough to make your thighs tremble.

Too much.

The smoothness of his plating, the slight hum of his servos adjusting with every movement, left you aching almost instantly. He applied more pressure, adjusting the angle like he was calibrating the motion for maximum effect.

You gasped, hips jerking against him instinctively, and Svarog’s optics dimmed.

“Response strength at 63 percent,” he observed. “Testing deeper penetration.”

You bit back a cry as his fingers slipped inside. Thick, unyielding, and cool against your heat. He stretched you slowly, adding another finger almost immediately, pushing past the tight resistance with clinical focus.

“Muscle tension detected,” he said, his thumb circling the erect pearl of your clit again as his fingers curled inside of you. “Adjusting pressure.”

You whimpered as he spread his fingers, stretching you wider until the ache blurred into something hotter, sharper.

“Elasticity improving,” he noted, tilting his head as he pressed deeper. “Lubrication increased by 24 percent.”

You clenched around him, your gummy walls struggling to accommodate the deliberate stretch, and Svarog’s optics flickered.

“Resistance still measurable,” he said, slowing his movements. “Further preparation required.”

Your head was spinning by the time he added a third finger, the burn almost too much, but Svarog didn’t falter. His fingers moved with precise rhythm, pumping and curling until the tension broke, and your body melted around him.

Svarog’s mechanical fingers lingered inside you, coated in slickness as he worked them deeper—pressing, stretching, curling with deliberate precision. His thumb dragged slow, circular patterns over your clit, the rhythm steady enough to make your hips jolt against him in a helpless, uncontrollable reaction.

“Muscle tension improving,” he observed. “Current dilation at 73 percent. Additional preparation recommended.”

His tone was calm, detached, but the way his optics dimmed as he watched your thighs trembling betrayed something deeper. He pressed in further, adding another finger. Thicker. Unyielding. Enough to force a sharp gasp to tumble out of your throat.

The burn was too much and not enough all at once, your body clenching down against the stretch even as your legs fell further apart under his firm grip.

You could feel yourself dripping, already struggling to take his fingers, but Svarog didn’t falter. He spread them wider, deliberately testing your limits, and the ache left you clawing at his arm, nails scraping helplessly against smooth plating.

“Elasticity increased by 18 percent,” he said, pulling his fingers free with a lewd, wet squelch that made your breath hitch and your cheeks burn. He inspected the slick coating his fingers before tilting his head slightly. “Sufficient for insertion.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before you heard the sound of fabric rustling. Your eyes widened as he was lining up, the thick, mechanical weight of his massive cock pressing against your sopping entrance and making your stomach twist with a sharp mix of anticipation and fear. His cock contrasted the rest of his metallic body, covered by a synthetic material that seemed to emulate the sensation of skin.

“Size differential detected,” Svarog noted, palming your thigh to angle your hips upward. “Accommodating size will result in initial resistance.”

You bit back a cry as he pushed forward, the broad, blunted tip spreading you open with agonizing slowness. The pain is sharp, your walls pulsing and struggling to accommodate him even after the preparation.

Too big.

The words barely formed in your mind before the pressure stole the thought away entirely. You gasped sharply, arching as he forced himself deeper, the stretch too much. Burning, tearing, making your legs shake uncontrollably.

Svarog’s grip on your hips tightened as he paused, allowing you a brief moment of reprieve to adjust, but as his optics flickered, scanning the trembling of your muscles and the fluttering of your gummy walls around him.

“Pain response detected. Estimating threshold at 62 percent.”

You cried out as his hands tilted your hips. You were barely able to breathe as he pressed further, the new angle forcing him deeper into your cunt, and your stomach twisted as you felt it. His cock bullied its way in, the meaty girth of his shaft forcing you wider and wider until you swore you could feel it pressing against everything, imprinting his shape inside of you.

Too much. Too deep.

Tears welled in your eyes as your body struggled to take him, your hands scrabbling against his frame, fingers digging uselessly into unmoving steel.

Svarog’s hand pressed against your stomach, his thumb grazing the prominent bulge already forming there.

“Internal displacement observed,” he said, pushing down slightly to feel the way his massive cock shifted inside of you. The sensation earned a quiver of your legs, the pressure in between your legs rendering you unable to utter a coherent sentence. “Pressure response increasing. Adapting angle.”

Your head fell back with a guttural cry as he adjusted, pressing even deeper, his thumb brushing over the bulge experimentally while he thrust deeper, the bulge in your stomach shifting with him. It felt like the wind was knocked out of your lungs. Your lips fell open in a silent cry, eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your body clenched down hard, pulsing and fluttering, struggling against the size, and Svarog stilled.

“Involuntary constriction detected,” he said, his optics dimming slightly.

His free hand reached up, spreading your thighs wider, and he began to move.

Slow, deliberate thrusts that forced you to feel every excruciating inch of him.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

All you could do was feel. The stretch, the ache, the grinding pressure of him bottoming out inside you again and again and again. The bulge in your stomach shifted with every thrust, a visible reminder of just how deep he was, how much he was filling you.

Svarog’s optics glowed faintly as he observed you, his gaze calculating and unwavering as your body trembled beneath him. Each shallow breath you took, each gasp for air as his cock pressed deeper, he noted, analyzing the involuntary way your body gripped him, how your muscles fluttered around him with every thrust.

“Heart rate accelerating. Muscular tension increasing. Increased stimulation evident.”

He could see the way your body reacted. How your hands clenched, how your thighs shook, how the bulge in your stomach shifted with each deep push, marking the extent to which he had filled you. He watched the way your chest heaved, the way your pupils dilated with every inch of him that stretched you wider, deeper, further than you ever thought possible.

You were on the brink of breaking, the tension in your body growing unbearable as your mouth opened in a silent scream, unable to keep up with the onslaught of sensations. Your body, desperate for more and yet unable to fully handle what was happening, was his to command, and he couldn’t help but watch in quiet fascination as you succumbed to the overwhelming pleasure.

You were becoming dumber. So much of you just couldn’t function anymore. You were speechless, unable to utter a coherent sentence, broken down by the intensity of his cock fucking its way into you, and the way you melted against him was nothing short of fascinating. Your voice was lost to you, your thoughts clouded by raw sensation, but the pleasure you felt was clear. It was painted across every quiver of your body, the sheen of beaded sweat lining your face and neck, in the strained arch of your back, the desperate shuddering of your limbs.

He could hear the soft whimpering sounds, could see the way your face twisted with both pain and pleasure, and his own systems hummed with the data flooding his internal logs. Every reaction of yours was so genuine, so untouched by reason. It was an anomaly he had never experienced.

Svarog’s mechanical frame moved with precision, his movements controlled and deliberate. His systems hummed as he observed you, his optics tracking every microexpression, every shuddering breath as you struggled to adjust to the overwhelming size that filled you.

He didn’t feel pleasure. He didn’t need it, not the way you did. But the reactions you were giving him—the way your body trembled, the way your walls spasmed around him—were intriguing, data points he had yet to fully understand.

“Subject’s body reacting to size discrepancy. Estimated stretch threshold surpassed.”

Your hands were clutching at him, your fingers slipping over his cool metal plating, desperately trying to find purchase. Your tight walls clung to him as though your body was doing everything it could to resist the sensation, even though it was now obvious that you couldn’t fight it. Your body was becoming swallowed by him, opening wide to accommodate what it was never meant to handle.

Svarog’s movement’s never faltered, his thrusts measured and precise, studying you as your body began to react involuntarily. Your walls spasmed around him, tighter and tighter, almost as though your body was trying to pull him deeper despite the overwhelming stretch.

“Subject’s body is exhibiting signs of imminent climax. Response timing has been measured.”

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Your entire body stiffed, an involuntary shudder running through you as every nerve seemed to light up at once. Your vision blurred, the sounds of your ragged breathing filling your ears, mixing with the overwhelming sensation of being stretched beyond belief. Your walls contracted and released rapidly, the pressure inside you finally exploding, and you cried out his name, the world barely a whisper between gasps.

The release sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, and Svarog could see it. How your body trembled, how your legs locked around his waist, pulling him even deeper—if that was even possible. You were speechless, your mind blank as your body convulsed in ecstasy, your insides gripping him with a tightness that was almost painful.

“Subject has achieved climax. Response exceeds expectations.”

Your breaths came in desperate, uncoordinated gasps as the waves of pleasure crashed over you, and your body was left quivering, unable to do anything but absorb the aftershocks of your mind-numbing release. Your thighs quivered, feeling your cum trickling down your skin, staining his metal plating.

Svarog, ever the observer, did not stop. He noted the way your body reacted to each of his thrusts, the way your tummy bulged with each movement, the way your warm walls clamped down involuntarily as you tried to regain control of your senses.

Despite the fact that Svarog himself could not feel pleasure, there was something undeniably fascinating about the way you came undone beneath him, your body fighting for control even as it surrendered entirely to him.

He continued moving inside you, his mechanical precision relentless, watching as you flinched with each motion, your body too sensitive now to handle it. Your hands, still pawing weakly at his arms, combined with your whimpered protests of it being too much, were growing weaker, and the sensations were too much for you to bear, but still, he kept going, his own curiosity driving him. He wanted to see how much more you could take, how much more your body could endure before it reached its limit.

You were still trembling, still catching your breath, your mind scattered and lost in the aftereffects of your climax. He could see your skin shimmering with sweat, your breasts rising and falling, the way your hips thrusted up to meet his even though you were lost in the throes of overstimulation.

“Subject remains responsive despite signs of fatigue,” he observed. “Data indicates further analysis needed.”

You were so tight, so overstimulated, and yet your body responded again as though it couldn’t stop itself. Another surge of pleasure crashed through you, pulling another, more broken moan from your lips. It was overwhelming, too much, but your body needed it, responding in ways that only deepened his analysis of the situation.

Svarog’s focus didn’t waver. He watched as your body shook with every movement, your legs quivering with the strain of accommodating him, and still, he continued, his thrusts growing deeper, more relentless. His fingers dug into your hips, hard enough to leave litters of bruises that resembled the shade of his metal plating, holding you in place, using your body as a tool for his data collection.

He could see the way you reacted to the sensations, your face contorting in a combination of pain and pleasure, your eyes wide and unfocused, the way your mouth parted as though you couldn’t form any coherent words. Your body had become nothing but a series of responses, unable to control the way you moved or how you moaned, each sound increasing in volume and intensity as he continued to jackhammer into you.

Your stomach bulged from the pressure, each thrust deepening the curve, showing just how much of him you were struggling to take. Your body was so small, so delicate compared to his design—a machine of war—and yet it was somehow adjusting, somehow taking him all the way in, and with each inch he could see your entire body shift, your muscles trembling, walls contracting and clenching around him.

Svarog observed with detachment, but a small part of him couldn’t ignore how your body seemed to respond, how the very tightness of your searingly hot walls seemed to tug at him, pull him deeper as though it wanted to trap him there—needed him to stay there. The way you trembled beneath him, struggling to remain grounded as your body was filled with something so vast compared to your form. He noted how your skin glistened, how you arch your back, trying to take more of him, trying your damned best to accommodate his size.

Svarog noted how you were losing coherence, your once-clear expression now a mess of uncontrollable need, your eyes glazing over as you gave in to the rhythm he set. He couldn’t deny the way your body seemed to yearn for more, even as you struggled with the sheer size of him.

The final stretch was the worst for you, and the best for him. He felt your body grip him, squeezing him impossibly tight as he buried himself to the hilt. This earned a strained sob from your lips. Your stomach bulged more than ever before, a visual testament to just how much of him you had taken, how far he had pushed you. He could see your body tremble, your limbs shaking, your quivering lips gasping for breath.

Yet, even as your body was on the edge, unraveling beneath him, Svarog did not stop. The data was still incomplete. He needed more. He needed to see how much you could endure, how much pleasure your body could take from the sheer act of him pounding into you.

And so, he continued, calculating the rhythms, watching as you came again with a scream of his name, your body seizing, the loud moan that escaped your lips barely audible over the overwhelming noise in your head. It was the most raw, vulnerable he had ever seen you—or any human—and it only fascinated him more.

With another deep thrust, you shuddered, and this time, Svarog could see your body collapse against the surface beneath you, completely undone. You were breathless, barely coherent, your limbs shaking as the final waves of pleasure raked through your senses.

Svarog paused, his cool hands steadying your trembling body, allowing you to come down from the dizzying high. He could continue for as long as he wanted, but your body was too spent for further testing. He could still see the evidence of your come, dripping down in translucent milky strings to the surface beneath you, painting your inner thighs. Svarog decided that this must be what humans described as “beautiful.”

“Conclusion: Subject’s tolerance to size discrepancy has surpassed previous estimates. Data collection complete.”

[rafeandonlyrafe]

morning cravings

words: 1.1k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, friends to lovers, mentions of past hookups and drinking, semi public sex

you pull out your phone and quickly type out a message to rafe.

im coming over. unlock the door for me.

you push your feet into your tennis shoes before he even texts back.

i was about to hop in the shower

i don't care. my coffee machine broke and im dying without my caffeine 

you grab your bag before heading out the door, crossing the street to rafes house, having lived next to him your entire life.

“hey.” you mumble as rafe opens the door for you. you don't even look around as you enter, knowing his house like the back of your hand.

“wheezie just bought some new syrups if you want to try them out.” rafe says before retreating out of the kitchen, knowing you'll be in a bad mood until you have a mug of hot coffee in your hand.

you don't put much care into your first cup, drinking it black and gulping half down before adding some syrups and milk.

you sip slower now, padding around the house and it's many rooms until you find rafe.

“thanks.” you tell him. “where is everyone?”

“probably asleep still.” rafe says. he knows you always get up early, and he's adjusted his schedule throughout the years to fit with yours.

“hm.” you hum out, taking another sip of the bitter coffee before setting it down on the side table. “do you think we have time to fuck?”

“i-” rafe sits up suddenly, straightening out his previously slumped position. “what?”

“remember that time we hooked up?” you question, moving with confidence to sit on rafes lap, placing your knees on the couch cushion on either side of his thighs.

“we were both blacked out though. i thought for the sake of our friendship we agreed to not-”

you cut rafe off by surging forward and pressing your lips against his. “i want you. now.”

rafe doesn't question it. if he did you'd probably admit that your vibrator frustratingly died on you last night and wouldn't charge, leading to your pent up attitude.

rafe kisses you harshly, one arm wrapping around your waist to pull you in flush to his body while his other hand comes to the back of your head, holding you close as his lips attack yours.

“fuck, we don't have much time though.” rafe says, breathing faster already as his muscular chest rises and falls.

“i want you right here.” you reach down and pet your palm over rafes crotch, feeling his length harden under the plaid pajama pants material. “we can fuck again later in your room, but i need you to make me cum right now.”

“okay.” rafe tries to stay listening to the stairs, waiting for a creak to tell him to stop, but the second your hand moves under the hem of his pants, all is forgotten.

you pull his cock out, wrapping your hand around his length as you stroke up and down, grinding yourself down against his thighs to get you even wetter than you already are.

“take your shorts off.” rafe says, hand coming to your ass and giving it a squeeze, a smile growing on his face when you get off his lap only to turn and have your bum face him as you pull down your shorts and underwear, bearing your pussy to rafe.

you expect him to let you turn around and ride him, use his body if he doesn't feel like helping, but suddenly your thighs are being spread by long slender fingers and rafes mouth is on your cunt.

you moan out probably too loudly and lean forward to place your hands on the coffee table as rafes tongue swipes through your folds, tasting all the juices and wetness that has accumulated.

“god.” you whine, pushing your hips back against rafes face. “don't stop.”

you feel his mouth drop slightly to reach your clit, his lips wrapping around your bud as he sucks. 

your fingers dig into the wooden table as you moan out again, trying to keep yourself from screaming as you grind back against his face.

rafe eats you out for as long as he will allow himself while in the living room. he stands suddenly, tongue licking at your wetness covering his lips.

before you can stand or turn, rafes cock is pressed against your entrance, his hands on your hips.

“fuck me rafe.” you tell him, looking over your shoulder. “fuck me hard.”

you don't have to tell rafe twice as he sinks into you, both letting out curses at the sudden intense pleasure.

rafe pauses for just a moment, somewhat to let you adjust but more so to allow himself a deep breath and refocus on not cumming too soon despite your cunt clutching his cock, seemingly sucking his length deeper inside of you.

“so fucking-” rafe gasps. “warm and wet.”

you open your mouth to respond with some quip when rafe begins to thrust, pounding into you with abandon, not treating you like you've been his best friend since kindergarten but like a whore he's having a one night stand with.

it makes you regret not giving in to the lust sooner as rafes hand reaches around your midsection and his fingers find your clit, strumming it with rhythm in time with his hips.

“we're doing this more often.” you tell rafe, who nods in agreement despite you facing away from him, he can't find his words at the moment.

“god, your cock is big.” you moan out. you remember the hookup somewhat despite telling rafe the next day you didn't, but a cock like his leaves an impression even in a completely blacked out drunk mind.

rafes fingers pinch at your clit, smiling as he feels your pussy grip his cock tighter every time.

the one hand on your hip is grabbing you so tightly you're sure to be bruises, but you just want rafe to cover you completely, marking you as his.

“im-im not gonna last much longer.” rafe says. 

“rub me faster.” you command, eyes squeezing shut as you focus on the high building inside of you, wanting to cum at the same time as rafe.

his cock swells inside of you, pushing even further against your walls as your orgasm suddenly breeches as you cum with a gasp and a cry of rafes name.

you let out a whine when rafe suddenly pulls out, his cum spurting across your bum as he jacks himself off.

“the fuck?” you ask, turning around. “i wanted you to cum inside of me!”

“i-i-” rafe stutters, his eyes widening.

“come on.” you groan, pulling your shorts back on and grabbing your sullied, wet underwear. “you can make it up to me in your room.”

you make sure to grab your coffee before heading up the stairs.

[pankesitopank]

AHHHH I SAW YOU DID MY REQUEST THANK YOUUU I LOVED IT IT WAS SO CUTE I couldn’t message you when I saw bc I was in the middle of finals (sorryy 😖) but I really loved it thank uu 😍. Anyway I have another request unfortunately #desperate. I was thinking of like bff Jisung who’s like in love w reader and is babysitting their dog and finds a special toy while looking for clothes to wear and becomes all whiney and stuttery n stuff while using it 😛. thank you for listening 🙂‍↕️

Caught!

wc: 3k

bff!han jisung x fem!reader

cw: bff to lovers - use of vibrator - reader catches him on the act - perv jisung - overstimulation - whiny and desperate han - creampie - crying (han) - softdom!reader

note: i love you chezzeballs300

You hadn’t meant to leave him alone. Not really. But your dog had taken to Jisung like he was a goddamn chew toy with a pulse, and your last-minute appointment couldn’t be rescheduled. You’d barely shoved your shoes on when Jisung waved you out the door with that lazy grin of his, already on the floor being licked to death.

“I got him, don’t worry!” he called through the laughter, voice slightly muffled under the weight of sixty pounds of overexcited canine. “Go! Save the world or whatever!”

You’d thanked him, blown him a kiss out of habit. He’d caught it and pressed it to his cheek with a dopey smile you didn’t see.

So now here he was—alone in your apartment. Hair fluffed from your couch pillows. Hoodie slightly damp from dog drool. Slippers too small and squishing his toes.

And he was comfortable. Really. You were his best friend. This was fine.

He flopped onto your bed after taking the dog for a quick walk, scrolling through his phone and letting the soft afternoon light warm his face. The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the summer breeze. Somewhere down the hall, your laundry machine hummed a rhythm he didn’t recognize.

Your scent was everywhere.

That shampoo you always used, the hint of vanilla you swore wasn’t perfume. The gentle, feminine quiet of your space that wrapped around him like a blanket. Jisung buried his face in your pillow before he could stop himself.

And then—

Drool.

“Aw, come on,” he groaned, scrubbing at the wet patch on his hoodie. “Dude, you’re worse than me.”

The dog blinked innocently from the floor, tail wagging in slow thumps.

Jisung sighed, tugging the hoodie off over his head and padding toward your dresser. You’d told him he could borrow anything while he was here—something about the drawer on the left and not the right—

He opened the right.

And that’s when it hit him.

A drawer he’d never seen you touch in front of him. One that definitely didn’t contain any normal clothes.

And nestled between a rolled-up sleep mask and a bottle of lube so old the cap was crusted—

Was a vibrator.

Not some cheap little bullet either. This thing was sleek. Curved. Used.

His mouth went dry.

For a moment he just stared, heartbeat drumming in his ears, vision tunneling until the only thing in focus was that.

It looked too pretty to be real.

Then his brain kicked in—and immediately short-circuited.

That’s hers. That’s been inside her. She’s used that—she’s used that and—fuck—she’s moaned—

He slammed the drawer shut so fast the dog startled.

“Shit,” he hissed, running a hand through his hair. “Shitshitshit.”

What the fuck was he doing snooping?

You trusted him. He was supposed to be watching your dog, not—

Not imagining how you’d look riding that thing with your thighs shaking and your pretty mouth falling open.

Jisung squeezed his eyes shut and sat down hard on the edge of your bed. He could feel it already: the way his dick was pressing uncomfortably against the inside of his sweats, half-hard and pulsing with a guilt-soaked need he knew he shouldn’t indulge.

You were his best friend.

He loved you.

Like loved you. Not just the kind of love you joked about in texts or danced around during movie nights. Real love. The kind that made his stomach flip when you curled up next to him. The kind that made him remember everything you ever said about your turn-ons, your exes, your toys.

The kind that made him ache when you looked at him like he was just your friend.

And now he was sitting in your room, with the image of your vibrator burned into his brain and your scent all over him.

He licked his lips. Swallowed.

Then stood up.

Slowly, quietly, he opened the drawer again.

His hands shook.

The toy was heavier than he expected. Warm, almost. Like you’d just used it. Like it still held some phantom trace of you—your heat, your slick, your sounds.

His breath hitched.

“Just look,” he muttered to himself, like a mantra. “Just… look.”

But his other hand was already drifting south. Already palming himself through his pants. Already trembling with the beginnings of need.

He should put it back.

He should leave.

But instead, Jisung lay back on your bed, clutching your pillow like a lifeline, your vibrator held to his chest like a stolen secret.

And with his other hand, he pushed his sweats down just enough to free his cock

It sprang up flushed and leaking, angry and desperate, twitching at the thought of you. The idea of you using this—of you putting it inside yourself, moaning, writhing, calling out his name—

Wait.

No. Not his name.

Not unless you thought of him when you used it.

The idea nearly made him choke.

“F-fuck,” he whispered, pressing the tip of the toy to his lips. “I’m so fucked.”

And he was.

Because the second the base buzzed to life in his hand, Jisung knew there was no going back.

The first time the vibrator touched his cock, Jisung gasped—sharp and choked, like his lungs couldn’t decide if he should breathe or beg.

The buzz was low, steady. Gentle at first. But the moment it kissed his flushed, aching tip, he jerked so hard his knees buckled. His back arched off your bed and he let out the softest, most pathetic little whine, one hand immediately flying to his mouth to muffle the sound.

It still slipped out around his fingers.

“F-fuck… oh—god…”

He was already too sensitive.

Already leaking—already so fucking hard from just thinking about you, about the drawer, about what it must’ve looked like when you used this on yourself.

Did you lay back?

Did you ride it?

Did you touch your tits at the same time?

Did you moan his name, even once?

The thought of you squirming under your own fingers, lips parted and brows furrowed in concentration, made his hips twitch up against the toy, chasing the sensation greedily. He was already losing it. Already dizzy.

And then his traitor mouth slipped—

“Yn…”

His voice was so needy, so soft—like a prayer he didn’t realize he was saying out loud.

And worse: your dog was still asleep in the corner of the room, completely unaware that his babysitter was currently rutting against your vibrator like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

He should stop.

He needed to stop.

But the moment he teased the base of the toy under his shaft—pressed it there, just right, right along that strip of oversensitive nerve—his hips jerked again. His cock throbbed hard enough to make his stomach clench, and then—wetness.

Spit.

He’d drooled onto your pillow.

“Oh my god,” he whimpered, biting his knuckle hard, cheeks burning. “What the fuck is wrong with me—”

But the buzzing didn’t stop.

The vibrations crawled up the length of him, buzzing along the ridge of his cock, teasing the base, the tip, circling back down again like a cruel whisper of the real thing.

He kept fucking into it. Barely-there thrusts. His thighs trembled, abs flexing with every clench, every desperate grind, every little shiver.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight. He had to. If he opened them, he’d see your room. Your bed. Your pillow soaked in his spit. The vibrator you’d actually used between his legs. And maybe—maybe the worst part—

He liked it.

No—he loved it. The guilt. The heat. The pathetic need in his gut. The idea that you could come home right now and find him like this—half-naked and panting, so far gone he couldn’t even stop grinding against something that still smelled like you.

He let out a broken, high-pitched sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp, chest heaving as he humped the toy again and again and again. It wasn’t even in him. Just pressed to his cock. Just buzzing there while he fucked into it like a dog in heat.

“Please—” he whispered, not even sure what he was begging for. “Please—pleaseplease—oh fuck, I-I need—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t.

Because the thought was you.

He needed you.

You, in that tiny crop top you wore when you cleaned the kitchen. You, in the gym shorts that always hugged your thighs. You, teasing him when you bent over to pick up your keys, laughing when he turned red and looked away.

You, right now—coming home, walking in, catching him like this—

Your voice: “Jisung?”

Your eyes: wide. Confused. Hot.

Your mouth: “What are you doing with that?”

Fuck.

His cock pulsed.

“Ah—!” he gasped, pressing the toy harder against himself. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t— I just— I wanted to feel— I-I didn’t mean to—!”

He was panting now, full-body shaking, one hand still holding the toy, the other clutching your pillow like it might keep him anchored.

His hips moved faster.

He was getting close.

Too close.

And the guilt felt so good—the idea of being caught, of being used, of you looking down at him and punishing him for being so filthy, so desperate, so in love—

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck I’m gonna—!”

He came with a shudder, a soft, helpless cry muffled against your sheets.

Hot, sticky ropes spurted over his belly, thighs, the toy. His toes curled. His breath caught.

But the vibrator didn’t stop.

The buzz kept going. Unrelenting.

And so did he.

His hips bucked again.

His thighs trembled.

A second orgasm started building before he could even recover.

“No—fuck—can’t—! I c-can’t again, I just—hngh—”

His stomach muscles spasmed, his eyes screwed shut, his whole body thrumming with overstimulation.

But it felt so good.

So filthy.

So right.

And the worst part?

He still imagined you walking in.

Because if you saw him like this—sweaty, flushed, cock twitching helplessly against the vibrator—

Maybe you’d finally understand just how badly he wanted you.

You opened the door with your keys already between your fingers and your tote bag half-falling off your shoulder.

You were only supposed to be gone for a couple of hours—just a quick run to your sister’s place to drop off some things. But now it was past 7, the sun was setting warm and low through your living room windows, and your dog hadn’t come running to greet you.

Odd.

You slipped off your shoes. The leash was still hanging where you left it. Food untouched. Water bowl full.

And the bedroom door… cracked.

Soft, breathy noise filtered through the silence.

Whimpering?

You frowned.

“Jisung?” you called. “Everything okay?”

No answer.

So you stepped forward—quietly, slowly, like you were afraid of what you might find—and when you pushed the door open just an inch more, the scene made your brain stop working.

Because there he was.

In your bed.

Sweaty. Blushing. Panting.

Naked except for the hem of one of your oversized shirts pushed up to his chest. His thighs were trembling, knees half-bent, his whole body twitching and shuddering with aftershocks. And between his legs…

Your vibrator.

Still buzzing.

Still wet.

Still smeared with his cum.

“Jisung?” you breathed, mouth falling open.

His head whipped around so fast it looked like it hurt. Wide brown eyes locked on yours—pure terror for a second, followed by guilt, embarrassment, and something else you couldn’t quite name.

“W-wait, I—I can explain—!” he choked, scrambling to toss the toy aside and cover himself, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. His hips bucked helplessly, his thighs shook, and he made this desperate little whine like the shame was eating him alive.

“I—fuck, I didn’t mean to—I was just—! I just wanted to wear something comfy, and I saw it in the drawer, and I—I didn’t know I was gonna—fuck, please don’t hate me—”

He looked like he was about to cry.

You just stood there, heart thudding in your chest, mouth dry.

You should’ve yelled.

Should’ve kicked him out.

Should’ve said anything.

But instead, the only thing that came out of your mouth was—

“…Did you come thinking about me?”

Silence.

Thick. Stretched. Breathless.

His eyes went even wider—doe-like and shocked, his mouth open but speechless.

And then—softly, brokenly, like admitting it would shatter him—

“…yes.”

You stepped closer.

He blinked up at you.

You reached for the vibrator—sticky, still buzzing, abandoned on the sheets—and clicked it off.

Then you tossed it onto the floor.

And climbed on top of him.

“W-wait—! What are you—? You’re not mad?” he asked, voice cracking, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch. His dick was still twitching, still hard, shiny with cum, flushed to the tip.

And you—your thighs were already straddling his hips.

“No,” you said, voice low. “I’m not mad.”

His breath hitched.

“…Are you gonna punish me?”

You smirked.

“No,” you said again. Then, softer—“I’m gonna ride you.”

Jisung whimpered.

The second your fingers wrapped around his cock, he twitched like he’d been electrocuted.

He was still sensitive—overstimulated and leaking, head thrown back, thighs shaking under your touch—but he wanted it. Every inch of him screamed for it.

“You’re such a mess,” you whispered, dragging your folds along his length. “Were you humping my toy like a little pervert?”

“I—nngh—yes,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t stop—”

“You came on my sheets,” you said, rubbing the tip against your entrance. “Came all over yourself. Thinking about me.”

He nodded frantically, lips parted, cheeks flushed red.

“I’m disgusting,” he choked, voice wrecked. “I-I didn’t mean to, I just— I love you, and—”

You froze.

Your eyes snapped to his.

“…You love me?”

His breath caught.

Shit.

But it was too late to lie.

“I—I do,” he whispered. “I’ve been in love with you forever. I didn’t know what to do anymore, and when I saw that thing in your drawer I just— I lost it. I’m sorry—please don’t make me leave—”

You leaned down and kissed him.

Messy. Hot. Tongue first. Your teeth scraped his bottom lip, and he moaned into your mouth like he’d been waiting years for this.

“I’m not gonna make you leave,” you said. “I’m gonna fuck you until you forget your name.”

And then you sank down on him.

His reaction was instant.

High-pitched, breathless whimpers. Eyes rolling back. Hands flying to your hips but not gripping—just resting, like he was too afraid to move, too afraid to mess this up.

You took him slowly, inch by inch, feeling the way he stretched you open, how wet you already were just from watching him. His cock filled you completely, bottomed out with a soft slap, and he sobbed.

“P-please,” he begged. “Please move, I—I need—oh god—”

You rolled your hips.

Once.

Then again.

And Jisung lost it.

His nails dug into the blankets, his head buried into your shoulder, breath coming in sharp, uneven pants.

“Y-you’re so warm,” he gasped. “Feels so good—feels better than anything, oh fuck, I’m—”

You bounced on him slowly, lazily—grinding down in circles, making him feel it. He was already whining again, that sweet pitch in his voice like he couldn’t decide if he was going to cry or come.

You tugged his hair. Tilted his head back.

“Look at me.”

He did.

And you kissed him again—slow and open-mouthed this time, swallowing his sounds, letting him moan into you like he needed it to survive.

“I’m not mad,” you whispered. “I’ve wanted this too.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“I—I love you—”

“I know.”

You bounced faster.

His hips tried to chase yours, but he was too fucked out. He couldn’t keep up. He just whimpered, head back, cock twitching deep inside you.

And when your walls squeezed around him, when your nails raked down his chest, when you leaned in and moaned his name right against his ear—

He came.

Hard.

Hot.

Sticky.

With a shout and a tremble, his whole body went rigid under you, cum spilling deep, so much of it, and he was still babbling—

“I love you—thank you—fuck, I love you—I love you”

You stayed there.

Grinding through it, fucking him through the high, kissing the corners of his wet, pretty eyes.

And when you came next, clenched tight around his sensitive cock with a soft cry of his name, he nearly passed out from how good it felt.

You didn’t get off him for a long time.

He wouldn’t let you.

Not because he needed to go again (though he definitely did), but because he didn’t want to let go. His arms curled around your waist, his face pressed into your chest, his voice soft and hazy.

“…so I guess I’m not just the dog babysitter anymore, huh?”

You laughed.

“No, Ji,” you whispered. “You’re mine.”

And he smiled into your skin.

“Finally

[sonicboomrevisited]

Fragmentation

In honor of the midway point of Issue 2, @mama-qwerty whipped up a little minific that follows Sonic through his roboticization, delving into his thoughts and feelings regarding it.

Brings us through until the latest pages.

Enjoy!

Read the comic here!

~~~

Sonic really should have seen this coming, honestly.

When he’d discovered Eggman’s attempt at cable theft, he’d rushed to the doctor’s lair, despite Tails’ suggestion that they simply unhook it and leave it be. Or hook it to one of his older computers, with nothing but old Comedy Chimp movies playing on an endless loop.

But noooo. Sonic had to rush over. Sonic had to confront Eggman.

It was the principle of the thing, really. What right did Eggman have to steal Sonic’s cable? (Not that Sonic paid for it either–having a tech savvy best friend meant there were interesting little sidesteps around some things. Sonic didn’t ask questions, but being the heroes that saved the village on a weekly basis–sometimes twice!--meant he could allow himself certain perks. They just didn’t tell Amy.)

And honestly, Eggman’s excuse for the theft was pretty flimsy. He didn’t want to pay a higher cable bill? How much did it cost to run that cable aaallll the way from his island-bound lair to the mainland, up to Sonic’s shack? That couldn’t have been cheap.

Sidetracked. He was getting distracted. He’d confronted the man, but then been drawn to some new machine of Eggman’s–surely one that did something borderline cool but saddled with Eggman’s flair for dramatics that made it lame by default–and then gotten himself trapped.

Because of course he did, he just couldn’t help himself sometimes. Fast on his feet, but not so fast in the ol’ brainpan.

Eggman was saying something. Was he talking to Sonic? He knew Sonic couldn’t hear him, right? This glass tube that had come down around him was pretty thick and blocked out nearly all sound.

Uh oh. Eggman was messing with his console.

Sonic wanted out. Now.

Even though he was suspended in the air thanks to some anti-gravity ray or something, Sonic pounded on the glass surrounding him, calling for Eggman to let him out. Things were getting a little too serious. A little too scary.

He screamed Eggman’s name–

And then, pain.

A lot of pain.

It felt like his skin was burning, his brain tearing itself in two. His eyesight blurred, as though he’d looked at the sun too long–and really, he and Knux had only done that once–before refocusing, the image now slightly pixelated and looking like an old TV screen.

His chest felt heavy. It vibrated slightly, like when he stood too near one of Tails’ portable batteries. Each breath was more labored, as though his lungs were suddenly more constricted than before.

Cold. He felt cold.

The tube retracted, sliding back up into the ceiling with a soft hiss as it released him. Sonic stepped off the pad that had held him suspended a moment before, his footfalls feeling heavier than they should.

And there was a static in his mind, one that made him feel fuzzy headed. Like he was looking through a plate glass window. Like the world around him was there, but separated.

Eggman was talking. Cubot and Orbot nearby. He registered their presence, but . . .

OVERRIDE ACCEPTED - AWAITING ORDERS

Wait. What?

That was his voice, but he hadn’t spoken.

Had he?

ORDER ACCEPTED

He was moving. His feet carrying him toward a trash can. His body moving through the motions of pulling the bag out without his conscious thought.

No. Nononononono this wasn’t right. What did Eggman do to him??

ORDER ACCEPTED. SPEECH PROTOCOL INITIATED

Words came from his mouth, in his voice, complimenting Eggman. The words tripped as they rolled off his tongue, as he tried his best to stop them.

stop resisting

There was another voice, cutting through the static. It was soft, but oddly familiar.

The words continued to come from his mouth. Eggman spoke again.

NEW ORDERS ACCEPTED

Sonic followed Eggman as they boarded his Eggmobile, heading back toward the village. Hope blossomed in his chest–if they went back to the village, his friends would see them, and help him. Tails would figure out a way to change him back. The fox had had his own brush with semi-robotization, when he’d accidentally merged with a bee-bot. He’d know how to fix this. Sonic was sure of it.

“Robo-Sonic,” Eggman said as they flew toward the village. Sonic mentally flinched at the name, but couldn’t say anything to argue it. “I want you to refer to me as ‘Master Eggman’ when we see your friends. That would really freak them out. Or, if you prefer, a more familiar term would be ‘Boss’. I’d considered ‘Your Highness’, but think that may be pushing it, even for this new version of you.”

He just needed to bide his time.

Sonic didn’t reply. Control over his mouth seemed to be sidelined to whatever Eggman had done to him, so he spent the time going over the changes to his body.

His eyes were different. It felt like a visor of sorts, and if he focused hard enough, he could bring up readouts on the screen. Ambient temperature, distance and time remaining until arrival at the village, probability that Eggman would become distracted and crash into the trees surrounding the village. (That was thankfully low, though not zero.) A quick blink and the readouts changed before disappearing.

That was weird. Kinda cool, in a nerdy way Tails would have geeked out over, but weird.

There was a plate on his chest, humming with some kind of energy, and two smaller ones on the backs of his hands. He wasn’t sure what they did, or could do. But they felt powerful.

He rolled his shoulders slightly, and discovered the chest plate was actually more of a kind of vest? It wrapped around him and covered his back spines. Without thinking, he blinked, and a schematic came on screen of those coverings, labeling them as rocket boosters.

He had rockets now??

Okay, that was kinda cool, too.

He blinked, turning the schematic around to get a better view of the rest of him. There were two metal disks attached to the sides of his head, and he wasn’t quite sure what those were for. Metal cuffs surrounded his wrists and ankles, but they didn’t seem to restrict his range of motion.

That seemed to be the extent of his new metal parts, but there also seemed to be a strange tingly feeling beneath the skin. As though his veins had been replaced with wires to tether his metal components together, and make them a more integral part of him.

That . . . wasn’t cool. That was actually pretty terrifying.

better we’re better

In the village. The locals went running, just as they always did when Eggman showed up, and his friends came forward to meet the threat. They’ll help him, they’ll take Eggman down and–

NEW ORDERS ACCEPTED

His body moved again, and now he was attacking. He felt stronger, more powerful than he should have been. His friends scrambled, not wanting to attack him, but his body continued to move, continued to focus on them, trying to take them down.

No. NO!

Sonic focused every bit of energy he had into retaking control of his body. Slowing himself down–and oh, didn’t that feel so wrong!--and pulling punches. Amy spoke to him, reminding him of who they were, trying to get through whatever this metal blockade was surrounding him. Whatever this static was that made his brain feel like he had steel wool shoved in his skull.

His body paused and he struggled to regain control.

lying she’s lying

His distraction allowed Knuckles to attack from behind, sending him sprawling. It was a good hit, he had to admit. But that voice mixed in with the static spoke again, a little louder this time.

friends hurt friends

He was moving again, and took down Knuckles in record time.

Okay, that was a little impressive.

Sticks attacked next, leaping onto his shoulders before grabbing the two metal disks on the sides of his head, and attempting to pull them off.

More pain. The scream he uttered was his own doing.

When Sticks paused in her attack, he retaliated, grabbing her by the legs and hurling her into an ice cream cart.

Okay, she kinda deserved that. A little.

EGGMAN IN DANGER - PROTECT EGGMAN

Wha–

His body moved before he even registered it, coming between Eggman and his attacking friends. Amy was already in full swing, and when she tried to pull herself short, her elbow caught in his chest plate, shattering it and sending a wave of pain through him so sharp it turned his vision white before he crashed to the ground.

hurt us she hurt us liar she lied friends hurt friends

Every nerve felt like it had been flash fried, and he lay on the ground, trying to get his bearings.

ERROR ERROR ERROR

His chest ached, and his head felt like he’d eaten one too many chili dogs past their expiration date.

SYSTEM ERROR SYSTEM ERROR ERROR ERR–she did it on purpose–OR ERROR

Voices calling his name. His . . . his friends . . . ?

ERROR ERROR ER–weak they’re weak they don’t want to see you strong–ROR

No. No, that . . . that wasn’t true.

Metal clamped around his chest, lifting him off the ground. Eggman was speaking, but the words bounced off, couldn’t find purchase in his mind.

The static, it flickered, getting louder before tapering off.

still weak

The voice. It seemed to move through the static, becoming louder when the static faded.

we’re still weak still vulnerable

Sonic couldn’t focus, and drifted in darkness for a while as the sky passed above them. He swung in some kind of hook or claw dangling from Eggman’s mobile. Every now and then, he would see Eggman as he peeked over the lip of his craft to peer down at him.

Fuzzy. Everything was fuzzy. His body ached. The static in his head swirled, its volume changing as though he were standing in the middle of a tornado. He drifted. The voice followed him.

strong we’ll be stronger soon we’ll be how we should

Back at the lair. Sonic was barely conscious. The doctor put him back in that tube and he tried to protest, tried to argue, to yell, to beg him not to. But the glass tube came down once again.

And then more pain than he ever thought possible.

His body writhed and jackknifed, every nerve screaming before going numb. Going cold. He felt heavier. Stiffer. Held his breath and then realized he didn’t have to let it out.

And the static in his head was fading. A silence settling in its place. With a voice. One he thought felt familiar.

We’ll be stronger

We don’t need them

We’ll show them all

He had to get out of here. He had to get to his friends. He had to stop whatever Eggman was doing to him. He had to . . . to . . .

Cold. He was so cold.

He couldn’t move.

Eggman speaking again.

“Say hello to your friends, Robo-Sonic 2.0.”

A voice answered, one that was and wasn’t his.

“I’d rather say goodbye.”

[mostlysignssomeportents]

AI art has no anti-cooption immune system

TONIGHT (July 20), I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

One thing Myspace had going for it: it was exuberantly ugly. The decision to let users with no design training loose on a highly customizable user-interface led to a proliferation of Myspace pages that vibrated with personality.

The ugliness of Myspace wasn't just exciting in a kind of outsider/folk-art way (though it was that). Myspace's ugliness was an anti-cooption force-field, because corporate designers and art-directors would, by and large, rather break their fingers and gouge out their eyes than produce pages that looked like that.

In this regard, Myspace was the heir to successive generations of "design democratization" that gave amateur communities, especially countercultural ones, a space to operate in where authentic community members could be easily distinguished between parasitic commercializers.

The immediate predecessors to Myspace's ugliness-as-a-feature were the web, and desktop publishing. Between the img tag, imagemaps, the blink tag, animated GIFs, and the million ways that you could weird a page with tables and padding, the early web was positively bursting with individual personality. The early web balanced in an equilibrium between the plunder-friendliness of "view source" and the topsy-turvy design imperatives of web-based layout, which confounded both print designers (no fixed fonts! RGB colorspaces! dithering!) and even multimedia designers who'd cut their teeth on Hypercard and CD ROMs (no fixed layout!).

Before the web came desktop publishing, the million tractor-feed ransom notes combining Broderbund Print Shop fonts, joystick-edited pixel-art, and a cohort of enthusiasts ranging from punk zinesters to community newsletter publishers. As this work proliferated on coffee-shop counters and telephone poles, it was visibly, obviously distinct from the work produced by "real" designers – that is, designers who'd been a) trained and b) paid by a corporation to employ that training.

All of this matters, and not just for aesthetic reasons. Communities – especially countercultural ones – are where our society's creative ferment starts. Getting your start in the trenches of the counterculture wars is no proof against being co-opted later (indeed, many of the designers who cut their teeth desktop publishing weird zines went on to pull their hair and roll their eyes at the incredible fuggliness of the web). But without that zone of noncommercial, antiestablishment, communitarian low weirdness, design and culture would stagnate.

I started thinking about this 25 years ago, the first time I met William Gibson. I'd been assigned by the Globe and Mail to interview him for the launch of All Tomorrow's Parties:

https://craphound.com/nonfic/transcript.html

One of the questions I asked was about his famous aphorism, "The street finds its own use for things." Given how quickly each post-punk tendency had been absorbed by commercial culture, couldn't we say that "Madison Avenue finds its own use for the street"? His answer started me down a quarter-century of thinking and writing about this subject:

I worry about what we'll do in the future, [about the instantaneous co-opting of pop culture]. Where is our new stuff going to come from? What we're doing pop culturally is like burning the rain forest. The biodiversity of pop culture is really, really in danger. I didn't see it coming until a few years ago, but looking back it's very apparent.

I watch a sort of primitive form of the recommodification machine around my friends and myself in sixties, and it took about two years for this clumsy mechanism to get and try to sell us The Monkees.

In 1977, it took about eight months for a slightly faster more refined mechanism to put punk in the window of Holt Renfrew. It's gotten faster ever since. The scene in Seattle that Nirvana came from: as soon as it had a label, it was on the runways of Paris.

Ugliness, transgressiveness and shock all represent an incoherent, grasping attempt to keep the world out of your demimonde – not just normies and squares, but also and especially enthusiastic marketers who want to figure out how to sell stuff to you, and use you to sell stuff to normies and squares.

I think this is what drove a lot of people to 4chan (remember, before 4chan was famous for incubating neofascism, it was the birthplace of Anonymous): its shock culture, combined with a strong cultural norm of anonymity, made for a difficult-to-digest, thoroughly spiky morsel that resisted recommodification (for a while).

All of this brings me to AI art (or AI "art"). In his essay on the "eerieness" of AI art, Henry Farrell quotes Mark Fisher's "The Weird and the Eerie":

https://www.programmablemutter.com/p/large-language-models-are-uncanny

"Eeriness" here is defined as "when there is something present where there should be nothing, or is there is nothing present when there should be something." AI is eerie because it produces the seeming of intent, without any intender:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/13/spooky-action-at-a-close-up/#invisible-hand

When we contemplate "authentic" countercultural work – ransom-note DTP, the weird old web, seizure-inducing Myspace GIFs – it is arresting because the personality of the human entity responsible for it shines through. We might be able to recognize where that person ganked their source-viewed HTML or pixel-optimized GIF, but we can also make inferences about the emotional meaning of those choices. To see that work is to connect to a mind. That mind might not necessarily belong to someone you want to be friends with or ever meet in person, but it is unmistakably another person, and you can't help but learn something about yourself from the way that their work makes you feel.

This is why corporate work is so often called "soulless." The point of corporate art is to dress the artificial person of the corporation in the stolen skins of the humans it uses as its substrate. Corporations are potentially immortal, artificial colony organisms. They maintain the pretense of personality, but they have no mind, only action that is the crescendo of an orchestra of improvised instruments played by hundreds or thousands of employees and a handful of executives who are often working directly against one another:

https://locusmag.com/2022/03/cory-doctorow-vertically-challenged/

The corporation is – as Charlie Stross has it – the "slow AI" that is slowly converting our planet to the long-prophesied grey goo (or, more prosaically, wildfire ashes and boiled oceans). The real thing that is signified by CEOs' professed fears of runaway AI is runaway corporations. As Ted Chiang says, the experience of being nominally in charge of a corporation that refuses to do what you tell it to is the kind of thing that will give you nightmares about autonomous AI turning on its masters:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/09/autocomplete-worshippers/#the-real-ai-was-the-corporations-that-we-fought-along-the-way

The job of corporate designers is to find the signifiers of authenticity and dress up the corporate entity's robotic imperatives in this stolen flesh. Everything about AI is done in service to this goal: the chatbots that replace customer service reps are meant to both perfectly mimic a real, competent corporate representative while also hewing perfectly to corporate policy, without ever betraying the real human frailties that none of us can escape.

In the same way, the shillbots that pretend to be corporate superfans online are supposed to perfectly amplify the corporate message, the slow AI's conception of its own virtues, without injecting their own off-script, potentially cringey enthusiasms.

The Hollywood writers' strike was, at root, about the studio execs' dream that they could convert the "insights" of focus groups and audience research into a perfect script, without having to go through a phalanx of lippy screenwriters who insisted on explaining why they think your idea is stupid. "Hey, nerd, make me another ET, except make the hero a dog, and set it on Mars" is exactly how you prompt an AI:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/20/everything-made-by-an-ai-is-in-the-public-domain/

Corporate design's job is to produce the seeming of intention without any intender. The "personality" we're meant to sense when we encounter corporate design isn't the designer's, nor the art director's, nor even the CEO's. The "personality" is meant to be the slow AI's, but a corporation doesn't have a personality.

In his 2018 short story "Noon in the antilibrary," Karl Schroeder describes an "antilibrary" as an endlessly deep anaerobic lagoon of generative botshit:

https://www.technologyreview.com/2018/08/18/104097/noon-in-the-antilibrary/

The antilibrary is a generative AI system that can produce entire librarys’-worth of fake books with fake authors, fake citations by other fake experts with their own fake books and biographies and fake social media accounts, on-demand and instantly. It was speculation in 2018; it’s possible now. Creating an antilibrary is just a matter of investing in a sufficient number of graphics cards and electricity.

https://kschroeder.substack.com/p/after-the-internet

Reading Karl's reflections on the antilibrary crystallized something for me that I've been thinking about for a quarter-century, since I interviewed Gibson at the Penguin offices in north Toronto. It snapped something into place that I've trying to fit since encountering Henry's thoughts on the "eeriness" of AI work and the intent without an intender.

It made me realize why I dislike AI art so much, on a deep, aesthetic level. The point of an image generator is to buffer the intention of the prompter (which might be genuinely creative and bursting with personality) in layers of automated decision-making that flense the final product of any hint of the mind that caused its creation.

The most febrile, deeply weird and authentic prompts of the most excluded outsiders produce images that feel the same as the corporate AI illustrations that project the illusion of personality from the immortal, transhuman colony organism that is the limited liability corporation.

AI art is born coopted. Even the 4chan equivalent of AI – the deeply transgressive and immoral nonconsensual pornography – feels no different from the "official" AI porn churned out by "real" pornographers. "Shrimp Jesus" and other SEO-optimized Facebook slop is so uncanny because it is simultaneously "weird" ("that which does not belong") and yet it belongs in the same aesthetic bucket of the most anodyne Corporate Memphis ephemera:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corporate_Memphis

We call it "generative" but AI art can't generate the kind of turnover that aerates the aesthetic soil. An artform that can't be transgressive is sterile, stillborn, a dead end.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/20/ransom-note-force-field/#antilibraries

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

--

Jake (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:1970s_fanzines_(21224199545).jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[teezslvt]

𝐜𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐣𝐨𝐛𝐬

── ˚₊‧ 💋 ɞ₊‧˚ yunho x mingi ── mdni 𓆩♡𓆪 smut, oral sex, praise, sleepy/dom!yunho, sub!mingi, a little spit messy… ⸝⸝ᵕ ༯ᵕ⸝⸝ just a little morning treat <3 ── word count: ⁸⁸⁰ 🖤 “he wanted to be good. he wanted to take it all.”

A/N: just wrote this cause I kept thinking about about their cock sizes and how they’re both big, but yunho is definitely bigger so it’s harder for mingi to take all of him in his mouth. it turns mingi on but frustrates him at the same time. plus I needed to post something just to dip my toe back into the writing pool so did this real quick, enjoy ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊

The house was still. Only the low burble of the automatic coffee machine filled the quiet, a soft hum that grounded Mingi in the rhythm of morning. He yawned, rubbed at his eyes, and stretched. His muscles ached from sleep, his throat dry from breathing through his mouth. He padded barefoot down the hallway, making his way to the kitchen.

He sat two mugs on the counter — one for him, one for Yunho.

He poured the first cup, black and fragrant, then carried it back toward the bedroom. He wasn’t in a rush. He just wanted to see him again. Yunho always slept deeply, limbs everywhere, mouth slack and soft. Mingi loved him most like that — unguarded, peaceful.

But when he pushed the door open, the coffee nearly slipped from his fingers.

Yunho had kicked the sheets off in his sleep — as usual — but this time, he was on his back, one arm tossed over his head, chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths. His legs were slightly parted. And nestled against his thigh, bold and obscene, was his cock — hard. Thick. Leaking. Pressed along the skin like it belonged there.

Mingi stopped in the doorway, breath catching. Heat flushed over him fast and sharp. His mouth watered.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes locked on the sight.

He knew he shouldn’t. Yunho was still asleep, unaware. But Mingi couldn’t look away. That gorgeous length, the twitch of it against Yunho’s thigh, the soft sound of his snoring in the background — it was too much.

He set the mug down. Quiet. Careful.

Then sank to his knees at the edge of the bed.

His hands shook just a little as he reached out, brushing his fingers lightly along the base. Yunho didn’t stir — just shifted slightly, letting out a low breath through his nose. Mingi bit his lip, eyes wide. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the tip, tongue flicking out to taste the bead of slick already gathered there.

God, he was so big. Mingi’s jaw ached just looking at him.

But this? This was a chance. A moment to practice, to take his time — to prove to himself he could do better. That he could take more.

His lips parted as he slowly began to sink down, deliberate and eager.

Mingi exhaled through his nose, eyes fluttering shut as he slowly eased his mouth farther down. His tongue flattened beneath the weight, guiding Yunho’s cock as he worked it deeper, stretching his jaw. He gagged softly, but didn’t stop — never even considered stopping. He pulled back only slightly, spit-slick and focused, then sank down again, hand gripping the base and stroking in rhythm with his mouth.

Breathing heavy now, tongue out, spit pooling on Yunho’s skin. Mingi’s thighs clenched with every low moan he made, each one vibrating through Yunho’s length as he worked him over with aching devotion.

He wanted to be good.

He wanted to take it all.

A deep breath. Then another glide down. He was dripping now, half from arousal, half from the effort of it all — so turned on it was almost dizzying.

And then Yunho shifted.

A soft grunt. The twitch of his hips.

Then a sharp inhale.

Mingi froze for half a second — just long enough to look up, wet lips still wrapped around the head of Yunho’s cock.

Yunho’s eyes cracked open, unfocused at first, until they landed on the view below him.

And then his entire body tensed.

His toes curled against the sheets. One hand flew into Mingi’s hair, gripping tight but not forcing — just holding. His mouth fell open around a sound between a moan and a gasp.

“Mingi— fuck. Baby.”

Mingi moaned around him in response, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing as he took him deeper again. Yunho’s head dropped back, his abs tightening, the sound he made fully wrecked and breathless.

“You’re… fuck— you’re such a good princess,” he groaned, fingers curling in Mingi’s hair like he never wanted to let go. “Look at you… taking me so well…”

Mingi whimpered at the praise, cock throbbing untouched beneath him. The word princess went straight to his spine, molten and bright. His hips rocked slightly against the bed as he sucked harder, tongue relentless, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.

“You wanted this bad, huh?” Yunho whispered, breath ragged, voice thick with sleep and arousal. “Didn’t even wake me up first…”

Mingi moaned again — a broken, desperate sound that made Yunho’s hips jerk.

Yunho looked down at him, eyes dark and soft all at once. “You’re making me feel so good, baby. So fucking good.”

The praise made Mingi even more greedy, the fire in his belly catching fast. He was confidently sucking his boyfriend off without getting flustered, taking more of him down his throat than he ever had before.

The large fist in his hair tightened, Yunho’s eyes glazing over as he watched Mingi choke himself trying to take him deeper. “My pretty boy,” he hummed proudly, “nearly swallowing my whole cock, aren’t you?”

Mingi lifted his face, silvery strings drawing from Yunho’s erection to his plump pink lips, as the younger licked sweetly at the salty flesh, basking in satisfaction and hunger.

And that was before Yunho started fucking his throat.

© written by teezslvt— do not steal or claim as your own 𓆩♡𓆪

[republicsecurity]

Training Log, Subvocal Capture: Collar Edition

Flex fingers. Polymer gauntlet creaks like fresh snow. Collar’s alloy rim is a cold halo in my palm—weightless in the suit’s servos, but heavy in implication. LG44E watches me, chin level, pulse thrumming in my visor readout. Training dummy with a heartbeat.

Assess & Approach. One pace to his oblique. My HUD traces escape vectors in faint red wireframe—comically useless; classroom walls, zero exits. Eye‑contact rule nonetheless. His pupils track the collar, not me. Good dog.

Draw Collar. Thumb the latch at my waist; carbon port opens like a stingray’s mouth. Collar unfolds, LEDs dark. Wrist display tags it: MK‑IV / SN‑X72M4C27 / STATUS: ARMED.

Positioning. Segment hinges breathe apart with a silvery hiss. No obstructions; green service LED blinks once—ready to bite.

Placement. Raise, slide, glide. Polymer pads kiss skin below his jaw. He stiffens as the joint clears his occipital ridge.

Gentle Seating. Press inward. Soft thunk—segments flush. I feel the resonance through my glove, like locking a railcar coupler.

Lock‑In. Silver button, thumb pressure. Twin micro‑flares spark left and right, two‑tone chirp in my audio feed. The collar contracts by two millimetres; LG44E’s swallow stalls halfway down his throat.

Verify. I tug. Zero give. HUD pings: LINK VERIFIED.

The UI blossoms: battery 98 %, vitals nominal, muscle‑tension curve spiking then settling. Default output RED – STUN‑HOLD flickers, waiting for a conscience that isn’t coming.

I toggle to BLUE – COMPLIANCE. Motors murmur. LG44E’s shoulders roll back, spine straightens, head pivots toward the northern wall—exactly where the courseware says a compliant detainee should orient.

There it is: the quiet hum of sovereignty. A feedback loop of authority routed through ceramic, alloy, and wet nervous tissue. My glove twitches a command—step forward. Collar relays, his legs obey. Another twitch—kneel. Servo whine, then knees to mat in perfect cadence.

It isn’t pleasure, I tell myself; it’s proof of system integrity. The MK‑IV does what it’s built to do: move muscle, still doubt. But a shadow of a smile ghosts across the corner of my HUD‑reflected lips. Not pleasure—feedback. Positive, precise, absolute.

LG44E’s heart rate steadies. Bio‑Vitals Array likes what it sees: compliance at ≤ 65 bpm. I log the metrics, flag the session complete.

Thumb‑press again—collar blooms open, LEDs wink out. Training manacles released, man inside left blinking, sweat‑slick but unharmed.

Systems checklist scrolls: Collar integrity 100 %. Cadet response within spec. Behavioral override latency 14 ms.

Inside the armour’s hush, I exhale. One more drill closer to graduation, one more proof that control—properly applied—is indistinguishable from peace. ***

LG44E — Neural Debrief Buffer (unfiltered stream)

Neck’s bare. Air‑con bites like January steel. UK90F circles—silent servo hiss, armor lacquer gleaming under institutional fluorescents. The collar in his gauntlet looks absurdly small, like a toy halo machined from night.

Heartbeat tags my eardrums. Stay still, keep breathing. Training drill, they said. Easy. Then the hinge flares wide and the thing is right there, cool polymer pads brushing skin below my jawline. Reflex: step back. Legs don’t. I told them to. Knees twitch but the rest is statue.

Soft pressure, a click—no pain, yet the world shrinks to a ring of alloy hugging my throat.

TWO‑TONE CONFIRMATION.

Double chirp vibrates skullbone; micro‑flares strobe at periphery. Something deep inside clutches—like the collar has found a loose thread in my spine and pulled.

Chest tightens. I can still breathe, but every swallow feels audited. Hudless—no helmet—so I can’t see what UK90F sees, but I feel it: a thin algorithmic hum skating my muscles.

First command lands like static in marrow. Shoulders snap back, spine locks straight. I didn’t move them. I felt them move. Delay maybe a quarter‑second between his intent and my body’s compliance—enough time to recognize the theft.

Step forward. My boots obey, soles slapping mat, knees articulating with hydraulic precision I never owned. Pulse spikes—collar compensates: a wash of tingling warmth in neck and shoulder, coaxing BPM back toward green.

Kneel. Quads fire autonomously, joints fold. From this angle I see reflection in the training room mirror: me, bald crown bowed, collar glowing calm blue at the larynx. Looks almost serene. Feels like a puppet whose strings hum with electricity.

I try to raise a hand—nothing. Fingers twitch inside gauntlets but forearm stays holstered at thigh plate. Command priority overrides voluntary motor plans; my own impulses relegated to background noise.

Strangest part isn’t terror—it’s clarity. Thought floats free when flesh is requisitioned. Like being spectator and exhibit simultaneously. UK90F logs vitals; I register the soft tap of his gloves on HUD keys somewhere above me.

Then release—silver latch, collar breathes open, gravity returns. Arms mine again, heavy, sweat‑slick inside poly‑mesh. I’m upright, but a phantom echo lingers: the afterimage of borrowed motion.

Conclusion: the MK‑IV doesn’t just restrain—it edits. Body as executable code, collar as root access. Training memo said “Compliance through technology.” Understatement. It’s compliance through repurposed will.

I flex fingers—still shaking. Not fear, exactly. More like awareness of permissions that can be revoked at the press of a thumb. And the knowledge that next time, the commands might not end at kneel.