#bas writes

[nanamis-bigtie]

more than friends

↬ fushiguro megumi x gn afab!reader ↬ masterlist // ao3 version

cw: smut, reader has a vagina (no excessive body descriptions), aged-up character, piv sex, creampie, friends to lovers, there was only one bed, mutual pinning, bottom reader, reader is a sorcerer summary: you've known megumi since you were kids, so the enforced stay in a single room with double futon doesn't seem much of a problem. however the proximity has exposed feelings that have been meticulously hidden for years word count: 2k a/n: repost from the old account. divider by saradika

Futon in your bedroom is spacious even for a double standard but you still somehow ended up squeezed on one—yours—side. Enveloped by the duvet from the top and him from what seems all sides at once, you arouse in seconds. It's too hot for your comfort but you know better than trying to sneak any part of your body outside; fall in the mountains put you through it already and it was still light when you reached the ryokan, at night it can be only colder and worse than any inconvenience and awkwardness crawling under your skin once you fully realize the situation you've fallen into.

Megumi sneaked himself close, his torso flush to your back, crevices of your bodies filling each other with embarrassing perfection. One arm thrown above your head, the other wrapped around your middle, fingers looking for warmth under the hem of your t-shirt, he's cradling his face into the nape of your neck. You can feel his hot breath under your ear, soft and barely audible but deep, filling his chest to the brim as it bears down on you with each draft.

He's not holding you tight but when, in initial shock, you try to shake him off, he clamps the grip until you stop squirming. You're allowed to breathe free again, but he throws one leg over yours for a good measure. You could turn around, you assume, but you're definitely not going anywhere without waking him up first.

"It's not a big deal," Megumi said himself a few hours earlier when the owner of the ryokan apologized in the politest words for the lack of free single rooms. It wasn't a spacious inn in the first place and now, with the main road destroyed by flash flooding, you weren't the only ones looking for last minute shelter.

You didn't protest, hungry, soaking wet and tired. It was a long day, already a pain in the ass before the rain had grown in intensity, as if gods decided to sink the cursed site you two had been called for. You crawled to the local hotel on your last legs, determined to stay in the worst conditions possible, as long as you were given a warm bath and a cup of hot tea.

It wasn't a big deal indeed. Megumi wasn't just a coworker, he was a friend you've known for years, even before you both entered high school. There was even time when he was considered a perfect candidate for your husband—a source of never-ending jokes and teasing from Gojo-sensei—but the project collapsed with the old system of great jujutsu families, and your strong yet relentlessly platonic relationship continued to bloom without the burden of tradition. The label of "lovebirds" clung to you for good, like a ghost of your late teacher cackling over your heads, survived even the graduation and intense focus on your careers for the few years to come. Now both first grades, you haven't been seeing each other much outside occasional contact at work, but nearly intimate closeness remained intact.

As if not a single second has been lost between you.

There was no trace of embarrassment as you shed your clothes to the more or less dry layer. Megumi didn't even blink when you asked him to dry your hair after a shower, your hands didn't budge when you were putting moisturizer on his facial scars as he was already drifting away while still sitting. You crawled on the futon at the same time, with a safe and respectful distance between you, and fell asleep in no time.

But now, a few hours later, a certain border has been crossed, leaving you nearly breathless in front of the horde of possibilities you've had no idea they're within your reach.

It's...somewhat terrifying how, once initial shock has faded, comfortable Megumi's arms feel around you. His touch is not alien to you, but he's never been one to relish in physical contact, yet with just a friend. It has no right to be so familiar and safe. It has no right to open your heart like a barely scabbed wound and soak you with yearning and hunger. You can't complain about lack of physical pleasure, you haven't tasted enough loneliness to be desperate for any kind of bodily warmth next to you. Yet, you're trembling, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and when his hold loosens a little and he rolls to his back, painful spasm runs through you, almost dragging a sob out of you.

You follow his move, now embracing him yourself and nestling between his side and the arm that remained close to you. Megumi takes a deeper breath, immediately scoops you close and hums, as if with approval, when you slot your head on his chest. You can hear—feel—his heartbeat, calm and welcoming, so recognizable even if it's the first time you can witness it from so close.

Rains have ceased, almost full moon pours silver light through the uncovered windows. You can see every crevice of his appearance and the sight takes you a little aback. It's Megumi, without a doubt, but not until now you pondered how much he changed. How long has it been already? His face lost the last remains of androgynous subtlety, his cheeks covered by harsh two-day scruff and his worry lines much deeper when he frowns, your gentle touch ticklish. You trace every single one of them, trace the scars around his eye, trace his jaw, square and manly, dear gods, when has this boy, so pretty that the girls at school constantly bickered behind his back, turned into a man?

When all this time flew over your heads? Next year, the both of you will grow older than Gojo-sensei.

Only his eyelashes remained exactly the same, throwing shadows under his eyes and filling you with jealousy for their length and thickness. You can't help but brush them with a thumb, once, twice, until his eyelids crack open, and he looks straight at you.

"For how long will you keep fondling me?" Heavy with sleep, Megumi's voice is low and coarse, filling you with need both well-known and alien. You have never felt anything like that for him (well, have you really?), and there's a shadow of anxiety behind it—but you can't bring yourself to take your hands off him.

Silence between you is thick like tar but not uncomfortable, rather cautious as you both ponder over the next move, equally unwilling to part your ways. Megumi breaks first when his hand, rather accidentally, brushes yours after he's wiped sleepiness off his face, "Well, I haven't told you to stop."

Duvet falls off your shoulders as you climb his lap, straddling him comfortably and letting the moonlight soak your figure. Megumi inhales deep and sharp under you, his hands finding your hips in no time and nestling you right over the undeniably growing hardness in his boxers. You both ignore it for now, drunk with the sights alone, rediscovering each other from this new, the most intimate angle. He lets you slide his undershirt under his chin, groans deep and low when you squeeze his pecs, soft against your palms with their size. He's always been rather slim, but he's gained serious musculature over the years, still not the biggest guy you've seen around, but so different from Megumi that's somehow, despite everything, stuck in your head for years.

You find more and more distinctions as you explore him further south. Soft hair grazes your skin especially down his navel, a trail leading you to the edge of his boxers and prompting you to peel them away. He mewls, relieved, when you do so, his erection springing free. It fits in your hand just right, leaking for you even before you give him a proper stroke. He must have been humping against you in sleep, his bulge a detail you've missed in the haze of different feelings and sensations, and he's enjoying the sweet relief now, his chest and abs twitching for you in pleasure.

The first itching wave washes over you too and you reach between your legs just to find your underwear to be soaked. You're ready so easily and fast it's almost embarrassing, especially under the weight of his gaze, attentive despite sleepiness lingering in its corners, fixed on thin threads of your arousal glistening between your fingers in the silver light.

"Come here," he mutters, nails sinking in the softness of your ass as he desperately tries to close the last inches of distance between you two.

You follow eagerly, biting on a moan as if your dignity depended on it when his tip slides between your folds. You haven't prepared yourself thoroughly but from what you felt in your hand you assess he shouldn't be a problem. 

You impale yourself in one, smooth move, both of you groaning in pleasure and release, finally sating the hunger neither of you knew it's lingering in you.

Megumi lets go of your hips to lift himself to sitting, wraps arms around your back and pulls you into him so suddenly it yanks air out of your lungs. You return the proximity with your legs around him, ankles crossed behind him to sway yourself steady. The rhythm is lazy, as deep as slow, barely earning some friction for the both of you. Sometimes, his hips thrust up, grazing your core just right and having you mewl in pleasure; every time he hushes you up with slow kisses peppered down your jaw and neck.

His hair is as soft as you remember but his scent is sharper, so manly and mixed with the complimentary shower gel from the ryokan's bathroom. Young Megumi always smelled black coffee to you for some reason and there's still a tinge of it lingering at the back of each breath you take off him. Face hidden against his neck, you soak yourself in nostalgia and novelty alike, surrendering to his touch, greedily wandering along your body. He doesn't spare an inch of it, catching up for years of self-imposed neglect, at times even rough, when he can't stop himself and steals another thrust deep into you, his manly, deep voice breaking when you clench around him.

"I'm gonna cum if you keep doing this," he reminds you of no barrier of protection between you—but you don't care and don't want to think of separating from him for even a second. You've waited for this for too long, it feels so good to finally find a place in his arms, a place that has waited for you since the first time your eyes met with a different intention than a mere look.

You want him to fill you up, you want to feel everything so deep, almost reaching your cervix, and you don't stop even after you reach your peak first, swaying your hips with the same eagerness even if your strength starts to fade away.

Megumi holds you close through it, his arms around you so strong and tight you feel his touch deep in your bones, and finally gives in to pleasure too, fulfilling your untold wish to the last drop.

Your moves slow down and cease naturally, you catch your breaths, snuggled into each other. Megumi's shoulders shake, be it pleasure or tears, and his hands slowly slip down your sweaty back, until he finds your hips—and suddenly sways forward, until you're flat on the futon again, your legs over you, embracing his middle when he finds a new comfortable spot, deep inside and right on top of you.

"More." His voice breaks into begging and he starts to thrust into you without waiting for your answer, with the power of the whole weight his body offers. "Don't let go. Please. I need you more."

"I'm not letting you go," you promise—and you keep it, through this round, and for a few next to come, until the sun replaces the moon and finds your naked, sweaty bodies, entangled with each other in the middle of the only futon left in the last free ryokan in those mountains.

[basilicrows]

cooking in the outline of a jayvik au scene i'm working on. for context jayce is helping viktor bathe after he comes home late and exhausted from his lab.

[image id: bullet pointed text reading "the chasteness of physical vulnerability and contact with the dissociation of a doctor's visit or a physical, like he is a piece of machinery being serviced; but the care jayce applies could never be mistaken as something so detatched. he is polishing an heirloom; turning something well-worn and tarnished in his hands for the thousandth time (the hextech gear). there is love in his care and viktor cannot stomach it. he has never been big enough to hold anyone's love. never been brave enough to accept it." end id]

[hyakunana]

"My friend, my partner… my Guardian."

[dceasesd]

why juni ba’s the boy wonder has my favorite jason characterization of any contemporary comic run: a needlessly in-depth analysis (pt.1)

oh boy oh boy am i excited for this one buckle up boys it’s gonna be a long one. analysis under the cut (WITH PICTURES!!)

i, like many others, have many thoughts and opinions about juni ba's the boy wonder that i'd like to express. i was having trouble formatting my rant, though, so i decided that it was easiest to just address some of the common complaints i've seen about the comic and jason's characterization and insert my ramblings throughout it. so far i've seen three main complaints:

the typical boiling down of jason's character to "the angry one"

his lack of strategy going into the fight with the demon is out-of-character

the neighbor's kid interaction

to start with the first one-- when introducing jason's character, in both the second and first issue, ba uses the descriptors "coarse", "bitter", "hardened", "brash" and, of course, "rageful".

so, yes-- i understand where people are having issues with this characterization. however, even if it's overplayed, it's still important to remember that jason is angry, and is driven, in part, by his anger at bruce and the joker. and, as ba highlights, he deserved to be! completely erasing jason's anger is just as bad as defining him with it.

i also don't think it's wholly accurate to say that ba is boiling jason down to just his anger. it might seem like that when only considering the dialogue and narration, but jason's behavior in the comic doesn't perfectly align with how the narrator describes him. while the narration describes him as "rageful" and could be an instance of generalization, jason's actions throughout the comic are more aligned with two other emotions/motivators: fear and despair. we never see jason get actually, properly angry; the closest we get is when he's seemingly annoyed by damian (which i believe could be performative) and when he becomes violent, accidentally hurting damian.

even in this instance, though, he is not driven to this violence by rage, but rather fear. so, while ba states in the narration that jason is driven by his anger, he contradicts himself by highlighting how jason's sadness and terror motivates his character. this could be interpreted as lousy writing on ba's part, but i'm not going to attribute the paradox to that inference. to me, it actually represents a critque of the "jason is the angry robin" generalization, because it calls to attention the discrepancies between how one is described versus reality, an issue that jason both faces in the comics (bruce using him as a cautionary tale when dying WASN'T HIS FAULT) and outside of the comics, as mentioned previously.

furthermore, this highlights the difference between what jason believes about bruce's perspective and bruce's actual perspective (according to damian). jason believes himself to be a "failure", but damian refutes this by describing his conversation with bruce concerning jason, a conversation that does not align with jason's belief. if you couldn't tell by now, perception versus reality is a BIG theme in this comic (and for jason's character in general!)

i was really fascinated by ba's take on jason, because it veered pretty far from a lot of contemporary comics, most of which do, unfortunately, play with the angry robin jason generalization. they've been doing a bit with his fear, too, which has either been pretty fun or the most awful thing ever (i'm looking at you zdarsky. gotham war was fucked up), but what makes ba's jason stand out to me is how he grapples with his grief.

this boy is so sad. ba's jason might actually be the saddest rendition of him i've seen in canon content. we've seen jason grapple a little bit with the despair rooted in his death and resurrection, mainly in lost days, where he cries 3 (?) times, fresh out of the pit and very traumatized.

even in this comic, though, he reacts to his grief with anger more prominently than sadness. that obviously doesn't mean the despair isn't there, though-- anger is just an easier outlet for it (which i could really get into the masculinity aspects of that, but then this would be wayyyyyy too long).

ba's jason, though? that motherfucker is so. sad.

christ he's depressing. AND THAT'S SUCH A FRESH PERSPECTIVE!!!!!!! THANK YOU JUNI BA!!!!!!

now i'm pretty sure some people would argue that this rendition in out of character because he's so sad. to me, though, he's still the same jason; he covers up his sadness with anger and pettiness, redirecting his own insecurities onto those around him to mask his true feelings.

ba quite literally illustrates this in the comic. whenever he is being his snide, normal self, he has his red hood mask on; but when he actually opens up to damian and expresses himself truthfully, the mask is off. ba is highlighting how the classic jason anger and bitterness is, in part, a performance and coping mechanism.

this post is already too long, so i'll go over the two other critques in a different post, which i will link below (eventually). if you guys have any thoughts you'd like to share or discuss, my dms and asks are completely open! if you made it this far, i hope you enjoyed my ranting. look out for another post soon! :))

part 2 / part 3

[jaewritesfic]

Everlasting Trio DP x DC Nobody Knows Au Pt 6

Part 5

Warning for very brief flashback implying vivisection

It is highly amusing to float to Red Robin's rooftop and see up close how intensely vigilant he's being. He looks like if a pigeon took off halfway across the city he'd fucking notice, but the ghost standing next to him and trying not to snicker goes undetected.

Poor guy. He really seems like the type to drive himself up a wall over a mystery - he's certainly been driving himself up a wall over Danny.

Danny has to force himself not to tickle the back of the guy's neck just to watch him flail.

He likes Red Robin, he really does. He didn't set out to torture the poor guy - Red did that all by himself, all Danny has been trying to do is help. 

They can't pursue him the way they have been and expect him not to try and get some entertainment out of it. It tempers the annoyance, making their obsession with finding him a game.

Danny considers the box in Red's lap.

He's been doing the same thing with each box they leave him from the beginning: grab box, open pocket dimension, yeet.

Not even Bat trackers can transmit from an entirely different plane of existence, it would seem.

And the thing Danny has discovered about having died when an entirely different plane of existence opened on top of him and merged with his DNA?

He is a pocket dimension, in a way. 

In other words, no need to expend energy to tear the fabric of reality to deposit his loot - all he needs to do is phase things into himself.

So Red will definitely notice when the box disappears from his lap and seemingly blinks out of existence, but at least he won't be seeing any neon green tears in reality open up in front of him.

That seems like a good deal to Danny.

He steps forward and reaches for the box-

NA NA NA NA NA NANA

Danny and Red Robin both curse and flail as the Ghostbusters theme rings out across the rooftop.

Red Robin nearly falls out of his lawn chair launching himself away from the sudden sound, almost dropping the lockbox in the process.

Danny frantically searches his pockets for his goddamn phone, pulls it out, has the fear of God struck into him at the idea of hanging up on Sam Manson and thus shoves it into his chest to go to voicemail somewhere where nobody can hear it ring.

In the dead silence that follows, Danny finds himself in something like a startled cowboy standoff where only one of the participants is actually visible.

Red Robin stands with feet braced shoulder width apart, lockbox in one hand and bo staff in the other. He is visibly bewildered and ready to throw hands.

He's staring at the space a little to the left of Danny's head, so at least he hadn't dropped his invisibility in panic.

Welp. No use trying to change plans now.

Danny lunges forward and grabs the lockbox, relishing in the squawk of shock and indignance Red Robin makes as it abruptly leaves his hand and blinks out of sight.

He doesn't anticipate how fast Red Robin will recover or move.

A hand wraps tightly around his wrist and jerks him back in an impressive estimation of where Danny might be occupying space.

Danny almost goes ghost right there. Not because he wants to, but because for a moment there are restraints around his wrists and ectoplasm on the table and bright lights and sharp blades and pain-

He swallows the growl that wants to well up in his throat as he turns and looks at Red Robin, teeth feeling a little too large and sharp in his mouth before he forces himself to calm down.

Red is staring him straight in the eyes despite Danny being able to see he's still invisible. Red’s hand looks to be wrapped around nothing.

“You're not going anywhere,” Red Robin says, voice low and slightly feral with the high of perceived victory. That, paired with the crooked smirk on his lips is kind of, uh- well. Hoo boy, that's all Danny has to say about that.

Well, he does have one other thing to say.

“Bet.”

The way Red Robin's face falls in disbelief when Danny phases out of his grip is nothing short of glorious. Danny's already floating off the roof and out of grabbing distance before Red finishes buffering.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Danny cackles, tossing him a salute he can't even see.

“Better luck next time, Angry Bird!”

“Son of a bitch!”

Masterpost

[ch0mpkin]

Kars seawatt???

[renarines]

being dumb as fuck is making this chapter preview period so fun like. yes i have read over 20 books and novellas in this series. no i have no idea what is happening at any given moment. i just love when people post like "NO guys this means the dawnspren will reverse nahel splinter and kaladin will mega-ascend to reforge three shards into a invested shardshit" and i'm just like. god you're so right. keep going everyone

[demaparbat-hp]

In your Spitfire AU, since Zuko is looking after Lu Ten II, what happened to Ursa?

Zuko is slightly older in the Spitfire AU. He was banished at fifteen, his head a little clearer and denial a little weaker than in canon. After his first look through the Air Temples, Zuko decides that if he can't find a myth, he might as well search for the next best thing.

Finding Ursa isn't easy, but in time he makes it to a secluded house in a near-forgotten part of the world. His mom is there, older and stronger and alive.

But she isn't alone.

And Zuko, as it turns out, didn't keep the best company during his search.

When Ursa is discovered and her secrets are laid bare for assassins (for Ozai) to find, she begs Zuko to take his little brother and run. She'll do anything it takes to protect her children, even if that means leaving them behind to keep a target off their back. Ursa diverts attention from them and allows Lu Ten's ancestry to be kept a secret. She orders Zuko not to follow her again, and disappears.

Zuko is left with a little three-year-old brother to raise and a mother he cannot hold onto.

[nanamis-bigtie]

loving your chubby body

↬ feat. higuruma hiromi, ino takuma, gojo satoru, geto suguru, kusakabe atsuya x gn afab!reader ↬ masterlist // ao3 version

cw: smut, pwp, reader has a vagina, piv sex for most of them, warnings wary per character (read them especially at geto's part), MINORS DNI a/n: repost from an old account. inspired by this art. divider by saradika

higuruma hiromi

cw: intercrural sex, clit stimulation

"Just a little more—" Hiromi's voice shatters with each breath. He's fighting brave but his own excitement is his greatest opponent, and each drag of his hips brings him closer to the delicious defeat.

With your thighs pressed tight together and bent over the kitchen counter, you're at mercy of his thrusts. This position is a little uncomfortable, your elbows will hate you for that later, but little do you care about it in the heat of the moment. It's happened too fast, too; one moment you're melting into your partner's embrace as he gently scoops you from behind and prompts his chin on your shoulder to see the work of your hands better—the other he's pounding into you like an animal in heat.

"Just—" He pants into your ear, chest flush to your back, both of his hands groping at your rolls and softness. Half-unbuckled belt digs into your exposed ass; he hasn't undone his pants properly, just moved clothes enough to slam himself against your slick.

He hasn't sunk himself inside though. The roll on top of your thick thighs, his beloved part of your body, bewitched him and swallowed the first, desperate thrust. He hasn't abandoned it since, forcing your legs to close and squeeze his cock in between. You feel it throbbing against your slit; he's hard, hot and gushing, right on the verge of finishing but somehow savoring the moment, only thanks to his stubborn temperance.

You would love to watch his fat tip poking through your clenched legs whenever he bottoms out. No chance for it in the current position, but from the sensation alone you can picture it—your own imagination has you drooling and needy.

"They're so soft..." Hiromi's voice is on the verge of crying. He nuzzles face into the back of your neck, teeth grazing your skin but not daring to take a bite. He's too busy fighting for air and chasing his pleasure.

He rocks himself whole against you, the sheer force of his moves forcing you into the counter and bruising your torso where it meets the edge. His arms around you tighten, his hands full of your chest and stomach, and his hips relentlessly meet your ass. He likes to take you from behind to watch it ripple but even this view can't rival the intoxicating warmth of your thick thighs. He won't pull away even for a second, not before he's covered them with his cum, milked of everything he has for you tonight.

The way he whines your name, broken 'I love you's and praises spells the finish—but Hiromi is stronger than that. He powers through it, almost crushing you in his arms all the way he can wrap them around you, and finds a new reserve of energy to rut into you with fresh pacing and angle. He's pressed closer to your cunt now, so close he's almost slipping in, but he's too lost in it to focus and buckle down to it a little more.

He can bump your clit right now, though, unintentionally edging you both together and eventually breaking you into moans and spasms, your legs too weak to withstand your weight and his enthusiasm.

"Keep it for me—" He growls when you start to falter, yanking you into the right position with impatience you would never suspect him of. "Please."

ino takuma

cw: weight-related insecurity, face-sitting talk, against the wall

"Why not?"

You wonder if Takuma is aware how soppy he looks now, cheek nuzzled into your thigh and looking up at you with a mix of shock and pleading in his eye. Just a moment earlier he's been relentlessly building up the churning in your abdomen with hasty kisses and greedy work of his tongue; his breath is still short after endless adoration of your rolls and curves. It's soothing the fresh hickey right under the edge of your groin, place that's stopped him in his tracks once he took a whiff of you, daring him to jump on you with an unexpected and selfish request.

"I don't want to— You know." You flounder between still heavy breathing and explanations. The answer is obvious with how there's nothing hidden between you two, all insecurities stripped naked for him, but it still doesn't want to pass your lips. As if you would crumble all of the courage and confidence you've built to be here with him if you admitted to the problem outright.

Takuma gets it and is having none of that at the same time.

"You think you could hurt me?" There's a shade of hurt ego behind his laughter. "Babe, please. You've seen the things I carried."

"Well... You've never carried me."

As if you ever let him, time after time escaping grabby and eager hands. Not in front of the others, not when you're wearing that, not when it's so hot, another day, another day, finally never. And you see it in the fire pushing the teary and pleading look in his eye away. His ego is one thing but being played like this right after being denied a delicious treat could not escape unpunished.

Still on his knees, Takuma hooks arms under your knees, still spread wide to fit his enthusiasm and adoration, and yanks you up. For a moment you're in the air with no support but your hands in panic grabbing any part of his body they could reach—but soon you find balance, supported by his strong grab on your ass. He holds you as if you were nothing, cheeky grin pushed right into your face as he's advancing on the nearest wall, soon having your back pushed against it, so tight and close you can't take a full breath anymore.

"If you don't want my face—" He adjusts the grip, having you with one arm while reaching down to align his cock with you— "we're gonna play this way."

You're dropped down just a little, enough to have him sinking inside with the help of gravity alone. Both of you groan in pleasure, your lips an inch away and soon meeting in a chaotic, wet kiss. He doesn't keep it for long, focused on raw and ruthless pacing, the deeper and faster the more you helplessly claw into his shoulders and back, your legs just useless and dangling by his sides.

"How are you feeling?" Takuma rasps into your neck, by no means tired, just barely restraining himself from destroying you right here, against the wall in the living room. "Still worried you're too heavy for my face?"

As if you could answer him, choking on moans, your eyes rolling back in your head on the deep and rough highway to your orgasm, the first of a few waiting for you tonight.

gojo satoru

cw: cowgirl, overstimulation, implied creampie

Your knees are slowly meeting their limit.

Luckily, this orgasm is not as strong, gently washing over you and having you shudder and sigh deep. Satoru holds you through it with patience, unheard of except intimate moments like these, but under the comforting pressure of his big hands creeps the insatiable need for more. You've been chasing him as best as you could, for the years you've been sleeping together already used to his habits and much better at this race than you were at the beginning—but in the end you're a human only.

No amount of stamina could ever satisfy the strongest.

He leans backwards but doesn't pull you with him, letting your bodies cool down each on their own. He's lying beneath you now, a delicious treat for your gaze. Disheveled, pink taint brushing his pale skin, sweat pearling all over his toned chest and abs, white happy trail wet with your juices, blindfold crooked and revealing one of his deep-blue eyes, following each move of yours with attention... You could never have enough of how pretty he is, of how lucky you are to have him like this for yourself only.

The swaying of your hips ceases, heaving of your chest the only move you have left for now. You feel discomfort in your knees, thighs and groin, not too much yet, but really close. If not for his girth still pulsing like mad deep in you, you would gladly help yourself and roll off him for a much-deserved rest. But after all those orgasms he's given you—well, mostly with the work of your body in his lap—it's just unfair to leave him unsatisfied. It's nothing you wouldn't solve with your hand or mouth, but you would not hear the end of it if your once-in-a-week treat for a whole night hadn't finished with him cum inside of you.

"C'mon, move a little." Satoru pokes your stomach, not so gently this time and smirking at your whine and a little wiggle of hips. He knows you adore when he's touching you there and he's gotten way too good at using it in his favor.

"Let me—" You haven't even collected your breathing and thoughts yet. "Just a moment, okay? Give me—"

With a bratty smirk, he plants heels into the bed and bumps you up, his huge cock finding a new angle to slide even deeper into you. Sudden spark of pleasure shakes your body whole, from eyes rolling in the back of your head to toes curling by his sides. When teetering on the edge of overstimulation, it's so easy to fall into another orgasm.

But you've withstood this one, hands clenched on his wrists so hard you mark his skin with your nails.

"Move," he orders half-heartedly, threatening with another thrust building in his hips—so you move, as much as your exhausted and strained legs let you.

It's enough for the insatiable beast for now. Pleased, Satoru pushes both hands against your stomach and kneads your rolls. At first, it's just a motivation for you to ride him faster. But something clicks and he's not teasing you anymore, blind and indifferent to everything but the feeling of your softness and the sight of your skin pouring around his fingers.

You test your luck, cease your moves again—just for the hold to squeeze you tighter and force you to pick the rhythm up. Hypnotized, Satoru is even more selfish and merciless.

geto suguru

cw: canon compliant geto, exhibitionism, cockwarming, dom/sub undertones, dumbification vibe, public sex, geto kills someone

The man kneeling in front of you two might have an idea what's going on, but he would never dare to let you know he's aware—yet to vocalize his confusion or indignation. He's sweating profoundly under the weight of Suguru's stare, mumbling chaotic explanations and excuses, his eyes transfixed on Suguru's feet.

You don't even know who that is and why has he's been dragged to writhe and babble. Before a different matter has occupied the top spot of your attention share, you've understood enough to recognize him as one of the windows sympathizing with the cause. But why did he fall from favor? Maybe it has been addressed already, maybe Suguru himself is not clued in enough, just treating the man as an excellent opportunity to play with you instead.

It doesn't matter. You're perched in his lap; you're engulfed by his greedy touch and perverse ideas. You're pressing against him with your whole weight, exactly as he likes, and squeezing his cock in your hot and tight hole.

Countless, wide layers of Suguru's clothes can cover your union with ease. Having one of his arms loosely wrapped around you, he hides the most of your body behind the sleeve. The other, resting on top of your lap, secures the rest. For a casual, lost eye, he's only holding you close, his favorite, his beloved toy, his doe-eyed innocent thing he treats like a comfort object. In reality, he's keeping you to cockwarm him in front of everyone who'll pass through this room until he'll be bored with torturing you and will take you on the same chair or on the floor next to it.

With no one around, if you're lucky.

As the man squirms on the floor, almost kissing it with the way he bows lower and lower, Suguru mindlessly traces your love handles. You twitch when he brushes a particularly ticklish spot and squeeze him even tighter. But you don't move, your face slotted in the crook of his neck, eyes focused on his handsome face and full of adoration. Part of you is terrified of delicious consequences, part wants to spare yourself overstimulation. With your nerves tense and teased relentlessly for what feels like hours, you're constantly on the edge of snapping. Even Suguru's breathing is like a torture; oh, what you would gladly give away to have him finally move and sate the fire between your legs.

"Did you hear him?" Suguru takes your chin into hand and brushes thumb against your slightly parted lips. When you can't stop the tiniest of mewls, he squeezes your cheeks, maybe with an encouragement, maybe with a warning. "What do you think, my sweetest, should we kill him?"

You roll your head further into him, feinting a whispered advice but in fact—wordlessly begging for this farce to end. You're meeting your limit, a minute more and you'll lose the last strand of dignity left in you and beg instead to be fucked right here and now, accidental voyeurs be damned.

"You're lucky I'm in a good mood today." Suguru's eyes rest on the man, now crying in relief and thanking him in the sweetest words, but the sentence is for your ears only.

Suguru turns the unwelcomed witness away with an impatient flick of a wrist, closes both arms around you tight even before he leaves the room. You hear a loud thud by the door when a curse pierces through the man's back, killing him instantly, but the aftertaste of reaction is faint and soon disappears midst Suguru's deep kisses.

kusakabe atsuya

cw: big breasts fetish, handjob, reader in lingerie

When you unclasp your bra and let your breast pour out of its confines, Atsuya throws everything he's been holding and pounces on you right away.

You haven't seen each other for a whole weekend—weekends should be crossed out of his agenda, but luck wasn't on your side this time—and you know it was rough to him. He put on a brave mask and casually brushed off all your proposals, from the facetime to exchanging nudes, but his curt messages and taut voice through the speaker just reeked of desperation. He's been pent up for a while now, crumbs of intimacy he stole from you along the week not enough to sate his libido. 

Just to think he warned you beforehand that he might be too tired for you; since the day he's taken you for the first time you're the one who has to beg for mercy from his relentless desire.

You set a little trap. Lingerie Atsuya bought you for your anniversary hasn't been tested yet in action, its tight fit and very feminine appearance needing a particular opportunity and mood. Opportunity couldn't be better, the mood set itself as soon as his face went red and mouth agape at the sight. Work and travel exhaustion is gone in second—and the only thing you have to worry is whether the delicate lace will withstand how strong he grabs and pulls.

Atsuya buries his face into your bust straight away, no word said, no touch stolen from the other parts of your body—just a lewd moan muffled by your mounds and hands scooping them from sides to cushion himself better. He rubs himself into your warmth and scent, growls, pleased, when he catches your natural tinge not yet washed away after the day. The tent in his pants grows crazy fast; you don't lose a moment and free him as soon as he leaves you an opening for it.

He throbs against your palm so hard that you worry your surprise might be finished way too early. Atsuya withstands the temptation, somehow, but does nothing to control himself in any other way. He's more fucking your fist than letting you stroke him, his precum dripping down your fingers and turning your grip slick, almost too much.

Holding himself between your tits until he's out of breath, Atsuya finally peels away enough to look at you, "I missed you. I missed them."

He licks and sucks, peppers your breasts with kisses and hickeys until he settles on one of your nipples. He's rougher than usual, brushing at the line of discomfort and letting you feel his teeth; you will be too sensitive for a bra for a day or two to come, but you still pull on his hair and prompt him closer. You missed him. You missed that.

With the first hunger satisfied, you finally find the right, united rhythm. His hips slow down enough to let you work for him, your hold on him is gentler and leaving him more space and freedom. Atsuya is not going anywhere though, only once taking a sudden turn to kiss your neck, but the delicious valley between your breasts bewitches him again.

Both arms wrapped around you, hands adoring your love handles, he pulls you whole into him, having you perched in his lap, and groaning when you find a new angle to jerk him off. "I missed every piece of you."

[basilicrows]

wip wednesday ok im writing a oneshot jayvik fic of jayce going to the commune and folding for herald viktor and it's based on a new song by my fave band . the gist of it is basically religious-level admiration of one's partner

and iiiiiis the fic gonna be a lil freaky yes it will be. but in a cool and unconventional way that i am psyched to write. my inspiration song has this frenetic obsessive trancedental pop vibe that im going to try to capture. who knows if i'll actually finish the fic but talking about it helps me psych myself into things

[penumbra-mayhem]

An Accidental Bridge

Sam/Darlin' fluff | 1759 words

(I hc Darlin' with a stutter; read here for more.)

--------------------------

Sam’s mind was gently pulled into consciousness as a great horned owl called from outside his bedroom. He glimpsed at the clock on the wall. Nine o'clock. Still late evening, not yet time to be up. Enticed by the owl's promise of a set sun, though, Sam slipped off his blankets.

Bare feet met hardwood as he left the bed, eyes still closed in an attempt to at least stay half-asleep. He shuffled over to his window and pulled back the black-out curtains before feeling around for the latch. His fingers found it just as a sliver of a voice snuck through the silence:

“SSSam?”

He gave a groggy response as he opened the window, “Jus’ gettin’ someair…”

Darlin’ gave a low hum of approval and rolled over to face him. Sam made his way back over and climbed into their bed with all the grace of a drunk bat, eliciting a sleep-laden giggle from his mate.

“Oh, hush,” he grumbled, his smile unwittingly trickling into his voice, “I’m barely awake.” He drew Darlin’ to his chest.

They both drifted in and out of sleep, lulled by the owl’s repeated call. The cool air of early night seeped into their room; the two snuggled further under the covers in response.

"I can feel your magic,” Sam mumbled. It was an uncommon sensation; usually, Darlin' only let their magic extend beyond themself when they felt safe. And they rarely felt safe.

“Yours t-t-too...”

“Feel good?”

Sam felt them nod. He gave them a small kiss before asking, “What’s it feel like?”

Darlin’ drew sleepy circles on his chest as they tuned into his magic. After a few moments of silence, they spoke—slowly, like they were savoring a flavor in their mouth:

“It’s l-l-like….sinking into a wwwarm b-b-bath..it’s like a…b-b-bass…low and in-in the b-back…thrumming…ocean wwwaves under a full mmmoon…immmmense…soothing…l-like aloe v-vera on skin after a-a sunny day…”

Joy swelled in Sam's chest and he tightened his arms around them. “I love the way you put that, darlin’,” he murmured.

Darlin’ smiled softly, sleep tugging at them. “How's mmmine?”

“Yours? Mmm…” Sam allowed Darlin’s magic to seep into him. “Your magic…is like fireworks. Those kinds that you light and then toss into the street to see them spin real quick and change colors…you’re the buzz after a concert...the windswept euphoria when you get off a roller coaster…you’re stargazin' durin' a meteor shower…your magic feels like…like…”

Home.

Darlin’ jumped.

They pushed themself up a bit and stared at Sam with wide eyes.

“What? What is it?” he asked, staring back in concern.

They shook their head. “Fuck, I-I-I heard y-you in-in mmmmy head.”

Sam mouthed a small ‘oh’. Seeing that Darlin’ was more startled than scared, he relaxed slightly. “You think we might of bridged?”

Darlin’ gave a small nod. “I-I didn’t mmmmean t-t-to.”

“Me neither,” Sam assured them, “Guess we were just…in tune with each other.”

They dropped their gaze. "I...I-I haven't d-d-d-done that in-in...in a l-l-l-long t-t-time."

"Me neither," Sam replied. He studied them a moment before asking, "Are you okay?"

They nodded again. "Are-are y-you?"

Sam couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm just worried about you."

Darlin' lowered their head back onto his chest. “I-I’m fine. J-just…surprised mmme,” they muttered, trying to slow Sam's heartrate with their words.

Sam ran one hand up and down their back, with the other in their hair. When he felt like they had both reached a state of calm again, he asked, “Is that somethin' you’d be interested in doin' with me?"

After no response, he added, "S'alright if the answer’s no.”

"You don't wwwant that. N-not wwwwith mmme."

Shut down. It was the kind of response he often got from them. It was the kind of response he couldn't stand. He knew it was a form of protection, and they had been getting better about it. But still, every so often, Darlin' would deny him or themself something in the belief that they were broken or unworthy or dangerous. Every time, it simultaneously burned Sam's heart and broke it.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, trying to keep his tone gentle.

Darlin' bit the inside of their cheek. When he was met with no response again, Sam kissed the top of their head and entreated, "Please, Darlin'. You don't have to speak quick. You don't even have to give an explanation. But please don't ignore me entirely."

Fuck. How could words spoken soft as candlelight twist guilt into their gut like a knife? Darlin' buried their face into Sam's chest, breathing in his scent. It steadied them.

Finally, they responded, their voice muffled by Sam's sleepshirt, "It...fucking s-sucks…in-in mmmy head."

There it was.

Sam sighed, "That may be true, for you. But that doesn't mean I don't want to bridge with you. I'm not scared of your thoughts, darlin'."

"B-but you should b-be.”

"But I'm not," Sam pushed back, just a little. Silence fell between them, and he let it. Darlin' had answered his question. There was no point in trying to convince them how he felt. He kissed their head once again in silent reassurance that he was not mad and closed his eyes, hoping to get a bit more sleep.

Darlin' bit harder at the inside of their cheek, their mind buzzing with frustration. The owl outside made itself known again; Darlin' laid in indecision as they listened to it call over and over. They could feel Sam's magic—not reaching out but still present. His magic was safe. He was safe. He was strong. Stronger than they were. Braver. Calmer. Steadier.

When Darlin' finally spoke, their voice was small and soft and scared:

"I-I wwwwant t-to try...if-if you also wwwant t-to."

Sam felt his heart skip. He craned his neck to the side to make eye contact with Darlin' as he asked, "You sure? I don't want you doin' this if you're not really wantin’ it."

"You-you give mmme all of you. I-I wwant to do the same. E-Even if it scares mme," they whispered, "I-I wwwant t-to b-be b-brave for you."

"You don't have to."

"B-but I wwant t-to."

Sam studied their face for a moment before kissing their forehead and whispering, "Alright. Thank you, darlin'. But if we start and you don’t like it, you tell me and we’ll stop, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good…is there a certain way you want to lay or sit?"

"N-n-no. You?"

"Nah, this is perfect."

Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head back against his pillow, running his hand through Darlin's hair. Darlin' closed their eyes as well, listening to Sam's heart.

It was quick. Almost as quick as the first time. When the bridge reformed, Sam could feel Darlin's body tense against his. Through the bridge, he felt the tension in his own muscles. He kissed the top of their head.

It's okay. You're safe.

“Fuck.” Fuck, woah, that's fucking weird.

I'm going to fuck this up.

I shouldn't have done this.

I'm just going to hurt you—

—hey, hey, it's ok.

Fuck, sorry, I'll try to quiet down...

...Do you think anyone's ever tried bridging with more than one person at one time?

If you can do that, could you make a true hive mind?

Bee people. Bee shifters? Are there any insect shifters—

—fuck! Sorry!

"SSSorry..." Darlin' muttered. Sam giggled and stroked Darlin's head. The sensation soothed them both.

You're alright, darlin'.

I don’t mind your thoughts.

But you should—

—shut up, Tank—

—fuck, I wish I would just shut up!

Sorry…

...Your head is so quiet.

Shit, I don't mean quiet like empty I just—

—god I am such an ass!

You're not an ass, darlin'.

Damn, I love you.

I love you.

"I love you, darlin'."

Darlin’s body went lax at the assurance. Their mind stilled for just a moment. Tap tap tap. Darlin’ tapped Sam’s chest three times—a gesture he’d come to learn meant ‘I love you’. The feeling of their own fingers echoed against Darlin’s chest.

I love you, too.

So much.

Fuck what time is it?

Shit, we’ve got to get up soon.

Do we?

It’s…Saturday? Yeah, Saturday.

Fuck yeah, we can stay in bed.

We could make breakfast.

More like you could make breakfast, I’m shit at cooking.

I’m shit at most things.

I don’t even think I’m doing this right—

—you’re doin’ just fine, pup.

Sam’s heart skipped as he realized what he’d just thought. Or maybe it was Darlin’s heart skipping, he couldn’t quite tell. His eyes shot open, and he looked down at Darlin’, whose face was already turning red. Sam’s own face began to burn too.

“Fuck, Darlin’, I’m so sorry.” I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean to think that.

That wasn’t appropriate.

I should have asked before—

—fuck…

For once, Darlin’s head was quiet. Like static. Sam’s stomach fluttered. Or maybe it was Darlin’s. The bridge was somehow deepening, and Sam struggled to differentiate where the feelings were originating.

I know wolves can be particular with those kinds of names.

Especially when their mates aren’t wolves.

I should have asked.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…

Sam’s thoughts slowed as Darlin’ pressed a soft kiss to his lips. They buried their face into his neck.

“Darlin’?”

I liked that.

You…what? "What?"

Darlin’ groaned quietly, “I-I liked it.”

Call me it again—

—wait, I mean, uh, um…

A grin stretched across Sam’s face. “Oh yeah?” he cooed, stroking the nape of Darlin’s neck.

You like bein’ called pup?

Sam giggled as his stomach fluttered at the word; this time he could tell that feeling definitely came from Darlin’.

You just a little puppy?

My puppy?

“SSSSSaaaammm…” Darlin’ whined.

Sam pulled his body back a bit. Darlin’ turned their head to look up at him. The blush on their cheeks made Sam swoon, but he still had to be sure:

“I can stop, darlin’,” Sam said, his voice soft but serious.

Darlin’ shook their head. “N-no.” It’s just, nobody’s ever called me that…

Sam couldn’t stop grinning. Their blush. The way they ducked their head and avoided his eyes. The weakness in their voice. He rarely saw Darlin’ so bashful.

Well it’s about time…

My sweet puppy…

C’mere… "C'mere."

Darlin’ hummed as they curled themself around Sam once more, tangling their limbs with his. Sam ran his hands through their hair as they traced their fingers over his chest. The two sank into repose as their sensations and thoughts melded and lost origin.

Sam breathed deep and murmured, “Such a good pup.”

Your pup.

[muffinlance]

Wan Shi Tong, like the former Admiral Zhao, looked entirely ready to throw down with a teenager.

- Line I almost certainly won't use, so HERE IT IS

[burning-academia-if]

Bonus Short Story: Lars

​Word count: 5k

Summary: Snapshots from the life of a boy who grew teeth to replace his missing wings.

CW: brief depictions of body horror, blood, gore, and mentions and discussions about drug use

A/N: I've been hoarding this since last year lol Now that chapter 3 is out, I can finally share this with you all! Hope you enjoy

There was blood in the snow. It was thick and dark and redder than any shade he'd ever seen. His body sunk into the earth, and the cold sunk into him. The Dead Thing stood over him, more alive than his parents now. More alive then he would be soon. Its faulty impression of wings flared out behind it, void face mimicking oblivion.

'Precious child, take your wings.'

Its hand reached out, cupping his cheek, forcing his head to raise. His blond hair fell back, unfocused eyes losing their color of clear blue. The wound on his back wouldn't stop bleeding. This was not a type of bleeding he knew, like the kind acquired from climbing trees or running through parks. His parents must have spilled out every drop, with the state they'd been left in.

His eyes slipped closed, body sagging. Its fingers trailed down his face, stopping at his throat. Its hands were colder than the snow. He'd never know anything else beyond his eighth winter.

Impact.

His body fell back, sinking into the snow. He cried out just as the thing let out an inhuman screech. There were voices shouting, hands reaching for him, tending to his wounds. More yelling. Hard words. More screaming. Magic polluted the air. The pain wouldn't leave him. It'd never leave him.

//

No one wanted him. He couldn't say he'd been surprised. Even so young, at the tender age of eight, he'd felt the way eyes would pierce into him, looking right at his neck. He tried to shrug it off, keep his head down, ignore the prickle on his skin. He'd keep quiet and live with his aunt and not pay attention to any of her and her husband's whispering. He'd try to stay out of his cousins' way.

He just wasn't made for anything except violence.

The scar on his back rose all the way to the left side of his neck. His shirt couldn't hide all of it, leaving it open for staring. The kids at school had asked about it with a flighty curiosity, but had mostly left it alone. So he grew up, and the scar grew with him. It was sensitive to the touch, pins and needles every time he brushed his own hands against it.

When someone else did it, quietly and suddenly, without permission, his brain lit up. He wasn't sure what he'd done until teachers were pulling him off another student, teeth barred and body shaking. The boy had laid strewn on the floor, wailing and covering his face. There was blood dripping to the floor, likely from a hit to the nose.

Lars hadn't realized what he'd done until his guardians were called in. He'd sat in the chair in the principal's office, turned away from the other kid who held an ice pack to his face, and glowered at the mediocre paintings hanging on the walls. He hadn't meant for this to happen, but it had. Whatever eggshells he'd been walking on shattered after two years.

His aunt arrived, looking flushed in the face from emotions. She didn't look at him. He didn't look at her. She apologized profusely, grabbed him by the arm hard, and when he jerked away, she pulled harder.

"Ten years old, and already causing problems. You really are just like my brother." Lars said nothing to her, too focused on getting her to let go.

He yanked and stalled and when she was ready to snap again he hissed. "Stop touching me."

She ignored him, and dragged him to the car. Directed him inside, and said they were going to have to talk about this later. He knew what that meant. He could already picture the conversation. He curled up in the backseat, rubbing where she touched and suddenly felt the need for a shower. Or maybe, even, a chance to rip off all his skin.

//

Middle school was when Lars stopped caring. Keeping his head down hadn't made them pleasant, and after his first mistake, he decided to do it on purpose. Fights were a rush, blood in his ears, nose, mouth. Fist connecting with skin, harsh words spilling out. It got to the tipping point by eight grade.

Aunt Lydia had made calls to every other family member she could think of. She couldn't raise him, not when he'd gotten expelled from a second school. Lars had thought 'fuck her', and snagged a cigarette from her purse when she hadn't been looking. He'd snuck out while she'd been begging on the phone yet again for someone else to take him in.

He went to the always barren park by the house. Lars wasn't sure what had happened here before, but he figured half of why it was empty was because of how prevalent death was. There was always the same ghost curled up by a lamppost and shivering. Lars wasn't sure, but he figured they died here from an overdose. He set the cigarette down on one of the tables, a habit he'd developed in the past year.

The ghost raised his head.

Lars said, "I need something from you again."

And the ghost answered.

//

"What are you doing here--don't just walk into this house."

Lars could hear the commotion from where he was holed up in his room. He kicked off the bed, threw the door open, and peeked out. A man he'd never seen before stood at the door. Dirty blonde hair, scraggly beard, the biggest shit-eating grin Lars had ever seen someone possess.

"What do you mean? I was invited. You have a rowdy teen boy problem and I'm here to take him off your hands." Lars narrowed his eyes as the man strolled in. Aunt Lydia was at a loss for words with that. He'd never seen her hold her tongue so quickly.

The man spotted him instantly. "Jesus Christ, you really do look just like my brother."

An uncle, then. Lars stepped out fully, slamming the door shut as if it'd make a point. "How do you know me?"

"Dear sis Lydia told me about you, of course."

"Bull fucking shit she did." Lars took a step towards him, and a flood of magic hit him as quickly as it flowed out of him. Immediately, Lars threw out a hand, bracing himself on the wall. His aunt shouted, asking what this freak of a man was doing.

Lars slipped to his knees, looking down at shaking hands. The whole world was slowly turning red. The red of blood. His own blood. What a curse, for his magic to look like this. The man kneeled down, reaching out and used magic to guide Lars' face up. He kept a distance away, to avoid any sense of touch.

His eyes were seeing right through him, "The name's Harvey Angel. I'm your uncle on your dad's side."

"What do you want?"

Uncle Harvey shrugged, "We'll talk about that later. For now, I'd suggest you start packing those bags."

//

"He's never shown a hint of magic." Lydia paced in the kitchen, furiously trying to get a hold of her husband. Harvey leaned back in the chair in was, tilting as far as he could go.

"I can imagine. How long since he's been doing drugs?"

She halted mid-stride. "What?"

"He's pretty young, right? Fourteen? I can't imagine he's been doing it that long. There's a program near my place that deals with youth addiction in case he needs it but--"

"Hold on." She snapped, hand slamming down on the table. "I've never seen him acting or looking like he was high."

"Well, you've never been the sort to see people." And teenagers were good at hiding things, besides. There were a lot of things he could assume immediately upon walking through the front door. The first was a strange and languid undercurrent of magic. It was always how magic felt with most kinds of drug use. He'd wanted to be sure, so he'd reached in and pulled the magic out of Lars before he'd known what was happening.

"You don't understand how much of a handful he is. He's worse than you and...well, he's worse than all of us when we were that age. And now this sudden revelation on top of it makes it all the worse. I never wanted to see you again, but at least you can finally take that fuck up off my hands."

Harvey said nothing, his eyes looking up towards where he heard the rummaging around of items. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with the boy. The last thing he was meant to be was a father figure, but his brother hadn't been either. At the very least, he owed it to him to try. So he'd try.

//

"First things first." Lars glanced around the room, sitting cross legged on the bed. By the sound of its creeks, he was sure it'd been around longer since he'd been alive. His apparent uncle sat across from him on top of the still unpacked boxes of the few things he had. Lars looked more like him than his aunt, he realized. The narrowness of the face and the easy bruising around the eyes mirrored his own. Had his dad looked the same? Lars couldn't remember.

"What?"

"What have you been using?"

Lars scowled, "If you kidnapped me just to send me to a rehab I don't fucking need--"

"Don't be smart. Answer the question."

He bit his inner cheek, but didn't see the point in hiding it, "Just pot."

"You swear?"

"What, do you want check my arm for track marks?" The warning flash in his uncle's eyes didn't match the ease of his smile. Lars took a deep breath. "I swear. I know plenty of death magicians' die from addiction."

The sharpness in his eyes eased a fraction, "You did your research. But knowing doesn't stop shit from affecting you."

"I don't know you well enough to get this lecture." Lars pressed his hands into the mattress, half tempted to get up and leave. But there was something still bothering him. "You didn't flinch when I mentioned death magicians."

"I knew you were one the second I pulled your magic at of you. Death magicians have a distinct aura around them. If you did it to me, you'd find the same." The easy admission made Lars look at the man in front of him again. He knew nothing about him, and he couldn't gleam anything from him either. "You started smoking so you wouldn't have to see the dead all the time, right?"

Lars nodded. He didn't like to admit it. There was nothing wrong with the dead, nothing that screamed danger when he looked at them. Yet, his whole back would grow warm and slick and the phantom pain of his scar would rush through him whenever he caught their gaze. He wasn't afraid, he just found the whole ordeal annoying.

"Well, you obviously know you're not the first. If it gets too much, let me know. I can show you some tricks. Eventually, you'll get used to the high and it won't stave the dead off like it does right now. That is, if you start to feel like trusting me."

"Why would I trust you? You're just another family member in a long line of them who took me in. By next year, I bet I'll be somewhere else. If I wasn't a magician, I would have been tossed to the system by now."

He meant this, and the returned smile was enough to ignite his blood, "Naw, I think I'll like you Lars. We'll see how things go, won't we?"

"I guess we will."

//

In that first year, Lars learned a lot of things about Uncle Harvey. He wasn't a master liar, and he didn't give a shit as to who he was lying to. On his fifteenth birthday, when he'd been forced to redo his magic aptitude test, Uncle Harvey had woven a whole tale of how Lars had been a late bloomer. Drugs? There were no drugs, Harvey's sister had just resented Lars with her whole soul that she'd made an excuse to get rid of him. They could even run a drug test.

By the end of the whole bullshit spiel, Lars had almost believed the man himself.

He also was the Death magician he'd claimed to been. During the first semester of his freshman year of high school, Uncle Harvey had picked him up one time for a reason Lars no longer remembered. When Lars had gotten to his car, Harvey had been eyeing one of the windows.

"What is it?" Lars had thrown his bag in the backseat before sitting on the passenger side.

Uncle Harvey had merely shrugged, "There are some schools more haunted than hospitals, I think. Maybe it has to do with how it's easier to accept death when you know it's coming, than in a place where you don't."

When Lars had glanced back, he'd seen a face he'd grown familiar with. A girl, a few years older, with her hair teased up in a baby blue blouse. Whatever had killed her wasn't something that had left wounds on the outside. Her eyes were always closed, her head always resting against the window.

He'd looked away.

The last thing Lars realized, during the summer before his sophomore year, was that his uncle was serious. Clearly, Uncle Harvey had no idea how the hell to be a parent. He forgot about dinner and coming home at night, or he'd show up at school, still half asleep, after the few fights Lars had gotten in to, shrugging his shoulders like he couldn't be damned despite the other fuming parent.

Yet, he could read Lars like a book. Everything he refused to say, Harvey just knew. After his first official high school fight, he'd handed Lars an axe and told him to go chop some wood to get the energy out. Lars had looked at him like he was insane yet ended up going at it until his fingers were raw. When Lars had felt the hint of a cold, the cabinets were suddenly stocked with medicine. When the unquiet of the dead reached for him, his uncle would drag him away, telling him looking only gave them power.

Then it was summer again, and Lars was still living with this man who had no plans to kick him out. He'd sat in the living room one morning, the foggy blue haze of six am filtered through open windows and smudged glass, and watched his uncle sit at an old piano. He'd watched the way his fingers glided over the keys and narrowed his eyes.

"I want to know."

"How to play piano?" His uncle hadn't looked up. "Your dad used to be quite the composer, you know."

"No, I don't know. I hardly remember him. But that wasn't what I was talking about. Teach me about Death magic." He paused, the notes gliding over him. He didn't remember his father well, but if he reached deep inside, he could almost recall sitting on a piano stool beside a vague male form playing a quiet melody. "And maybe the piano, too. If you can."

The man glanced back, more teeth than grin, "Finally convinced I don't hate you?"

"No, but close enough." Uncle Harvey's grin turned real at that as he barked out a laugh.

"Good, but don't expect me to go easy on you." Lars scoffed, and that was that.

//

Years went by. Harvey kept close eye on his nephew, who he hadn't expected to have real feelings for. But underneath all the bite, he could see fragments of his brother. The three of them had never gotten along when they were younger, and the second they could they'd all scattered to the wind, never to speak to each other again. Now, though, Harvey wondered if that man had been all bad. Perhaps it was his death which made him fonder of old memories than he should be.

Lars took quickly to music. His free time was spent more on practicing the piano and reading up on music theory than it was on homework. Harvey found he could only be so hard on him, since he figured the boy would have coasted along with his grades regardless of if he took up hobbies or not.

And as far as he could tell, leaning into his magic had done him far more good than bad. Harvey had seen many try to reach into that well and it caused them to spiral so much faster than if they'd merely run from their cursed magic. Death Magicians barely made it to fifty. It was a legacy filled with suicide and addiction and illness. And the Board of Magicians had never cared enough to offer their assistance.

The relief that Lars had hit his eighteenth birthday alive and sober enough, was enough to let him breathe. He did care for Lars. He hadn't cried at his brother's funeral, but if he ever had to attend Lars'? He thought he would.

"How does graduating feel?" Harvey asked, as he drove Lars to the ceremony.

Lars cut him a glance from the passenger seat, "Like I don't have to deal with bullshit anymore."

Harvey had to stop his grin, "Oh yeah? Then why'd you apply for college?"

There was a moment's pause, "Change of scenery. And anyway, I want to take music seriously."

"The Board won't let a Death Magician do whatever they please, you know."

"They can eat shit and die for all I care. I'm leaving, and they can try to drag me back if they want." Years had not softened him, but Harvey liked that. Liked that he could ask Lars anything and he'd always answer with his honest feelings, even if he did say it tinged with cruelty.

It made Harvey wish he had appreciated it in his brother. He wished he could go back in time and try again. Maybe if the three siblings had tried, things would have been different. But that was time he couldn't get back. He hoped taking in Lars would make up for those wounds he'd caused.

"Don't completely ghost me when you're gone." Harvey hadn't meant to say it.

Lars paused, the fire in his eyes cooling, "Sure."

In the language of Lars, that was a promise.

//

College went. Lars had taken up more instruments than his professors had cared for, and yet proved himself decent enough in all of them, and pretty good at two of them. His main strength was composing, and he sank into it with fever.

His uncle had managed to find some of his dad's pieces and Lars had studied them as though it would hold the answers of what the hell had happened that night all those years ago. Instead, he learned more about his dad's taste in music. Angry pieces with fast tempos, excessive use of staccatos, an endless aversion to the standard 4/4 time signature.

If art reflected the artist, than him and his dad might have been similar. He'd never bothered to ask his uncle about his parents, because he hadn't cared. He didn't want to know the dead, but he did want to know about the attack. The scar on his back felt like an endless mockery. He would find the monster, and slaughter it with his own hands.

But for now, he buried himself in a world away. No magicians, no magic, only the faint lingering of death and ghosts. The break was something he'd sought for so long. A world that just consisted of himself and no one else. He'd sink into creation and the rest of him would cease to exist. If he kept working, he'd cease thinking. He'd cease to be.

Nothing lasts forever, of course.

After one of his morning classes, he'd found a man waiting for him by the door.

"Lars Angel?" Lars paused, assessing eyes darting to who had stopped him. He was unfamiliar, middle aged with only a hint of aging, slicked back hair and a suit that costed a pretty penny. His pale skin had a glow to it, his smile barely suppressed anger. It wasn't directed at him. But that didn't matter as much as the magic which radiated off him in droves.

It made Lars snap, "Who the hell are you?"

The smile became sharp, the anger redirected towards him, "I'm the headmaster of Vales Grove University. You may call me Mr. Windsor. I have something I need to discuss with you, as per the request of West Myer's Board of Magicians."

"I'm not interested in using my magic for them."

"We'll discuss it further, in private." Lars locked eyes with Mr. Windsor, and the two stayed like that, immobile. Lars wasn't going to be the one who looked away, and apparently neither was Mr. Windsor. "Please don't delay. It will be easier for both of us if you come along. Especially seeing as this has to do with the incident twelve years ago."

Twelve years, back when he was eight. Back when his parents died. Lars' voice emptied out of all emotions, "Understood."

Despite himself, he followed Mr. Windsor down the halls.

//

"Death magicians are rare, you know." Mr. Windsor stirred cream into a cup of coffee. Lars cast a glance around the pseudo-quaint cafe, feeling magic roll over him in waves. He'd never been in a space with so many other magicians before. "They also bring up a lot of concern for us."

"So you're here to spy."

"I meant the harm in which they cause onto themselves." Mr. Windsor frowned, and Lars gave him a blank stare.

"I've been doing pretty good, thanks. But this isn't a wellness check. Cut the bullshit. You want something from me." Lars tapped his fingers against the wood of the table, chipped nails echoing despite the constant drone of radio jazz.

The flicker in the man's eyes showed his patience was already starting to wear thin. Lars wondered what kind of big shot he was that a hint of resistance blew his fuse, "You're right. West Myers' Board is dealing with a major issue in relation to both West Myers' itself and Juniper Valley. The assistance of Death Magicians would be a major help."

"Juniper Valley has always had something wrong with it." Granted, Lars hadn't realized that until he'd left the place. All at once, the tendrils of decay unraveled around his body. The constant presence of the dead had been a brief question in his mind. One he'd circled back to in relation to the slaughter of his parents. But he hadn't fully considered it. Not since he hadn't really thought he'd ever return.

"There are many place in this world, with different manifestations of magic and death. You'll find places of endless summers in regions that don't make sense, you'll find find towns were time has been stolen, and for Juniper Valley, death has always been its domain. It is not wrong, merely different."

A hard smile flashed on Lars face, "Yet, you seem the type of man to attack anything different as wrong. But being the Headmaster of Vales Grove, you can't actually say that, can you? Not without dealing with the consequences that come from holding that opinion."

The false pleasantness finally cracked away, and his smile became as biting as Lars, "You're exactly like your father."

Lars didn't take the bait, "Back on topic. You want me back because I'm a Death Magician?"

"Specifically, Vales Grove University has a grad program for Student Wardens--"

"I'm not going to be a dog for the Board, and I'm not going to be a dog for the university." Lars moved to stand, already finished with the conversation.

Mr. Windsor took a sip of his coffee, "Whatever is causing issues for the Board is related to the monsters which killed your parents."

"Is that so?" He glanced over, and Mr. Windsor nodded.

"I think someone liked the irony. 'Angels' killing the Angels' family. I supposed they missed a few, what with you and your uncle."

"And my aunt."

"Your aunt? Ah, yes. She wasn't blood related to your father. I suppose that had something to do with her safety." This was new information. Mr. Windsor kept watching his face, waiting for Lars to misspeak. Lars wondered when it'd click that he didn't have any emotional investment in his family.

It was what all soul magicians did with heart magicians. Appeal to their emotions, because it's where they draw their magic from. Lars was pretty sure some of their theories on magic were faulty, considering the absence of empathy he'd had his whole life.

"Uncle Harvey never mentioned he'd been attacked."

"Your uncle has a history of keeping to himself. Besides, he's always been one to handle himself. He killed the thing himself before help arrived."

"So these 'angels' can be killed, then? What are they, exactly?"

"They're the remnants of people who've tried to cheat death." Mr. Windsor took the last sip of his coffee. "Specifically, magicians who've tried to."

"So that's why I've never heard about it before. How hard did y'all work to keep that under lock and key?" Lars frowned at the desk, deep in thought. "What did they want with my family?"

"Neither I nor the Board knows. But if you help us, you'll have access to all the information you need to find out." Mr. Windsor's voice shifted to something almost sarcastic, "We have a well funded music program, if that's a major concern as well."

"Sure. I'll think about it." Lars stood, stretching, "But know I'm not that broken up about the death of strangers."

"Wait--" Lars didn't wait. He slipped out of the cafe, squinting up at the too bright sun. He had time until he graduated, and he'd prefer to leave people like that brewing in the uncertainty. He knew his answer. Knew he needed to know the mystery of what had happened all those years ago. But for now, the Board could go fuck itself.

//

"You don't have to agree."

"I wasn't aware of that, Uncle Harvey." Lars pressed the phone to his ear with his shoulder, fingers dancing fast across a variety of documents he'd managed to find. It was just after three in the morning, and thankfully neither of the two them slept. A family trait, Lars guessed.

"Cut the sarcasm. Why are you considering Vales Grove? I know it has nothing to do with their grad program and besides, you hate authority. Becoming a Student Warden and bowing your head to the school is less preferable then walking over a stack of needles barefoot."

He managed to find the page, smoothing out the collection of old articles in front of him. Instead of answering, he pulled back, snapped a photo, and sent it over. Lars could hear when Harvey saw it by the series of swears, "I started considering it when I found out my ancestors fucked over the school's founders over a hundred years ago."

"They did. I didn't tell you because it didn't matter on the grounds you weren't ever going to attend."

"Never say never." Lars stared at the endless notes in front of him. "Next time we meet up, you're gonna teach me about my family tree."

He hung up the phone before Harvey could say anything else.

//

"For people who hate death, your school reeks of it." Lars lounged in the over sized chair in Headmaster Windsor's office. Languidly, he took in the endless certifications and diplomas decorating the wall behind where the man sat. "Anyway, I have a few conditions to my attendance."

"You're incredibly bold to be demanding anything of us."

"Why?" A slow grin spread across Lars' face. "Did you think you and those above you had the power to force me to attend?"

Headmaster Windsor closed his eyes, the mask of patience sliding into place easier than it had when the two had first met. "You're speaking nonsense. Regardless, what are your demands?"

"I want free access to every location and all information available on this campus." He leaned forward before the Headmaster could protest. "This is running off of what you said prior. You promised I could find information on my family, and I know we have strong ties to this school."

"The Board won't be pleased."

"That's a problem you deal with. I couldn't care less about pissing them off. Second, I want to be left alone. I'll join the Student Wardens, however I don't want to be dragged into their duties unless necessary."

"There would be little point in you being here if you refuse to help."

"Let me be clearer. Issues with wraiths and other things that go bump in the night? Fine, I'm there. Ghosts, however? They're about as dangerous as an untuned piano. Grating, sure. But it's not going to kill anyone."

Headmaster Windsor pressed his lips together. "I'll consider it. I'm assuming there's more?"

Lars paused, the desire to press his fingers to his neck, just over his scar, pressing into him. Him and his uncle hashed out everything about what they knew about West Myers, Juniper Valley, and Vales Grove University. From the tragedy of its now closed sister school, Pacific Suncrest, to the his parents' slaughter, to the murder of Luck Magicians which occurred the same year as his parents' death. There were endless things he wanted, some he couldn't access at this school. There was one which he wanted more than all the others.

Lars spoke with the weight of a thousand suns. "I want a list of anyone suspected to have links with the Walking Graves. If you refuse to grant me this information, I refuse to attend."

There'd been a long moment, before Headmaster Windsor had given him his answer.

[hachiibun]

sketch by @hachiibun and drabble by @indulgnc

“hhHIh—”

Koujaku didn’t think much of it, aside from ‘It would be funny.’ He and Aoba lazed in bed, Aoba attached to Koujaku’s side. It was a miracle Aoba was awake this early to start, even though all he’d done was cling to his boyfriend, prevent him from getting up, whine, and sneeze a few times. Regardless, Koujaku doubted he’d be able to get him out of bed for at least another half hour.

Aoba, half asleep, had been contorting his face for the last minute or so. Lips parted, lashes fluttering, nose scrunched— Koujaku would be lying if he didn’t think he looked kind of cute. But (to his own vehement denial) everything Aoba did was cute. He probably needed to sneeze again but couldn’t, and Koujaku had to hold back a laugh at his unconscious frustration. So when Aoba’s eyes snapped open and he gasped, Koujaku simply couldn’t help himself. Two fingers reached down to pinch Aoba’s nose. 

“hH?! —‘ngkt-! tchtt-! h’cht! nCH’uu!!” Koujaku jerked his hand away quickly, but not before Aoba choked out sneezes between his fingers.

“Koujaku, what the.. hHHih’ —ikshh!-ksh’uhh!—issh!!” Aoba scrambled upright, glaring at Koujaku with watery eyes, “What the hell!”

Koujaku just stared, unsure if he should laugh or apologize.

“I didn’t think you’d still sneeze,” he trailed off, because he truly didn't. 

“Well I did,” Aoba pouted, sniffling to clear his voice. Koujaku leaned over.

“I should've known better,” he kissed Aoba’s forehead in apology, “With that kitten sneeze you have.”

Aoba sniffled, purposefully making eye contact with Koujaku.

“Asshole, don’t call it that! You’re lucky I’m not sick,” a pause, “You’re gross.”

Koujaku groaned as he moved to get up from bed, clasping Aoba’s hand as he whined at the idea of Koujaku leaving, “I’m sorry, seriously. Let go, I’m just getting you tissues. I’ll be back.”

Aoba went to protest, but his breath hitched again, and he shuddered with three more soft sneezes, “I’m grabbing your allergy medicine too.”

“snff... Whatever.”

[littlefankingdom]

I need to complain again about the poorly made anti-capitalist comments of Boy Wonder, because I'm tired of seeing people praising this bs.

The message here, in itself, isn't wrong. Yes, when rich people do charity, you should always wonder what they are gaining from it. BUT, the Al Ghul saying that shit is so fucking stupid. They are rich af. Just in this panel, they have a servant. And you cannot tell me that the members of their league, who are giving their life to Ra's Al Ghul, don't have to abandon all their possessions to him when they join. They have always been shown to be very faithful to Ra's, he is the only thing that matters to them. Also, the League of Assassins is quite like a cult, which often require their members to give them their possessions, and refuse to let you leave. Another point is that they are eco-terrorists, they want to kill all humanity for nature, while Ra's Al Ghul stays alive and immortal until he gets a heir, that will do the same. Them pointing out how capitalism harm the community is stupid because THEY DON'T CARE ABOUT THE COMMUNITY. They are very much people "hoarding riches". They hoard all type of riches, not just money and historical artifacts that should not be privately owned, but also life itself, thinking they can choose who can live (Ra's Al Ghul) and who can die (everyone else).

Every "capitalism is bad" take in this comic is a dig at Bruce, and I have a huge problem with that, because it shows a deep misunderstanding of Bruce's character. It really feels like "Bruce is rich and rich = bad so he sucks" (or maybe "Bruce is rich usamerican = must be called capitalist"), and that tells me they don't know Bruce Wayne. He has, time and time again, expressed that he believes riches should be shared with the community, that rich people not giving back to the community are bad people. Of course, these are USAmerican comics, so you still get good old propaganda (war flashback to that elsewhere comic where Bruce is German during WWII and he says that socialism is evil because Nazism is socialism), but Bruce is someone who cares about others at his core. He does charities, not to gain something, but because it breaks his heart to see people suffer. Here is a non-exhaustive list of things Bruce has done in the comics with his money for the community, without counting all the charity: housed for free homeless people in a brand new building he built just for this, builds better and more community centers for the homeless and poor, overpaid an intern so he could pay for his mother's hospital stay without getting in debt or doing crime, offers full scholarship to all his employees that he encourage to go study, full scholarships for multiple students for other reasons, anonymously give thousands dollars to small shady businesses to help them stay open, fought against Lex so Gotham wouldn't be own by a capitalist that doesn't care about the people, finances Leslie's free clinic, takes retirement homes' residents to eat out, paid gang members to save lives and giving them a chance to help the community... I'm so tired of this fake ass "woke" bs where comic authors mischaracterize Bruce so they can be like "see, I'm woke! I shit on the white rich capitalist!" (Like that comic where Poison Ivy and Harley destroy an factory of his that is bad for the planet, and Bruce is mad. Bruce has been shown firing higher-ups for signing deals that harm the planet. He was going to get married to Talia, there is no way he doesn't care about ecology a lot) He would not do that, he is not a capitalist, he doesn't care about profit (which is the core of capitalism), he was born into this money and he doesn't care about it. You can 100% shit on capitalism and the US without mischaracterizing Bruce (One of the recurring bad guy of Batman: The Animated Series is a man that owns multiple companies and keeps escaping justice because he is rich. An episode even goes "he is bad because he doesn't let his employees, who are the one making most of the work, have more say in the company". And Bruce hates his ass for that)

Also, a reminder that the Al Ghul are richer than Bruce. This is shown by how Damian expects his father to have more luxury when he arrived. It's higly possible the Al Ghul owns multiple companies to finance their lifestyle and their organization. The whole "capitalism bad!" sounds very empty and stupid from a family living like royals and builsing an empire for their own goal, which is against the wellbeing of humankind. There is no way the Al Ghul aren't profiting from capitalism and using it for their own gain.

I feel like the only reasons they choose to make them say that are either a mischaracterization of Bruce, or the idea that the Al Ghul must hate the US (like all Arabs do, as they are enemies of the country, according to the propaganda) and so, they must hate capitalism (Sidenote: the Al Ghul hating the US is fine, but it should not be about capitalism, it should be about ecology)

"Yas, they say 'capitalism bad'" pls, think for two seconds.

[nanamis-bigtie]

femdom delight

↬ gojo satoru, higuruma hiromi, nanami kento, choso, ryomen sukuna x fem!reader ↬ ao3 version // masterlist

cw: pwp, femdom, individual warnings per each drabble, sukuna's drabble (the last one) contains dark content a/n: repost from the old account. divider by saradika

gojo satoru

cw: pegging, breeding talk, teasing, dirty talk mixed with praise

Satoru’s thick thighs start trembling. He’s hanging on the last thin straps of control and dignity, the mewls he’s been giving you growing louder and lewder. Sweat pearls along his arching back; droplets dribble down his spine towards the line of shaved hair at the back of his head. 

You retract your hips, almost pulling out of him, and pour more lube on the shaft of your plastic cock. It slides back into him with delicious ease, slick, almost swallowed by his lustful greed. He moans, low and throaty, when you bottom out, buried balls-deep in him.

“Good boy,” you murmur and spread his asscheeks, devouring the views. You skim past sweaty hair and line of arched spine, towards the red marks your hands left by his waist, blooming with ease on his pale skin. Finally, you focus on your union, on his stretched hole gripping the thick shaft whenever you move your hips back. He doesn’t say it—but you know he’s begging for you to stay, to drill him deeper, to fuck and breed him throughout.

“You take me so well,” you coo and smirk, seeing Satoru finally caving and hiding face in pillows, his sweet sounds now muffled. “You love when I fuck you with this big dildo, hm?”

Sharp trembling of his limbs and a needy groan are his answer. You move the pump to your dominant hand and push his hips down. Obedient, he follows, sprawling himself flat on the bed. Mounting him comfortably, you adjust the angle of your thrusts until they cease, fat dildo nestled in him deep and stable.

“What happened to my big and mighty Satoru Gojo?” You chuckle, drawing a line on his back with your nails. You love how his muscles tense under your touch; thin and white, barely visible, hairs stand up and tickle your fingertips. “You’re so behaved when you want my cock…”

You lie down and press close, your breasts flush against his broad, sweaty, hot back. Satoru groans louder again as he’s turned face to side for a breath, quickly hiding again. His long fingers dig helplessly into the sheets, immense pleasure overwhelming his reactions.

“Tsk, tsk, lemme hear you." Free hand sneaking into his hair you pull his head away from the safety of pillows, at the same time squirting some of the thick, cum-like lube into him. 

Satoru lets you. Loudly, shamelessly, and needy; such a lewd moan teared out of the throat of a man deemed the strongest. The strongest, yes, on the battlefield, stomping on the teared flesh of his enemies. But here, in your bed, he’s but your toy, a doll you use however you like. And whenever you like.

“Good boy.” You lick the back of his neck, bury your nose into the delicious smell of his hair. “You like when I breed you, hm? You’re such a cute cumslut for me.”

higuruma hiromi

cw: bondage, sucking on strap, footjob

You’ve expected that Hiromi wouldn’t submit to your will so easily. He’s not a brat in the usual meaning of it—but also not a man who would succumb easily to such mundane needs and whims. You don’t have all the power on him; his unwavering gaze, looking up at you, is a remarkable proof of his silent resistance. He’s on his knees only because he wants to, your whims and orders—and his distinct bulge pressing through his pants—have nothing to do with it.

And yet, he listens. And yet, the thrill of the moment is rushing through your veins like adrenaline. You love not having him wholly within your reach.

“You’re so silent…” Not daring to ruin the atmosphere, you don’t speak much louder than a whisper. “As a lawyer you should use more words…”

His gaze heavy and eyes half-lidded, Hiromi tilts head back and takes a deeper breath; the slightly whistling rustle of air is his only answer. Unfazed, you trace the lines or red ropes, tied around his chest and keeping his hand bound behind his back, with the tip of your stiletto. You can see his muscles taunting under a thin, white shirt, but that’s as much as you get out of him. Even when you keep moving down, towards the hard bulge, cozily underlined with another loop of rope.

“You’re not going to say anything?” You smirk and give your strapped cock a lazy stroke. Your hand is slick and sticky with strawberry-flavored lube you chose for tonight—and you feel an immense urge to wipe it against his cheek, to stain his handsome face before you move to the main course. 

Hiromi’s gaze flicks down, towards the dildo, his Adam’s apple bobbing just slightly at the sight of thick, heavy droplets sliding down its shaft.

“Are you hungry?” You tease and press his crotch harder. His hips jerk forwards, he ruts against your foot but stutters and stills as fast as he’s reacted. 

“Anything you say can be used against you.” Moving the tip of your shoe against the curve of his bulge, you taste the words and their weight on your tongue. “But this is not a court. Your punishment will be only your reward. And if you’re going to be a good boy, we might even skip that part.”

He jerks again, a slow, dragging move of hips against your sole—but this time you see pleasure and need in his eyes, the everlasting calm, emotionless, expression breaking into a pleading, demanding whim.

You can’t help but smirk with satisfaction.

“Are you hungry?” You repeat and reach out to him. Higuruma hesitates only for a moment.

“I am, ma’am.” He shimmies closer, clumsily with hands bound, and licks your palm, opens mouth wide for your fingers. You toy with him, test how nimble his tongue is, how deep he can take you before he gags. The way he whimpers around your fingers, the way his eyes darken with pleasure, the way tears prick at their corners when you touch his limits… You’re getting wet just from the sight.

“I have something bigger for you.” Grabbing your cock at the base, you rub its head against his lips. 

You don’t have power over Hiromi—but at this moment, at this moment only, he blindly gives you all the reins, and swallows the offered treat like a good boy he is.

nanami kento

cw: crossdressing, rimming, degradation

Kento blushes so easily, for his own demise. The curse of his Nordic ancestors ruins his serious demeanor at the slightest inconvenience—and he’s extra prone to any intimate situation, to restless teasing and to pushing him into an utterly embarrassing state. 

But it looks so cute. Especially paired with a skimpy maid dress.

“Your tea, ma’am.” He places the tray with the teakettle, cup and three cookies, neatly piled on a little porcelain plate. He pours you some, careful to not spill a single droplet, and takes a few steps back for a respectful distance.

“Thank you.” You nod with a smile and let your gaze wander up his legs. Long, strong legs, with thighs thick enough to crush wooden logs—now deliciously exposed by a tight, short dress. It’s frilled and has a window on his chest: a perfect view on big, soft and hairy pecs, additionally squeezed by restraining fabric. “Are you wearing panties?”

Red explodes on Kento’s face, and he has to bite on lips before he dares to speak, “No, ma’am, I am not.”

You click your tongue with a feigned disappointment, “Bend over.”

His legs are shaking and he’s right on the verge of giving up to embarrassment—but he listens and shows you his rear against the same table, right next to your tea set. 

“Walking around the house, working and cleaning, without any underwear?” You don’t need to lift the skirt to see what you want but you do it anyway. “You’re such a dirty slut, Kento-chan.”

Slowly, you drag a finger down from his butthole towards his balls—and he whimpers, voice muffled, as he’s probably hiding face in hands right now.

“Dirty, horny whore of a maid—” You keep teasing him at the same spot, watching with satisfaction as he’s growing fast under your ministrations— “thinking about his mistress doing lewd things to his little, tight hole… Instead of working…”

“I’m sorry, ma’am…” Kento chokes on words, trying his hardest to overpower whimpers and mewls. “I promise… Never again…”

“Aww, aren’t you sweet?” You tease his entrance with a slow, encircling move. It twitches, hungry for your attention. “For a cock-hungry whore you have such an angelic voice. I can’t help but devour you, Kento-chan.” 

You nudge his legs open wider and kneel between them, face at the level of his ass. Tension runs through his muscles, not a bad one, but definitely nervous and embarrassed to high heavens. You suck a little, teasing hickey on the inner side of his thigh, smirking as his whimpers grow louder and more desperate.

“You were dreaming about my tongue, weren’t you?” You spread his cheeks open and move closer, your breath ghosting against the most sensitive and intimate part of his body. “Be a good whore and admit it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Kento's voice—usually so low and raspy—breaks with ease. “Please, can I have it?”

You reward his honesty with a deliberate lick, from his balls towards his hole. He moans—and immediately shuts his mouth with both hands.

“No, Kento-chan—” You pull away, not without satisfaction noting how he sighed, disappointed. “You will get my tongue only if you sing for me like a dirty slut you are.”

You lick at his butthole this time, teasingly sliding the tip of your tongue inside until you hear his voice clearly again, truly a melody for your ears.

choso

cw: restraints, overstimulation, begging, non-penetrative sex

You know the power that lies in Choso’s arms, in those thick muscles and big hands, capable of tearing and crushing and breaking—and carrying you around as if you were but a mere feather. That’s why you ordered custom handcuffs, from the strongest materials available, and then bribed Gojo Satoru with a pile of sweets to imbue them with an insane load of cursed energy, so they could work as a decent seal.

Even though you hear the metal chain moaning as loud as him when he pulls, trying to break free and grab your hips to get what he desperately needs from you.

“Fuck! Y/N!” Choso thrashes head to sides, hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. “Please. Please! I can’t any longer! I—”

His hoarse voice turns into a whimper when you drag your hips again, wet, hot slit against his painfully hard and sensitive cock.

“Please what?” You coo, keeping the slow, teasing pace. “Can you finish the sentence?”

You press harder against him, putting almost all of your weight into the friction, and the attempt to answer dies on him with a moan.

Smirking, you continue, one hand running through his chest hair and happy trail. His abdomen is stained with cum, on top of a glistering layer of sweat; you brought him to his high a few times already, restlessly rubbing your cunt against his cock until he’s come all over himself—and never ceasing doing so. He’s so sensitive and spent he’s shaking and raging, each move of your hips sparking his nerves like an electric shock. Veins bulge on his arms, muscles twitch and taunt—but the handcuffs are merciless. 

Drooling and crying, Choso finds some power to hump against you, but he steals only some more friction, not exactly what he wants and needs.

“Please… Lemme cum…” His big, puppy eyes seem even bigger under the thin layer of overstimulated tears.

“Oh? But you already came so much…” You cease moving until he stops jerking and shifting under you. Choso is desperate and half-mad with lust but still understands as much. If he wants to get what he asks for, he has to play on your rules. “Do you still want more? So greedy…”

“N-no… Lemme… Lemme in—”

You cut his pleading shut with a sudden, sharp drag of hips—and a shameless moan of your own. Long session of teasing and rubbing against him hasn’t left you unbothered; your juices stain his lower abdomen and sheets under you two. You’re teetering on the line of your first orgasm—and frankly, his helpless whimpers and begging only stir you on more. 

You’re not taking this pleasure away from you.

“Y/N!” Choso sobs, the bed frame creaking as he’s thrashing against the restraints. “Please! Fuck! Please! Put it in! Lemme cum in you!”

You stop again and lean down, squishing his cheeks and forcing him to look at you, until he remains still and silent, obedient the same way he’s been when you’ve cuffed him to the bed.

“That’s better.” You smile and kiss his tears away. “But I’m cumming first. Then you can ask me nicely again.”

ryomen sukuna

cw: noncon, handjob, forced orgasm, sukuna threatens you with...sukuna-compliant things

“I’m going to kill you.”

The weight of those words and the range of the voice saying them would have you terrified under any other circumstance. But you’re midst one of those once-in-a-millennium moments, in power you would never expect yourself to ever have. You are the stronger one. You are dealing the cards and dictating the conditions. You are having a curse on your mercy—and nothing and no one could stop you from doing whatever you want to do now.

He seems to care about it as much as you care about his threats.

“I’ll rip your head off.” Sukuna muses, as disinterested as if he wasn’t spread against a wall and pierced to it, all four arms plastered with countless seals. Each would be enough to kill a curse of a significant power. “I’ll tear your ribcage open and smash your heart. And break all your limbs. Gauge your eyes. Bite your breasts off. And then fuck whatever is left of you. All of that while keeping you alive, you worthless maggot.”

“Don’t make me rip your tongue out.” You scoff and squeeze him harder. Any other creature would be already hissing in pain—but not the king of curses. He’s “just” hard against your palm, heavier than any cock you’ve held in your life.

Half of this is satisfaction from his miserable state—and half of it sheer curiosity. But overall, his and only his fault. Even if on the verge of a death sentence, Sukuna couldn’t keep his filthy mouth to himself. You, well, just accepted the challenge.

“You want to harm me.” He laughs, loud and ugly. “You can’t even get me to cum with those weak hands of yours.”

Instead of answering you squeeze his cock so hard you feel pain in your hand. Sukuna’s smirk fades a little and his eyes pop open as he lets out a hiss, not a painful one, but still, the first vocal reaction you’ve heard of him.

His other cock, on purpose ignored and abandoned, twitches and brushes against your wrist. You crook an eyebrow at the sight, triumphant and encouraged.

“Not only you will cum—” Keeping a steady and tight hold on him, you jerk him violently— “you will cum when I tell you so, you worthless curse.”

“You’re a mouthy bitch.” Sukuna scoffs, both pairs of eyes squinted and observing you with disdain. “But that’s as much as you can—”

Genuine surprise flashes through his face when, with a free hand, you trace and press at his perineum.

“Fuck—” He groans and thrashes against the binds. “You��”

“A worthless maggot who can’t even get you to cum?” Now, having a thread ready in your reach, you don’t intend to let it go. The satisfaction from humbling Sukuna himself is even greater than the views and arousal coming from absolute control.

Who knows, maybe you will cave against your inner promise and use his cocks for your own pleasure after you get bored with milking him?

Smirking, you watch him crumble and succumb into your touch—until he finally caves in himself, with a loud, demon-like groan, spurting cum from both of his cocks all over your hand.

“I’m going to kill you,” he repeats, sheer murder beaming from his eyes. “No, you will beg me to kill you.”