#derivative of √x

[kurooh]

⊹₊˚. FALL BACK INTO PLACE — GOJO SATORU

warnings ☆ gn! reader, hurt/comfort, set 1 year after the shinjuku showdown, scarjo our KING, descriptions of injury, insecurity over weight & appearance.

it begins with pants that are tighter than they should be around his waist. with his shoulders squared and his spine as straight as it can be, satoru stands in front of the mirror in the anatomical position.

the tobi trousers no longer hang as low on his hips, and the areas which had once been baggy have now filled out. it’s unbelievable, really. he’s had these god damn pants since he was in high school—a gift from suguru, who got him a white pair so they could match in their own little way—and now they’re practically splitting at the seams. fabric is tighter in places where it shouldn’t be, and the pants don’t move as airily as they once did when he walks.

“‘toru?” you call from the shower, unsuspecting and sweet.

with a quiet hiss, satoru sheds his shirt and smiles when he replies, “i’ll join you in two more minutes!”

a jagged white scar, similar in shape to a lightning strike, stretches across his middle. it is the most impressive mutilation on his body, and is fairly identical to the smaller gashes littering the rest of his skin from head to toe. those are ugly papercuts in the grand scheme of things, but the gnarled slash distinctly separating his top half from the bottom grows sensitive just from looking at it too long.

satoru peels away the tobi trousers and boxers in one slow motion, letting the clothing pool at his feet. his visual odyssey begins at his face; very scarred and totally badass, with eyes like diamonds inlaid on each side of his nose. it pauses at his chest, where he contemplates its current form and compares it to what it used to look like.

as the strongest, satoru made sure to completely live up to his title. he got his body into shape and maintained every single line or ridge of muscle definition meticulously. but as he stares into the mirror, he wonders how a body like this could’ve belonged to someone crowned as the strongest. the planes of his chest look much softer now, with much of the muscle having dwindled away during his recovery. white cuts of uneven lengths are scattered all over his skin and in every single direction, with one or two stretching all the way from his shoulder to his hip, like a seatbelt.

it resumes at his midsection, where the most damage had been done. if it hadn’t been for shoko’s extensive care and treatment that had lasted two whole weeks, he wouldn’t even be alive right now. he still remembers fading in and out of consciousness for the first few minutes he’d gotten picked up, before he was promptly knocked into a comatose state by all of the drugs.

satoru blinks away the memory of your crying face as you stood over him, helping to push the gurney. apprehensively, as if afraid it’ll tear open again, he reaches a hand toward the huge scar and exhales through his nose once he gets his fingers on it. when he looks a half inch lower, his neutral expression morphs into one of disgust.

god, he’s really let himself go, hasn’t he?

an unsightly layer of fat envelops his abdomen, warping it into something unfamiliar. it’s been so long, he barely remembers what he used to look like before having defined musculature. even worse, his abs were absolutely his pride and joy—you definitely had a thing for them, too—and now they’re buried under that god damn mess.

satoru’s been the strongest for so long that he doesn’t know what else he can be if he no longer is.

it grinds to a halt once his eyes finally fall upon his thighs. they’re much wider now, the thickest they’ve ever been, and he wants to bust out a hundred squats right then and there. maybe he’s been eating too many carbs, drinking too much fruit juice—no, that’s not something to worry about. he could make better dietary decisions any day, but none of that could change the white scars streaking the tender skin of his inner thighs. it’s not just there, either; they’re like their own brand, marring his skin with memories.

my god, he’s ruined.

satoru begins pacing in the small bathroom, turning over solutions in his head like stones. it’s been a year since the showdown, yes, but should this have happened the way it did? if he hadn’t listened to you, shoko, or the exhaustion weighing his limbs down, maybe he could’ve started training, taken his recovery by the reins.

he thinks back to when he waited for you to leave the house so he could exercise in the living room. if you’d been there, you would’ve dragged him up and told him he better not attempt to do anything if he knew what was good for him. but playing along with your threats could only go on for so long; three months had passed since the showdown, and he got ready to do some pushups.

yes, he’d felt some strain when he was stretching, and yes, he paid it absolutely no mind, simply writing it off as inevitable soreness. so when he did a single pushup, it hurt, but he couldn’t stop there. if it only hurt a little doing one, he could manage that easily—he did another, and promptly curled up into the fetal position with tears burning in his eyes.

okay, it might’ve been too early to exercise his core. but still, why would he let that stop him from rebuilding himself?

“heyyy, c’mon. i need you to help me wash my back and—”

satoru tunes you out and clutches the edge of the sink, letting his head hang so he doesn’t make the mistake of looking in the mirror. he’s still trying to stomach seeing his entire body at once, and he doesn’t need to see the same horror movie again.

he’s never been like . . this before. not once has he encountered an injury he couldn’t heal with his reverse curse technique, and now he’s unable to lift a damn finger. no jujutsu, period, shoko had bluntly said. she went on to explain that using a reverse curse technique to heal just a surface level injury could cause his brain to hemorrhage, and that she healed him as much as she possibly could. in other words, his body would have to adjust to both scarring and chronic pain.

fuck.

fuck.

without thinking, he slams his fists down on the counter and feels the effects of it reverberate through his body, which makes its way back to his weakened core. sharp and smarting, pain lances through him like one of sukuna’s slashes.

it hits him so hard his jaw drops and he collapses to his knees, protectively wrapping his arms around himself. in a desperate attempt to soothe himself through it, he strokes his fingertips against his sides and tries to breathe, even though the slightest of movements agitates the injury again.

uncontrollable shudders rock his body, amplifying the excruciating pain and also reducing his breaths to shallow, ragged pants. the sound of the shower gradually fades into static, and as satoru holds himself, his vision grows hazy. it hurts, much more than anything he’s ever known, and the realization that something has actually dropped him to his knees doubles as a sucker punch.

you’re at his side in an instant, a bottle of prescribed medication in one hand and a small cup of water in the other. you don’t make the mistake of touching him, but he vaguely hears you say something, tone reassuring as you can make it. slowly, he drops his arms from his sides, and presses his palms into the floor, trying to control his breathing.

two white pills sit in your hand, ready for him to grab, but he opens his mouth instead. gently, as if the slightest touch could hurt him, you slip the medicine into his mouth and raise the cup of water to his lips. it looks like the cap on the mouthwash bottle, and tastes like it was hastily filled with warm shower water.

“you’re dripping wet,” satoru points out, breaking the silence.

you roll your eyes, without the usual sass. “wait, really?” water runs off of your skin, falling to the floor and puddling. for emphasis, you shake your wet hands away from him, voice lilting. “i hadn’t noticed, satoru.”

he laughs shortly, averting his eyes when he sees the concern wash over your face. satoru hates it when you worry over him, or treat him like he’ll shatter from the simplest physical contact. your hugs are looser, your kisses are a little lighter, and you’re careful not to get too close when he’s in the throes of an episode.

“i’m okay,” he assures you, lightly cupping your dewy cheek. his eyes meet yours, a little worn down at the corners, and a smile tugs at his lips once you lean into his palm. “thank you.”

“how come you didn’t get into the shower?” curiously, your eyes wander to his midsection, and he feels the urge to twist away like he’s just been probed. “i was waiting for you.”

“just got caught up admiring myself,” satoru noticeably shutters, and your eyes return to his face. “i was gonna get in. i didn’t mean to worry you, sweets.”

“i heard a thud,” you begin, distress flashing across your face as you recount what had happened, “i figured it was something like this. any idea what brought it on?”

all one hundred and ninety centimeters of him had been a slouched heap on the floor when you raced out of the shower, soap suds clinging to you and water cascading down every inch of your body. it hurt to see him like that, wrapped up in himself and frantically trying to self-soothe, too weak to reach the pill bottle on the counter.

you’ve seen him at his weakest, and yet, satoru still finds it in himself to tell a white lie. “i’m not very sure. see, i was getting undressed, but then i got caught in the clothes and fell right over.”

right when he thinks he’s convinced you, you pull away from him and let out a tired sigh, looking less than impressed. the thud you had heard sounded more intentional than that of a falling body. “uh huh. what really happened, satoru?”

after a drawn-out pause, he exhales through his nose and musters up some courage. you seeing his problems is one thing, but him talking about them is something entirely different. “i, uh, got a little stuck, i guess.”

satoru shifts closer, and the tension dissipates from his shoulders when your hand finds the center of his back. in careful, comforting motions, your palm smooths up and down his upper back.

“kinda hard adjusting to all of this, y’know?” he hears his voice, notices the hollowness in it, and feels like a spectator in the room. “for the first time, everything’s completely out of my hands. i’ll never . . be able to get myself back to the way i was.”

this is the first time he has actually said this aloud, and it stings. his cheeks flush with hot emotion and he grinds his teeth, clenching his fists. he’s thankful you’re so quiet, because it feels like he’s talking to himself, and that makes it easier to get the words out. “it’s so messed up. i mean, god, just look at me,” one sidelong glance to his midsection and then everything immediately below it sends him into an unexpected spiral. “can’t heal myself, can’t walk upright, can’t even do a fucking pushup. shoko, she—she put everything back together, reconstructed it just enough for survival, yeah, but that’s not—it isn’t living!”

satoru’s head falls into his hands and his spine curves forward, agitating his core muscles. with the double dose of medication in him, he doesn’t concern himself with the brief discomfort, knowing that it’ll fade away fairly soon. the first time he’d taken the pills, he wanted to suck down the whole bottle! the way just one or two could block the pain from going to his brain was absolutely euphoric; but the strain on his liver would get to him before anything else could.

“i don’t have my own agency anymore. i can’t work out, so i see whatever the hell i’m eating hanging off me the next time i look into the mirror. eating strictly doesn’t do a damn thing if i can’t exercise along with it.”

his back trembles under your hand, and he sighs frustratedly, trying to regain control over himself. “i couldn’t,” and his voice cracks ever so slightly, growing quieter, “i couldn’t reach up to get the pills. if you hadn’t . . i would’ve passed out.”

the admission is a weight lifted off of his chest and one dropped onto yours. it hangs in the air like steam after a shower, and silence settles over the small bathroom, blanketing everything.

“it’s not the same, satoru, i know it isn’t,” you have to fight to keep his name from trembling on your lips; you’re supposed to be comforting him, not the other way around. “it’s been a year, but you’ve made so much progress since all of this happened. your body’s still healing, and who knows how strong you’ll be by next year? you have to be patient, baby. give yourself more time and credit.”

he laughs bitterly, “credit? i let my guard down. this is my fault.”

“no, it’s not,” you insist, exhaling shakily. satoru’s breathing is heavy and his face is tucked away into his hands; he looks defeated, and you wish you knew what to say. “none of this is. i—you were up against a demon, who nearly killed you. if there’s anyone to blame, it’s him.”

he doesn’t reply, but after some time, satoru’s spine slackens, and you can hear his breathing shift. the medicine finally seems to be doing its job now, and he moves to rest his head against your chest, careful not to jostle his lower back.

“i’m here for you, satoru. every step of the way, okay?” your voice is barely above a whisper, but he nods, his eyes looking glossy. “i know it’s harder than you make it seem, but this isn’t the same as before. you’re not alone. you have me, shoko, your students . . we’re all in your corner. a few more months of physical therapy, and you’ll be able to do some of the things you’ve been talking about. it won’t be perfect, of course, but it’s progress, which is the most important part.”

although he’s buried in the drugs and surrendering to the drowsiness, satoru hears you—really hears you, in the kind of way he only could if he were slotted on your chest after just having told you everything. he isn’t the strongest anymore—he is no longer untouchable and on his own because of it.

when he was bleeding out and turning gray on that battlefield, he saw something flash before his eyes. it hadn’t been a rapid montage of memories, but rather something he’d never experienced. he saw a second chance, one that had taken place in a world without jujutsu or the weight of a title on his shoulders. perhaps him surviving his injuries was this life’s twisted way of keeping him here to live out the nightmare of recovery before he could make it to that daydream he’d been chasing since suguru left.

this is what safety feels like—the slide of skin against skin, warm and wet. satoru closes his eyes, and drifts off.

[henreyettah]

The kiss 💋

[limerlove]

feat. anderson's treats & baker!abby

abby who owns a bakery shop and you have an insatiable sweet tooth that never seems to end, a match made in heaven. your first date being in her shop she closes for the night, anderson’s treats, flour anxiously spread across her cheeks, she’s blushing furiously as you watch her, careful hands kneading the dough as you gaze at her with a certain sparkle in her eye as abby speaks about what got her into baking in the first place. 

then, curiosity gets the best of abby and she’s asking you questions about yourself, maybe she gets you to assist her, the butterflies in your stomach swarm as she tells lame jokes no one should really find funny but you do. with skillful hands, she makes you her favorite, one her shop is known for. it crumbles deliciously in her mouth, but the filling comes out as it coats the corner of your mouth, leaving her to use her thumb to wipe the strawberry filling away. with intentful innocence, she brings it to her lips. your deep, curious eyes inquiring at her mouth, full pink lips sucking the strawberry away. it’s only then she’s realized what’s been done. 

burning bright and red, the blush noticeable from a mile away. it’s when you notice the scar on her cheek and it makes you wonder how she got it and maybe you’ll ask her at another time but you don’t want to dismiss the moment. abby anderson, looking upon you with a blinding smile, giggles. airy and light, as if her laughter is the dough you’re kneading. the delightful substance infused into your bloodstream, needed as much as the blood pumping through your veins. 

as delightful as it is, it’s still a distraction. you think of her instead of the task she’s so cutely assigned you to. 

as you visibly struggling to knead the dough correctly. abby thinks it’s cute, but she decides to assist you. “here, let me—” the blonde maneuvers her frame around you, arms practically wrapped around your waist as she places her warm hands on top of your own. her voice sends a sensational shiver down your spine. “oh!”

abby chuckles but offers nothing else to say as she shows how to do it correctly. the feeling comes natural to her and she passes along her natural instinct but all you can think about is how she feels, her words coaching you in your ear as abby’s breath causes goosebumps to soothe every inch of your skin. 

“yeah, just like that. you’re a natural baby.” she kisses your cheek sweetly. she smirks as you lean back to her, finding comfort in the safety of her warmth. a homecoming, a sense of it settled in your heart, one only she could’ve brought to a full bloom.

OKAY BAKER!AU??? I MIGHT NEED TO EXPLORE THIS MORE GAHHHHHDKJF ♡

tags: @plutolovesyou @brackishkittie @nybueckers @only4theweeknd @tlouloser @marvelwomenarehot0 @grey-jedi12 @r3starttt @bittersu1te @pxgeturner @maxinephobia @marsworldd @aouiaa @mytwoseater @cherrybunny @twopeoplee @i-lov3-w0men @lvlymicha @half-of-gay

wanna be tagged?

[ramzuni6]

*ೃ༄ 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐭 𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 .ೃ࿐

“ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛɪɴɢ

ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ,

ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ

ᴀᴛ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅ.”

(ᴇxᴛʀᴀᴄᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏ, ʀɪᴄʜᴀʀᴅ ꜱɪᴋᴇɴ.)

Until Jason had you, he had the moon. It was the heavenly body that guided him on his search for his mother. It was the planetoid’s glow that creeped past the curtains of smoke from the explosion that brought him the comfort his mother’s traitorous couldn’t. For many nights he howled in pain after patrol, and for each of those cries the moon brought its light to bring him solace.

Todd didn’t believe in God. Todd believed in the one thing that hadn’t failed humanity for centuries, giving dreamers around the globe the comfort that something was watching them. Protecting them. Listening to their prayers; Jason was one of those dreamers - he still is. Why? The moon brought him you.

-

14TH SEPTEMBER, 2025. 01:56AM. BOWERY DISTRICT.

Jason had been touring the streets of Gotham for what he could guess had been an hour: following the orb of light, hoping it’d bring him something worth his while when he reaches a dead-end. Maybe this time a bakery he hadn’t tried? Or maybe a new spot to sulk at? He could only guess as he wandered, heavy boots treading on the concrete pavement, contributing to the loud silence Gotham offered.

“…Strawberries, cherries and an angel’s kiss in Spring…” His hoarse voice murmured, the song Roy played for him last patrol haunting his conscious. He claimed it made him ‘feel like a James Bond villain’, or something along the lines of that stupidity.

The man eventually stepped into a large plaza, concluding his solo serenade, alive with warm lights imitating the sun, even despite the late hours. Restaurants open every direction he turned, the square full of alive adults laughing and drinking, arms being slung over each other with an unspoken casualness. Friends’ eyes scanning the surroundings with a longing to find their companions, half-smiles preparing to let out introductory laughs as soon as they see a familiar, something Sinatra playing in the background.

This was the Gotham that danced and moved and lived. The Gotham that carried love on their wrist and an extra dollar bill to contribute to the next round of drinks.

He strolled the square with little sense of general direction, cascading through the crowd, mumbled ‘excuse mes’ and ‘sorrys’ leaving him as he bumped into people, keeping his head down and fists clenched as he made his way to the open space, and just as he thought he’d managed to rush out the crowd without any awkward encounters, he rushed into someone, tumbling into them with embarrassing ease. That someone? You.

A short string of panicked profanities left his lips like a songbird’s anthem as he took a step back, hands raised in apology. He opened his mouth when he collected himself, only to be met by your laugh, and immediately, he stopped. The music from the nearby restaurant began playing as his gaze zoned in on your face, scrunched up in laughter, brushing off his little accident.

“… Love was just a glance away, a warm embracing dance away…”

The pair of you stared at each other, a smile on your face as you watched his stupid, dumbfounded face slowly conform to one of bashfulness as his brain scrambled to say something - anything.

“D’you know the moon’s in it’s ‘Third Quarter’ phase?” He blurted, suddenly. Oh yeah, Todd, like this beauty’d care that the moon’s in it’s oh-so-precious ‘Third Quarter.’

And to his surprise, you nodded, a smirk on your face as your face contorted into one of genuine interest. “Really, now?”

“Well-… Yeah, yeah it is.” He nodded profusely, standing next to you and pointing at the moon. “Look, at it. That’s the ‘Third Quarter.’”

And little did he know, you weren’t staring at the moon with him, basking in it’s glory. No - you were looking at his hand, slowly moving your focus to his face, and as his gaze crossed paths with yours, he opened his mouth to speak. “A sight for sore eyes, no?”

༊*·˚ @petalbcrnes - my lovely <3

[lupine-trees]

never could be sweeter than with you.

[ boys being, after everything, deeply in love— feat. ace!draco. ♡ for the @drarrymicrofic april prompt: hiraeth. ]

drarry | word count: ~430 | rating: t | warnings: reference to past internalized ace-phobia

title from “home” by edward sharpe & the magnetic zeros.

_ _ _

“I always thought it was my fault, you know. That something was the matter with me.”

Harry’s eyes drew up to him, a pained crease striking between his brows. “Draco.”

Draco shifted on the sofa, his feet tucking beneath the velveteen pillow at Harry’s side. “No, I— listen. I only mean, it felt like it then. I had so many reasons to be an excellent Occlumens. It was just another.”

Harry folded his paperback closed, allowing Watson and Holmes to wait. “Tell me,” he said, hand falling soft on Draco’s ankle, soothing.

Draco sighed, fingers running up through his hair, a nervous tic he suspected by now he’d never break. “I hoped it was the war, for a long time. What a horrible thing to hope. But if it wasn’t the war, it meant… it meant it was just me. That there was something wrong with me.” His hands curled tightly around his mug of tea, warmth steadying the shake of him. “I needed there to be a reason so badly. I wanted to want like other people.”

“You can want like you,” Harry murmured, and then, making a circle of the jut of his ankle, “I like the way you want.”

Draco smiled in spite of himself, but it washed easily away. “Yes, but then. Well. Even after I’d goaded myself into tolerating it, I was afraid that no one else would. Harry, it’s absurd— I was so convinced it made me—”

“Undesirable?” Harry offered, with a playful poke to his shin.

“Piss off,” Draco huffed, grinning, his wooly-socked toes kicking soft into Harry’s side.

The fireplace crackled warmly, washing them in gold-orange light. Harry thought, I could let it go. Thought, He already knows.

But then:

“It doesn’t. Make you undesirable. Not to me. This,” he said, gesturing to the sitting room— the book, the tea, the sofa— his hand falling meaningfully back to Draco. Their home. “It’s all I want. It’s so much more than I ever thought I’d have.”

“Do you know I missed you?” Draco answered, non sequitur.

“When?” Harry asked.

Draco shuffled, easing into the cushions, his elbow cast comfortably over the backrest. “At nineteen. And fifteen. And when I was twelve.” His head cocked sideways, a wistful smile overwhelming him. “When I was eight. And five.”

Harry tugged at the hem of his pajamas. “You didn’t know me then.”

“Mhm,” Draco hummed. “I was missing you much longer than I’ve had you.”

Harry reached for his hand then, pulled his fingers softly to his lips. “We’ll fix that,” he whispered, a promise, a plan.

[unistaryo]

Hi!!!! I hope you're doing great

Since your commissions are open I wanted to ask for a one shot of Jotaro p3 x reader

The prompt would be the reader getting severely hurt but trying to act tough and act as if nothing happened in front of Jotaro

Thank you for your time!!! Have a Nice day ❤️

Beneath the Mask [Jotaro Kujo x Reader (Oneshot)]

Summary: After you were injured during an enemy stand attack, Jotaro worries about you, even if you try to act thought.

How did this happen?

You used to be such a joy bringer, sculpted to bring that ray of sunshine into everyone's hearts despite the darkness that may surround them. Or at least, that's what Jotaro thought.

Despite everything, you always managed to get under his skin and melt his heart. And he doesn't know how or why. And so, he hated you because of it. You brought him too much joy, and that terrified him. He was too scared that you would become a temporary companion.

And that hidden fear had become a reality.

His gaze betrayed him– sorrow and guilt. He couldn't protect you, or care for you as he should. Did he truly deserve you? No. It was a painful no.

He's the one who put you in this situation in the first place. If it wasn't for him, you wouldn't have to fight in the first place. If you weren’t too close to him, you wouldn't have been attacked.

Perhaps it would be better for him to keep his distance from now on. So, he will not have to watch you like this again.

You lay on the ground, breathing but motionless, it was clear you wouldn't be able to move for a while for at least a few hours– if at all. But, Kakyoin's and Avdol's help will ensure your well-being, even his old man did his part.

“You know,” Joseph began as he put his arm on his shoulder, “maybe you should try and talk to her at least.”

Jotaro looked at him with a stern gaze, masking his emotions as always. But his grandpa always saw past his facade, and he spoke again, in the same warm and playful tone.

“They'll be happy if you do so. (Y/N) is more hurt than they let on, Avdol said that they wouldn't be able to walk for a good while, but there would be no lasting damages” His face then changed to a more serious one, almost commanding and judging his grandson through his word, “Or just leave them be, if you want. At least they could rest in peace.”

Jotaro swears he could punch you right now. Even if you try to seem unfazed and untouched, he can break your act in no time. Just like he did to your attacker's face and bones. So, in a way to comfort you, or maybe himself, or both- he came beside you, hands in pocket and hat as low as he could get it.

“Oi,” he barked, his tone sharp” just stop the act already and let them help you!”

Your eyes widened by his outburst, face trembling slightly from the pain as you tried to sit up, only to fail.

“And just… get better faster, goddammit,” he muttered with frustration, trying his best to mask his concern.

With that he turned sharply, leaving you in Avdol's and Kakyoin's care. He needed to make sure this would never happen again.

[eskir]

crave - sunday x reader

short writing thing! based slightly off the song crave by valleyheart

he wishes that he could be someone different, someone more worthy of loving you. even if you try to ease his heart and hold him in your sweet embrace, even if you tell him that he's been working too hard, in both his job and in the relationship, he craves perfection. no, it's not that he craves perfection, rather, he craves the comfort that it bring him. just like the comfort you bring to him.

yet with every move for perfection, the lingering shadow in his head points out the flaws, gestures to the possibilities of failure. so he keeps moving, keep searching for a world where robin, you, and everyone else can live in safety and happiness. he craves a utopia-

-but if the books were any indication, utopias don't exist

yet he'll give up his life for the slight possibility of guaranteed happiness. when you try to confront him he talks in hushed tones of all his worries. he worries about you.

so once more you have to reach out for his hand, pulling him back onto the couch. he is surprised at your sudden action, having expected you to understand, which you did. but you didn't want him to give up all of his happiness just for you, you didn't want a world without him.

you hold him, embrace him and comb through his hair, speaking of your reservations. why you don't want him to leave, why you need him to stay, and why working himself to tatters isn't good for the ones he loves. but he doesn't say that he believes himself unworthy of love. he'll love freely, but he doesn't expect the love back.

can't we find contentment in just being still?

a question you posed, the words that he'd never understand until the finale. sunday isn't living for himself. he lives for others with his own happiness barely getting by.

so your embrace is dear to him. you're the fleeting spark of comfort he's chasing.

[beeandthescreen]

John Walker | Men always look the best miserable, beat-up, with tears in their eyes.

[knightwhoisni]

so, like, this is specifically arthur's kinepage. if it's not just a weird copy via Void Shenanigans, we really just waltzed in and stole this man's pager with help from kalymos.

bro is gonna go nuts looking for that thing only for drifter to turn up and go "yeah hey sorry i kinda borrowed this without permission by projecting myself back in time and following the doctor's giant cat. you can have it back now."

[onceonafullmoon]

Atropine (Whenever I look at you)

Yan! Dazai x Gn! Reader

Reader wears a skirt but has no set gender

Warnings: obsessive behavior and thoughts: bordering on worship, stalking, abusive relationships, kidnapping

Beast! AU implied, from Dazai’s POV so I tried to incorporate the writing style of No Longer Human at some points, also… Happy Valentines!!

Well, it was fine, after all he had a lifetime of chasing you in his arsenal and he felt it was only fair that he had a lifetime of keeping you to match. (Of course, it really wasn’t fair, but since when did the rotten care for fair? That was only for the viritous and right… like you.) Yes, he had all of this lifetime to keep you, and he’d be damned if he let anyone else feel you in any sense including sight, as undeserving as he was.

It all starts in the middle of October, with the biting wind brushing past him and the aroma of cinnamon hovering in the air.

It’s October when he sees you again, although, technically speaking, it was actually the first time he’d set his eyes on you.

Your hair is longer than it usually is—

(“Really, I don’t understand why you don’t get rid of those bangs, isn’t it hard to fight with all that hair in your face?”)

—and you’ve allowed yourself a more stylish outfit than the ones you usually wear—

(“…yeah but skirts are impractical, I’ll flash someone.

…W—what do you mean “good”?! Your such a—!”)

—and you seem more relaxed than you usually are (were, he corrects, were), probably attributed to the fact that you’re not an agency member anymore.

It really shouldn’t surprise him, when he sees you, because of course he would eventually.

But it’s enough to make his heart stop.

Because despite the fact that so much had changed, your same shining smile remained, a testament to your nature, comparative to that of the natural wonders.

You were like the river, rapids would falter and the very ground before you would ebb and weave throughout, but you were a constant.

The universe was a funny thing like that.

As if it were taunting him for his past decisions, for his mistakes, mocking him for his very existence with each step you took away from him, brushing past him like he was nothing.

And he was, wasn’t he?

Both in the literal sense to you and metaphorical sense to himself.

What a wretched joke.

Even he couldn’t bring himself to play the part of the clown and laugh.

Instead, he just stared at you, longingly, in the way that a lovesick school boy would stare at his first love, at your fluttering skirt as you brush by his table without a second thought.

But that wasn’t quite the right way to describe it either, as his eyes held a certain darkness to them, one that was inconsistent with the innocence of a first love.

Because it was him and he was tainted and rotten and the dregs of society and nothing he did was without ulterior motives. That deep carnal desire, the feeling of want, it burned him, it made him feel alive, he wanted you, he wanted you so badly.

In any way possible, in every sense.

And it was almost sickening, the ease at which he was able to conjure up all those images in his mind, like flickering through memories of moments that hadn’t yet occurred, and hopefully would not (but who was he kidding, it’s not like he could resist you).

A cozy domestic scene, the way you would smile that heart achingly nostalgic flustered smile as he pulled you in for another lingering kiss, despite half hearted protests about being late for your work, and then pulling you in for one more just for good measure.

The way you’d laugh at his clowning, the way that he effortlessly made himself into a fool with that contagious laugh of yours, that he would forget that he was anything else in that moment but a jester for your amusement.

Comforting him on the days he couldn’t keep up his act anymore, when he left his stage to show you the pitiful actor he really was, with the tired eyes and the dead expression that he couldn’t bring himself to change.

“I’m sorry.” He’d say, and he’d say it with whatever was left of what honesty remained within his garbage infested soul.

But he wouldn’t need to, because of course you’d pull him in closer to you, both in your arms and to your heart, because that was the type of person you were, the kind sort of naive person he’d dream about ruining, only to find that you were the one to stain him in the end.

At least, in that dream you were.

For the most part, you weren’t so lucky, and maybe that’s why even despite his own knowledge of his debauchery he tried to hide those thoughts deeper inside himself.

But in the end you were still such a precious little thing, weren’t you?

Another scene, a club you exit from in the middle of the night, the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat heavy in the air as he gazes at your slightly stumbling form.

(You’re not drunk, you’ve never really been a drinker after all, but you never could walk in heels very well either.)

And he’s trouble, as he always was (and forever will be), so when he sees you, a pretty young thing with a bit too much innocence in your eyes, he closes in like a shark would on a drop of blood.

He’d greet you with a slight grin on his face, and laugh to himself as you startle at his voice, before greeting him in return with an uncomfortable smile.

You’d say something about wanting fresh air, and he’d be able to tell from just one look at you that you were lying, that the club was never your scene and you were just searching for a way to distract yourself, or perhaps you were just putting up with something you detested for a friend, you were always too sweet like that.

Whatever it was, he could tell that you were right out of your element, and he wasn’t one to miss out on an opportunity presented to him.

“Need some company?” He’d ask, the smirk on his face a little too wolfish, but it was far too dark for you to see anyways, so you’d agree.

And you’d talk and talk and talk, talk into the hours of the night, until you forgot the reason for your nerves to begin with. Until you found a friend within the jester persona that he portrayed, laughing at the antics he put up solely for the purpose of entrapping you.

He’d leave with your number of course, and he’d keep up this charade with you for months, years even depending on how cruel he felt.

One way or another you’d end up letting him come home with you, after all he knew you too well (and he always would, in any form you came to him), and he’d savor every second of the moment.

Perhaps it would be your first time.

(It was, more often than not in all of his indulgent little fantasies, it was something about taking something from you that he could keep forever that did something for his perverted self.)

But perhaps not.

Either way he would be satisfied with having the chance to indulge in your sweetness just once, your taste, your scent, simply just your feel as he made you come undone for him for as many times as he fell for you (which was simply impossible to count).

And then… he would leave you.

He’d leave just as quickly as he came, a ghost in the night, finding a largely perverse delight in the way that you’d falter so suddenly after his absence, the anguish you feel coursing through you.

Because as disgusting as it was, he loved every corner and crevice of you, he loved you when you were at your highest of highs or your lowest of lows, and he loved you as you were smiling as much as he loved when you were sobbing.

And he’d come back of course, because he could never really bear to leave you, but he’d never stay for you, he’d always leave you on the precipice, wondering whether you ever really had him to begin with.

(And of course you really did, but how could he resist you when he knew you were staring at your wall at midnight, eyes bloodshot from crying, wondering if you were ever going to see him again.)

Because he loved when you were a mess, didn’t he?

He loved when you were begging on your knees for a pathetic thing like him, not because he liked feeling greater than you, but because he loved seeing that beautiful bittersweet expression on your face.

But that wasn’t all of it, that wasn’t the true depths of his depravity.

The final act remained after all, and this one was the most vile and disturbing of all.

It starts off the way he sees you presently, a civilian with far too much beauty catches the eye of a sleazy mafioso in a cafe that paid tribute to the local chapter.

You don’t know of course, most people don’t, but those who do watch with baited breath as he gets up from his stool in the back to saunter over to you with a deceptively disarming grin.

He’d excuse himself and ask if he could have a moment of your time, and you, the angel you were, would let him with a confused smile on your pretty little lips.

He’d flirt with you for a bit, make you grow flustered with that sweet little embarrassed smile that you’d hide your face in your hands to hide.

But this time he wouldn’t need your number to see you again.

After all, with so much power in his hands, why would he need anything as impermanent as that?

It wouldn’t be so hard to find out where you lived, where you worked, where you liked to frequent your weekends at, where you liked to spend time with your friends, who you were friends with, who you detested, (and god forbid) who you loved.

Nevermind the little details about your favorite color and what your favorite book was, after all he already knew those things by heart.

It wouldn’t be hard to schedule an “accidental” encounter with you, brushing by you as you peruse the shelves of your favorite bookstore (its funny how some things would never change), and you would look at him with your pretty lips parted in surprise before you’d smile at him, not so much charmed at his persistence than the causality of a second chance.

It was funny how that worked, how a moment seen as a romantic twist of fate could quickly turn into a chilling horror if only the light was shown on the truth of the matter.

But he would have no reason to reveal that bitter truth to you yet, so he would keep quiet and simply smile at you in turn.

Chances and chances and chances would pile up on top of eachother as he would seek out any sort of way to endear himself to you… and then, when you found yourself finding the slightest bit of trust in him, he’d pull away that final layer and reveal himself wholly to you when he would finally take you for himself.

He could imagine it very well, your betrayal, your anger… all of it when you’d find yourself in a room unfamiliar, bound and gagged as he would monologue joyfully about every little thing he had planned out from the beginning.

And better yet, the sense of horror you would feel as he would continue rambling about all the things that he was going to do now that he had you.

Finally, he’d pull off your gag and watch as you would stutter out your words rightfully calling him out for what he truly was all this time.

He’d look at you as you tear up, a grin on his face, although if you really looked at him, you’d see it was really just empty, simply a mockery of emotion.

“That’s right, I am a monster. The very worst one.” He’d say softly before he would make his advance on you and then…

And then indeed. Because he already had several ideas on what to do, depraved things that he would subject you to, but the only question was which ones…

Well, it was fine, after all he had a lifetime of chasing you in his arsenal and he felt it was only fair that he had a lifetime of keeping you to match.

(Of course, it really wasn’t fair, but since when did the rotten care for fair? That was only for the viritous and right… like you.)

Yes, he had all of this lifetime to keep you, and he’d be damned if he let anyone else feel you in any sense including sight, as undeserving as he was.

Those tormented emotions that only he could bring to light didn’t really belong to him, but he would savor them more than any other could possibly imagine. And he was sure to believe in that if nothing else.

So, with that he pulls himself from his most rousing daydream and sets his sights on you sitting at your little table, a coffee at your lips and your legs crossed showing the slightest hint of skin as your skirt subtly rises, and pulls himself up from where he sits to make his way over to you.

“Excuse me, may I have a moment of your time?” He asks as he finally crosses that short yet impossible distance to meet you.

And you.

You blink up at him with those breathtaking eyes and those lashes that catch the evening sun, and you say.

“Um… well, sure. What is it?”

Despite the shame he should feel, his lips hook up into that same mischievous smile, because of course you would.

“...I just wanted to say that you’re the most breathtaking person I’ve seen in my life.”

And when you smile that sweet little embarrassed smile, he feels a perverse thrill running through him.

[neyafromfrance95]

here is how i wish morgoth's crown wound would affect galadriel:

amplify her addiction to power, awaken her inner power but also let her draw powers from the shadow realm, allow her spirit to travel to the shadow realm, strengthen her mind-bond with sauron.

[ramzuni6]

heehhe hi. ehem. 💐💐 i am here with flowers, and maybe a ring 💍,,,, to confess my undying love to you my one and only. also i would actually go crazy if u would bless me with any of your thoughts ab nightwing,,,,,

*ೃ༄ 𝐃𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 .ೃ࿐

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ Richard Grayson - Nightwing: the 'It-Boy' of Gotham. Behind closed doors? He was your boy. Your Dick, your darling, and most of all, your other half.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ Your relationship likely bloomed from the cliché friends to lovers trope - Dick valued connection, trust, familiarity. To wake up to the feel and sound of the person he had grown so accustomed to was something he craved. After a long life of having to throw himself into new circumstances, an unchanging routine of was all he asked for. And then came you.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ He's always attached to your hip. Hand on waist? Duh. Interlaced fingers? Most definitely! He won't let you go, even if your life depended on it. Okay, maybe if you were in danger. The poor boy couldn't help it - your body was just meant to fit alongside his! What was he supposed to do? Leave you be? As if!

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ He'll call you the most ridiculous nicknames. Shnookums. Sweetie-Pie. Pumpkin. Honey-bun. Mx/Mr/Mrs Grayson. Light of my life.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ Dick's there for you. He's already slipped on his shoes and grabbed his car keys at the moment he sees you ask for help. The boy'll drop anything to make sure your okay. How could he not? He adores you!

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ Favourite dates? Dick's the sort to love wandering aimlessly around Gotham with you, letting the night guide the pair of you. You've ended up in libraries, museums, record stores, toy shops, if it's open, you've been there! He'll especially love to take you to small pizza places, he says it's something to do with nostalgia and wanting to share it with his baby.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ Dancing. Dancing everywhere. The rain. The kitchen. His father's galas. Restaurants. Clubs. To have his hands on top of yours as you sway to some long forgotten tune is what he lives for. Your hums, fleeting stares, and the little tickles he'll give you when you're not looking. He thinks of these moments all the time.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ Dick loves his life when you're in it. He loves paying rent with you. He loves doing the laundry with you. He loves cleaning, cooking, walking, shopping, and spending every waking hour with you. God, he loves taking out the bins with you.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ He can only find himself wondering what his life would be like without his sweetheart.

༊*·˚ @petalbcrnes i gladly accept your proposal, lovely <3

[obsessedwhyyes]

You know, sometimes I'm busy writing, and then I look back and realise that I've literally just written myself.

In related news: The Scientific Method Part 3 is on the way! It shall be called Unexpected Variables and it will be pure fluff of the highest order.

A momentary break from the porn-with-plot format of this series to give myself some warm fuzzies.

(Part 1 can be found here if you're curious!)

[ultimategenshintournament]

Ultimate Ship Tournament: Round 1A

Propaganda below cut

Lyney x Traveler:

Reason 1: Flirty magician develops genuine feelings for a potential enemy of the organization he secretly works for due to his tragic past as an orphan, all during a trial of a murder that happened during his show. Plus he has a major panic attack at jail, and traveler was the one to comfort him. Plus he says that he is "rarely so open like that with anyone" He trust traveler enough to let his guard and facade down, and consider them to be a part of the family, a family he cares more than anything. Also. Helloooo? The angst potential of a FATUI dating TRAVELER? he is the next head of the house of the hearth after all. Even if he is being performative, he has the best rizz. So many flirty voice lines, and the rainbow rose! Don't forget rainbow roses have a romantic meaning! Reason 2: He is like that for both Lumine and Aether. Bisexual win

Arlebina:

I don't care if one of them isn't even out yet and we know almost nothing about her, I think they could be real fucked up together 👍

[yinyuedijun]

now that I finally have a lead for the hsr mydei selfship I regrettably want to use my government chinese name because it's so much better than my dumbass pseud LOLOL and wankai is a banger ship name if you translate it but AUUUGGHHHH I DONT WANNA BE DOXXED

[miasmaghoul]

anything little dick mountain.... PLEEEEASE

anything you say?

okay.

how about little dick mountain and nonbinary intersex mist getting stoned and fuckin around in the woods?

thats something.

"This is nice," Mountain murmurs, twirling a lock of fine silver hair between two fingers.

"Always is," Mist lilts in reply, plucking the half-burned joint from Mountain's other hand. They offer him a slow wink, and Mountain grins.

They've been here for a while now, naked and sprawled out beside Mist's favorite stream deep in the woods. It's a tranquil place, serene and nearly silent. The babble of the water soothes something deep in Mountain's core, as does the late spring sun filtering through the boughs above. The warm light dapples Mist's pale skin, washes them in an ethereal glow, and stoned as he is Mountain can't help but touch.

Mist hums on an inhale as a large hand caresses their shoulder, rough fingers tracing the intricate lines of the tattoo there - a sea serpent with fangs sharp enough that even the ink threatens to cut. Mountain could study it for hours, could spend an age gliding his fingertips along every curve. From the tip of the tongue that sits just above the barely-there swell of Mist's chest to the tail that ends at the small of their back.

Mist's slight hand rests on Mountain's chest, delicate fingers fiddling with his chest hair, and he takes a moment to admire them.

They look exquisite; silver-blue eyes reddened and heavy, hollow cheeks crested with pink, gills rippling as heady smoke flows from them in entracing waves. Mountain lowers his head to drink it down, his hand sliding around to rest between Mist's shoulders while he noses at their throat.

"Greedy," they tease, voice light. Mountain chuffs, dragging the tip of his tongue along their jaw. Mist sighs, tilting their head and taking another deep pull, burning the joint to its end. Mountain feels their lungs fill under his touch, and something about it makes him throb.

"Can you blame me when you taste so good?" Another lick, and Mist trills, amused.

"Not even a little."

Another plume escapes Mist's gills and Mountain sucks it down, holds it in. He pulls away with a curl to his lips and finds Mist peering up at him expectantly, the tip of their tongue poking out between needle-sharp fangs. Mountain threads long fingers into soft hair, grips gently, and when their lips join it's in a cloud of sweet smoke.

It's slow. Languid. A relaxed meeting of tongues, an exchange of breath and saliva alike. Mountain's hand glides down the length of their spine, a brief journey that ends with his palm on Mist's sharp hip, fingers dimpling the subtle curve of their ass. They shift a bit, hook a leg over his thigh, and Mountain chuckles at the almost imperceptible weight of it. He smiles against their lips.

"I always forget how small you are," he murmurs, and Mist rewards him with a sharp tug to his chest hair. He gives them a hiss, one that fades into a pleased hum when cool, bony fingers drift down over his stomach.

"No you don't," they say, clearly amused. Mountain pulls back just enough to catch the sparkle in their eyes, a glint of brilliant sapphire in those pale irises.

They're right, of course. It's impossible to forget how tiny Mist is in comparison to him, how seemingly frail. Elegant limbs, bony joints, slender from head to toe. He has a solid two feet on them, and who knows how much weight, but on the rare occasion Mist hunts him down for these trysts it's never them that seems to feel small.

That wandering hand vanishes between their bodies, and Mountain lets his own hand travel down the creamy thigh over his hip, squeezing along the way. Mist licks their lips, gives him a sharp smile.

"But I could say the same about you, big guy."

They punctuate that statement by wrapping deft fingers around his cock, and Mountain groans as he feels them engulf him completely. The one place where he is decidedly not big.

"Oh, someone's excited," Mist sing-songs, giving his little stiffy a nice squeeze. He shivers with it, hips rolling already.

Mountain can't deny it - truth be told he's been chubby since Mist caught him on his way back to the abbey, arms full of freshly snipped roses that Primo had requested for his chambers. He'd pawned that task off on a nearby sibling, content to follow his dick and the stunning ghoul before him instead. Mist thumbs over his sticky head and Mountain huffs out a tight sigh.

"Sensitive as ever," Mist taunts, loosening their grip and giving him a couple of soft little pumps that have Mountain's eyes rolling back. "Planning to blame the weed?"

He always does, but they both know better.

"I can if you want," he rumbles, hitching Mist's leg higher on his hip. "But it's easier to blame you."

Mist laughs, loud and bright in the surrounding silence. They shift closer, close enough that Mountain can feel the brush of their pebbled nipples against his chest, their piercings pressing chilly into his overwarm skin. Mountain drags blunt nails up their thigh, relishing the goosebumps that appear in his wake. He slips his own hand between their bodies, and Mist smiles. They wrap a spindly arm around his neck, arch their back, and with a loose rock of their hips Mountain feels the firm length of their dick press into his thigh

"Looking to return the favor, sycamore?"

Mountain doesn't try to hide his whine, there's no point. He always gets noisy when they do this, and all the high does is make him more willing to let it out. He wraps an eager hand around Mist's already slick length, and they reward him with a tighter grip on his own. Mountain groans deep in his chest, leaning down to knock their horns together.

"You're really hard," he murmurs, the hand in Mist's hair drifting down to settle at the back of their neck, angling their lovely, handsome face towards his own. "Gonna blame that on the weed?"

Mist doesn't deign to answer, getting a nice handful of his hair and licking a wide stripe over his stubbled cheek instead. Mountain feels himself throb in their hand, feels Mist leak over his knuckles, and as they catch him in a decidedly more hungry kiss Mountain lets himself be overwhelmed.

It's easy to do. The smooth swipe of their tongue along his own and behind his fangs drags him further and further down. The slowly tightening channel of Mist's hand pulls pearl after pearl of pre from his firm little cock, the slick sound of both of their hands filling his head with static. Mist's nails rake over his scalp, just sharp enough to provide the hint of a sting, and Mountain doesn't even try to hold back his moan.

It's nice like this. No rushing, no frantic urgency, no pleading for more. No need for it. They both know Mist controls the pace of these stolen moments, and Mountain has absolutely no problem with it. He lets himself enjoy the kiss, the taste of Mist filling his mouth. Fresh and clean with a specific sort of bitterness Mountain has come to crave, all of it accentuated by the herbal flavor of their shared smokable. It's intoxicating, and before Mountain knows it he's panting into their mouth, starved for more.

He pauses on a downstroke, wraps a finger and thumb around the base of Mist's twitching length and slips two fingers back between their legs. He moans out a curse at the slick heat he finds there, swiping his digits through their folds. He dips just one inside, and the tightness he finds there has his stomach swooping.

Mist purrs into the kiss when he swirls it inside, abandoning their grip on his short length in favor of grabbing his wrist. Mountain doesn't fight when they pull his slippery hand from their body, maneuvering it instead to hold the both of them together.

Mountain has to pull back then, chest heaving and eyes glassy as Mist guides him to stroke. The feel of it is exquisite - his large palm is rough, callused, but Mist leaks so much that it eases the glide in moments. The sensation wrings a pained gurgle from him, and Mountain can't keep himself from rocking his hips. From letting his tip kiss the underside of Mist's, every drag of their cocks against one another sending his head spinning and forcing heat to swirl through his belly.

"Fuck," he breathes, long and low. "Mist, fuck -"

"Feeling good, aren't you?" Mist sounds entirely too calm, as they always do, but the way they pulse in his hand betrays them. "Think the little guy's ready for me yet?"

They rock their hips just as Mountain does, ruts their cocks together, and Mountain makes the most embarrassing sound. He gives a quick nod, sucking his lower lip between his fangs, and before he can do anything more Mist is rolling him onto his back. Straddling his hips. Moving him like he isn't at least twice their size everywhere except where it counts.

"That's better," Mist says on a sigh. They settle on their knees, palms flat on his chest, and Mountain gazes up at them with what can only be called unabashed adoration. Mist smiles down at him, tossing the silver curtain of their hair over their shoulder. Mountain rests his hands on their waist, loving the way his thumbs overlap just below their navel. "Don't you think?"

Mountain offers up a dumb little sound of confirmation, too busy visually feasting on the little ghoul above him. Soaking in every angle and curve, every ridge of their gills, the sparkle of their nipple rings and the shimmering black scales decorating their collarbones and the vee of their hips. His gaze halts there, caught completely on the way their shiny pink cock sticks straight out between their skinny thighs.

Mist doesn't miss it, their lips curling into a positively cheshire smile while they scoot forward. While they settle themselves over his own aching length where it lays on his stomach, leaking pre into the smattering of hair there. Mountain chokes on a moan when they shift just enough to drag their dripping cunt over his little cock, and it's a miracle he doesn't cum right then and there.

Not that Mist would allow that, of course. He knows better.

"So warm," they murmur, moving their hips in gentle circles that have Mountain's thighs quivering. "How badly does he want it, hmm?"

"Bad," Mountain rasps, doing his absolute best not to hump up against Mist's inviting body. "He wants in so bad."

Mist trills, a deeply pleased sound. They raise up just enough for Mountain to see the thick trail of slick that connects their bodies, and his cock kicks so hard he grunts.

"Looks like it," Mist chuckles, gripping him again and giving a slow stroke. A blurt of pre leaks over their fingers, and Mountain's balls ache. "Little thing's drooling all over."

Mist is one to talk, their own dick dribbling a nearly constant stream of sticky fluid that pools in Mountain's belly button. He can't get his breath under control as they raise up, pointing his needy little cock up into the air while they line up.

Mountain isn't sure which of them moans louder when Mist sinks down onto him, impossibly tight and so, so slick. He grips them tight, fingertips digging firm into their back, their stomach. He watches the flat plane of it tense when they bottom out, taking his few inches with an ease that leaves his toes curling.

"There we go," Mist coos, narrow chest flushed pink as their leaking tip. They pluck at their nipples, rolling the stiff buds between their fingers and sighing. "You always fill me just right, don't you?" Mountain nods furtively, not trusting his voice when Mist clenches around him. "A perfect little cuntful."

Mountain lets his head thud back against the warm earth, swallows hard, and when Mist starts riding in an achingly slow rhythm he swears the world tilts.

"Be a good boy and make me cum," they say, low and sultry, peeling one of his hands from their waist and moving it to their swaying cock. "If you do well enough I'll even let you eat your load out of me."

Mountain whimpers, starts to stroke, and silently adores the way Mist laughs at him when he drools.