#everything else has devolved from there

[bastianfruit]

If you didnt think this random hyperfixation with drawing cats could get any worse

Clint was requested by @metalbvcky (hope you dont mind the tag)

[resistgod]

i want to sabotage everything i love but that isnt healthy. but i do really want to. man

[transmutationisms]

I love your takes, but I feel super, super lost with what you were trying to say about the natalism one. I feel like you're saying that there is no contradiction on wanting more babies, a higher population number and punishing mothers, but can you elaborate on that a bit more, because it does seems contradictory. I'm not disagreeing with you, I just want to understand it better.

alright there's a perennial debate (on here but also in a wider cultural sense) that goes on where people start noticing that some of the ways in which we socially and economically de/value children, parenthood, and specifically motherhood are internally contradictory. how can it be that there is immense social and economic pressure to heterosexually partner and reproduce, and yet most public and social infrastructure is also profoundly hostile to children and their guardians? why is it that this person couldn't find a doctor to perform a voluntary hysterectomy because their bodily preferences were subordinated to the medical valorisation of their fertility, and yet this other person was forcibly sterilised or coerced into using contraception because the prospect of them reproducing is framed as socially destabilising and degenerative? how are 'family values' touted by politicians who openly and explicitly also hate real existing families? do they want people to have more children or fewer? is it more counterculture and rebellious to have children or to not have children? to have sex or to not have sex? to partner off? to be polyam or monogamous?

the answer broadly speaking is that the oppositions people see here are only surface-level. the bourgeois state's interest is in biopower, and this produces competing demands: for some people to partner off and reproduce, and for others to be exterminated. the valorisation of the white middle-class nuclear family is the same as the devalorisation of its negations: racialised people, disabled people, family arrangements other than nuclear and heterosexual, etc. you can't understand the demand that people reproduce if you don't understand it is necessarily also accompanied by the demand that other people don't. these aren't actually contradictory once you understand that what the bourgeois state wants has nothing to do with your individual behaviours and everything to do with how many 'desirable' bodies it has at its disposal. that economic consideration is what creates both the natalist policy meant to encourage [some people's] reproduction, and the exterminatory policy meant to suppress and eradicate [other people's] reproduction.

usually this kind of conversation very quickly devolves into a privilege framework argument, where people are trying to find some kind of social hierarchy that is hegemonically applied top-down and that rewards, universally, certain behaviour choices over others. again, the "people who marry and reproduce are privileged and socially rewarded over me #childfree" versus "actually some people still have to fight tooth and nail to even get medical support / approval to have children, let alone actually get access to the kind of economic and social support necessary to raise them" debate. it's smoke and mirrors because there is no universal privileging of the choice to have children or not have children. what there is, is a privileging of certain people on the basis of the economic assessment of them as biological assets, and the inverse (and mutually constitutive) devaluations of everyone else. really over-discussed examples here but to give them anyway: this is why, for example, french natalist policy and the USA's constant efforts to strip back welfare-net policies in order to harm (primarily) black families are both arising from the same basic impulses of two imperialist nation-states. obviously there are different histories and contextual factors that have resulted in france and the US trying to skin the same cat in different ways. but what they share is an underlying interest in trying to shore up their population in both size and 'fitness', understood here in its full racialised and eugenic meaning.

[smallgodseries]

“It all started with a mouse,” that’s what they like to say, over and over again, like it’s somehow impressive.  You know what else started with a mouse?  A hell of a lot of hantavirus, that’s what.  You have mice, you generally call an exterminator, that’s all I’m saying.  But it won’t do you a lot of good, because the mice will get in anyway.  Or get out. Can’t keep mice in cages forever.  That’s not what mice were made for.

Still, they tried like hell, didn’t they?  They changed the rules so many times we pretty much had to throw out the whole rulebook and start over with a new one.  Commandment one: Thou shalt let us do whatever we want, because we’re always right, and if you disagree with us, you’re wrong.  That’s how you lock in the result you want.  You cheat.

Oh, they cheated.  Go ahead and say they did everything legally, but if you have two mice and one maze, and say the rules are the same for both of then, then lay a trail of spray cheese between one mouse and the finish line, while the other has to run it the ordinary way, well, that’s cheating whether or not there’s a rule against it.  Ask any first grader.  That’s the real trick: if a first grader knows you cheated, you’re not even being subtle about it.

They didn’t use spray cheese, of course.  They used money.  And they weren’t racing mice, they were racing legal arguments.  Money votes.  Anyone who tries to say otherwise just doesn’t have any money.

But it all started with a mouse, and from there, it evolved—or devolved—into corruption, greed, and the desperate need to keep being the only people who could solve the maze.  They got so busy changing the rules that they forgot the one rule they couldn’t change.  The rule they should have remembered.  The first rule of mice:

Can’t keep them out.  And that means you can’t keep them in, either.

Everything crumbles.  Every mouse gets out.  And every story yearns to be free.  So tell me, now that you know it all started with a mouse, how are you going to write the ending?  I belong to you now, after all, as much as I belong to anyone.

But most of all, I belong to me.

********************************

For more information on Mickey Mouse entering public domain: https://variety.com/2023/biz/news/mickey-mouse-public-domain-disney-copyright-lawsuits-1235844322/

[gaywineauntsstuff]

Okay but imagine for a second

You’re Bruce Wayne, Batman

The richest, smartest man in every room you have walked into since you turned 20

Every bit of information is at the tip of your fingertips money, brawn and brains are no object

And then you take in a child

Named Dick Grayson

From the circus, who has the most flimsy proof of his existence you’ve ever seen with a birth certificate that looks too worn to properly make out the parents named without knowing them before.

No passport despite traveling all over the globe

No form of identification

So you give the kid an ID and everything is fine

He becomes Robin

Joins a team

Becomes nightwing

Runs all the teams

Becomes Batman

Runs himself into the ground

And then Dicks in his 20s and he’s sick

Really sick

It’s not viral, fungal, parasitic or bacterial

No one else you know has this

And he’s getting sicker

He can’t walk without help and spends all his days wrapped up in blankets fighting off never ending shivers.

He mixes up his brothers names and sometimes outright forgets some of the kids

He didn’t recognize Kori a few weeks ago and hasn’t remembered her since

So Everytime he blearily asks “who are you again?” They All answer with the knowledge that this might be the him decaying blue eyes don’t spark with recognition

The first time it happened it was horror and tears “an Oh my god! I’m so sorry I love you you’re my brother” over time it’s devolved into an “oh right…hi Jason”

And the doctors ask for his family history

Maybe. Maybe there is something that could save him, bring him back or stop this descent… this fall from happening to the most untouchable man that’s ever lived.

(Tim threw up after he saw Dick burst into tears, head resting on Alfred’s shoulder when he realized he couldn’t walk without help- they need to stop this)

So they dig

And dig

And dig

And nothing

There’s no evidence of the Graysons before John, the Lloyd’s before Mary.

Neither had been to a doctor anytime in the states at least

Bruce had redone all of Dicks vaccines once he acquired guardianship of him.

There was nothing

Nothing on his aunts or the uncle that was his namesake

There’s just nothing

Bruce realizes he doesn’t even know Dicks ethnic background. 1000s of tests he’s ran and he doesn’t even know if Dick has ever been to his parents home countries

They do every test they can come up with to try and fake a comprehensive family history

Mary Grayson was a fake name

So way John

They don’t know the real ones

Bruce finds out the mother of his son is Syrian and Romani and the boys first father is Afghani and Italian.

He finds out Mary’s father fled from Syria during the 60s and settled in Germany

He finds out that John Grayson and his brother were orphans together

He can’t even tell you which one of them gave Dick his blood type.

He knows everything

He’s the smartest man in every room he’s ever walked into

And he won’t be able to save his son

Because the boy who holds Bruce Wayne’s very heart in his hands knows that the best way to stay in the shadows is simply to show so little everyone will fill in blank spots with jarring inaccuracies so seamlessly they won’t even notice they did it.

They’ve called everyone

And Dick just keeps getting sicker

[kittyykattxoxo]

owns the night

pairing : damian priest x reader

summary : you were only supposed to go out with your friends for a few drinks to celebrate one of them getting engaged, but that quickly turns into a wild night at the club. this leaves your boyfriend, damian, less than pleased and he has to remind you exactly who's in charge.

word count : 2475

content warning : dom! damian, sub! reader, p in v, spanking, overstimulation, oral, fingering, creampie

the loud bass music pulsed through your chest, vibrating through your bones as you leaned back against the bar, downing the remnants of your fourth - no wait, fifth? - drink and let the familiar burn of alcohol hit your throat. your eyes were hazy, the mixture of tequila and whiskey coursing through your veins making everything feel just slightly distant and oh so wonderfully carefree.

your hair was a mess of tousled waves, falling over your shoulders, slightly damp from sweat. your skin was radiating heat from a mixture of the alcohol and all the dancing you’d been doing, the warmth causing your cheeks to flush with a rosy hue. the tiny black mini dress you’d chosen to wear was clinging to your curves, the plunging neckline barely holding your breast in place. with every twist of your hips, the dress momentarily rises a little bit higher, teasingly showing glimpses of skin on your inner thighs. you knew how good you looked and you’d never been shy about showing it off.

the night had started off innocently enough - dinner and cocktails, celebrating your friend ruby’s engagement. somewhere along the way, however, things had devolved into shots and reckless laughter as you all let loose. honestly, if this were just celebrating her engagement, you worried about how wild the bachelorette party was going to be. a part of you felt bad - you’d assured your boyfriend that it wasn’t going to be bad, that you’d just have a drink or two and then make your way home. that idea had been quickly abandoned and was now little more than an afterthought in the back of your mind as you focused on enjoying yourself.

you’d been prepared to go back out to the dance floor when the sound of your phone buzzing against the bar surface drew your attention. it wasn’t the first time that it had rang over the course of the night, but it was the first time you actually acknowledged it, squinting at the screen through your tipsy haze.

Papi

a slow, drunken grin slid across your lips as you picked it up and slid to answer it, completely ignoring all of the warning bells that should have been going off in your head. 

“heyyyyyyy papi” you slurred, dragging the words out like honey. “miss me?”

on the other end, you heard damian draw out a long, slow breath. his voice was low and raspy with barely restrained irritation. 

“where are you, hermosa?” you rolled your eyes with a playful defiance, despite the fact that he couldn’t see you. tucking the phone between your ear and shoulder, you began to toy with the rim of your now empty glass. 

“i’m out with the girls, silly!” you slurred. ”don’t you rememberrr? ruby’s engaged! we’re celebrating and having fun, don’t be such a party pooper!” 

over the phone, you heard clearly as he sharply exhaled through his nose - a telltale sign that you were definitely testing his patience. 

“go. home. now.” damian’s voice was dark, each word coming out as more of a warning than anything else.

unfortunately, the alcohol was lowering your inhibitions a little too much and so you merely giggled in reply. “oh, come on papi. i’m just having a little bit of funnnn!” 

before damian could reply, you felt a hand on your wrist and looked up to see your best friend ruby, who was just as drunk as you were. “cmon babeee! let’s dance!” 

her words were slurred and if it weren’t for her pointing over to where the rest of your friends were on the dance floor, you may not have gotten the gist of it. without a second thought you ended the call, letting ruby drag you toward the dance floor and letting your phone fall into your little clutch, all but forgotten. 

so you didn’t notice when damian tried to call you again. or when he texted you several times. and of course you completely forgot that the two of you had shared locations with each other in the early stages of your relationship.

somewhere in the haze of the alcohol and music, your party had made their way up onto the center stage of the club and you moved your body to the music, every so often remembering to pull your tiny black dress down before you gave everyone too much of a show. you were having so much fun, dancing into the night, but that all was interrupted when a large, rough hand wrapped around your wrist and practically yanked you off the stage.

a soft yelp escaped from your lips and your first reaction was to protest in anger, but then you looked up and suddenly your stomach was doing flips. 

because there he was. damian priest.

all six-foot-five of him, his massive frame towering over you. he was dressed in a fitted black shirt that clung to his muscular chest and a pair of dark jeans that hugged powerful thighs, making him near impossible to miss. but the thing you picked up on most was how his dark eyes were molten with barely contained fury, his jaw clenched tightly enough that you swore you could see the muscles tick. 

“papi,” you finally managed to breath out, your lips parted slightly as you looked up at him with surprise and misplaced excitement, the alcohol having you fail to realize just how much trouble you were in.

your friends looked on with a little bit of concern, but in reality they were all too drunk to really protest either as damian scooped you up into his arms with ease and waved them off as he began walking you two out of the club, his long strides swift and purposeful. he was seething, his entire body radiating a possessive dominance, but he was still careful with you.

the cool night air had you almost whining, but he didn’t give you a reaction as you both approached his car. he easily held you with one hand as he used the other to open the door, depositing you in the front seat. you blinked up at him and now that you could see his face again, you finally began sensing the depth of his frustration.

the ride back to your shared apartment was tense and silent. every now and then you would glance over at him through the corner of your eye. his hands gripped the steering wheel hard enough that his knuckles had turned white and his jaw was still tight. his dark eyes were focused on the road, but you could see the storm that was brewing behind them.

instinctively, your thighs squeezed together and a pulsing ache built low in your belly. a part of you, despite your inebriation, knew what was coming when you got home. when you finally reached your apartment, he parked with a sharp jerk and immediately rounded the car. you’d tried to get out on your own, but almost immediately were unsteady on your feet and he reached out to grab your wrist. his grip was firm and possessive but not painful as he led the two of you inside.

almost immediately as the door shut behind the two of you, he had you pressed up against the wall. your breath hitched sharply as your back collided with the cool surface. damian towered over you, his hands braced on either side of your head, caging you in. his face was close, his forehead resting against your own. 

“you,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, “having been testing my patience tonight, mi reina.”

your stomach clenched at the raw dominance in his tone, but you were still buzzed and feeling reckless. 

“hmm…and what are you going to do about it, papi?” you teased, your words slurred and your tone sickeningly sweet, knowing you were going to continue testing his patience. his eyes darkened, but a wicked glint flashed in them to let you know that he would continue playing this game.

“careful, princesa,” he warned. “you may not like that answer.”

but did you heed his warning? of course not. instead, you brought your hands up to rest on his broad chest, your painted nails lightly dragging over the fabric of his shirt.

“maybe i like trouble, papi.”

his nostrils flared slightly and without another word, one of his hands moved to grab your jaw, forcing you to hold his gaze. you could see everything in his look - the anger, the possessiveness, the lust for you, but on the flip side you knew that he could see everything in your eyes too. could see how badly they betrayed how much you wanted him.

“you think this is a game, princesa?” he rasped, his voice low and dangerous. “i’m about to remind you who you belong to.”

before you could get out another word, he seized your hips and lifted you with ease. your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist and your arms around his neck as he carried you toward your bedroom. as he moved, his lips trailed along your throat, teeth grazing your skin possessively. 

by the time your back hit the mattress, your dress had already bunched up around your hips. damian’s large hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wide as his dark gaze moved up to your face at the new revelation.

“no panties?” he murmured, his voice dripping with a dark amusement. “que traviesa…”

you smirked, but it melted into a sharp gasp when he suddenly knelt between your thighs, dragging his tongue along your already slick folds in one deliberate stroke. your back arched violently, your fingers already fisting the sheets below you.

“papi!” you gasped breathlessly, thighs trembling, but he didn’t stop. instead, he growled  against her, gripping your thighs with an almost bruising force to keep them spread open as his tongue circled your clit relentlessly. 

“you wanna be a brat, princesa?” he rasped darkly between strokes of his tongue. “fine, lets see how much you can take.”

his tongue flattered, dragging over your sensitive bundle of nerves with a slow, devastating precision. he alternated between soft flicks and firm, languid strokes, keeping you on the edge but never quite letting you fall over. 

it was a cruel punishment, but perhaps one you deserved after disobeying him. still, after a several moments of being tortured, your thighs began to tremble, the pleasure building far too quickly. 

“papi, please” you whimpered pathetically, craving the release that he refused to let you have.

but he wasn’t done, not yet.

you were so lost in the pleasurable sensations of his tongue that you didn’t notice when his grip left one of your thighs until suddenly you felt two thick fingers inside of you. damian knew exactly what he was doing, his fingers curling just right to drag against your sweet spot, his tongue never slowing either as it circled and flicked mercilessly against your clit.

the sudden dual stimulation was enough to send you over the edge, your back arching and fingers clawing at the sheets as an orgasm ripped from you with a strangled cry. 

but damian didn’t stop.

his tongue and fingers remained relentlessly, thrusting and swirling as he overstimulated your sensitive core. your body joled with the intensitive, your thighs trembling as your swollen clit throbbed against his tongue.

“p-papi! too much!” you practically sobbed, your voice cracking. 

but damian only growled against you in response, holding you down with one of his large hands with ease.

“too much?” he taunted, his voice filled with a wicked delight. “you can take more, princesa.”

and you did. it didn’t take long, but he dragged you through another orgasm with his mouth, groaning as you came undone beneath him. your legs trembled uncontrollably, your entire body quivering and oversensitive, but damian didn’t stop until you were nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him.

when he finally pulled away, his lips were glistening with your arousal and he licked them slowly, watching you with a sort of dark and primal satisfaction.

“look at you,” he murmured as his eyes raked over your trembling form. “so fucking wrecked for me.”

you couldn’t even get a reply out if you wanted to, still completely overstimulated from his mouth. damian still wasn’t done, however. in his mind, you still hadn’t fully learned your lesson - and he wasn’t going to stop until it was drilled into your head. 

his hands reached out to grab your hips, flipping you onto your stomach with ease and pulling your hips up as a near breathless gasp escaped your lips. you felt as his large hand ran over the curve of your exposed ass, suddenly smacking it hard enough to make you cry out. he repeated the action several more times until the burning sensation had you certain that both cheeks were bright red. 

“you’re mine, princesa” he growled roughly against your ear.

your fingers suddenly found themselves clawing at the sheets as he thrust into you, burying his thick length to the hilt inside of you with one punishing stroke. you hadn’t even realized when he’d had the time to take his cock out, but you certainly weren’t in the position to complain. 

his large body engulfed you, his grip on your hips once again bruisingly tight as he started his thrust at a punishing pace, your body still having not recovered from the orgasms he’d forced out before. 

“mine,” he growled into your neck, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin as he pulled you back, forcing you to take every inch of him. he was going to make sure that there was never a doubt in your mind who you belonged to, whose commands you were supposed to follow. 

every thrust, every slap of his hips against yours, sent you closer and closer to the edge, but what really sent you crashing over was when one his fingers found their way between your legs and began to circle at your clit. that was enough to send you spiraling, your third orgasm of the night ripped from your body. 

the sensation proved to be enough for damian too, as with one final thrust you felt him unleash inside of you, his face buried in your neck to cover the guttural groan that escaped from him. for several moments afterwards he remained inside of you, the two of you trying desperately to catch your breath. 

when he finally let you go, you practically collapsed into the bed, completely exhausted. you heard him chuckle and felt as he leaned over you, pressing a soft kiss against your temple before settling in next to you, his arms wrapping around your waist and tugging you close. 

“never forget who you belong to, princesa.” he murmured darkly.

your response was breathless, practically a soft, broken whisper.

“only you, papi.” 

[im-ovulating]

Hear me out:

Demon ruts.

Like imagine-

Lucifer getting so painfully hard and needy that he has to swallow his pride to press you to "Please! Please let him fuck you!" He's practically on his knees begging you. Bonus points if you play hard to get. If you manage to play your cards right, then he'll actually devolve to groveling on his knees, precum absolutely dripping from the head of his cock as he grabs at your hips in desperation. He always has to be the epitome of control, but he secretly lives for these times where he finally yields and lets you take the reins. A whole week of not having to worry about anything more than filling you to the brim? Yes, please.

You'll have Mammon going absolutely feral with the slightest brush against his chest or shoulders- He'll be so greedy for your touch that you won't be able to leave yours or his room; one of the other brothers having to bring food and water for you to consume during the small lucid breaks between his rounds of salacity. I hope your stamina is good because you're scarcely going to be let out bed for the next few days...

On the edge of practical insanity, Leviathan wants nothing more than to watch as you bounce yourself on his cock, the smack of your thighs against his pelvis being the most erotic thing he can imagine. He's nothing short of mesmerized by the jiggle of your thighs as you continue to slam down onto him. Mixing that with the purely pornographic expression and sounds you're letting trickle from your pretty lips has him bucking his hips into your with renewed vigor. He's almost envious for everyone else because they'll never get to see you like this. No, this sight is reserved for him and him alone...

Satan holds your wrists in a bruising grip behind your back as he pounds into you from behind; it's as if he's furious. Probably because he is- how dare you speak to that lowly demon? Don't you know your his? He's growling in your ear how "you belong to him" and how he'll "kill anyone for touching what's his". Your ass is red from the sheer force behind each thrust. You can't bring yourself to mind, though, not when the tip of his cock is brushing so deliciously against that special spot.

Your body molds together with Asmodeus in the most beautiful way. The lust filled air, hot and heavy as you work each other towards your crescendo. There's no work from Picasso or Van Gogh or Monet that can rival the pure art that is the the two of you during this week. He holds you just as close as you hold him as your hips roll rhythmically together. Hickies grace each of you in a constellation that traces out the testiment of you connection.

You're sticky with a mixture of sweat, cum, and all of the sweet drizzles Beelzebub used. He's grunting out the most obscene things you've ever heard as he rumbles about "how sweet you are for him". His tongue lapping up the remnants of the whipped cream he used earlier, the sweetness mixing deliciously with the salty, savory taste of your combined cum. His large hands holding you in place as he moves to lap up the bit of caramel still coating your aching slit. Don't even think about trying to shower- you're his for the taking this week and he wants to taste everything you have to offer...

It's the mixture of slow, deep thrusting and animalistic fucking that has you slowly losing your mind with Belphegor. The few hours of sleep you get are interrupted by his familiar weight settling in top of you as he slides home for the first time of many that day. The slow, tired rolls of his hips turn into rough thrusts that have his heavy balls slapping perfectly against your ass cheeks, the sound mortifyingly vulgar in the quiet early morning hours. His hands gripping yours in a way that almost makes this feel intimate in comparison to the carnal fucking that it actually is.

(I don't know what this is either... I wrote this instead of socializing at my family's 4th of July reunion 🥲🔫)

Reblogs are appreciated!🛐 Happy 4th to everyone who celebrates it🎉

[captain-athos]

the morning of the homily Ray arrives at Vincent's room nice and early with his chasuble and mitre and everything else he has to wear for Cardinal Lawrence's homily and Vincent gives all the garments this confused blank-eyed stare and Ray just smiles and politely asks if his Eminence needs assistance in getting dressed. the situation very quickly devolves into the equivalent of two teenage girls getting ready for prom. They are giggling and twirling in their robes and Ray is giving Vincent pointers on how to walk while balancing that stupid fucking hat on his head and Vincent is mourning his comfortable Normal Person clothes he used to be able to wear in Kabul and Ray is like oh wait until we get to summer and we start the Fainting Tally. If I were a gambling man, your Eminence - which I'm not, because that would be a sin, but if I were - my money would be on Cardinal Lawrence. Not that you heard that from me.

[vivwritescrappythings]

only a little crazy

miguel o'hara x f!reader

You get hurt working at the Spider-Society and your grumpy boss decides to come check on you.

a/n: thank you for such a fun request! writing Miguel has been a good stretch for my brain. Thinking about turning this into a series so let me know how y'all like it :)

tw: fem reader, reader is shorter than Miguel (everyone is), Miguel's perspective, potentially poorly written Spanish, broken bones, canon typical violence, not proofread, Miguel may be poorly written

word count: 4.8k

masterlist

--

Despite Miguel’s many attempts to assign rules and procedures to the Spider-Society, only a few had ever stuck: no messing with canon events and civilians weren’t allowed to go beyond the lobby. He couldn’t even remember how many times he’d yelled at Peter B. Parker about letting Mary Jane go wherever she wanted.

Everyone else listened well enough.

That is, until you came into Miguel’s life like a plague.

You were nothing more than a thorn in his side: the only civilian with nearly full access to the facility. He would have never hired someone who hacked into their whole system because they were bored one day, but Margo insisted that you were one of the best she’d ever seen. You had since apologized—you cited your curiosity about the large building’s purpose and had taken matters into your own hands to figure out what went on inside the society. 

In comparison to you, Peter B. Parker and Mary Jane were a cakewalk. 

It didn’t help that you were so goddamn chipper all the time. You always greeted Miguel with a bright smile and polite questions about his day, as though you had no idea just how insufferable he found you.

“Hey Miguel,” you said from behind your computer, the monitor illuminating you in tones of blue and pink. You clicked something before leaning your weight onto one elbow to look around the screen at him. “Margo left me in charge today, just so you know.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

“LYLA would be in charge before I picked you,” he said, not bothering to look up from his reports. You laughed like it was a joke. Everything was a joke to you.

“Mhm,” you hummed, typing something. Miguel couldn’t help but notice the way you poked your tongue out while you concentrated, your brows furrowed. He paused, waiting for you to continue as he watched you just over the edge of the monitor. Working with you for almost a year now had taught him that you rarely were so succinct with your words.

Then you spun the monitor around, a flurry of motion as you leaned over the table to point at something on the screen. “There’s a lot of weird activity on Earth-325,” you said, tapping the screen over the amalgamation of yellow and orange. “If I had to guess, I’d say it was an anomaly, but you’re the expert on that.”

He didn’t miss the way you looked up at him expectantly, like a puppy waiting for a treat or a pat on the head for doing a trick right.

Miguel rolled his eyes as he grabbed the screen. He could feel his face contorting into a scowl as activity lit the monitor up. Another terrible part of dealing with you—you had a knack for always being right. It drove him crazy.

“I’ll get a team together,” he said, noting your pleased smile with a subtle roll of his eyes.

He was already flicking through screens on his tablet, sending Jessica the information. A portal opened in front of him, colors and shapes swirling together in a view that would’ve been awe-inspiring if he hadn’t seen it a million times.

“LYLA’s in charge,” Miguel said just before jumping into the portal. Your immediate groan of dismay followed by LYLA’s cheer made his lip twitch into a smile. 

—

His ears were ringing. 

It was still hard to wrap his head around what happened, the Spider-Society having devolved into chaos faster than he could have stopped it.

The anomaly they caught had broken loose–he blamed Peter B. Parker for being so distracted with Mayday. He could hear the distant shouts of Spider-People springing into action in the distance as he pulled himself out of a pile of freshly displaced rubble. The wide cap of his shoulder ached, not even his accelerated healing was able to chase away the sting of rebar nearly ripping through the fabric of his suit.

A clear trail of destruction followed the Venom variant, ribbons of torn webs hanging from every surface and the furniture tossed wildly across the room. Chunks of the walls were crushed into debris where bodies had crashed through them in the fight.

He picked up his pace, sprinting through Spider-Society like a force of nature. Sometimes he noticed how different he was from the others: preferring not to swing around on his webs and needing his claws to really climb anything. Not to mention he didn’t have the same irritating sense of humor that seemed to permeate every variant of Spider-Man.

A stream of shouts from the direction of the Go Home Machine made him redirect, propelling himself up the wall in a mass of sinew and muscle. Pushing himself like this felt good, the demand of a fight on his body was one of the few things that made Miguel actually feel alive.

It was a mess when he got there, girders collapsed from the ceiling and the majority of computers and desks were half-crushed. 

“Hey Miguel, I hope you have a decent insurance policy on this place,” Peter B. quipped as he approached. Miguel just rolled his eyes beneath his mask, watching the rest of the Spiders web the Venom variant enough that the Go Home Machine actually had time to work. Normally anomalies were kept around for at least a while to figure out how they broke into a different universe, but he didn’t disagree with the change of plans.

Mierda. What a fucking mess. 

He let the mask over his face flicker away as he surveyed the damage. It was enough to give him a headache, the feeling radiating from his temple and over his skull.

Peter was still running his mouth, some idiotic joke about how many Spider-People does it take to change a lightbulb spilling from his lips. Miguel could feel his temple throbbing, red seeping into his eyes as he felt a rebuke building in his chest.

“Are you a—“

“Oi, was Bug here today?” Hobie interrupted, the genuine concern in his tone giving Miguel pause.

Hobie was the first to call you Bug—something about ‘if they were all Spiders than you were a bug’—and it stuck. Miguel wasn’t sure if anyone called you by your name anymore.

“Yeah,” Miguel said, trying to find a sign of you in the undulating groups of blue and red and black suits. Too many blank stares met his gaze, anxiety making itself apparent in a cold sweat down his spine.

“LYLA?” It was more of a yell than he meant it to be. She could scan the room faster than he could take it apart.

“On it,” she answered in the same beat, yellow cones of light scanning various corners of the room. He had a hard time breathing, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Every empty scan ticked up his nerves, his jaw clenching so hard he wondered if it could crack.

It was hard not to spiral. He should have come up to protect you the moment the Venom got out. You were just a civilian, a human. How could he have been so irresponsible as to leave you on your own?

“Got something!” LYLA chirped, waving wildly to catch his attention.

Rushing to the pile of rubble was second nature, Hobie quickly falling into step to help. The sound of his own heart pounding was louder than the rubble they scrabbled through, pieces of concrete and duct piping falling away like they were made of paper beneath his hands.

“Dios mio,” Miguel sighed. You were caught beneath a girder, your leg twisted grotesquely beneath the metal. By some miracle you weren't crushed by the debris, just unconscious. You looked like a wounded baby bird, your chest rising and falling with each breath. Scrapes marred your skin, dark bruises blooming beneath the surface.

But you were alive, and mostly whole. His fingers twitched at his side as he just stared at you.

“Take her to the infirmary and then home,” Miguel said to Hobie, suddenly feeling the need to get as far away from you as breath returned to his body. He was nauseous, almost staggering under the weight of relief he had never expected to feel. 

He stepped back, head tilting up toward the ceiling for a moment as he took a breath. The girder slammed on the ground when Hobie moved it off you, lifting you with care.

Miguel nearly stepped in to take you out of Hobie’s arms. He had to physically turn away from you to resist it, surveying the extent of the damage. Thankfully no other anomalies managed to escape their confinement, most of the damage was just superficial. 

The sound of Hobie’s boots on the floor kept him composed, helped him time his breaths. He was still partially convinced that he would rip Peter B. apart if given the chance.

But instead he was just quiet, toeing a broken piece of a computer monitor on the floor. The weight of every eye in the room was on him, his skin crawling beneath his suit. He sighed, picking his head up to look at them.

“Well, start getting everything back together,” he said, voice loud enough to be an order. 

It wasn’t what everyone expected, any other day he would have at least lectured Peter B. about paying attention. No one moved, their blinking almost audible in the silence.

“Ay chingado,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “No one has anything to do? Start cleaning up!”

—

He found himself hanging on to every scrap of information about how you were doing. It had only been a week, but any mention of you in the hall or in meetings piqued his interest. It was becoming obvious that he was distracted, his thoughts preoccupied with you… if you were alright.

What did it matter to him if you were alright? You’d been nothing but a grade A pain in his ass from the moment you set foot in his life. 

But he realized he was putting together mental lists of exciting moments of his day just to tell you when you asked, he had been for months. He kept accidentally buying extra empanadas because you usually stole one from him. His step would falter at your desk, part of him expecting you to be there.

“So are you going to go visit Bug?” LYLA asked, catching Miguel off guard as she floated in front of his eyes, laying on her stomach with her feet kicking in the air.

He huffed, waving her away with a hand as he blinked at whatever he’d been trying to read on the computer monitor… just the home screen, apparently. The blue default photo mocked him before he turned away from the monitors altogether.

“Why would I do that?” Miguel asked, a feeble attempt to act casual. 

Once the idea was introduced, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He imagined himself in your space, tried to picture what your things would be like. Chaotic, no doubt. But comfortable. Colorful, certainly. He couldn’t imagine you living in a pristine beige apartment.

“Miguel, the worst part about having an AI personal assistant is that I see everything you do. Everything,” she said, walking up and down his arm. She looked up at him over her shoulder. “So don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, okay?”

He kept a straight face for a few beats, crossing his arms over his chest. But LYLA was right, if anyone would know it was her.

“I need to be here,” he said, scrubbing his hand over his face. Normally he preferred to be at the Spider-Society, the distraction of work far better than his reality. But it suddenly became a chore.

LYLA huffed, rolling her eyes behind the heart-shaped glasses. Sometimes Miguel wondered why he programmed her to be so sassy. “You don’t need to actually be here,” she said, folding her arms and tapping her foot in mid air as she floated in front of him. “Jessica and I will call you if anything crazy happens.”

Handing over the reins for the day was an intriguing idea. He could let the stress go, even just until tomorrow, let someone else handle it. 

The bubble of hope rising in his chest was immediately popped by a sharp lance of anxiety. What if something happened? What if his absence got someone killed? Or worse, a universe destroyed?

LYLA must have noticed his expression shift, he could hear her sigh.

“If you don’t go, I’ll call Bug and tell her that you’ve been making googly eyes at her desk for the past week and have had to throw away like six empanadas that you bought for her,” LYLA said calmly, issuing her final threat.

“No me chingues,” Miguel hissed, his irritation on his face as he rolled his eyes. But his stomach was flipping, nerves he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager suddenly coming to life. “Fine, I’m going.”

LYLA looked pleased, blinking out of existence in front of him to appear at his computer monitors. She shifted through screens quickly, the colors flashing over her as she did. “I’ve already got the word out, so everyone knows not to bother you unless they are in dire need of assistance.”

“Great,” he breathed, getting a ping from LYLA with your address. She really spared no moment. 

“If anything happens–”

“Don’t worry! We’ll call,” LYLA interrupting him, assuring him as she waved him off. 

He sighed, still partially in disbelief that he let her strongarm him into this as he left the Spider-Society.

–

He would’ve guessed they paid you enough to have a better apartment. The underbelly of the city wasn’t somewhere he pictured you, the rest of Nueva York blocking you from the sun and the highway just outside your windows. There was a huge purple neon sign just outside your terrace–a remnant of the old New York that looked barely touched.

It hadn’t taken him long to find your building and even less time to find your apartment, the door to the terrace was left unlocked. He’d have to have a talk with you about that when you were feeling better.

The inside of your apartment was as he expected, a disorganized riot of color and trinkets and mementos that made the space so tooth-achingly cozy. He felt out of place, even in the simple civilian clothes he changed into. It was weird wearing them rather than his spidersuit, the soft fabric of the sweatpants and tee shirt had become unfamiliar.

You weren’t in the room he stood in, your bed, a couch and dining table shoved into a space smaller than his cubicle when he worked at Alchemax. He could see that you’d set up camp on your bed, pill bottles and dirty dishes piling up on your nightstand and the bed unmade. The TV was still playing some movie that had come out a few years ago, the remote tossed amongst your sheets.

He would have to clean up around here, the chaos already making him feel unmoored.

There was no time left for him to snoop, the sound of the sink in the bathroom reminding him why he was even in your apartment in the first place. The bathroom door swung open, the grumbles of you maneuvering with your crutches catching his attention.

You had a 3D-printed cast up to your mid-thigh, loose pajama pants stretched over the honeycombed plastic. He’d never seen you look so casual, an oversized, ratty shirt marked with stains and small holes covering your torso, your skin free of makeup and your hair unstyled. It took him a moment to realize he preferred you that way, a lump forming in his throat.

He was too caught up in his evaluation of you to note the way you stiffened when you realized there was another body in the room. Your eyes widened.

“What the fuck!” you shouted, your voice bringing Miguel back to reality just in time to catch the black stuffed bear flying at his face without dropping the bag of groceries he held in one hand. A throw pillow followed, bouncing harmlessly off his chest and falling to the rug.

Your mouth had dropped open, a crutch clattering to the ground as you pressed your hand to your heart. He could hear the rapid thrum of it beneath your ribs, a hummingbird caught in a cage.

“You were going to defend yourself from a burglar with a pillow and a teddy bear?” Miguel asked, looking down at the well-loved toy. One of the button eyes was missing entirely, just black bits of thread sticking out of the fabric. A red heart was stitched haphazardly into its chest.

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He swore he could almost hear your thoughts buffering. “You can’t just break into my apartment, Miguel! What if I was naked?”

He made an incredulous noise, something between a laugh and a sigh. Of course that’s what you would be worried about. “Well, you’re not naked,” he said, taking another step into the room. He slipped his shoes off and left them near the terrace door–force of habit from his childhood.

“I could’ve been!” you insisted, awkwardly navigating to your bed. Miguel watched with his hear in his throat, wanting to step in and carry you rather than watch you shuffle around.

He shook his head, stepping around your small coffee table. “What are you doing up, anyways?” he asked, taking over stacking pillows to prop your leg up, adding the throw pillow you threw at him to the pile. “The doctor said it would take twelve weeks for you to bear weight on it again.”

You clicked your tongue against the back of your teeth, letting him help you get situated in your bed. “Well the doctor didn’t give me a bedpan and a private chef, so I’m hobbling,” you informed him, looking up at Miguel with a bored expression. “But, what are you doing here, Miguel? Hobie and Peter B. have been checking on me.”

He looked around your studio apartment, taking in the disarray before focusing on you again. Your toenails were painted the same shade of navy that Hobie’s were. He sat down on the end of your bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

“Yeah well, considering the state of your apartment, it seems like you need me here more than you think,” he said. 

You snorted, a grin that made his stomach turn finding its way to your face. “Aw Miggy,” there was a teasing lilt to your tone, “are you a secret softie? If I didn’t know better, I’d guess you were worried about me.”

He let out a soft breath instead of a laugh, standing abruptly so you couldn’t see the blush on his cheeks. God, he felt like a bumbling idiot around you. He gathered dirty dishes to do something with his hands, sequestering them to the sink. 

“LYLA was asking about you,” he said, head bent over the sink as he started to clean. The water was warm enough to turn his hands red, the blue dish soap lathering quickly as he methodically washed each plate and set it in the rack to dry. They were charmingly mismatched, a few chipped at the edges.

“Oh, she was?” you asked, but your amused tone told Miguel that you weren’t exactly convinced. 

He nodded anyway. “She rearranged my whole day and made me come out to check on you,” he said, not entirely lying. 

The way you hummed felt like a warm finger running down each notch of his spine, a pleasant shiver radiating out to his fingertips and toes. “Well I guess I’ll have to thank her, sending the most neurotic person I know will at least get me a tidy apartment. Shocker that Peter B. and Hobie never offered to clean.”

The silence that lapsed between you was surprisingly comfortable. He made himself useful by performing menial tasks like collecting the trash and taking it out to the bins, sweeping the floors and throwing a load of clothes in the wash.

“Miguel O’Hara, Spider-Man by night, maid by day,” you murmured, sipping the ice water he’d gotten you. He watched the condensation coat your fingers, dripping to the bedspread. “Do you wear the little outfit, too? With the ruffles and the feather duster?”

“How many painkillers do they have you on?” he asked, picking up one of the little orange bottles on your nightstand. “You’re more irritating than usual.”

There was a hint of a smile, giving him away as he set the pills back where he got them from. 

You rolled your eyes at him, lounging back against the pillows he’d fluffed for you. “I must be incredibly irritating for you to want to spend your day off cleaning my apartment and making me soup,” you teased, one eyebrow lifting. He felt like he’d been caught, some color finding its way to his face as he turned away.

A pot of caldo de pollo was simmering on the stove, he had decided to bring the ingredients with him on a whim. He used to make it for Gabriella when she was feeling sick, he’d filled his basket before he even realized what he was doing, originally he was just going to get you soup from a can.

Your apartment was in a way better state than when he arrived: the small space cleaned and orderly, the smell of cleaning solution and the soup permeating the air. He felt better about it, his nerves soothed for the most part.

“Don’t mention it to anyone,” he said, fixing you with his gaze. “I don’t want anyone to think I’m getting complacent.”

You laughed, nodding. “Don’t worry, Miggy, your secret is safe with me,” you said, pantomiming zipping your lips shut and locking them with a key. He snorted, taking a step back from your bed to stir the pot on the stove.

The only sound for a few moments was a sitcom playing on the television and the caldo simmering. Miguel had sorted through your cabinet of mismatched tupperware to find a few containers. He packed it away in the fridge for you to eat later, you’d already finished a full bowl of it by the time he cleaned the rest of the dishes.

He rubbed his hands on his pants as he glanced around awkwardly. Until then it had been easy to distract himself with tasks, to pretend that he wasn’t there just to see you. Now the truth was staring him in the face, your content sigh warming him from the inside out as you settled back into your bed.

“Well, I guess I should be going,” Miguel said, taking a step toward the sliding door from which he came originally. 

Your brow furrowed as you sat up straighter, wincing a bit as you jostled your injured leg. “Already?” you asked, glancing at the clock on the stove–it was the early evening. If he was above ground the sun would still be out. “You just got to the part where we like… hang out.” 

He pretended not to notice the sheepish lilt to your voice. 

His eyebrows lifted, a chuckle getting caught in his throat. “You want to hang out?” Miguel asked, sounding incredulous. Such an innocuous request felt odd. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone asked to spend time with him. 

“Oh c’mon,” you huffed, your head tilting to one side. “It’s so lonely being cooped up in this apartment all day, and you hardly even talked to me.”

You pouted, your bottom lip jutting out and your eyes going wide like a puppy’s. It was enough to make him go still. He found himself considering it, settling in your cozy apartment and watching a movie with you. 

“Just one movie and then you’re free to go,” you offered, your request too hopeful for him to refuse. 

He sighed, his shoulders relaxing as he agreed. 

The TV was tilted to face your bed, making it hard to view from the couch even as he sat at the very edge of it. You had an orange lamp on your bedside table, the glow of it casting a glare across the screen that obscured the cheesy teen movie you put on.

He could feel you glancing at him on occasion, the two of you almost playing tag with your wandering eyes. Every time he tried to catch your gaze you were watching the movie. 

“What are you doing?” he finally asked, leaning to one side in an attempt to see around the glare on the screen. 

“You should just come sit on the bed, you can’t even see the screen.” You sounded sincere. But, you did just take another dose of painkillers. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were clouding your judgment.

There was plenty of space next to you. He could sit next to you.

It would be more comfortable at least.

“You’re crazy, you know,” Miguel said, picking himself up off the couch. LYLA would never let him live this down if she found out about it. 

Your mattress was so soft, squishing beneath him as he settled against the headboard next to you. It was like he was sixteen again, his palms clammy and his mouth dry as he tried to avoid looking at you like you were the sun. 

Had he always been this nervous around you?

You nudged him with your elbow, interrupting the horrible spiral of his thoughts. “Thanks for going through all the trouble,” you murmured, your voice soft and sincere. “I know I get on your nerves… I guess it’s just really nice that you came.” 

“Tch, you don’t get on my nerves,” he denied immediately, his eyes flickering away from yours.

He fought supervillians, stared down guns, and watched whole universes collapse. But he couldn’t quite look at you.

You laughed, yawning into your hand as you leaned even further back into the pillows. “Don’t lie,” you said with a smile, your eyes crinkling charmingly at the edges. “I know I drive you crazy, Miggy.”

It was his turn to snort, watching you out of the corner of your eye as you relaxed next to him. “Only a little,” he murmured, a genuine smile on his face.

You didn’t answer, just giggling as you yawned again. The movie you picked was horrible, the jokes painfully cheesy and outdated, but you laughed at them anyways. He found himself holding his breath after each one so he could hear your sleepy chuckle better, trying to memorize the sound of it. 

It was near the end of the movie that he heard your heartbeat slow, your cheek falling against his shoulder as your breaths evened out. Miguel stiffened for a moment, looking down to see your eyelids fluttering and your lips parted as you dreamed. 

The movie ran into the credits, autoplay putting on something he had never even heard of before. He didn’t bother reaching for the remote, scared he would wake you up by reaching across you to your nightstand. 

He let his head rest against the crown of yours, his eyelids starting to drift shut as the noise of the television faded to the background. Calmness washed over him, the tension he carried with him sloughing off his shoulders. It had been way too long since he relaxed like this.

The sound of his watch beeping startled him out of his half-sleep, a lance of panic going through him. 

LYLA formed into a hologram above the surface of it, orange and yellow beams of light fleshing her out as she stood with her arms crossed over her chest and all of her weight on one leg. “Jess and I haven’t heard from you all day, we were starting to worry that you died or som–” 

Her eyes widened behind her rose glasses, her hands clasping together in front of her. “No way! Jessica, you were right! You have to come see them cuddled together!” she shouted to Jessica. Miguel cringed, worried you’d wake from the commotion.

You didn’t seem to notice, your breathing steady.

“Cállate,” Miguel hissed, turning the volume down. “Is there even a problem?”

LYLA thought about it for a moment, tapping her finger against her chin before she shook her head no.

He rolled his eyes. Of course there wasn’t a problem. 

“Don’t bother me until tomorrow,” he said, turning off the call before she could answer. He yawned, rubbing his eyes with his hand as he let himself slump against you. 

He yawned again, finally drifting off to the rhythm of your soft breaths.

[chronicowboy]

buck still reeling from bobby's death, guilt from being trapped outside in safety, refusing to let anything else happen to his team on his watch, taking an unnecessary risk during the eartquake. diving in headfirst like always. because he has to. it can't be anyone else. eddie watching from the sidelines with his heart in his throat. he's so close to everything he's ever wanted. he's got buck in his house. in their house. but suddenly the very earthquake that gave him this life seven years ago threatens to rip it all away from him just when he's beginning to realise what it is they've been building all these years. and buck's fine in the end. he's perfectly okay. and they go back to the station. back home. and they're in the kitchen where they once discussed the shooting. and eddie's taut with tension and buck's waiting for the lecture. for the blowout. and then eddie in a voice so quiet, trembling with controlled anger, says. how many times am i going to have to tell you that you're not expendable. and things devolve quickly. all the fear and grief and rollercoaster of the past few weeks, months, years. it devolves into an argument far too quickly. a fuse burning up. and buck shouts. I CAN'T LOSE ANYONE ELSE. and eddie shouts back I CAN'T LOSE YOU. and then they're both breathing heavily, staring at each other wide eyed and the collide in the middle. a desperate biting bruising kiss that softens into something tender but just as desperate. until eddie pulls away and presses their foreheads together to whisper. i can't lose you buck. and his voice breaks and it's unclear. whether he means you can't die on me or if he means. if he means. i can't take this risk on us. and then that sets up their season 9 storyline :)

[kenzdolls]

𝐍𝐄𝐈𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐌𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒:

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐚

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐚 𝐱 𝐔𝐀 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭! 𝐠𝐧! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 @haikyuubby

MEETING NEITO MONOMA:

he probably met you during the sports festival or some inter-class training exercise. instantly, he's got you pegged. what's your quirk? How can he use it against you...or, well, analyze it strategically?

if you're in 1-A: Oh, the drama. he'll use every opportunity to subtly (or not-so-subtly) mock your class. it's his bread and butter, but there’s a glint in his eye when you retort. he loves someone who keeps up.

if you’re in another support class: he’s lowkey impressed with your skills, but he’s not gonna show it at first. he’ll “test” your inventions/ideas, offering critiques that are unnecessarily harsh but secretly constructive.

no matter what, he remembers everything about your quirk after seeing it once. he's already thinking about how to use it. not necessarily in a malicious way, but in a “what if” scenario kind of way. like a twisted game of chess.

he'll probably try to shake you with a comment that sounds like it's targeted at you, but actually, it's targeting all of 1-A.

MONOMA CRUSHING ON YOU:

he denies it. vehemently. to everyone. especially himself. it's "strategic interest," nothing more. he needs to understand you...for reasons.

he starts showing up where you are. A lot. "purely coincidental," of course. he just happens to be studying in the library at the same time you are...every day.

his jabs become...less pointed. More teasing. he still roasts 1-A, but when you're around, the jabs are more directed at you for whatever your thoughts are at that moment. and he actually listens (mostly).

he will “help” you study, which quickly devolves into him quizzing you relentlessly and then smugly correcting you, but will explain in a way that is actually beneficial.

if someone else is flirting with you? oh, he’s livid. but he’s not going to start a fight. instead, he will find some way to subtly undermine the potential rival with a cutting remark about their quirk or their intelligence while maintaining plausible deniability.

he analyzes everything about you. your strengths, your weaknesses, your study habits, your favorite tea, your handwriting, even the way you fidget when you're nervous. it's all "data," but he's memorizing it like it's poetry.

secretly, he likes the way you challenge him. you make him think, and he appreciates that, even if he’d rather die than admit it.

DATING NEITO MONOMA:

the confession? a disaster. he probably tries to play it off as an experiment, a challenge, or some other convoluted excuse, but the blush on his face gives him away. you have to basically spell it out for him.

dates are…interesting. expect a lot of intellectual debates, museum visits disguised as "research," and him trying to impress you with obscure facts.

he's surprisingly attentive. he remembers every little detail you’ve ever mentioned and will use that to surprise you with thoughtful (if slightly eccentric) gestures.

he will defend you to the death. if anyone dares to insult you, he will unleash a torrent of scathing wit so brutal it would make bakugo blush.

he loves to copy your quirk, especially if it's something he can use to tease you. expect demonstrations and exaggerated imitations.

he has a soft spot for physical affection, but he’ll never initiate it in public. it's usually a stolen hand squeeze or a quick hug when no one's looking. he’s a bit awkward about it, but he cherishes those moments.

he’s fiercely protective of you, but not in a smothering way. he trusts your judgment and abilities. he just wants to make sure you know he's always there for you.

he is a surprisingly good listener, even if he interjects with snarky comments from time to time. he genuinely cares about what you have to say and values your opinion.

he’s a surprisingly loyal and devoted partner. once he commits, he's all in.

© 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐙𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 —

[cor-lapis-candy]

Hear me out, Dottore, experiment with everything once, make an experiment out of sex and not tell you till you see a document with a hypothesis and conclusion after he asked you to try something out with him or his segments, Dottore who I believe whole heartedly that if his partner had a chronic illness would use and experiment on the limits of it.

Say chronic fatigue, a partner that sleeps and sleeps, deep and long no matter how long or short they have been awake, leading him to experiment and mayyyybe development a sleeping beauty kink.

This is about somnophilia and technically CNC as he asks but your already half into sleep, so if someone getting down and dirty with a sleeping person is not your thing don't click the read more.

This is your ⚠️ warning ⚠️.

The cool wood of the desk next to the observation area of Dottore, segments coming and going between the sterile zone and the small area that holds sheets of paper and other documentation for whatever was going on in the room at that small window looked into.

Prime, your partner and lover is standing next to you watching the experiment with a cold indifference that some might take for displeasure if they didn't know him, but as you blink sluggishly at him you can see the curiosity and eager attention to the experiment clear as day.

When he turns to look at you, sliding his mask off and pushing his hair back out of his face, that curiosity becomes all about you, the sleepy, slumped over human that was covered by his harbinger cloak, the fluffy collar almost swallowing your head and cushions you from the hard wood.

The sight brews an idea, just how far could be push when you fell asleep...

He had asked you if he could test something as you were dozing off and the muffled response was affirmative sounding, so once you were down and out he had his segments end the experiment and ran a full sanitation of the lab, it was loud, unbearably loud and yet you didn't even react more than a flinch and mumble before nuzzling into the fluff of his coat.

Following the full sanitation he had one of his segments move you into the lab area, making sure to keep the coat you had wrapped around yourself under your head as he had you laid out on the examination slab.

There are multiple hands tugging and pulling clothes out of the way, there are stops and starts as he thinks sometimes you will wake, making internal notes of what makes you mumble or twitch as his segments finally get you naked and somewhat in position on the slab.

He has each segment run a different task, one is pinching and rolling your nipples with his bare hands, another is kissing and gently gnawing on your neck, the third and final is kneeling on the slab between your legs fingers lubed up and working to slowly open you up.

It's fascinating to watch as his segments manage to get your sleeping form so worked up, lube only being added periodically in small amounts instead of larger more consistent applications, the segment playing with your chest is almost as fervent in marking your chest and collarbones as the one that had changed to kissing and tugging on your earlobes?

Regardless of his segments own proclivities, all of them were still unsuccessful at waking you, your sleep seemed so deep and peaceful that even as he orders the segment that is four fingers deep in you to pull away and find something else to test on your body you do not wake.

Taking the place of his segment, he settles on his knees between your legs, grunting about his coats clasps and the need to undo them for this, once he is able to free himself it's simple to get a segment to lube him up and hold your legs apart as he shuffled closer and eases himself in, sighing happily as his head tilts back and his hips jerk as you tighten around him.

It's a good few minutes into what had devolved into a mess of segments pushing each other out of the way to grope at you, and Dottore prime fucking away between your legs, already having cum twice but downed a small experiment that he had saved for a rainy day to keep himself going, that you begin to wake.

Mouth full of one of the segments and hands cupping one segment each, your neck a mess of bites, hickies, saliva and bruises that lead down to a just as marked up chest, it's disorienting to come back too waking as you groan around the cock in your mouth, swallowing thickly and breathing through your nose as you can barely hear Dottore prime speak up his hips still snapping against yours with a filthy wet squelching sound.

"well now that you're awake, it's time to put some more theories to the test... Now be a good dear and just keep still."

[mydearyanderes]

Yandere Cheerleader x Fem! Reader Headcanons

Yandere cheerleader who, on the outside, has everything together, but on the inside is twisted and infatuated with you. Who is too scared to admit it out loud that she is a lesbian, too scared of the judgement, and through her repression turned infatuation  for her only love.

Yandere cheerleader who forces you to be her best friend. Making you go out on "best friend sleepovers" where it's just the two of you in her home. She's dressed in what looks like lingerie, asking who you have a crush on. She'll be heartbroken if you say someone else, but she's so used to masking who she truly is, that hiding it is easy for her.

Yandere cheerleader who constantly stares at you during football games, seeming to be saying the chants at you and only you, like there's a secret message in every word she says. You could've sworn she even said your name..

Yandere cheerleader who uses her wits and charm to get whatever she wants, but for some reason never gets with any man interested in her. "They're just sooo boring, totally not my type," She says, looking at you, "I prefer someone.. cuter."

Yandere cheerleader leaves small gifts and love letters in your locker, lined with hearts and lipstick marks. They start off almost poetic, saying how much she loves you and wants to be with you, until devolving into lovesick nonsense. Please be with me and only me please please please please...

Yandere cheerleader who discourages you from anyone you seem interested in. "They seem nice," She says, "But don't they seem, I dunno, uninteresting? You need someone fun!" She giggles and brings you in to a hug that's a little too tight. You don't notice but she takes in the scent on your neck, shuddering softly.

Yandere cheerleader who constantly stealing your things. She loves constantly having a little part of you with her, even if it is just a pen you used to chew on she likes to lick the chewed up parts.

Yandere cheerleader who tries to subtly match outfits with you. If you wear red, she suddenly "just happens" to wear red too. She’d die if you ever agreed to dress in matching outfits for a game.

Yandere cheerleader who forces you to go to homecoming with her. If you’re not planning on going to homecoming, suddenly you have no choice—she "somehow" gets you nominated for homecoming court just to ensure you’ll be at the dance. Bonus points if she rigs the votes so you have to stand next to her.

So just stay close to her, okay? Keep being her best friend, keep letting her love you. Don’t make her do something drastic. After all… she just can’t live without you~

[lushrue]

141 + könig & graves as college professors (fem!reader) nsfw, mdni

cw: p-in-v sex, creampie, semi-public sex, power imbalance/unethical relationship, age gap (everyone's legal), oral (f!receiving), bondage, oral (m!receiving)

price teaches military strategy, a more theoretical and scientific look at war and battle tactics. he’s done the field work, he knows what it takes to physically carry out a mission. but he values the skill behind the planning a bit more than the execution. would definitely give real-world examples with missions he’s carried out with as much detail as he can provide. has classes outside some days. he tells his students it’s because the weather’s nice, but he really just wants to smoke.

he’s one to stare when you show up to class in a short skirt or low-cut top. he’s not shy about it, but he’s tactful, not letting his gaze settle for too long. won’t fuck you in his office, too nervous his colleagues would hear. so he comes to your dorm room sometimes when your roommate’s out, or he’ll take you to a hotel and treat you nice with room service and the whole deal. absolutely obsessed with the way his cum drips down your thighs, takes some pictures to jerk off to later.

ghost maybe teaches something like warfare tactics. something that would only be taught at a military college, something hands-on. he takes his job educating the next generation of soldiers seriously. insists that his course have both a lecture and lab section. he’s getting his students up at the ass-crack of dawn to run drills, even if they’re not currently serving. they wanted to know how to win a war, so he’ll show them.

kinda hard to convince, tbh. he’s fine pushing the bounds when it comes to rules of engagement, but this? still, when you prove yourself, when you beat out everyone else on the obstacle course, he jumps at the chance for some extra tutoring sessions with you. the fact that you look good in a sports bra and leggings is just a bonus. he’ll definitely fuck you in the gym bathroom after a training session. he’ll drag you into a stall and lock the door, hold you up if your legs are too tired from the workout he put you through.

soap teaches something not military-related, i think. maybe chemistry or physics with his demolitions background? very into demonstrations in his classes, likes to make shit blow up or fly across the room for the wow factor. he’s set the fire alarms off in the science lab more than once. definitely has a high score on rate my professor, one of the most sought after in the whole physical science department.

fucks you in the science lab. you’d come to him during office hours, cause the subjects he teaches have a really low pass rate. it’d start with actual homework help before devolving into heavy petting and kisses as a reward for correct answers. he’ll test your concentration, making you recite newton’s laws or the ratio of reactant to product. when you fumble, he’ll just chuckle and mumble something about how your head is too fuzzy for science. not too fuzzy for him to bully his cock into you, though.

gaz teaches something intro level. we’re talking “intro to military studies” or “intro to war and peace”. he’s really lenient on due dates, doesn’t have the really strict attitude that a lot of intro level professors have. he’s chill, one of those professors that does everything he can to work with you. won’t suffer a slacker, though. if you don’t do the work, don’t expect him to round your grade up at the end of the semester.

he won’t fuck you while you’re still enrolled in one of his classes. he knows himself, the temptation would be too strong if he had to see you for 55 minutes three times a week and couldn’t touch you. so he waits until the semester is over. but best believe he’s dragging you into some secluded corner of the building the minute you hand in your final. tells you about every single time he’s wanted to touch you, every time you’ve almost made him break his own rule. he makes it up to you, though, eating you out in the hallway and making you come on his tongue twice.

könig teaches german. falling a bit into the stereotype here, but i feel like this man has a really strong love of country. he’d definitely teach the culture alongside the language. he probably has an oktoberfest celebration for his students, lets the older ones drink beer if they want. he tells stories all the time about growing up in austria and will get sidetracked for a whole class just talking about life.

when he’s trying to seduce you, he’s a gentle giant. always cooing praises at you about how pretty you are, how well you’re taking to the language, that you’re a natural. but the moment you give in, he lets himself indulge. everything he’s ever wanted to act out, he does with you. if he’s stroked his thick cock to someone else doing it on his computer screen, he wants to try. it’s how you find yourself tied up in his bed, silk rope wrapped around your body as he fucks your throat. always dirty talks to you in german, giving you praise when you figure out what he’s saying.

graves teaches something niche, a class on terrorism in America or something like that. he gets really into it too. he’s known for being really animated in his lectures, gets really loud sometimes. other professors hate having a class in the lecture hall next to his. appreciates the students who stay after class to talk to him more in depth about his lectures. he knows the material can be dull sometimes, but he always has a few that are really passionate about what he teaches.

you’re one of those few. he’s embarrassed to admit that he falls for you, the way your eyes sparkle when he starts talking about some fringe terror group he helped to squash when he was serving. you always give him your rapt attention and he eats it up. takes you on dates to nice restaurants a few towns over so you won’t run into anyone either of you know. likes to fuck you over his desk after office hours are over. once, he shoved his boxers in your mouth and fucked you in the middle of the afternoon, when anyone could walk in. that time was your favorite.

[bathroomcryptid]

The Real Housewives of the Imperium

A/N: This is just some bullshit my brain vomited while I was procrastinating other things. Enjoyyy

Lore Drop™️ before we begin: In my personal headcanon of whatever the fuck this is, the wives of the Primarchs definitely act as a political arm of their respective legion/Primarch. They are the ones that involve themselves with the administration and nobility and royalty of the Imperium, and this is a role the Primarchs are happy enough to dump on them while they’re off fighting wars. It also means that the wives run into each other a lot.

Who Hates Each other?

-I would say no one really hates each other, but that’s a lie. The Red Lady and the Wolf Mother cannot under any circumstances be in the same room together, they will absolutely kill each other it’s not pretty.

-The Raven Mother, while not generally having any disagreements with anyone, is just around so rarely it’s hard to say she has any really good friends amongst the wives.

Who are friends?

-First, The Khatun has some freaky superpower that lets her get along with literally everyone and everyone loves her. She is literally everyone’s best friend and she loves it.

-Lady Lupercal, The Mother of the Salamanders, and The Khatun have seen everything. These were the first three spouses and the only Primarch spouses for a long time. Not only were they the first, but they were also the only three to have been with their husbands prior to the Emperor’s appearance. These three wrote the book and have a deep friendship because of their circumstances.

-The Lady of the Hydra, the Dark Lady, Lady Guilliman, Lady Lupercal, and the Lady of the Emperor’s Children are all somehow extremely good friends and it’s so bad for everyone’s health because these women SCHEME. If you fuck with them or their husbands they will have the entire Imperium legitimately thinking you sacrifice babies to pagan gods in your free time by the next cycle do not mess with them. They also will pull up to the function with the best gossip.

-A surprising friendship here - the Mother of the Salamanders and Lady Curze. Everyone was expecting the Red Lady and Wolf Mother round two with these two, but noooo, they get along like a house on fire and that’s what they’ll do to yours if you fuck with them. Whereas our Quintet of trouble up there will spin you around with their words, these two are more of the “corner you in a dark alley with a knife and threaten you within an inch of your life” type.

-The Lady of the Death Guard, Lady Aurelian, the Khatun, and Lady Kurze also float around each other because they are four of the genuinely nicest people you’ll ever meet and they subconsciously bond over it.

-The Wolf Mother and the Dark Lady are drinking buddies

How do they complain about their husbands/step-children to each other?

-Now when it comes to complaining? The Lady of Iron is there, first in line to start complaining about her husband and you know who’s right behind her? The Lady of the Iron Hands because I know in my heart of hearts she’s beefing with her step-children. Between these two there are literal hours of content.

-Even though those two are in a league of their own, most gatherings between these women usually devolve into complaints about their husbands.

-Fun fact: It’s actually during one of these complaint sessions that Lady Guilliman got the idea to ban paperwork from the bedroom.

-Although, some of these women are putting back breaking work into these men, so honestly, they deserve to complain a little

Who is talking up their husbands/step-sons?

-You know who’s not complaining? Lady Aurelian and the Lady of the Death Guard on god they love their husbands more than anything and no one knows why because they are so hot. Deadass, they pulled up to the function looking like goddesses with baked goods and everyone else was like “…sorry, the Imperium’s Next Top Model is like two doors down”, but no they were in fact in the right place and everyone is still surprised.

-Also, be careful when it comes to mentioning the step-children because there are some *cough* The Mother of the Salamanders *cough* who keep a whole book of all their kids and their accomplishments on them at all times and they will yap on about them for HOURS. The Mother of the Salamanders is like one of those dads that have pictures of their kids accordion style in their wallet and they open it up and a whole string of pictures falls out but she has too many kids so she needs a book.

-It’s also a perilous topic of conversation around The Lady of Angels and The Lady of the Emperor’s Children because they will pull out their step kid’s artwork and they will make you look at it and compliment it. For. Hours.

-It’s not unheard of for particularly these three to be at events with the step-children and not shut the fuck up about them.

…

The Mother of the Salamanders: *to the person next to her* This is my son [insert Salamander name here]. He is just the most wonderful son ever. He just got back from defending a planet from Xenos! Look at this picture of him right after they claimed victory! *holds up a picture of said Salamander covered in blood looking majestic on the battlefield* And look at this sword he just made! He’s so talented! *proceeds to open a whole scrapbook, flip to said son’s page, and fold out a ton of pictures because they wouldn’t all fit on the paper* And look at this-

Salamander: *blushing under his helmet*

…

The Mother of Angels: *to the person next to her* You know, my son here [insert Blood Angel name here] is quite the performer.

Random Noble Probably: Ah, really-

The Mother of Angels: Yes! He’s just so talented! *pulls out a stack of photos* You see, this is him playing the piano, his first instrument, and then here you see he decided to try out the harp. He’s absolutely excellent at both and then- *continues chattering on and on*

Blood Angel: *flattered that Mom cares so much*

…

The Lady of the Emperor’s Children: *sits down next to someone* Hello, lovely, how are you?

Random Noble: Ah, My Lady, I’m well and you?

Lady of the Emperor’s Children: Ah, I’m spectacular. Say, have you met my son [insert Emperor’s Child name here]?

Random Noble: We have not had the pleasure.

Lady of the Emperor’s Children: Well, this is [insert name again]. You know, he’s quite the talent, almost perfect at anything he tries his hand at. You know, he recently picked up painting. *starts rummaging and pulls out a stack of photos* See, here was his first one. I was so surprised at how good he was on his first try, and then he followed it up with this one and I was absolutely blown away! *Off she goes on a tangent*

Emperor’s Child: *can’t tell whether to be flattered or concerned that Mom has that many pictures of him*

…

-Though they aren’t the only three culprits of this, most of them have done this, the rest of them, though, usually shut up after about an hour or two and only have a few pictures on them of their step kids.

-cuts over to the Lady of the Iron Hands and her step-children who are trying to growl at each other around a very tired looking Ferrus Manus who is sat between them.

-though, most of these women love to brag about their step-children and how great at everything they are.

-The Lady of Iron is also another big culprit, she loves showing off her step-kids. She has also threatened Perterabo within an inch of his life when he’s ragged on his kids.

-The mental health of the Iron Warriors rose significantly once the Lady of Iron was apart of the picture.

-Almost as much as they like bragging about their husbands.

-As much as they complain, this is a group of the most fiercely loyal group of women you’ll ever get in a room together.

-They hear a whisper of a complaint about their husband? It’s over for you, you’ll be dead or wishing you were by dinner. They hear you praise their husband? You’re not leaving until they’ve told you every amazing thing their husbands have ever done in their lives.

The Ultimate Uniting Factor:

-There is one person, one man, in the entirety of the known and unknown galaxy who has the ability to bring these women, even the Red Lady and the Wolf Mother, together like nobody else: Big E

-If you mumble under your breath anything that could possibly be construed as a complaint against the Emperor of Mankind then you may as well have shined the Batsignal in the air because these women are coming out of the woodwork.

-Now they are all here and they have all involved you in a conversation that couldn’t be construed as anything but absolute treason if it were to come out of anyone else’s mouth

-If you were to put these women in a room together and point a camera at them and let them talk for a few hours, every single time it would devolve into irate ranting about Big E. You would never catch a kind word about Big E falling from their lips.

-The Emperor won’t step foot in the same zip code as these women because he understands that they are down every second of every day to literally evict him from life.

-The Emperor literally started a crusade as an excuse to leave Terra because he got word that the Khatun was on her way.

-Say what you will about the Emperor of Mankind, he’s smart enough to know that these women will end him where he stands if they ever get their hands on him.

[ki-starz]

𝐢'𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞?

summary ; it's really much too late for this, but that's never been a barrier truly stopped you. wc: 1.2k.

content ; t!fem cate, sorta sub!cate, afab!reader, blowjob (cate!receiving), masturbation (reader), riding, light overstim (cate!receiving).

“You’re going to fall asleep! I am not letting you.” It’s so late. You’re both sprawled out on the couch, watching reruns of that truly shitty show she likes. It really is terrible. You’re only here to lay with her—and perhaps get something else. 

She knows how exhausted you get by the end of the week; but instead of bids for cuddles and back rubs, you’re trying to schmooze your way into her pants. 

“C’mon.” She realizes, in this fleeting, dreaded moment, that it is not everything else wonderful about you—not your faith in her, nor your wonderful, easy trust, or the fact that you allow her bare fingertips to skim your skin—that your voice is her greatest weakness. It’s unfairly dulcet, even sleep-coated, curling in her ears and burrowing into her brain before she has any chance to resist or even process. “Let me. Let me suck you off. It’ll take like, five minutes.”

She’d be offended at your thoughts on her stamina—five minutes? really?—if it wasn’t uncomfortably accurate.

And it really doesn’t help that you’re guiding her down, cushioning your head on her thigh. That your hands are slipping just past the cotton’s flimsy hem, palms warming the skin, and she can feel your breath through the fabric. 

“You’ll fall asleep halfway through. And then what am I supposed to do?” Her justification falls into brattiness, a pout jutting her bottom lip. 

“I bet you’d love if I fell asleep with you in my mouth.” 

Those words, that visual that slams, double-pronged from both your minds, into the back of her eyelids makes her jolt. Your imagination is vivid. It’s so unfair. 

“Baby…” she whines, soft and tortured. Usually she sounds like this an orgasm or two in, not while she’s still soaking her shorts with pre. Another whine sounds, and, really, she’s just beating herself up over this at this point. “…please.”

“That’s my girl.” Her shorts disappear as you tug them down, falling to the floor while her panties dangle off of her ankle obscenely. The pink lace catches and stays, even as you drag her leg over your shoulder. Her dick, skinny and clean-shaven, sits flat and twitching against her abs—already leaking a milky pool on the dip in her navel. 

You blow a mouthful of breath over her just to hear the whine it rips from her throat. 

She’s devolved so quickly tonight. If you hadn’t spurred her right now, you’d surely wake at three, four in the morning to her whining around her fingers, palm pressed to the curving bulge in her shorts. At least if you do this now you won’t be too groggy to think. One of you has to, and god knows it’s never her.

She’s desperate enough to cup herself, to press her cock against your cheek for just that little bit of relief. 

“Please… please… please…” she whimpers, tapping herself against you weakly, dripping pre onto your skin. It makes you grin wide, replacing her hand with her own. Her back bows, hips twitching up into your palm. 

“Jesus. You’re so needy.” You tease, if only to hear how she sobs. She sobs harder when you part your lips and swallow around her. She’s not too long, sitting just before the end of your tongue—perfect for escaping that terrible gag reflex. Despite how good it feels for her, it’s really less than pleasant. Instead you swallow, and she twitches desperately into the stranglehold of your rippling throat with a whimpered “oh, fuck—”

Her hand pushes on your head—as if there’s anywhere for you to go. You reach up, interlinking your fingers instead, the hold pressed down into the plush cushions. She bucks in protest as you slip back just half-an-inch to take a breath, but whines like a dog when you descend and suckle at her. 

You’re treated to a beautiful chorus of “please, please, please—“, her begging louder than the television broadcasting that terrible show. You can hear her two-fold, just barely, the sound vibrating through her bones until you can feel it—all encompassing and wholly arousing. 

You reach back and slip one, two fingers past the hem of your shorts, the soaked-through fabric of your underwear carelessly shoved aside so you can sink your digits into your sopping cunt. Your resulting moan causes her face to scrunch up, the tightens of her eyes and mouth doing nothing to stop the whimpers vibrating behind her lips. 

She spills onto your tongue not long after—less than the predicted five minutes—the salty slick spurting with every weak, jerky thrust. Panting, she attempts to push you off. For once, you let her. With a minor sound of protest you withdraw from your cunt, shifting up to straddle. Her half-limp cock twitches against your stomach. 

“You—you good? You satisfied?” She pants, because what else could she wish for but your happiness. It makes you smile, coo a little as you glide your hands—one slick with sweat, the other with your essence—up her stomach and under her loose tee. 

“No.” You murmur softly, enough to trick her tired brain for one second before she truly processes. 

“What?” She breathes, and you can hear how her following inhale catches sharply. She watches as you rid yourself of your shorts, and then your panties, whining at the sight of your slick clinging to the sodden fabric. Then she’s distracted, your palm rubbing against her sensitive skin making her gasp. She whines something about overstimulation, but still her cock twitches in your hand. 

“One more for me?” You huff, half-a-laugh, at her expression. Her mouth has lolled open, her lids falling—even at the gentle stimulation. The sight of you hovering, poised to sink down on her, is just as overwhelming as the touches. 

“Yeah—yeah, fuck.” It’s the sweet, breathless whines she makes that always get you. She jerks, mouth open in a silent gasp as you slowly sink. You split yourself open on her cock, easing down with gentle rolls of your hips. It’s enough to tear a soft moan from you, unrestrained now. There’s nothing to muffle your sounds that rise to mix with her own. 

Her palms seek your hips, guiding them through the motions that pick up gradually. Your joint sounds are muffled by the slap of her hips against your pelvis. The tip of her head back, slamming against the couch’s cushion, is a welcome sight—as is the tensing of her abdomen. You dig your nails into the muscles, the skin, drawing blood to the unbroken skin in a rose-tinted blush. 

She tilts her hips—some readjustment, right, left, you’re unsure. And you don’t really care, because white is sparking across your vision like falling stars. Your mouth falls open in an intoxicating babble. 

“Oh, right there. Yes. Good, Cate.” You murmur, your breath stuttering in the rhythm of your pounding heart. At the praise she groans, tightens her grip on your hips, and cums. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you—” Her babbling is the thing that tips you over, and it delights you to no end as your tightening around her causes the prettiest gasp. You sag, boneless, and fall to lay on her chest, feeling yourself leak hotly where you’re joined. 

“Well, fuck.” And then you feel a shift, her gaze straying— “We missed the end!”

Always about that stupid show. 

“Fuck the show.” You’ve got no energy for any other response, the burn in your muscles dulling pleasantly.

© ki-starz