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sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

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WHEREVER YOU WANT IT, BABY, I’M TAKING YOU THERE!

↳ being married to gojo satoru means never knowing peace. or underwear.

4.4k words of domestic filth inspired from that one tiktok audio

cw: light degradation, praise kink, mild dacryphilia, food play (whipped cream, batter), dry humping, mild exhibitionism, marking (hickeys, biting), mild overstimulation, explicit language, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : made a version with suguru for my bbg lyra here!

ON THE COUCH.ᐟ

you’re sunk into the couch, legs tucked under the plush throw you’ve had since forever, the one satoru swears smells like your shampoo. the TV’s glow bathes the living room in soft blues, your favorite show’s theme song chiming through the speakers.

you’re halfway through a bowl of popcorn, kernels scattered on your lap, determined to actually watch this episode without your husband derailing you. it’s your comfort rewatch, the one you’ve seen enough times to recite the lines, but it still hits every time. you’re mid-bite when you feel him—satoru, your personal chaos agent, already sprawled across your lap like a cat who’s never heard of personal space.

his head’s nestled against your stomach, white hair a mess from where he’s been nuzzling into you, and you can feel the warmth of his breath through your—his—t-shirt, the one you stole years ago and never gave back. it’s loose, slipping off one shoulder, and his fingers are already sneaking under the hem, tracing lazy circles on your skin.

“baby,” he whines, voice low and syrupy, lips brushing just under your ribs, “you’ve seen this episode a million times. i haven’t been in your mouth once today.”

you don’t look at him, eyes glued to the screen, though you’re barely processing the dialogue. “you said you wanted to cuddle,” you mutter, popping another kernel in your mouth, trying to sound unbothered. your heart’s already picking up, traitorously aware of how his touch sparks heat under your skin.

“i am cuddling,” he insists, shifting so his body presses closer, one muscled thigh sliding between your legs, nudging them apart. you can feel the denim of his jeans through your thin shorts, rough against your inner thighs, and the warmth pooling low in your belly betrays you.

“just, y’know, with benefits.” he adds, his lips curling into a grin you don’t need to see, and he nips at the soft skin above your waistband, making you jolt.

“satoru,” you warn, but it’s weak, half-hearted, and he knows it. his hand slips higher under your shirt, fingers grazing the underside of your breast, thumb brushing just shy of where you want it. you shift, trying to focus on the TV, but he’s relentless, mouthing at your stomach now, slow, wet kisses that leave your skin tingling. “i’m watching.”

“watch, then,” he murmurs, voice a low rumble against your hip. he tugs your shorts down an inch, just enough to expose the lacy edge of your panties, and his lips find the sensitive spot right above. “don’t miss the good part, sweetheart.” his tone’s teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a hunger that makes your breath hitch.

he pulls you forward, guiding you to straddle his thigh, the sudden pressure of his leg against your core making you gasp. your hands grip the couch cushions, popcorn bowl tipping precariously, but he steadies it with a chuckle. “careful, baby. don’t waste snacks.”

his hand’s between your legs now, fingers brushing over your panties, slow and deliberate, feeling how you’re already soaking through. “fuck,” he breathes, almost to himself, eyes glinting up at you, blue and predatory in the TV’S light. “you’re this wet and still pretending you care about your show?”

he presses harder, circling your clit through the fabric, and you bite your lip, trying to stifle a moan. the characters on screen are arguing, but it’s just noise now, drowned out by the thump of your pulse.

“shh,” he whispers, when a soft whimper escapes you, his free hand tugging the throw blanket over your lap. “can’t hear the dialogue.” he’s mocking you, smirking as he slips his fingers under your panties, grazing your slick folds.

you’re grinding against his thigh without meaning to, the friction of denim and his deliberate touches pushing you closer to the edge. every time you get too loud—a gasped “satoru”or a shaky moan—he leans up, kissing you sloppy to muffle the sound, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s claiming it.

“quiet, baby,” he teases, pulling back to nip your bottom lip. “you’re drownin’ out the plot.”

you’re a mess already, shorts bunched around your thighs, panties pushed to the side, and he’s barely touched you. the blanket’s slipping, and he grabs it, draping it over your shoulders with a grin.

“perfect,” he says, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “you love this thing, don’t you? let’s put it to good use.” he shoves it against your mouth, pressing it there as he slides two fingers inside you, curling them deep. your muffled cry vibrates into the fabric, and he laughs, low and filthy. “fits, doesn’t it? you and your cozy shit.”

you’re trembling, thighs shaking as he works you, his thigh still pressed against you, encouraging the desperate roll of your hips. the TV’S forgotten, just a blur of colors and sounds, but he’s not done playing.

“eyes on the screen,” he orders, free hand gripping your chin to turn your head. “this is your favorite part, right? where they confess or whatever?” you can’t answer, too lost in the stretch of his fingers, the way he’s dragging you toward release. your moans are louder now, barely stifled by the blanket, and he pulls it away, tossing it aside. “fuck it,” he growls, “i wanna hear you.”

he’s bored of teasing, you can tell, because he’s moving fast now, yanking your shorts and panties down completely, leaving them tangled around one ankle.

“over the table,” he says, voice rough, and before you can process, he’s got you bent over the coffee table, popcorn bowl knocked to the floor, kernels crunching under his feet. your hands brace against the wood, cool against your flushed skin, and he’s behind you, jeans unzipped, pressing into you in one slow, deep thrust that makes you sob.

“fuck, baby,” he groans, hands gripping your hips so hard you’ll bruise. “you feel so good.” the table creaks with every snap of his hips, the tv still blaring behind you, your favorite character’s voice a mocking backdrop to the way he’s ruining you. he leans forward, chest against your back, and grabs your chin again, forcing you to look at the screen. “don’t tap out now,” he pants, thrusting harder, “this is your comfort episode, right?”

you’re crying now, tears of pleasure and overwhelm streaking your cheeks, your body shaking as he drives you toward the edge. every thrust is deliberate, hitting that spot that makes you see stars, and his voice is a constant stream of filth “love how you take me,” “you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” “gonna make you come so hard you forget this stupid show.”

you’re incoherent, babbling his name, nails scratching at the table as your orgasm hits, a white-hot wave that leaves you trembling, clenching around him.

he’s not far behind, groaning your name as he spills inside you, his thrusts slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last shudder from you. when he finally pulls out, you’re a wreck, collapsing against the table, panties still dangling off one ankle, tears smudging your mascara. he’s laughing, breathless, pulling you back onto the couch and into his lap, the throw blanket draped over you both like nothing happened.

“c’mere,” he murmurs, softer now, kissing your temple as he grabs the remote. he rewinds the episode, smirking as he feeds you a piece of popcorn and you’re too blissed out to do anything else but chew.

“guess we both got our favorites tonight,” he says, voice smug but warm, his arm tight around you. your legs are still shaking, and you nuzzle into his chest, the theme song starting again as you mumble something about hating him. he just laughs, kissing your hair, and you know you’re in for it all over again tomorrow.

IN THE BED.ᐟ

you’re drifting in that hazy space between sleep and waking, the kind where the world feels soft and warm, like you’re cocooned in a dream you don’t want to leave. the sheets are tangled around your legs, your tank top rucked up from tossing in the night, and you’re vaguely aware of the faint morning light slipping through the curtains.

but then you feel it—satoru’s weight shifting behind you, the mattress dipping as he presses closer, his bare chest warm against your back. his breath ghosts over your neck, slow and deliberate, and you know he’s been awake for a while, just waiting for you to stir.

his arm’s already slung over your waist, fingers splaying across your stomach, possessive but gentle, like he’s anchoring you to him. you feel him, hard and insistent, grinding lazily between your thighs, the thin fabric of your panties doing nothing to dull the heat. “mm,” he hums, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice thick with sleep and something hungrier.

“good morning, wife.” his words are soft, but there’s that edge to them, the one that makes your heart stutter even half-asleep.

you groan, burrowing your face into the pillow, the cool cotton a brief escape from his intensity. “satoru, it’s too early,” you mumble, voice muffled, though you’re already shifting back against him, instinctive, your body betraying your weak protest.

he only chuckles low, vibrating against your spine, and he presses a kiss to the nape of your neck, slow and wet, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin.

“never too early for you, angel,” he murmurs, his hand sliding under your tank top, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then higher, cupping your breast with a reverence that feels almost too sweet for him. his thumb grazes your nipple, teasing it to a peak, and you suck in a breath, eyes fluttering open despite yourself.

“been dreamin’ about you,” he says, kissing down your shoulder now, each press of his lips a deliberate worship. “couldn’t help myself.”

“you’re so creepy,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it, just a sleepy laugh as you turn your head to peek at him.

he’s already staring, blue eyes soft and molten in the dim light, his white hair a tousled halo against the pillow. he’s grinning, that lovesick, idiot grin that makes your chest ache, and you can’t help but reach back, fingers tangling in his hair. “watching me sleep again?”

“guilty,” he admits, not even pretending to be ashamed. he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can lean over you, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the tip of your nose. “you’re so fuckin’ beautiful. thank you for marryin’ me.” his voice cracks a little, like he means it too much, and you’re torn between rolling your eyes and melting completely.

“sappy idiot,” you whisper, but you’re smiling, pulling him closer until his lips find yours, soft and unhurried, all morning haze and warmth. t

he kiss deepens, his tongue slipping against yours, and you feel his hand slide lower, tugging your panties down just enough to press his fingers between your thighs. you gasp into his mouth, and he swallows it, murmuring, “shh, let me say good morning properly.”

it’s slow at first, all lazy touches and quiet gasps, his fingers circling your clit with a patience that’s rare for him. you’re still half-draped in sleep, your moans muffled against the pillow as he works you open, his lips trailing down your spine, leaving a constellation of hickeys where your neck meets your shoulder.

“mine,” he whispers, over and over, like a prayer, each word punctuated by a kiss, a nip, a mark that says you’re his. you’re soaking now, hips rocking against his hand, and he groans, low and needy, grinding harder against your thigh.

“satoru,” you breathe, voice shaky, and he hums, pleased, flipping you onto your back with a gentleness that makes your heart flip. you blink up at him, and he’s a vision—hair messy, eyes glowing with something too tender, too raw.

“wanna see your face, angel,” he says, grinning as he leans down, kissing your forehead, then your eyelids, then your lips again, like he can’t get enough. his fingers are still moving, slow and deliberate, and you’re trembling, legs spreading wider to give him more.

he pulls back just enough to tug your panties off completely, tossing them somewhere in the sheets, and you’re bare beneath him, tank top pushed up to expose your stomach. he kisses lower, lips grazing your navel, then the soft skin just above your core, his tongue tracing the outline of your ring finger where your wedding band glints in the light.

“fuck, i love this,” he murmurs, sucking gently on the digit, his eyes locked on yours. “love you.”

you’re a mess already, whining when he settles between your thighs, his breath hot against your slick folds. he doesn’t tease for once, just dives in, tongue lapping at you like he’s starving, and you cry out, hands fisting in his hair.

he’s relentless, sucking and licking until you’re bucking against his face, and he’s moaning like he’s the one getting off, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you still.

“taste so good,” he pants, pulling back just to spit on you, watching it drip before diving back in, and you’re sobbing, the pleasure too much, too perfect.

when you’re close, he crawls back up, kissing you sloppy so you taste yourself on his tongue, and you feel him nudge against you, hard and leaking. “ready, baby?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, and you nod, breathless, wrapping your legs around his waist.

he slides in slow, inch by inch, and you both groan, the stretch so good it makes your toes curl. he’s deep, filling you completely, and he stills, just for a moment, letting you adjust, his lips brushing yours.

“love you,” he says again, thrusting slow and deep, his hand finding yours, fingers interlacing. your ring glints between your joined hands, and he kisses it, then you, his eyes never leaving yours. it’s intense, the kind of eye contact that strips you bare, and you’re both pathetic, gasping messes, your nails digging into his back as he moves. “you’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice breaking, “my wife, my everything.”

you’re coming before you realize it, a slow, rolling wave that has you clinging to him, sobbing his name, and he’s right behind you, groaning into your neck as he spills inside, his thrusts stuttering. e

he doesn’t pull out, just stays there, buried deep, his weight grounding you as you both catch your breath.

he nuzzles into your hair, rubbing slow circles on your back, and murmurs, “five more minutes. need to be home a little longer.”

you hum, content, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek. the sheets are a mess, your tank top’s somewhere around your collarbone, and you can feel him softening inside you, but neither of you moves. he’s drawing lazy patterns on your hip, whispering how much he loves being married to you, and you’re grinning, too in love to care about the morning chill or the fact that you’ll need to wash these sheets later.

“you’re such an idiot,” you mumble, kissing his chest, and he laughs, soft and warm, pulling you closer like he’ll never let go.

ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER.ᐟ

you’re in the zone, apron tied loosely around your waist, the kitchen alive with the hum of your favorite pop playlist—satoru’s insistence that it’s “our jam” still makes you laugh. flour dusts your hands, the air sweet with vanilla and sugar as you whisk pancake batter, the morning light streaming through the window.

you’re flipping a pancake, singing off-key to some cheesy chorus, when you feel him—satoru, your walking disaster, sneaking up behind you. his arms snake around your waist, firm chest pressing against your back, and his chin rests on your shoulder, breath hot against your neck.

“baby,” he purrs, voice low and playful, lips grazing your ear, “you’re too sexy in this apron. makes me wanna eat you instead.” his hands slide under the fabric, fingers teasing the hem of your shorts, and you feel him, already hard, grinding subtly against your ass.

you snort, not turning around, focusing on the skillet. “you ate an hour ago,” you say, voice steady despite the heat creeping up your spine. you flip the pancake, the sizzle masking the hitch in your breath as his fingers dip just under your waistband, tracing the skin there.

“not talkin’ about food,” he murmurs, licking a smear of batter off your cheek, slow and deliberate, his tongue warm and teasing.

you swat at him with the spatula, half-laughing, but it’s shaky, your body already betraying you. “satoru, i’m cooking!” you protest, but he’s undeterred, hands slipping lower, tugging your shorts down an inch to expose the lacy edge of your panties.

“and i’m starvin’,” he whines, dramatic as ever, but there’s a growl beneath it, hungry and raw. before you can argue, he’s lifting you onto the counter, effortless, like you weigh nothing. the mixing bowl wobbles, batter sloshing, and you grip his shoulders, flour-covered hands leaving white prints on his black t-shirt.

“satoru, the pancakes—” you start, but he’s already between your legs, spreading them with a nudge of his hips, his grin wicked.

“fuck the pancakes,” he says, grabbing the whipped cream can from the fridge, shaking it with a flourish. “gonna taste-test my favorite dessert.” he sprays a messy heart on your inner thigh, the cold cream making you gasp, and you laugh, shoving at his chest, but it turns into a moan as he leans down, licking it clean, his tongue slow and filthy, eyes locked on yours.

“satoru, you’re wasting it!” you scold, but your voice cracks, your hands tangling in his hair as he nips at the sensitive skin.

“waste?” he scoffs, pulling back to lick a stripe of batter off your finger, sucking it into his mouth with a low groan. “this is art.” he tugs your shorts and panties to the side, not even bothering to pull them off, and dives in, mouth hot and relentless against your core.

you cry out, head tipping back, the counter hard under you as you grip the edge, knocking over a measuring cup. flour scatters across the surface, and he’s moaning into you, like he’s the one getting off, his tongue circling your clit with a precision that makes your thighs shake.

“fuck, you taste better than anything,” he pants, pulling back just to spit on you, watching it drip before diving back in, his fingers joining now, two sliding inside you, curling deep. you’re a mess, gasping his name, your apron bunched around your waist, flour smudged on your thighs where his hands grip you.

he grabs the whipped cream again, spraying a dollop right above your clit, and licks it off with a filthy moan, the cold cream and his warm tongue a dizzying contrast that has you bucking against his face.

you’re close already, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming, but he’s not done playing. he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and grabs a spoonful of batter from the bowl, smearing it across your collarbone. “messy girl,” he teases, leaning in to lick it off, his teeth grazing your skin.

you’re whining, desperate, pulling at his shirt, and he finally gives in, unzipping his jeans and pushing inside you in one swift thrust, the stretch making you sob. the spatula clatters to the floor, and you’re clutching his shoulders, nails digging in as he moves, fast and deep, the counter creaking under you.

“mm, let’s make every mornin’ cream-filled,” he groans, licking more batter off your neck, his thrusts relentless, knocking measuring spoons and a bag of sugar to the floor. you’re incoherent, babbling his name, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drives you higher.

“so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmurs, grabbing your hand, sucking the flour off your fingers as he fucks you, his other hand circling your clit until you’re screaming, the orgasm hitting hard, your body shaking, clenching around him.

he’s right behind you, groaning your name as he spills inside, his thrusts slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last shudder. the oven beeps, shrill and insistent, but neither of you cares, too caught up in the messy, blissful aftermath.

you’re panting, slumped against him, the counter sticky with flour, cream, and batter, your apron a crumpled mess. he’s laughing, breathless, kissing you sloppy, his hands still roaming like he can’t stop touching you.

“fair trade,” he says, eyeing the skillet where the pancakes are charred to a crisp. you smack his chest, breathless, muttering, “you’re cleaning this.” he just grins, licking a stray bit of whipped cream off your neck, and says, “worth it.” you’re both giggling, feeding each other burnt pancake scraps, flour still smudged on his cheek, and you know the kitchen’s a disaster, but your marriage is thriving, sticky and sweet as the mess you’ve made.

ON THE STAIRS.ᐟ

you’re halfway up the stairs, each step creaking under your furious pace, the crumpled receipt in your hand like a smoking gun. “satoru, three hundred dollars on towels?” you snap, whirling around to glare at him, your voice echoing in the narrow stairwell. “towels? we have lights! electricity! a mortgage to pay!”

he’s trailing behind, hands stuffed in his sweatpants pockets, looking infuriatingly unbothered. his white hair catches the dim glow of the hallway light, and that stupid, lopsided grin is already curling his lips.

“they’re plush, baby,” he says, shrugging like he didn’t just blow a small fortune. “like you. thought it’d be romantic.” his blue eyes glint, teasing, and you can tell he’s not taking this seriously, which only makes your blood boil more.

“romantic?” you hiss, gripping the banister so hard your knuckles whiten. “we could’ve bought a new couch! or, i don’t know, groceries for a month?” you wave the receipt in his face, and he has the audacity to lean forward, squinting at it like it’s a museum exhibit. “you’re impossible!”

he steps closer, one stair below you, towering over you despite the height difference. “c’mon, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice dropping low, “you married a brat. you knew what you were gettin’ into.” his hand darts out, grabbing your ankle, and before you can react, he tugs you down a step, making you stumble into him.

“satoru!” you squeal, clutching his shoulders to keep from falling, the receipt fluttering to the floor.

“what?” he says, all mock innocence, but his hands are already sliding up your calves, rough and warm, stopping just under the hem of your shirt. “you’re cute when you’re mad.” he’s grinning now, full-on, and you want to smack him, but his chest is pressed against yours, and you can feel his heartbeat, steady and maddeningly calm.

“come here and spank me about it, then,” he murmurs, leaning in, lips brushing your jaw.

“you’re not gettin’ outta this,” you mutter, but your resolve’s crumbling, his breath hot against your skin as he kisses down your neck, slow and deliberate. your hands betray you, tangling in his hair, and he hums, pleased, nipping at your collarbone. “i’m serious, satoru—”

“so am i,” he growls, and suddenly he’s kissing you, hard and sloppy, backing you up against the railing until it digs into your spine. the stairwell’s narrow, the steps uneven under your feet, but he’s got you pinned, one hand hiking up your shirt, the other tugging your panties down just enough to bare you. “let’s see how mad you really are,” he says, pulling back to smirk, his fingers brushing between your thighs, finding you already wet. “oh, baby, really mad, huh?”

you groan, half in frustration, half in need, and he takes that as permission, lifting your leg to hook it over the next step up, the angle opening you to him. “satoru, we’re on the stairs,” you hiss, but it’s weak, your nails digging into his shoulders as he fumbles with his sweatpants, freeing himself. he’s hard, leaking, and when he presses against you, you both moan, the sound echoing in the tight space.

“fuck, you’re so perfect,” he groans, pushing in deep, one rough thrust that makes you cry out, your head tipping back against the wall.

the railing’s creaking, the stairs shifting under his weight, but he’s relentless, fast and feral, each snap of his hips driving you higher. “say you forgive me,” he growls, biting your neck, his teeth sharp enough to leave a mark. you’re sobbing, swearing at him—“you’re such an idiot”—but your body’s begging for more, hips rocking to meet his.

“never,” you gasp, but it’s a lie, and he knows it, laughing breathlessly as he sucks on your fingers, moaning around them like they’re candy.

“fuck, you’re so wet,” he pants, his pace brutal, the sound of skin on skin loud enough to drown out your protests. you claw at his back, still muttering about the towels, but it’s incoherent now, lost in the haze of him filling you, stretching you, owning you.

when you come, it’s with a scream, your body shaking, clenching around him so tight he curses, his thrusts stuttering as he follows, spilling inside you with a groaned “fuck, baby.”

you’re trembling, barely holding onto the railing, and he’s not done, his fingers slipping between your legs again, circling your oversensitive clit. “still mad?” he murmurs, smirking, and you hiss, “yes,” but your voice breaks, your legs wobbling as he keeps teasing, pushing you toward another edge.

“liar,” he laughs, kissing you soft now, a contrast to the chaos of before. you’re a wreck, panties tangled around one ankle, shirt rucked up, and he’s still grinning, like he’s won the lottery.

you try to step up, legs shaky, but you stumble, and he catches you, scooping you up bridal-style. “told you the towela were worth it,” he says, carrying you toward the bedroom.

you smack his chest, muttering about the mess on the stairs, but he just kisses your forehead, tossing you onto the bed with a, “round two for the towel tax?”

you’re too spent to argue, pulling him down for more, the receipt forgotten on the stairwell floor, your marriage as chaotic and perfect as ever.

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babyspacebatclone · 1 year ago

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I’m watching a YouTube vid on the background of Humane and the Ai Pin. (hi Krazy Ken!)

It brought up an anecdote from one of the AI Pin’s creators, about seeing a family of 5 at a restaurant and how all of them were on smart phones, “not engaging with each other.”

And I thought back to my most recent family dinner out, and many more in the past.

Where my parents and brother understand that when I pull out my phone and start up sudoku or solitaire, it’s because my sensory processing sensitivity has been officially overwhelmed by the noise around us and I’m defensively distracting myself.

It never occurred to be before that people may be judging me, 43 years old and quiet with my head down over a phone while the other three members of my family are talking.

When in reality, I’m doing what I have found is the best way (in addition to my earplugs) to keep engaged with them - because the alternative to using my phone is to leave.

Doing a lightweight mental stim - sudoku or solitaire- to focus my brain away from the overwhelming environment of a restaurant.

Which allows me to better keep track of the three people I care about talking, instead of all the metal on ceramic and ice in glass clanging around me.

I definitely get the point of the original anecdote, about how people become consumed by the information (usually social media) on our smart phones and neglect the personal connections immediately with them.

But sitting around a meal table - especially in public - isn’t the only place interpersonal connections with present people can happen.

It definitely isn’t always the best one.

My family’s best convos happen in the vehicle to and from the restaurant, btw.

#actually autistic #actually audhd #actually adhd #actually neurodivergent #audio processing disorder #sensory processing disorder #sensory processing issues #sensory processing sensitivity #audio processing issues

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my-autism-adhd-blog · 1 year ago

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Does anyone else absolutely HATE white noise? When it comes to other frequencies, I don’t mind them as much (like brown noise), because they sound much smoother to my ears and less harsh.

Here’s what brown noise sounds like if anyone is curious.

youtube

#sound frequencies #white noise #brown noise #white noise is too harsh to my ears #brown noise is much smoother #sound sensitivity #audio processing #feel free to share/reblog #Youtube

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alia-alia12 · 6 months ago

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𖧹katsuki bakugou x fem reader

𖧹smut; katsuki makes you record him eating you out.

𖧹1.0k

𖧹mdni

“just like that” he says, red eyes glancing at the phone in your hand, the camera pulled up as you zoom in on the way his lips ghost over your cunt. “make sure you hold it still."

he's scheduled for a two week long mission out of the country and he needs something to tie him over.

you try— really try to keep the camera steady, but the first swipe of his tongue through your slick folds has you gasping, your entire body jolting as the camera tilts upward, catching only the crown of his spiky blonde hair. his tongue is hot, firm, and deliberate as it drags from your entrance to your clit, circling it just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy.

"fuck," you breathe, scrambling to fix the angle. you bring the phone down, focusing on his sharp jaw and the way it moves as he devours you, his lips wrapping around your clit to suck softly. you can barely suppress the moan that builds in your throat, your head pressing back into the pillow as your chest heaves.

katsuki doesn't let up, his tongue swirling around your sensitive nub with maddening precision. the lewd sounds of his mouth- wet, sticky, and unrelenting-are captured perfectly by the microphone, the obscene audio only adding to your growing arousal.

you’re so lost in the pleasure that you forget what you’re supposed to be doing, letting the phone in your hand drop until nothing but darkness can be seen.

his mouth pulls away with an audible pop, and your hazy eyes snap open at the sudden loss of contact. his brow furrows, a sharp growl rumbling from his chest. "don't make me fucking repeat myself," he snaps, his voice gruff and commanding, but the fire in his gaze betrays just how much he's enjoying watching you squirm.

he reaches up, gripping your wrist with his calloused fingers to guide your hand—and the phone— back to where he wants it. "hold it steady, or i'll make you start all over."

you whimper softly at his words, the threat sending a shiver down your spine. his eyes flash with mischief as he watches you struggle to comply, your hand trembling with the effort to keep the camera on him.

"good," he mutters, dipping his head back down between your thighs. "now don't fuck it up again."

his tongue returns to your clit, flicking and swirling and sucking with a precision that has your thighs threatening to clamp tightly around his head. his blonde hair tickles your inner thighs and the phone shakes slightly.

"katsuki," you moan, your voice high-pitched and breathless. he growls in response, his eyes snapping up to meet yours through the lens of the phone. the intensity in his gaze sends a shiver down your spine, heat pooling low in your belly. you look away.

"look at me," he commands, pulling back just enough to catch his breath. his lips are glistening, his face slick with your arousal as he nips at your inner thigh. "i want you to see this. I want you to remember who makes you fall apart like this when I'm gone."

his possessiveness ignites something inside you, and you nod weakly, barely able to process his words as his tongue returns to its assault. he's ruthless now, his movements faster and more deliberate, his lips and tongue working in tandem to push you closer to the edge. the knot in your stomach tightens, your legs beginning to shake as pleasure consumes you.

he chuckles against your core, the vibrations only adding to the unbearable pleasure. the wet sounds of his mouth working your over are obscene, loud enough to be caught on the recording. you can barely focus on keeping your composure, let alone holding the phone steady.

"you close, baby?" he asks, his voice muffled as he sucks your clit into his mouth. "I can feel you shaking. come on, let it go. let me hear those pretty fucking sounds as you cum on my tongue."

his words are your undoing. your back arches off the bed, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as your climax crashes over you. the phone trembles in your hand, your grip faltering as waves of pleasure roll through you. he doesn't stop, his tongue continuing to lap at you, dragging out your orgasm until you're left a trembling, gasping mess.

when he finally pulls away, his lips are curved into a smug grin, face coated in your arousal and he couldn't look happier. "good girl," he praises, his voice low and husky. he takes the phone from your weak grip, tapping the screen to review the footage with a satisfied hum. "this'll keep me entertained while I'm gone."

you collapse back onto the bed, utterly spent, chest heaving as you catch your breath. katsuki sets the phone on the nightstand, crawling up your body until his lips hover over yours. he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, before pulling back just enough to whisper against your mouth.

"don't think we're done yet," he murmurs, his tone dark and teasing. "i've got a whole week to make up for. might as well record me fucking that tight little pussy next."

his words make your breath hitch, and you can't help the shiver that runs through you as he smirks, his hands already roaming your body in preparation for round two.

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flamingwell · 1 month ago

Text

Making Your Podfic (especially with Music and/or Sound Effects) More Accessible and Listener Friendly

So you're planning to make a podfic with music and/or sound effects, and you want to think about ways to make it more accessible? Awesome!! This will guide you through some steps you can take to make your podfic more accessible, some of which will also make for a more pleasant listening experience for listeners without accessibility needs, but the focus will primarily be on accessibility. Some of this will also be applicable to podfics with multiple recording sessions without music or sound effects, but again, that's not the focus.

What's the number one thing you can do to make your podfic with music and/or sound effects more accessible to those with noise sensitivity, auditory processing conditions, who are somewhat hard of hearing, or other auditory accessibility needs?

MAKE A CLEAN VERSION, with NO music or sound effects! This can be a very easy change to your process for most people! After editing out mistakes and doing your audio clean up but before you add music or sound effects, simply export your audio. Upload it wherever you upload your final version, drop in a second link to the no music/sound effects version, and that's it! Of course, this may not be trivial for some people, depending on your individual process or other factors. I hope you will decide that it's worth doing anyway. As someone with audio accessibility needs myself, I can tell you it makes a HUGE difference. There are podficcers I love who I can't listen to some of what they've recorded because there's no version without music/sound effects, or sometimes I can only listen on a good day. There are fics I love where there's a podfic version, but I will never be able to listen to it because there's more music/sounds effects than I can handle. This one change will make people like me VERY happy and will expand your audience!

Secondly, especially if you've got a lot of audio dynamics (really quiet whispery bits and also really loud shouty bits), be sure to use the Compressor tool. Long story short, the compressor makes the actual noise level of the quiet bits louder and the loud bits quieter, while still leaving the impression of whispering or shouting. In other words, keep the emotion, but don't force your listeners to keep changing the volume on their headphones/speakers/hearing aid to be able to hear what you're saying or avoid getting their ears blown out (very useful for other listeners too, especially people listening on headphones or in the car). A quick overview of how to use the Compressor settings (this is for Audacity, which is what I'm most familiar with, but most audio editing tools will have something similar):

Threshold: how loud do you want to go before starting to make things quieter?

Make-up gain: after compressing the loud bits down, how much do you want to make everything louder to make up for it?

Knee width: how quickly and starkly do you want the compression to apply? At 0db, this will be a very sharp change. Lower levels will lead to less sharp changes

Ratio: for the loud bits that are getting compressed, how much compression should be applied? The higher the Ratio the more the loud parts of the audio will be compressed.

Okay, but maybe you want to ALSO make the version with music and/or sound effects more accessible, since that's your vision for the podfic and you want as many people as possible to be able to experience it? Great! PLEASE still make a version without music/sound effects as noted above, because even doing everything you can won't be enough for everyone. But it's also great to do what you can to make your music/sound effects version accessible for those that are able to enjoy it with some changes. So….what are some things you can do?

As much as possible, avoid putting music or Foley over your words. For people with audio processing issues especially, it can be very difficult to parse words when there's background music (and especially background music that itself has words).

If you're going to have music or Foley over words, make sure the words are significantly louder than the music. You can use the Analyze Contrast tool (in the Analyze menu in Audacity) to compare the relative loudness of two selections.

For music or Foley between words (like in a section break), make sure it's not too much louder or softer than the sections that come before and after. Again, use that Analyze Contrast tool to compare selections.

You can also use Analyze Contrast to even out the sound between recording sessions!

For sound effects that modify your voice, go only to the point where your voice still sounds very intelligible to you. Someone with auditory accessibility needs will likely struggle with intelligibility well before someone without those needs.

Hope this was helpful!

(This is written from my perspective as someone who has audio accessibility needs, as well as being a podficcer myself. Beta help and additional thoughts from @writerproblem193 @keriarentikai @xiaokuer-schmetterling and others not on Tumblr. But this is not The Definitive Guide To Accessibility or anything, so please add your perspective!)

#podfic #accessibility #my stuff

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thef1diary · 6 months ago

Note

Ghost!max who hasn’t been as active lately so you attempt to tease him and his final straw is when you go to watch videos of other people and breaks your laptop

-🎀

— if you think you can watch porn while Max is lingering around? Yeah nah bye bye laptop, but hey it works in your favour cuz you wanted him anyways 18+ content below

The tension had been unbearable. Max had gone quiet, his usual teasing touches and whispered temptations absent for days, leaving you craving him more than you cared to admit. The chill of his presence no longer swept over you at night, and his absence burned in your veins like an ache you couldn’t soothe.

Fed up with waiting, you decided to provoke him. If he thought he could ignore you, then you’d remind him what he was missing.

The laptop gleamed on your desk, a temptation you couldn’t resist. You searched for videos you knew would set him off, scrolling through explicit thumbnails until you landed on one that made you smirk. It was a recording of a woman pinned against a wall, her thighs shaking as a man took her mercilessly, his hand tangled in her hair while he growled filthy promises into her ear. You hit play, letting the audio spill into the room as you shifted in your seat, sliding your hand beneath the waistband of your shorts.

Your fingers danced over your clit, teasing yourself slowly as you glanced at the screen, imagining the weight of a man’s body—his body—pinning you down. “If you won’t satisfy me, I’ll find other ways,” you muttered aloud, your voice laced with challenge, knowing full well he could hear you.

The response was immediate. The temperature in the room dropped sharply, and the lights flickered violently. Before you could process what was happening, the laptop slammed shut with a deafening crack. You barely had time to gasp before it was hurled across the room, smashing against the wall with enough force to make you jump.

“You’ve got some nerve,” his voice hissed, low and venomous, echoing from every corner of the room.

Before you could respond, an invisible force yanked your chair backward, pinning you in place. Your shorts and panties were ripped away in one smooth motion, leaving you bare to the cool air. His presence swirled around you, suffocating, oppressive, as ghostly hands spread your thighs wide.

“You wanted attention? Fine,” he growled. “But don’t think for a second this ends on your terms.”

Two fingers plunged into your dripping cunt, his touch cold yet searing, stretching you without warning. You cried out, your back arching as he thrust into you mercilessly, setting a brutal pace that left you breathless.

He curled his fingers just right, hitting the spot that made you see stars. “Max—oh god, Max—”

“I didn’t tell you to speak.” His voice sent shivers down your spine as he added another finger, stretching you further, your slick coating his hand. “You wanted to act like a desperate little brat? Now you’ll take what I give you.”

The first orgasm hit hard and fast, your walls clenching around his fingers as he pushed you over the edge without mercy. Your scream echoed through the room, but he didn’t stop.

Instead, he dropped to his knees, his cold breath brushing over your sensitive skin before his tongue replaced his fingers. The sensation was overwhelming—his mouth devouring you with unrelenting hunger, his lips and tongue working in perfect rhythm to wring another orgasm from your trembling body.

“Max, I can’t—please—”

“You thought you had me right where you wanted me, didn’t you?” he murmured darkly, pulling back for just a moment before diving back in, his tongue sliding deep inside you.

Your second orgasm ripped through you, leaving you a shaking, sobbing mess, but he still didn’t relent. He moved back up, his fingers plunging into you again, curling and scissoring as he drove you to another peak, your cries turning into incoherent pleas.

By the time he finally released you, you were too wrecked to move. But the torment wasn’t over. His cock—thick, unyielding, and impossibly cold—pressed against your hole, and with one hard thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, his voice rasping as he set a brutal pace, pounding into you with no mercy. Each thrust sent shockwaves through your body, pushing you closer to the edge even as you begged for relief.

He pulled orgasm after orgasm from you, your body trembling and oversensitive as the pleasure mingled with pain. By the sixth, you were crying, tears streaming down your cheeks as you gripped at nothing, his name a broken sob on your lips.

“I can’t—Max, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, his pace never faltering. “You’ll take everything I give you.”

Your final orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing violently as your vision blurred. The edges of your consciousness faded, but just before you blacked out, you heard his voice echoing around the room through the spirit box, soft and possessive, ghostly lips brushing against your ear.

“Don’t ever try to replace me.”

want more ghost!max? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

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504py · 8 months ago

Text

No Compromises

Yandere Canada/Reader – You reunite with an old college friend, though he's nothing like you remember.

��️ Yandere content, kidnapping, self-harm, stalking, possible emetophobia (descriptions of gagging and the feeling of illness), no use of Y/N, gender-neutral reader.

IM BACK YAWL 😭😭 just a bit of a filler post and another apology for being away for so long!!! i tried to get this out by halloween but i kept adding more shit LOL

while this is much more aligned with his 2p version, i had no idea if it counts as such since here i portray his 1p and 2p version as the same guy 😭😭 so that's up in the air!

also u may notice the lack of a [oneshot] tag... thats cuz i have a prequel wip for this, but figured i'll just finish and post it if the people desire it LMAO. pls lemme know if y'all do!! anyways so sorry again and i hope u enjoy!!! thanks so much to everyone for sticking around and enjoying what i do 🩵🩵🩵

┊͙✧˖*°࿐

The light drag of a cigarette is the first thing you process when you finally come to your senses.

A man stands before you, singular lightbulb leering ominously above a head of overgrown blond hair, the bright light reflecting in his glasses making you unable to see much of his features. His tall, slender figure is highlighted by the stark overhead shadows that are being cast on his baggy clothing. He exhales, smoke billowing and resting heavily in the dusty, stale air.

"Hey." He says, the friendly, casual tone of his voice making you blink faster in the hopes of gaining more lucidity. His tongue pokes at his cheek as he drops the cigarette to the cemented floor and stomps on it. The gritty sound feels like boiling water in your audio-sensitive drugged up state.

"Are the ropes too tight?" He asks with a quirk of his head, you squint, thinking you'll be able to catch a glimpse of his face, but the dark shadows and your pupils trying desperately to adjust to the lighting in the dim room make the task much too difficult. You didn't even notice you were bound 'till you tugged your wrists at the mention of the word 'rope.'

The mystery man straightens his posture and takes a few steps closer to you. His sneakers are downtrodden. The lacing is asymmetrical, any recognizable color or branding rubbed off, and the hem of his loose jeans caked in what seems to be mud.

"Come on, you can speak, can't you? It's not like I taped up your mouth." The tone of voice he uses here is almost playful, yet too vague. You didn't know if it was condescending, comforting, or cheerful.

"I... I'm... Ropes are okay..." You respond mindlessly, your voice coming out in a hoarse croak. God, it feels like your head could loll off your neck at any moment.

"Poor thing. You sound parched– Tell ya what, I'll give you some water if you kiss me." Even if his face is still hazy, you can make out the glint of a smile. His canines are pointy.

He draws closer, and crouches in front of your seated figure. He's a lot taller than you thought, seeing him up close. You see the indent of a pointed dimple by the edge of his sharp lip corners when he turns his cheek to you. There's a few moles on his pale skin. He smells like tobacco, rust, and rainwater. Smells a bit like something syrupy and moldy, but maybe that's just the room.

You shudder away from his close proximity, and he laughs nervously.

"Aw, I thought that'd work." He chuckles, before facing you fully, still crouching.

You can finally see his face. What you thought were dark brown eyes turned out to be a dull shade of purple, just with his pupils as fully blown as they can go. The stare is creepy, but at least his droopy outer eye corners and straight blond eyelashes soften their impression. His nose is well-structured and pointy, reddish at the tip. His sharp lip corners seem to always point upwards, and were pink like they had just been kissed and bitten. If it weren't for this moment, you'd have thought he was an attractive man with a somewhat docile-looking face. His cheeks are flushed, he tilts his head in wonder, a few pieces of his hair falling over his face.

"Merde, you're really pretty up close. I can't believe you're in front of me right now. I missed you so, so much." He giggles, cold hand reaching out to carefully grasp your chin to try and steady your bobbing head.

He swoons, "So, so pretty." then presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. The action makes him exhale a shuddered, moaning breath. Whatever is in your system prevents you from reacting too much besides a weak jerk of your body.

"I should get you out of this shitty room, but I wanted to be prepared in case you reacted more violently. I didn't wanna have to drag you around. Don't wanna rough my baby up." He says with a small smile, as if the thought secretly brings him some amusement. Maybe his otherwise comforting smile just comes off as sinister at a time like this.

"You're reacting so much better than I thought you would, though. You're being so, so good, you know?" He coos like you're a pet, taking his hand off your chin and his blunt fingernails gently scratching at the top of your scalp.

Your throat hurts. You swallow dryly. "Who are you?"

The corner of his mouth twitches, and his smile drops slightly. He takes in a deep breath and sighs, cigarette-stained air blowing over your face.

He squints at you. "You really don't remember me?" He says quietly.

You shake your head. His light eyebrows knit in what looks like an expression of heartbreak.

He tries to jog your memory. "Come on, college sweethearts?"

"...I didn't date anyone in college."

His lips part in shock, the wrinkles between his eyebrows deepening.

"It's Mattie. Come on now." He pleads, desperation dripping from every word. The higher, more pathetic register his voice shifts into begins to jog your memory.

The sound of that nickname makes your eyes widen and forces your shoulders to press against the back of the chair. His identity makes things a million times worse.

"...M-Matthew Williams? No, no, c'mon, we never dated. Don't be like this."

"We had something special, though. I missed you. You missed me too, didn't you? You even remembered my full name." Matthew's gentle voice raises, as if trying to convince you of his feelings, trying to justify this situation.

"Th-There must've been a better way to get in contact with me without tying me up."

He shakes his head, frown almost a pout. "I did try! But you'd always blow me off to hang out with your other friends, a-and– and I just couldn't watch when I found out you were starting to see someone else." Resting on his knees and looking up at you, he grasps your bound hands on your lap. The position reminds you of prayer. Worship.

"I love you. Always have. A-And I know I'm different from how I used to be, but maybe you'll like this newer version of me more. You did say you liked a more assertive partner, didn't you?" His head tilts while he nods, like he's trying to convince you of everything he's saying.

His crazed eyes quickly scan your expression for any validation. "Yeah, yeah... I-I was a doormat back then, so that's probably why you didn't return my feelings." He laughs bitterly, and the sight is almost irritatingly funny to you. He's comparing his former pitiful self to the way he is now, as if he had changed. "But I'm different now. I'm not a coward anymore. I'll take care of you, and I'll do it well, I promise. I'll make you so happy."

"Please, Mattie, j-just let me go, and I'll give you a chance–"

He gasps. "You used my nickname." A disgustingly lovestruck grin spreads on his pale freckled face. He presses your bound hands against his flat chest. His heart is beating wildly against his ribcage.

"Feel my heartbeat. It's all for you. It only beats for you. I promise I can make you feel the same way for me. Just let me."

"...Do I even have any other choice? You kidnapped me."

Matthew's smile falters, eyes drooping, and he looks just as pathetic as he did all those years ago. He frowns flimsily. "I-I'm sorry. But I'll be good to you. Really. I'll be so good for you."

You shut your eyes and lean your head back. Your whole body hurts. Weighing out your options, you make a decision. If this Matthew is just as pathetic as the one you remember, then maybe you have a chance to escape if you butter him up enough.

"Fine. Untie me first."

Matthew's eyes widen. "R-Really? If you fight back, though, I'll have to use force, so, please, just... Don't run."

"I get it."

Eagerly, he brings out a knife and cuts through the rope. He rubs and massages your wrists for you when you're freed from your restraints. Dusts your clothes off for you, too. Though, you're wondering if what you think is a needlessly thoughtful action is just an excuse for him to feel you up.

"Let's get out of this basement, yeah? It's much better upstairs. Promise." He says, gently holding onto your hand. His are covered in bruises and small wounds. Butterflies are taking flight like fighter jets in his stomach.

When you stand up, Matthew pauses for a bit, violet eyes raking over your figure.

"Sorry, I just–" He starts, before cutting himself off by quickly stepping closer to you and encasing your body in a hug. He trembles and lets out a shaky breath, tightening his hold.

"I missed you so much," His voice cracks, "So happy you're here. Really. I feel like I'm on top of the world having you all to myself. You're all mine, finally."

Matthew takes in a sharp, obstructed breath. "Ugh, I–" He pulls away and his voice sounds all wet. He's crying. If you weren't so woozy, you would have scolded him when he wipes his face with his dirty jacket sleeve. Even now, you care about him, and maybe that's why he's fallen so helplessly in love with you.

He feels like he's shriveling into himself when all he does is simply breathe and what comes out is a sniffle. It's shameful, to boast about being a changed, stronger man, only to fall apart with a hug.

Wordlessly, he gulps his insecurities down his scratchy throat and grabs your wrist, taking you up the dusty wooden steps and leaving the basement. He does this with such little care it surprises you a little. It forces you to come to your senses in order to not stumble over your own heavy feet.

The actual interior of the house is much less industrial-looking than what you'd assumed from the basement. Rustic is the first word to pop into your mind to describe this place. Cottagecore, like the trendy people say, but... with a whole lot less of that trendy factor. It definitely is comfortable, which is a relief considering the storm outside.

Oh.

Looking out the window makes you realize something dreadful. You were never scared of the dark, pitch-darkness, even, but the vantablack surroundings beyond the glass begins to shroud you in a shadow of realization; there is a total absence of light. There are no lights, there are no houses nearby, there is nothing. You were in the middle of nowhere. You glance down to Matthew's battered sneakers and mud-caked jeans, and wonder how much trouble they went through to get you here.

He senses your staring, and looks to you, following your gaze and flushing.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. This is no outfit for a reunion as important as this." He laughs sheepishly, weakly. He had managed to swallow his tears, with the only evidence left behind being his reddish waterline and nostrils.

"I'll, uh, I'll go change– Just sit down anywhere you'd like. Those drugs will take a bit to leave your system. I'll fix you something up to wash it down as soon as I'm back, sweetie." Matthew stays for a moment, gnawing on his lip like he's weighing something out in his mind, before deciding to just go for it. He leans in to quickly place a kiss to your temple, and despite his attempt at nonchalance, he lets out a thin, shaky breath, before scampering off into what you assume is his bedroom.

Still nauseated, you hobble over to the couch and collapse onto it with more grace than you expected. You spare only a few seconds before forcing yourself back up, making the most of your time alone to examine the area without the pressure of Matthew watching you.

You scan the room quickly, making note of any possible exits. There are only two in this living room. The window, and the lone door against the other side of the room. Nearing and examining the window, you quickly find that it has a keyed lock, and rush over to the door.

Keyed, padlocked, deadbolted. God, he really went through the trouble of installing multiple of these. You could only imagine what his keyring looked like. You wonder if you could nab it.

A long-fingered hand clamps over your shoulder, digging into your collarbones and pulling you back. It's over so quickly you don't even have time to complain and yell about the pain.

"What do you wanna eat?" Matthew asks sweetly. His voice, though recognizable, is different from the way you remember it. His signature softspoken-ness is still there, but it's hoarse, slightly deeper. Maybe it's because he started smoking, but no cigarette can be owed the credit of the subtle confidence in his tone– Maybe not confidence, but some sort of certainty.

Your irises tremble slightly at the startle as you return his stare, before gulping and answering. "...Anything's fine."

"Pancakes it is." He shrugs, a small smile on his lips. As he walks to the quaint kitchen, he pulls a black hair tie off of his bony wrist and begins tidying his wavy, honey blond locks into a low ponytail. His hair's grown so much since you last saw him, and you can't help but think it suits him well.

It's not just his hair, the rest of him has grown, too. Matthew's gained a few inches of height, though he looks slimmer than before. You're unsure if he lost weight, or if his height just makes him look thinner than he actually is. He's aware of it, that he looks slightly worse for wear, but he couldn't help but lose his appetite being away from you for so long. He'll gain it back eventually to look good for you. I have to, he tells himself.

Now that he's rid of his jacket and clad in just a loose, plain graphic shirt, you get a better look of the wounds on his arms. It's mostly around his knuckles and palms, maybe he's clumsy, maybe he does a lot of physical labor, those are strangers to you, but you're familiar with the thin scars on the inside of his wrists. They're faded and old now, thank god, but you remember the long teary nights in college you'd spend trying to convince him not to hurt himself just because you couldn't spend time with him that week. You made him promise he wouldn't do it anymore, and judging by the lack of fresh wounds, he's kept his word. Though those memories make your head throb, you feel slightly proud.

You wobble over to the couch, deciding to take a seat to try and soothe the nausea bubbling about inside you. You remember those red plaid pajamas he's wearing, too. Always wore them whenever you came over. You wince as another wave of pain ripples through your skull, and you wonder if he's purposefully dressed himself like that to remind him of his most favorite time in his life, one that he thought was yours too.

That smell of butter, vanilla, and syrup doesn't help. While your stomach does respond to the smell, you can't help but think of Matthew first before the food. He always smelled faintly of maple syrup, along with hints of lavender and men's shower gel. His old apartment reeked of it. You never thought such an innocuous scent could bring you so much irritation.

Matthew glances behind him, finding your zoned out, furrow-browed stare.

"Your head hurting real bad?" He calls out from behind his back, focusing on the current stack of pancakes he was building by the stove.

"Yeah," You say under your breath. You're not sure why you even bothered responding if you knew you were gonna answer so silently. A part of you felt it rude had you just been unresponsive, but good god, forget the formalities, he'd kidnapped you!

After a few more moments of head-clutching silence, Matthew arrives, sitting on the couch and placing a plate of pancakes on the wooden coffee table in front of you.

"Come on now, you should eat. You've been knocked out for a while, you're about to miss lunch and dinner." He says lightly, a faint sternness in his voice, like he were speaking to a child. You scoff feebly.

"Nah, I... I don't really feel like eating." Despite the apparent hunger pangs in your stomach, you feel terribly sick in the throat, like you were constantly on the verge of retching. As much as you wanted to down the food he's prepared for you, just the thought of eating makes you gag.

He lets out a small laugh. "Want me to feed you?" Scooting closer, he leans down and tilts his head to get a better look at your pallid, gloomy face, heavy with queasiness. You're still so beautiful, he thinks.

You shake your head adamantly at that, immediately regretting it at the dull pain that amounts from the action. "No, no, I'm alright, Mattie," You bite your tongue when you realize you've called him by that stupid nickname again. "I feel like I'm gonna throw up."

He can't help the cheesy expression on his face and the way his heart flutters at the nickname. "It'll get worse if you don't eat." He pouts. "Come on, at least five bites." He picks up a fork, already slicing a small bit for you, and holding it up to your mouth.

You look at it with a small frown and wince in your expression, and his eyes darken.

"I'll tell you where one of the keys are if you eat."

Those words grab your attention immediately, and haplessly, you take a bite of the pancake he offers you. Matthew lets out an airy giggle.

"I remember you used to complain so much about this. Whenever I tried to feed you." He says with a pointy, wistful smile. "You've changed a lot over the years. Still so in love with you, though." His gaze is heartbreakingly warm.

You look at him, heart stopping in your chest for a moment at how sincerely he's looking at you. His heart does the same, but just at the mere action of you meeting his eyes, acknowledging his existence.

"You too." You say simply, despite your thoughts being so much more than those two words imply. When his cheeks redden and his lips gape, you quickly correct yourself. "Uh, that you've changed. Not that I love you." He huffs a dry chuckle.

"Figured, but I wanted to believe it." Matthew cuts up another piece of the pancake and offers it to you. You bite, and his blush only darkens. While you're chewing, he speaks again.

"You're not wearing that bracelet I made you anymore." He makes a sad face.

You swallow, "It's in my apartment. Felt too bad to throw it away." The light returns to his lavender eyes and he grins warmingly at you.

The bracelet is simple, a thin twist bracelet made with red thread, all entwined together with love. Matthew gave it to you during a morning class, blushing and stuttering. He made one for himself, too, like the red string of fate, he giggled when he said this, lovingly looking at the matching bracelets around your wrists. Now that your vision was less foggy, you can now see that what you thought was a wound was actually that same bracelet around his wrist. The color has faded slightly, more dull with dirt and age, while yours is still as vibrant as the day he gave it to you. It's a shame he didn't nab it when abducting you.

"You still care about me." He grins, almond eyes sparkling with mirth.

"To my own detriment." You smile emptily at him, taking the fork from his grasp and quickly eating the rest of what you owe him.

"The key?" You remind him, and he seems like a lost puppy for a moment, before it hits him, his pointy-fanged grin widening. He chuffs bashfully, as if a secret of his had been revealed, before he answers, awfully joyous; "Oh, I was lying." He laughs almost childishly.

A feeling of cold dread and shame drips from your head and down your shoulders. Of course, why did you assume so easily that he'd just hand that to you on a silver platter? At the same time, of course you would, he's Matthew Williams, the same man who gave you his coat and paid your bus fare the first time you two met. He insisted you kept it, said it suited you better and he's got hundreds more like it anyways. You did, you kept using it over the years even when you graduated. You used it this morning, maybe that's why it was so easy for him to recognize you. Your gullibility strikes you with chagrin and you can only retaliate by pushing back.

"What? We made a deal. Why would you lie to me?"

Matthew's usually docile expression falls, and suddenly you feel like you genuinely have no idea who this man is anymore, and you regret thinking that you could just walk all over him and out that door like you did all those years ago.

"Do you think you have any control over this situation, sweetie?" He crawls closer, palms dipping the couch cushions. "Did you really think I'd guard you so loosely? After all these years?" The collar of his shirt hangs from his neck as he leans down, collarbones prominent. "Did you think I'd let you leave me again? Stupid." He spits, though it seems like the final insult was more directed towards himself than you.

You scoot back until your back hits the armrest, and before you can try and slide off the couch, a lithe arm cages you in.

"It tore me up, ripped me to shreds and I came back a different person, but the only thing that stayed, that didn't change, was my love for you– No, my love for you is what broke me in the first place. Please, god, just soothe me a little." Matthew's voice crescendos until it cracks, hysterical expression making you relive the hell that was your college days together.

"Just love me a little." He whimpers weakly, before pressing a desperate kiss to your lips, moaning in surprise as if he wasn't the one to kiss you first. It's short, brief, like it zaps him, too much for his poor racing heart to handle. The bright smile returns to his face when he pulls away, breathless. It stays despite the horrified look on your face.

"Why are you so disgusted? You already tasted plenty of me in those pancakes. You looked so cute eating up my spit." He teases, his glee evident in his voice, the loose strands of his hair tickling your face. The realization of what you had just consumed, what now sits heavily in the pit of your stomach, was something of his, makes you dizzy with abhorrence. You try to push him off, but he slams your shoulder back into the cushions, hands vice-like and heavy against your skin.

Matthew is panting, and when he catches his breath, his eyes widen and his irises shake. You can see his pupils contract and dilate. "I'm sorry, I-I'm sorry– Didn't mean to– Ah, merde." He whimpers, dropping his head to the crook of your neck. He's already reduced to a groveling mess, and you've barely said anything. "Please love me, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I love you!" He cries, and you hate that you really do feel sorry for him.

You hate him, hate the shit he keeps putting you through, hate how soft his voice is, hate how pathetic he is, hate how reliant he is on you, hate seeing his tears. You hate how he still manages to pull pity from you despite everything he's put you through.

With a shriek through gritted teeth, you fist his shirt and yank him down, this kiss is intended, and definitely felt like, more akin to an act of harm over love, but poor Matthew can't tell the difference.

He melts into it with a loving sigh despite his bleeding lips.

┊͙✧˖*°࿐

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regaliaafterdark · 9 days ago

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please tell me why and how i should edge i want to do what im really made for please

Well of course darling, you're clearly made to satisfy Men. Why else would you have been born with a cunt between those legs?

You are a natural-born slut. You are meant to be a well trained whore that jumps up and down a cock dutifully while smiling in clear and utter bliss.

You want to know how to edge? Very well. First, make sure to remember how it feels when you are close to cumming.

Not how it feels WHEN you cum, how it does when you are CLOSE.

The feeling should be this nice, building-up sensation that makes you want to go faster as your needy cock warmer begs for a climax. That's when you slow down, don't go faster. Keep. Rubbing. Slowly. If you're fucking yourself, do it slower anyways. You want to keep that state of arousal for a little bit, and then completely stop.

As you practice, you will cum accidentally some times. Make sure to remember how it feels in that in-between. Make a note on how long it takes for you to reach that state or otherwise do what you find most useful to keep that limit in mind.

The objective is for you to stop yourself right before cumming. You must learn to enjoy the frustration that comes from stopping right over the edge. Keep yourself needy and wanting more while you wait. Keep looking at porn, reading dirty things, playing with your nipples and other sensitive body parts while you let your pussy rest.

After a little bit of time, anywhere between 30 seconds and 5 minutes, resume pleasuring it. You will then repeat this process until you cum, either willingly or accidentally.

You should be grateful for this lesson, cunt. So make sure to train yourself to edge as much as you can.

That way, you will turn into even more of a pathetic little goonette that's horny and sensitive 24/7, her mind filled with nothing but her Professor's cock. ❤️

══════════════════════════════════════��═════════════════

Sneaking in Professor's new Patreon for some exclusive dirty audios ❤️

Happy edging, cunts.

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theunsinkableship1 · 3 months ago

Text

CRAZY ABOUT THEIR LOVE

"There's love there" dixit Nicola.

Yesterday, Nicola received a BAFTA nomination for her work in Big Mood, which has been renewed for a second season. She is a talented actress with a good heart and an agreeable personality. I hope that she’ll win and if she doesn’t it’s ok. Whether she wins or not, there are likely more opportunities ahead for her to achieve further successes. There have also been discussions regarding her private life, which is unfortunate on a day that marks a significant milestone in her career.

Was it unfortunate? Yes! Unexpected? No!

Her talent and beauty are widely recognized, but much of the interest in her online is centered around her private life. She may not be comfortable with this aspect of her popularity, and public figures often have limited control over how they are perceived. I’ve never been a real fan of a person before and certainly not to the point of knowing as much as I know now about lukola. The fact is that I’m just a casual fan of both actors and normally I wouldn’t follow their activities that closely and wouldn’t be much interested in their private lives, this why I restate that I will not follow their other relationships as I am not fully aware of the dynamics or background information necessary to form a conclusive opinion and what has transpired to this day isn’t appealing to me and to be fair can’t really be because we don’t have years of interactions and the deep dive with world tour like background knowledge .

Luke and Nicola have already recognized that a significant part of their public appeal stems from their dynamic together. This could be one of the reasons why they’re creating distance, whether for personal reasons, professional positioning, or external pressures.

By stepping back, they control the narrative, preventing their careers from being overshadowed by speculation. It allows them to establish individual identities beyond their joint appeal, ensuring their work is taken seriously on its own merit.

It could also be a missed opportunity , their bond is a force that transcends standard co-star dynamics. Instead of resisting it, embracing their unique impact could elevate their legacy beyond just a TV show. Some connections aren’t meant to be hidden; they become cultural moments that inspire, move, and even change people’s perspectives on love and human connection.

Ultimately, while they may try to control the perception of their relationship, the way the world receives and resonates with them is beyond their control. And perhaps, that’s not something to fight, but something to embrace.

Yesterday, someone, not a close friend called me crazy because I asked them to listen to a Lukola clip I had posted on my Tumblr. Some people could hear what I was pointing out, while others couldn’t, even after I boosted the audio to make it clearer. My immediate test some of my audience couldn’t hear anything, and one person went so far as to call me crazy. I didn’t appreciate it and struggled to understand why they were unable to hear it. Was I really imagining things? Was there truly nothing there?

The answer is simple: No, I wasn’t imagining things. And yes, there is something there.

Human perception is far from uniform, especially when it comes to hearing. Just as some people have sharper eyesight or better spatial awareness, hearing ability varies greatly from person to person. Factors like age, frequency sensitivity, past exposure to loud sounds, and even genetic predisposition affect how we process audio.

In my case, I didn’t just rely on my own ears. I took the clip, and had it analyzed through audio spectrum tools that visually display sound frequencies. The analysis confirmed that the frequencies of the words were indeed present in the audio file, proving that I wasn’t "hearing voices" or imagining things. AI tools, interestingly, also struggled to transcribe certain parts, just as some humans did. This is similar to the well-known "blue and gold dress" phenomenon, where different people perceived the same visual input in vastly different ways. Just as with color perception, auditory perception can differ dramatically based on how an individual's brain processes sound.

This extends beyond just hearing. In general, people interpret reality based on personal biases, past experiences, and even subconscious conditioning. Some are more attuned to body language, micro-expressions, and emotional undercurrents, while others need more explicit confirmation to recognize what’s right in front of them.

In the case of Lukola, shippers often see and feel something an energy that transcends mere friendship. Yet skeptics, for various reasons, might dismiss these same moments, either because they aren’t looking closely enough, don’t want to see it, or simply don’t have the intuitive ability to pick up on subtle dynamics.

If Lukola were just a projection of wishful thinking, then why does the same pattern of interactions, glances, physical closeness, and emotional depth consistently appear? Why do so many unrelated observers, across different cultures, backgrounds, and levels of analytical skill, pick up on the same chemistry? And why does every attempt to disprove Lukola rely on external factors rather than what’s actually happening between Luke and Nicola?

Lukola possesses unique and exceptional qualities. Their interactions, reactions, and ability to reconnect despite adverse circumstances defy conventional understanding. It is not possible to simulate the level of ease, tension, or emotional resonance they exhibit. For those who can observe and interpret the details, the patterns become unmistakable.

So no, I’m not crazy. And neither are the countless others who perceive what’s right there in front of us. Some may not hear it. Some may not see it. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

Luke and Nicola's dynamic appears to go beyond a typical co-star relationship. This level of interest is absolutely unusual for me, and others in the Lukola community have reported similar feelings of attachment to their bond. Whether this relationship is romantic, deeply intimate, or something else, it seems to resonate strongly with many observers. The reasons behind this strong resonance remain unclear.

Humans are wired to seek patterns, to make sense of connections that may not be immediately obvious. Lukola shippers aren’t just indulging in wishful thinking; many of us sense undeniable chemistry, subtle moments of tension, and contradictions in their public narrative. This sparks an instinct to analyze, to decode, to uncover something that doesn’t quite fit into the "just friends" framework.

Additionally, the longer one observes and collects evidence, whether it’s body language, micro expressions, or the apparent shifts in behavior when they are together, the deeper the emotional investment grows. The brain seeks to validate what it already suspects, reinforcing the belief that there is something real happening beneath the surface.

For many, the draw toward Lukola feels intuitive. There is a gut feeling, an unshakable certainty that their bond holds more meaning than what is publicly acknowledged. Some might describe it as an energetic connection, a frequency that people unconsciously pick up on.

Carl Jung’s concept of the collective unconscious suggests that groups of people can tap into hidden truths before they become widely accepted. Could it be that Lukola shippers are picking up on an unspoken reality that the world hasn’t fully acknowledged yet? It would explain why so many independent observers arrive at the same conclusion despite official narratives trying to steer them away.

There’s also the idea of twin flames or fated connections, relationships that seem destined, even if obstacles stand in the way. Many Lukola supporters believe that what they see in Luke and Nicola is more than just friendly affection; it’s the kind of deep bond that challenges both people involved.

Lukola stands out in today's media for its authenticity, countering the trend of PR-driven relationships and polished celebrity personas. People crave something genuine and unique. Their potential is intoxicating.

There’s also a subconscious rebellion at play. The media tells us one thing, but the evidence and our instincts tell us another. Lukola shippers challenge mainstream narratives by trusting their own observations over curated publicity.

Here lies an interesting paradox: should we accept the public version of events while continuing to ship Lukola? The answer for me is yes because the two are not incompatible. If Luke and Nicola (or their teams) are actively presenting a certain narrative, it means they want us to believe it. Respecting that choice doesn’t mean we have to stop believing in what we’ve already seen and felt.

Lukola, in a way, is a submarine ship, it moves beneath the surface, unseen but always present. To the outside world, we might nod along, acknowledging what is being presented, but deep down, we stay steady in what we know. The Three Wise Monkeys philosophy applies here: see no truth, hear no truth, speak no truth…until it is time.

Despite external narratives, Lukola remains afloat. Luke and Nicola are the ones who can steer it into harbor, let it drift, or sink it, and they have kept it sailing so far. Watching Lukola sometimes feels like you're in a theater, being trapped and forced to watch a mix of romantic comedy and a horror movie, where you want to yell—_ “Don’t go there! Stay safe!” _—but you’re just a spectator. It’s not your story to steer or your choices to make. You can only watch, hope, and brace for what comes next.

#lukola #lukolaland

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