#fic: grounding techniques

[sage-nebula]

PKMN - Grounding Techniques, Ch. 1

Summary: One year ago, Professor Friede was thrown off the Brave Asagi into a free-fall from 30,000 feet. One year later, an Exceed researcher named Jule struggles with dissociation and dreams of flying he can never quite remember.

Word Count: 8,394 Characters: Friede, Sango, Onyx, Spinel, Agate, Captain Pikachu Genre: Drama Additional Tags: Hypnosis, Brainwashing, Amnesia, False Identity Snippet:

“Oh I could hide ‘neath the wings of the bluebird as she sings. The six o’ clock alarm would never ring . . .” The melody, sweet and gentle as it was, was enough to snatch him from his free-fall through the air, the wind, the sky, the clouds ice cold and sopping wet— “But six rings, and I rise—” The sweet, folksy melody cut off abruptly as his hand—not wet, not cold—smashed the top button on his clock radio. He lay there for a moment, still save for his breathing. He could feel the clock radio beneath his palm. He could feel the warmth of his blankets—a top sheet, and two soft, plush blankets—on top of him. And there was no wind, no trace of screaming on the air. Jule opened his eyes as his heart evened out, and was met with the cracked ceiling of his studio apartment above him. His ceiling, in his apartment. He was in his bed, in his apartment. His hand was on his clock radio because it had gone off, because it was 7:00 AM and he needed to get ready for work. Jule took a deep breath. In through his nose, out through his mouth. It was a dream. It had just been a dream. And now that he lay there, the sweat on his palm sticking his hand to the OFF button on his clock radio, much of it had already seeped away, like rain water into a gutter. With one more deep breath held and released, Jule pushed himself out of his bed and made his way to the bathroom—one little square of the apartment quartered off by curtains, containing a toilet, sink, and a shower the size of a boutique changing room. Truth be told, his apartment could hardly be called such; it was little more than a small room in the basement of a boarding house in downtown Levincia. The bathroom took up about a third of the space; the other two thirds were shared by his bed, nightstand, and the kitchenette. It had no windows and a host of safety violations, but the rent was cheap (by Levincia standards), and so Jule felt he had no room to complain. He spat his toothpaste out in the sink, and chanced a glance at the cracked mirror above it. Dull golden eyes curtained by shaggy white hair stared back at him. He frowned, running his finger along the dark circle under his right eye. Well, it made sense; he hadn’t been sleeping the best for a couple weeks now. He kept dreaming of—of— . . . flying . . . Jule splashed cold water on his face, and then grabbed his hand towel to rub away both the water from his skin and the last vestiges of the dream from his mind. It was, after all, just a dream; and as a scientist, he knew that dreams weren’t important.

[Continue Reading on AO3!]

[sage-nebula]

for those who don't have spotify

[mahoushojo-chan]

Astarion x Tav || dissociation

something i wanted to feel

warnings: dissociation, ptsd, trauma synopsis: disguised as a drow, tav finds astarion after he's reverted back to old, unhealthy ways of using his body. she brings him back. When Astarion hears her normal voice, he feels soothed. “You weren’t here, fully. I wanted to bring you back.” She explains, like it’s the simplest thing. “If I let you continue, it felt like I would lose you.” she continues. an excerpt of 'cause my love (is mine, all mine) word count: 1,001 pairing: astarion/tav other tags: f!reader, half-elf?tav, bard!tav, hurt/comfort, angst, non-sexual intimacy, friends to lovers, song inspo: sanctuary by joji ao3: here concept: dissociation and grounding techniques

The elf—half elf, maybe, based off the point of their ear? They grab Astarion’s wrist to stop him, and pull him away. “P-Put on your clothes, first.”

There's something off, like the pieces of the puzzle don't quite fit together. The man before him appears unnaturally flawless, almost like plastic rather than real flesh. Confused, Astarion takes a step back.

“Well, if that’s… what you wish.” Astarion replies and proceeds to redress himself. He's so bewildered by the situation that he foregoes any reverse strip-tease or other playful undressing antics; it completely escapes his thoughts. He simply puts his clothes back on, sliding his pants over his legs and fastening his belt. His shirt follows, and after it's on, he walks back over to the other person. Astarion supposes that this is okay. He hadn't exactly planned anything out, after all. Whether he’s naked or clothed while he does… whatever he’s going to do doesn’t matter to him at all.

"Now, where were we?" Astarion inquires, his hands gently cradling their artificial features, as he attempts to regain his focus.

However, they gently remove his hands from their face and clasp his hands in theirs, asking, "How does it feel?"

Astarion’s response is automatic. “Oh, it feels lovely. I’d love to see what other—”

“Ah-ah,” they tut, “tell me about my hands. How do they feel?”

Astarion takes a second. A hint of confusion prods at his mind for a second before he understands that he’s supposed to actually be using his body to relay these sensations. He looks down, and the discrepancy between how they look and feel strikes him again. “Well, they’re soft, of course. They’re… thin, and graceful…” he says, all compliments that he expects they would want to hear. But then his hand runs over their ring finger, and he blinks, because he feels a callous that he doesn’t see. Then, he begins to realize who he’s with. “There’s always a callous that never quite heals, here… and then the scar, and… well, you have a hangnail here. Your nails have grown out, Tav.”

He grins, finally thinking he’s realized their ruse. When he looks up, he sees Tav give a tired smile, though she’s still in her disguise.

Instead of ending it there, she continues with a pleased hum, “Are my hands warm?”

“Yes, always. A little warmer today, but—what are you doing?” Astarion interjects, confused.

She never answers him properly at times like these. Instead, she asks him, “Do I smell bad?”

Astarion takes some time to mull it over before he shakes his head. “No… no, you rarely do. Well, my tastes deviate from others, and I take quite a delight when you’re covered in blood, of course, but—”

“What do I smell like?”

He takes in a breath of air, and then deeply exhales. Her scent is familiar, now. “Like… well, something floral, usually. A little like parchment, maybe the slightest of resin…”

She dispels the disguise. Even though it's just the two of them, it seems a bit reckless, considering he’s not sure how they'll escape. However, Tav usually thinks ahead more than he does, and Astarion doesn't have the time to dwell on it as she continues her line of questioning, “And do I look okay?”

Now that he sees her for her, his gaze drops into something more affectionate. “Your hair never sits quite right, here.” He says, teasing the rebellious tuft of hair on her head before flattening it. “There. Now you look perfect.”

He lingers a little when she finally lets go of his hands. He feels a little disappointed, but she self-consciously helps to flatten her hair. Astarion takes the opportunity to finally ask, “Care to tell me what all that was about?”

When he hears her normal voice, he feels soothed. “You weren’t here, fully. I wanted to bring you back.” She explains, like it’s the simplest thing. “If I let you continue, it felt like I would lose you. My only regret is not coming sooner…” she continues.

Astarion blinks in surprise. He realizes he hadn’t particularly been in pain, and part of him still feels like he wants to get lost in his own head, but Tav’s soft explanation—though he’s not quite listening to it so much as he is just relaxing into the comforting cadence of her voice—keeps pulling him back out of it.

The almost liberating numbness is inexplicably nudged to the side by his desire to feel her again.

Then it dawns on him, the gravity of his recent actions—how he had behaved when he was still feeling like a puppet on strings. He remembers pinning her against the wall, pressing his lips to hers, and he stammers, "Oh—I'm sorry for... I mean, I didn't mean to—"

"It was never going to happen," she states, and Astarion experiences a brief pang, a sting in a vulnerable spot, just for a moment. It's as though she's saying, I'm never going to sleep with you, but that’s what he wants, isn’t it? He wants not to sleep with her. He wants something beyond mere physical intimacy, and he has that with Tav.

Seeing his confusion, she snaps him out of his reverie and tells him, “It didn’t mean anything.”

This, in a way, makes the feeling worse because Astarion interprets it as ‘forget it ever happened’. But given that he’s still rather embarrassed about the whole ordeal—the inability to recognize her, his behaviour—he’s actually okay with complying.

So he takes her hands this time and rests his forehead against hers. She feels as warm as he remembers.

Finally, he responds. “Thank you.”

She seems to let him rest for a moment, and he sees her whisper a word of healing. He feels some of the earlier bruises and gashes heal themselves, and it’s not perfect, but he feels significantly better. At that time, he finally separates from her. But then, now that he’s fully present, he sees her as she is—she seems tired, her features gaunt, but she seems relieved.

[thepandalion]

every once in a while I get reminded that I can do random maths in my head really easily and it almost throws me before I remember I used to want to try astrophysics until I learned how competitive it is

anyways I just saw the number 96 (as in, 96 comments on a fic) and immediately went "oh, thats... 8 times 12, right?"

[grotesquevi]

18+ mdni, collage au, use of marijuana, high sex, blink and you'll miss perv!vi, you smoke while she eats you (feral), spit, stoner!vi that got out of hand. fic directory, requests?

if you recognize this it may be because it's from my previous account aka @vicorices who got deleted out of nowhere, i'm trying to get all my work back up again cause i'm not losing three months of writing. bare with me pls love me back this was good soup back then.

dealer!vi who’s deep down a damn loser when it comes to you, an unmeasured crush that started out when you bought weed for the first time and she got your number under the premise of talking to you whenever she had good stash.

she stares for a good while at her phone after, trying to find out a reason to talk to you without sounding lame, the last time she was so afraid to talk to a girl she was what? sixteen? so fucking lame.

dealer!vi who leaves in the middle of a party cause you texted asking is she was up and well, it's her fault when she's spoiling you rotten, constantly selling to you her very best stuff at a stupid low price: she wants you to keep coming to her, so she makes sure of making an undeniable offer.

she's knocking at your door and it's way to late to be in the streets, standing with her hands shoved inside her jacket as she waits for you to open up.

dealer!vi who's impressed actually by your rolling skills cause how the fuck did you learn how to roll a joint like that? you have such a good technique she finds herself looking at it, fingers in perfect control as they swiftly pour the green from your purple grinder into king-sized pink rolling papers — is it indirect kissing when you're licking the paper and she can visibly see strings of your saliva? must be.

she looks at you when you light up the joint and the air is quickly filled with the intense smell of weed, a subtle fruity and citric aroma as you passed her the joint. indirect kissing. indirect kissing when vi's smoking from the very same spot you did, sitting close to you after selling you a good amount of weed and accepting a sudden invitation to stay for a while and smoke, make the journey at least a bit more worth it and not leave after five minutes with you.

it doesn't have to be just pure business.

you're oblivious to it, but her gaze lingers in your legs and the subtle way your shirt rides up showing more and more skin without you noticing, worried you'll find out she's right there high and dry in your sofa.

stoner!vi who laughs at your jokes, leaning forward when talking to you cause even high she just thinks about how beautiful you are, eyes red, half lidded, relaxed in the comfortable of your small apartment close to the uni.

and like a good stoner she forgets about she's holding the joint at some point, too busy with the conversation, your company and the atmosphere you’ve so easily created, the ashes falling to the ground now. she has sold you marijuana for months, yet she's not able to talk to you for more than explaining you what strain she's carrying to sell until well — now.

liking your photos, flirting but not at all, it's absurd the amounts of times you appear on her mind without even trying to, messy haircut, she's sure you have a tattoo hidden under the winter clothes cause she can be a proud stoner, but she pays attention, at least when she wants something, when it comes to you.

"are you ever going to make a move on me, vi? cause i'm getting tired of waiting for you to snap out of it."

and maybe it's the weed, that dizzy and nice sensation on her chest that makes her smile, cause she's sure you're pulling her closer even when she's the one moving on her own.

"a move, you want me to make a move on you?"

you're taking the joint from her fingers and she swears it's the hottest thing she's ever experienced, the way you were suddenly so close to her only to pull away after, letting the smoke linger in the air when you light it again: she has felt that very same thing before, the awful need of pulling you into a kiss.

"i thought it was obvious when i texted you in the middle of the night, but you don't seem to get it much" the music seems to drown her unsteady breathing, the loud guitars by the speaker in the table while your bratty attitude only seems to turn her on even further. "should i spell it out for you? send a formal invitation?"

stoner!vi who's really bad in controlling her force when high, cause her hand fist in the fabric of your shirt and she's finally erasing the distance she was once polite to keep, moving you without much effort across the cushions to pull you closer to her, make you lay on the sofa to pin you down beneath her.

her muscles flex on top on you and she's finally aware of the effect she has on you, when she's finally kissing you and you're responding to her even when she barely touches you — so maybe it's not as lame as she thought, cause her kisses travels down your throat, messy, sloppy open-mouthed kisses she places as she holds you there, still and where she wants you to, not lame at all when you cannot control yourself either, squirming, already asking for more.

and fuck it's good. she can smell the subtle smell of weed in your clothes, and swear could choke 'cause you're parting your legs for her, a silent invitation she just gets with no need to spell it out for her now.

"gonna smoke it all by yourself?" vi's messing with you at first, watching you take the joint you forgot in your fingers to place it over your lips — "or are you gonna share that with me?"

stoner!vi who fantasizes with the thought of spitting right over your parted lips when she's helping you smoke, lighting up the joint as she sits on top of you. she's slower, but her hips press down against yours just right, and trapped in between her thighs is a damn sight. her blushed cheeks match her cherry hair who's much longer now since the first time you meet her, and you, a demon as always, let your hand find the skin beneath her shirt, the pad of your fingers roaming against her hip bone, trailing it down her pants.

with two fingers, she places the joint over your lips. your breathing collides against her hand, and she can feel the softness in your lips for a moment before you're blowing the smoke in her direction, slightly and for nothing more than five seconds but enough to make her think about kissing you again, yearning when she's stealing kiss after kiss, taking away the joint to have you pay attention to her instead. needy.

the weed makes her like that she'd say, but in reality vi's going to pieces even before her eyes become glassy. shambles when the music on the speaker is not enough to muffle your gasps, the irregular sound of your breathing after she slowly begins to ask you for more — hungry even when she's full fed.

she's building you up, taking her time since she dreamed about this a lot, and she desperately wants it to make it last, savor it as long as she can have it, so vi's dragging your shirt upwards, enough so she can see the obvious lack of a bra, latching on the skin of your breast until it's bruised and sensitive, purple because of her.

you do have a hidden tattoo, only for her to see.

yet it's her name on your swollen lips what she enjoys the most, how she's there in your lungs inside you, the sound of your moans when you ask if she could keep going. your always perfect hair lays now messy, and god she just want to imprint the sight of you in her brain, how your skin shiver when she's kissing the expanses of your belly, that flirty look on your face she can see even when she's completely on her knees for you already.

"you forgot about the joint again, peach" vi mutters against your navel, her chin presses against your stomach and the mere contact makes your skin burn "you okay up there? 'cause last time i recall i was invited to smoke with you love, you're making me feel a little betrayed here."

stoner!vi who likes the fact you're smoking from her weed. may seem stupid but she damn prides on knowing you choose her every time even when uni is fucking plagued with providers all around: you praise about her quality, chanting about how good your high was, how she never disappoints.

the world seems to stop against your skin, the time dies between your thighs, the intense smell of your arousal clouds her with longing and her mouth waters at the compulsion to lean forward.

"it's not fair, making me feel so- fuck so-" the words die on her tongue, cause your panties are soaked through, clinging to your folds and she's already drunk on it, lost in the haze as she looks up to you, barely illuminated by the lights in the apartment, the ember of the joint lighting every once in a while.

"talk to me," your voice is rough as your hand reaches down to her hair, taking the long strands of the mullet between your fingers — "how do i make you feel, huh? tell me vi."

stoner!vi who's a chaotic eater. she whimpers at your praises as her tongue laps from over your slick underwear, drool escaping from the corners of her mouth as her nose rubs against your sensitive cunt and she doesn't really care if she stinks like pussy after, if you're gushing all over her cheeks as she's making your underwear to the side; she's surrendering entirely, spreading you with her fingers and sinking her face in your puffy, swollen lips already sticky with a sheen of arousal.

she cannot seem to have enough, one arm tangled around your leg as she's comfortable enough to gather a good amount of saliva on her mouth so she can let it fall against your already leaky pussy, scooping it with her fingers to use it as lube when her digits are forcing themselves against your entrance, opening you up for her as vi's mouth sucks greedy around your clit.

so you forgot about the joint laying between your fingers as you hold her face against your sex, moving your hips against her mouth until she's looking at you through half lidded eyes and you can see how her face seems to glisten thanks to you. vi seems to be hitting all the nice places when her fingers scissor inside you, rubbing on your walls as you become pliant in her touch, inviting as you seem to suck her in deeper.

stoner!vi who pays attention, cause she's fixated in your face when you fall apart, dissolving into pleasure, splintering in lust for a brief moment she prolongs as much as it's possible, slowly pumping her fingers inside your tight entrance to keep seeing that pretty face all constricted in need, babbling about how good she's eating you, how full you are when her fingers fuck you dumb like that.

stoner!vi who shoves her fingers in your mouth right after fucking you, using her thumb to trace them along the seam at first, coaxing you to open them for her, pushing down on your tongue as soon as she's granted permission.

it's her turn to smoke now.

[kenzdolls]

TOTAL INSECURITY .

⌗ pairing: {established relationship} katsuki bakugou x jealous! reader

⌗ trigger warnings: jealousy, insecurity, self-doubt, emotional distress, anxiety, miscommunication, crying, negative self-talk.

⌗ anon request: hello! I was wondering if you could make a story where y/n is getting jealous over katsuki getting close to another girl classmate? like basically him and another girl in class 1-a start training and hangout a bit and reader starts getting a bit jealous and insecure, basically a comfort fic. i’d really appreciate it cause i’m kind of in a mood today 🥹

⌗ a/n: thx for requesting this!! uh, i decided to use a random Japanese generator name thingy because i didn’t want to use any of the actual mha girls. and yes, I am doing requests. I JUST CAN’T FIND PHOTOS. [edit: if you get what the title name is from, ilysm.]

the first time you noticed her, she was standing at the front of class 1-a with that nervous smile transfer students always wore. emiko tanaka—her quirk was something called "energy sync" that let her match and amplify others' abilities temporarily. aizawa had explained it in his usual monotone, but you'd been more focused on the way katsuki's eyes had lingered on her demonstration.

"interesting," he'd muttered, and something cold had settled in your stomach.

you'd been dating katsuki for six months now. six months of his rare soft smiles, of him walking you to class with his hand in yours, of quiet moments where his guard dropped completely. you thought you'd gotten past the worst of your insecurities, but watching emiko successfully sync with his explosions during their first paired training session brought them all rushing back.

"she's really good," kirishima commented, watching as emiko's borrowed explosions created a perfect crater in the training ground. "her control is insane."

"yeah," you managed, throat tight. "really good."

katsuki was grinning—actually grinning—as he helped emiko up from where she'd been knocked back by the recoil. when was the last time he'd smiled like that during training? when was the last time he'd looked at you like that? you tried to remember, but all you could focus on was the way his hands lingered on her arms as he steadied her, the way she looked up at him with those bright eyes full of admiration.

over the next few weeks, it became routine. emiko would pair with katsuki for combat training, their quirks complementing each other perfectly. she could handle his explosive power better than anyone else in class, and he seemed to thrive on having a partner who could keep up. you watched from the sidelines during training, paired with whoever was left, trying not to notice how natural they looked together.

you told yourself it was just training. professional. but then you started noticing the little things.

the way katsuki would wait for her after class, both of them heading to the gym for extra practice while you walked back to the dorms alone. how he'd explain techniques to her with unusual patience, his voice lacking its typical harsh edge. the inside jokes that developed between them—references to their training sessions that made her laugh and him smirk with satisfaction. how she'd save him a seat at lunch sometimes, or bring him notes from classes he'd missed.

you found yourself studying them during meals, watching how comfortable they'd become with each other. emiko would steal food from his plate without him threatening to explode her face off—something that had taken you months to achieve. she'd tease him about his study habits, and he'd actually laugh instead of shouting. worse, she understood his ambitions in a way that felt similar to you, nodding along when he talked about being the number one hero, asking questions that showed she actually listened.

"you're being ridiculous," you whispered to yourself one evening, watching through the gym windows as they worked through a complex combination attack. emiko was practicing syncing with his explosions while moving, and every time she succeeded, katsuki's face would light up with genuine pride. but when she stumbled and katsuki caught her, steadying her with hands on her waist, both of them laughing breathlessly from the exertion, you couldn't stop the tears that blurred your vision.

you turned away before either of them could see you, but not before you heard emiko say, "thanks, katsuki. you're an amazing teacher." the warmth in her voice made your chest ache.

the breaking point came during a weekend study session. you'd been looking forward to spending time with katsuki, had even picked up his favorite snacks from the convenience store. but he'd gotten a text from emiko about needing help with a hero law assignment.

"rain check?" he'd asked, already reaching for his jacket. "she's struggling with the case studies, and you know how brutal those are."

you'd nodded, forced a smile, told him it was fine. but as you watched him leave, something inside you cracked. he used to help you with hero law. he used to be the one you could count on for study sessions and quiet conversations about your dreams. you remembered sitting in his room for hours, him patiently explaining legal precedents while you struggled to understand the complex cases.

now he was rushing off to help someone else, and you were left wondering if you were being replaced. the snacks sat unopened on your desk, mocking you.

the next few days passed in a blur of forced normalcy. you smiled when katsuki kissed you good morning, laughed at his jokes, pretended not to notice when he and emiko would disappear for their training sessions. but the doubt was eating at you, whispering cruel things in the quiet moments.

she's stronger than you. more compatible with his quirk. she doesn't flinch when he shouts, doesn't need the gentle handling you sometimes require. she's everything you're not.

you started avoiding the gym, finding excuses to skip group training sessions. when katsuki asked why, you'd claim you were tired or had homework. the lies tasted bitter on your tongue, but you couldn't bear to watch them together anymore, couldn't stand seeing how effortlessly she fit into the space you'd thought was yours.

mina noticed first, cornering you after class one day. "hey, what's going on? you've been weird lately."

"nothing," you'd deflected, but she saw right through you.

"it's about bakugou and the new girl, isn't it?" she'd said gently, and your face must have given you away because she sighed. "oh, honey."

"it's stupid," you'd whispered, but mina shook her head.

"feelings aren't stupid. but you should talk to him instead of torturing yourself like this."

but how could you? how could you tell the person you loved that you were terrified of losing him? that every interaction he had with emiko felt like a knife in your chest?

you were so lost in your thoughts that you didn't notice katsuki approaching until he dropped into the seat beside you at lunch.

"you're being weird," he said without preamble, red eyes studying your face. "what's wrong?"

"nothing," you replied automatically, stabbing at your rice with more force than necessary. across the cafeteria, you could see emiko sitting with some of the other girls, occasionally glancing over at your table.

"bullshit." his voice was low, meant only for you. "you've been avoiding me for three days. did i do something?"

the concern in his tone almost broke you. this was katsuki—your katsuki—who noticed when you were upset, who cared enough to ask. but then you saw emiko approaching from across the cafeteria, and the doubt came rushing back.

"i'm fine," you insisted, standing abruptly. "i just... i need some air."

you felt his eyes on you as you left, but you didn't turn back. you also didn't see the confused look he exchanged with emiko when she asked if you were okay.

that evening, you were sitting on your bed, staring at your homework without really seeing it, when someone knocked on your door. you knew that knock—sharp, impatient, but not aggressive. katsuki.

"we need to talk," he said when you opened the door, and his expression was serious enough that you stepped aside to let him in.

he sat on your desk chair, turning it to face you as you perched on the edge of your bed. for a moment, neither of you spoke. you could hear the sounds of your classmates in the hallway, muffled conversations and laughter that felt worlds away from the tension in your room.

"are you breaking up with me?"

the question hit you like a physical blow. "what? no! why would you—"

"because you've been acting like you can't stand to be around me," he interrupted, running a hand through his hair. "and i can't figure out what i did wrong."

the raw vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache. this was what your insecurity had done—made the person you loved most think he was losing you.

"you didn't do anything wrong," you said quietly. "i just... i've been stupid."

"about what?"

you took a shaky breath, fingers twisting in your lap. "about you and emiko."

katsuki's eyebrows shot up. "me and—what the hell are you talking about?"

"you've been spending so much time with her," you continued, the words tumbling out now that you'd started. "training together, studying together, and she's so good with your quirk, and you smile at her in ways you haven't smiled at me in weeks, and i just—" your voice cracked. "i started thinking maybe you realized you'd be better off with someone who could actually keep up with you."

the silence that followed was deafening. you couldn't bring yourself to look at him, couldn't bear to see confirmation of your fears in his expression.

then you felt the bed dip as he sat beside you, his hand covering yours.

"look at me," he said softly, and when you reluctantly met his eyes, they were intense but gentle. "you really think i'd rather be with her?"

"i don't know," you whispered. "maybe? she's stronger than me, her quirk works better with yours—"

"stop." his hands came up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears you hadn't realized were falling. "just stop."

he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. "you wanna know why i've been training with her so much? because aizawa paired us up for the upcoming exercise, and i didn't want to look like an idiot in front of the whole class. you wanna know why i help her with homework? because she asked, and i'm not a complete asshole, despite what everyone thinks."

his thumbs traced across your cheekbones. "but you wanna know what i think about when i'm with her? i think about how she's not you. how her laugh doesn't make my chest feel warm, how she doesn't know that i like my coffee with too much sugar, how she's never seen me have a nightmare and stayed up all night to make sure i was okay."

"katsuki—"

"i'm not done." his voice was firmer now, more like the katsuki you knew. "she's a good training partner. hell, she's a good person. but she's not the person i want to come home to. she's not the person i think about when i'm falling asleep, or the person i want to tell when something good happens."

he pulled back slightly, forcing you to meet his eyes. "she's not you, and she never could be. you think i care about quirk compatibility? about who's stronger? i fell in love with you because you're you—because you see good in people, because you believe in me even when i don't believe in myself, because you make me want to be better than i am."

"but you seem so happy when you're with her," you protested weakly.

"i'm happy when i'm getting stronger. when i'm working toward being the best hero i can be. but you know what makes me happiest?" he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "coming back to you afterward. telling you about my day, hearing about yours, just... being with you."

the last of your defenses crumbled. "i'm sorry," you breathed. "i'm so sorry, i just—"

"got scared," he finished, pulling you into his arms. "i get it. but next time you're feeling like this, talk to me, okay? don't just disappear on me. i can't fix a problem if i don't know it exists."

you nodded against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him. "i love you," you murmured.

"love you too," he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "more than you know."

you stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other's arms, before katsuki spoke again.

"for the record, though, your quirk works perfectly with mine too. remember last month when we took down that simulation villain together? that was all us, no borrowed power needed."

you pulled back to look at him, finding that familiar smirk on his face. "you're never going to let me live this down, are you?"

"nope," he said, popping the 'p'. "my partner got jealous over a training buddy. it's pretty cute, actually."

"shut up," you laughed, pushing at his shoulder, but he caught your hand and brought it to his lips.

"make me," he challenged, eyes twinkling with mischief.

so you did, leaning in to kiss him properly, pouring all your love and relief and apologies into the gesture. when you finally broke apart, breathless and smiling, you felt like yourself again.

"so," you said, settling back against his side, "tell me about this training exercise you're so worried about."

and as he launched into an explanation of the complex scenario aizawa had planned, complete with dramatic gestures and colorful commentary about your classmates' weaknesses, you realized something important: this was what you'd been missing. not the explosive training sessions or the patient tutoring, but this—the quiet intimacy of sharing daily life with someone who chose you, again and again.

emiko was a good training partner. but you were katsuki's everything, and he was yours.

that was more than enough.

⌗ taglist: @idexmids @siriuslyginnychase @eleteo125 @st4r-dustx @corpsebridenightamare @boreaswrites [OPEN]

⌗ mutuals: @haikyuubby @va-3 @tulippanes @luvseraphh @miss-indigen0us @cupkiki [OPEN]

✦ REQUESTS ARE OPEN! ✦

© KENZDOLLS 2025 . do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work in anyway including the use of ai onto any other social media platforms or it will permit an instant block on all platforms.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Hi I love rereading all your fics and prompts! Like, multiple times throughout the day. I have a schedule. Your works are my literal bed time stories (wow that sounded weird).

Anyways (before I ramble any worse). Any updates for Child support? I just love it so much and wondering if there's more

John throws himself to the side, barely avoiding a grab from a fifth-dimension demon throwing a fit after he rejects its request to marry his son. He rolls across the ground, powering up a spell, as he mentally curses his age.

Maybe Batman was right. He should work on his physical form a little more.

"Wait! Wait! I'm sorry! Can we talk about this-" Whatever the demon was going to say is lost after John's spell slams into its chest, throwing it back out of his dimension and sealing him from his Earth for fifty years. The spell is helpful, but fifty years doesn't mean much to demons, and it will wait decades to come back and bother them.

Thankfully, John will likely be long-dead before then. It's always been his solution for most of his problems. Pushing a problem to a later date where it can become someone else's problem.

But what about his son?

Danny, who was half of Time itself, would likely be around in fifty years. If there was one thing he didn't want, it was to leave Danny with all his messes. He'll have to learn a new banishing spell and find some instructors who could teach him an entirely new magic dueling technique.

It was the responsible thing to do. Ugh, fatherhood was making him an accountable bore.

John heaves himself off the floor, sweat pouring from his forehead, and grimaces. On the stove, the eggs he was cooking for Danny's breakfast are smoking, burnt into a dark black smudge. The House of Mystery's old wood groans, displeased with all the smoke, and a second later, the stove and counter vanish as the house creates a hole to drop them out of.

"Now that's just plain rude," John tells the house, dusting his knees. "It's not like I asked to be attacked first thing in the morning. What am I going to feed Danny now?"

The house's floor tiles shift in what John has come to learn was meant to be a shrug. The blasted thing has started copying Danny's teenage behavior, including that of his son's friends, and now seemed to enjoy rebelling against John whenever possible.

Thankfully, the house also seemed to really like Danny because one of the drawers opens, and a local Gotham breakfast dinner menu is flung at him. John catches the sheet with a sigh. He won't have to go too far when dropping Danny off at school.

"Morning, Dad," Danny greets, walking into the room wearing his Gotham Academy uniform. The dark night blue blazer, black tie, and dress trousers make his son look like the heir of the second most powerful being. It only took one glance to see that Danny came from nobility.

John knows he's a handsome bloke, but he had nothing on Clockwork's human form. That man was a temptation itself, and it looks like Danny has inherited his beauty.

John will never know how the brats in Danny's other schools could not see that. His son was perfect. John fights the urge to summon a camera. He always thought the fools always showing off the children's pictures were idiotic. Now that he's a father, he understands.

He smiles, "Morning, love. How about we go out to eat for breakfast?"

__________________________________________________________

They arrived at the dinner just as it was opening. John told Danny to order some black tea and went to the bathroom. He was only gone for a few minutes, but when he returned, he found his boy surrounded by a group of teenagers wearing the same uniform.

There was a splash of angry red on Danny's face as a girl gestured to him, obviously mocking him, and the rest of the teenagers laughed. Danny's hands were clenched in his lap, shoulders hunched, and head lowered as another teenager reached out and flickered his ear.

This one was wearing those ridiculous American leather jackets for some sport. He was also the biggest teenager there, a boy who thought himself too important for his own good.

John's jaw clenched.

Bullies.

Danny had bullies at Gotham Academy. Why can't his son just be left alone?!

John was just about to march across the room, ready and willing to fight a group of children, when Danny suddenly raised his head to yell in the face of the leather jacket git.

Alarmingly, the teenagers don't have the reaction that John expects. The large boy blushes, and the teenagers all seem to grow flustered.

No, John realizes with horror. No, they fancy him. The little rats bothering Danny are into him. Were all the other bullies just dumb kids who were terrible at flirting, too?

He is so stunned by the realization that he misses the way Danny attempts to push past the boy and somehow ends up tripping over his own two feet. He tries to catch himself on the table but the thing tilts over and their drinks fly.

Danny ends up half on the ground covered in drinks and looking bloody misaberle as the rest of the children snicker. John draws to his full height, deciding that it didn't matter what these kids felt for Danny.

His son thought they were bullying him because they made him feel terrible. So they were all going to feel the wrath of the one human who bullshits his way to being one of the mightiest spell casters in history.

"What the bloody hell are you urchins think you're doing!?" He yells. The kids all take one look at him before they scatter, rushing towards their posh cars outside.

"You alright, love?" He helps the boy to his feet, wiping some liquid with a napkin.

Danny looks small as he wipes away at his eyes. There weren't any tears; he was just taking the tea that had run down his face off. "I'm okay. Thanks, Dad."

"Do they bother you a lot?" He asks, anger growing in his chest. "We can go to your headmaster."

"No! Telling the principle will only make things worse!" Danny shouts, looking up in alarm. "Besides, they don't really bother me that much. Damian can usually scare them off. They should go for me, I can handle it; most other kids don't."

Fuck, where has he heard that phrase before?

It's alright if he hits me. I can handle it better than Mum.

John takes a breath through his nose, willing it to calm him down. This is another change that has come to be ever since he learned about Danny. Before, John would have gone off the handle, started a fight, yelled till he was red, drank, or slept through his issues, and damn the consequences.

He's got to think with a clearer head now. He owes Danny because of what his other father will do and because John wants to be the kind of father he never had.

The waitress rushes over, helping them get things set to right, and Danny apologizes for repeatedly knocking on the table. She waves away his worry, stating she saw the group and that, as someone who's worked near Gotham Acadamy for years, she knows what kind of students go there.

She also mentioned seeing what happened to the scholarship students over the years after nodding her head to Danny's pin. John hated that it was a requirement for Danny's uniform as a "show" of his accomplishments when all it did was single him out as a target.

While his son is distracted, John sends a quick text message to Bruce, informing him of the bullying Danny is going through.

Bruce responds with a single message: "It shall be handled." for once, he doesn't roll his eyes at the theatrics. A small thump on the window makes him glance up from his phone screen.

Pressed up against the glass is a blond teenage boy with wide eyes, breathing heavily and looking like a child staring at a feast of their favorite foods. John makes a face as the teenager's palms' and nose lean more into the glass, disorientating his image, but nothing could top the manic grin on his face.

John follows the boy's eyesight to where they practically devour his son, who is busy looking at the pasty bar. The waitress told him to pick anything he liked in the house to try and cheer him up from his bully.

Danny takes his sweets very seriously and studies his options with hyper-focused determination. He bends at his waist to look at the far-back brownies, and the teenager in the window lets out a cat-like growl of approval.

Alarmed, John steps in front of Danny, blocking him and his bum from view. The teenager, wearing the same uniform as Danny, and John was pretty sure he's seen this kid at Gotham High School when they had been touring the place before deciding to take Burce's offer, locks eyes with him.

John doesn't have to see into the stranger's scowl to confirm what he already knows.

That was not a human in control of the body. A demon likely took the unfortunate human for a joy ride. John raises his hand, spell crackling at his fingertips, and the scowl turns darker as the demon wearing the stolen face seers.

Just as he is about to fire off a spell, Danny's voice cuts through the tension, stepping around John with a happy "Bernard!"

His son walks up to the window before freezing and then looks back at John with the same bone-chilling expression of anger that he has only ever seen on one other being. That one being who could make the very fabrics of the universe fall apart despite not shouting or rampaging.

Danny inherited Clockwork's anger, it seemed.

"That thing is overshadowing my friend Bernard Dowd." Danny's voice is low and echoing. Somewhere behind him, John can hear the waitress gasp for air as the room's pressure increases, to Danny's displeasure. "I'm going to kill it."

John's knees shake as he fights to stay upright. "Alright. Make sure you finish murdering it before your second class. You have a chemistry test today."

Danny nods, walks outside, and grabs Bernard's arm to drag him into a dark alley. The dumb thing looked pleased, spraying something into its mouth. I thought Danny was going to snog it.

Fool.

As soon as Danny left, the pressure disappeared from the dinner, every human inside sighing relief once they could breathe better.

"What in the world was that!?" The waitress demands, her voice strained with fear.

John turns to her with a shrug. "Puberty."

Outside, a loud honk is heard as a certain teenager in a leather jacket slams his head against his steering wheel with a wail. His friends are quick to comfort him to the best of their abilities. They likely saw Danny drag the possessed human into the alleyway.

Good.

"Do you have any alcoholic drinks?" He asks the horror-stricken woman. "I need something strong."

"It's seven in the morning."

"Ah, a coffee then. Black. Strong. Anything to help me raise my boy and get through the day."

There is a long pause before she responds. "Of course, and it's on the house. Not easy being a single parent to....whatever that was."

At least she has a heart.

[sunderwight]

Fic where Su Xiyan lives but she's like, a huge asshole about it.

Tianlang Jun still gets stuck under the mountain, see, and Su Xiyan's been thoroughly betrayed by her own master, and seemingly not just him but also all the other major sects too. They all sided against her and against her lover based on prejudice. The fact that they were tricked likely wouldn't be known to her, from the outside it would just look as though they all readily dogpiled on at the first opportunity to take down a heavenly demon, even though he never did anything wrong.

Plus her own reputation has been ground to dust, going from the respected head disciple of the second greatest sect to being slandered as a honeypot who seduced a demon emperor in order to bring him down. She was used to destroy the man she loves, she almost died trying to keep her baby, her cultivation's probably taken a massive hit and she has no chance of getting to that mountain and digging her lover out from under it. Even if she could, he believes she betrayed him, so what kind of reception could she hope for?

Not that this will stop her from trying to dig him out anyway, but it's not like she can just snap her fingers and get him out. There's a whole mountain on him, and she's on the run with an infant.

So she decides she's going to make this everyone's problem as much as she can.

For a couple of years she lays low, just trying to rebuild her cultivation and look after the baby. If she's being honest, she's not great at it. She loves her son but maternal instincts don't really kick in, he's kind of a shriveled ball of misery and mess, and she doesn't really see the appeal. It gets better as he starts to get bigger and more of a personality asserts itself, and she can start treating him more like a small human than a wailing parasite that's latched onto her tit.

She would still hire someone else to look after him at the first possible opportunity, but she's paranoid about some aspect of his seal slipping and giving them away. With no body ever recovered, Huan Hua Palace is still looking for her. So she's stuck with childcare and she hates every minute of it and spends most of her time changing diapers just seething about dropping her old shifu into a mountain of shit and watching him suffocate.

Once Binghe is big enough to walk, and Su Xiyan is well enough to fight, they make for the borderlands. Su Xiyan starts teaching her son the earliest forms of cultivation he can learn, but his demon heritage is still sealed and right now he's too weak and small to risk unsealing it. So she focuses on herself, on rebuilding her own strength, turning to demonic methods and forbidden techniques (why not, when one has already been tarred and feathered and was never particularly precious about righteousness to begin with?) and hunting other cultivators just as often as demonic beasts.

Time passes and Su Xiyan begins to build a reputation even worse than Wu Yanzi's. A deadly rogue cultivator known only by some epithet or other who kills even powerful disciples of mighty sects. She experiments with what it would take to destroy a mountain, how much force, and what could provide it. Sacrificial arrays that feed off of the energy of cultivators or demons. Rituals and artifacts that demand high prices. Ways to summon demons or open gateways for them to possess others. She even considers using her son -- his blood is heavenly demon blood, his body is the closest thing she has to a suitable vessel for Tianlang Jun.

It would probably work, is the thing.

As the thought turns around her mind and she washes the blood from her hands, she decides that she's got to send her son away, actually. He's too weak and burdensome (and the fact she'd even consider using him such a way means that not even she is fully safe for him to be around any longer, not with the kinds of things she's doing, not with the kind of creature she's becoming). Now that he's big enough to survive on his own, she can ditch him somewhere to level up and bring him back once he's got enough strength to actually make himself useful.

So she sends him off, tells him not to come back until he's strong, ignores the tears and the hands gripping her robes until she finally has to wrench them away and strand the boy in a city far enough from her hunting grounds that he can't easily get back on his own.

Of course, he does still try, but he's lost and doesn't know where he's going. A kindly washerwoman takes pity on him and takes him in. The now-named Luo Binghe (his mother only ever called him 'son') isn't sure what he's supposed to be doing, but he suspects it's not just keeping house with his new caretaker. However, at the ripe old age of five he doesn't really know what else to do, so he stays and gradually the memories of the cold-eyed woman he called mother start to fade, until he wonders how much of it was merely a dream.

When his second mother dies and encourages him to go become a cultivator, Binghe decides that sounds right, so he goes to the Cang Qiong entrance exams and gets taken in. There's something familiar about his new shizun. Not in his looks, really, but in the way he acts, how he snaps and sneers, how he seems to hate Binghe but also claims him. Luo Binghe finds himself utterly desperate for the man's approval, even though he can't completely explain why. But it feels like, if he could just get this person to love him, the world might make sense.

Shen Qingqiu doesn't love him, though, if anything he hates him, and that only seems to change at random after a qi deviation. Which at first drives Luo Binghe slightly mad trying to figure out what he did and guarantee he can keep it, but gradually his thoughts and feelings on his master start to shift as, it seems, the man becomes someone completely different.

Meanwhile Su Xiyan has built up enough strength and information that she has a plan to move a mountain using a legendary blade that can open portals. She's also gradually begun to infiltrate her old sect again, using dark techniques to turn some of her former shidimei into puppets. By the time the Immortal Alliance Conference comes around, she's built the underpinnings to take the entire sect out from under her old master, and the chaos of the conference provides the perfect opportunity.

Shen Yuan has no idea what he did to cause the Huan Hua Palace Master to get ripped apart by demons during the invasion, and he's even more confused by the woman who materializes during the final hour and does him the favor of throwing Luo Binghe into the Endless Abyss herself, saying something about needing him to fetch a sword for her before she'll welcome him back to her side.

[baguettenjoyer]

Matchmaker Caine (a funnybunny mini fic)

by Reso!

“Psst. Jax!” Pomni hissed, tugging at his arm and pulling him down to her level.

“Whaddayawant?” he slurred, rubbing his eyes.

“Trust me on what I’m about to do. Just follow my lead,” she whispered, dragging him toward the others.

Before Jax could react, Pomni spoke up.

“Hey guys! Uh… I just wanted to make something public!”

The cast turned to look.

Pomni grabbed Jax’s hand.

“We’re… dating!” she announced awkwardly, mouth twitching into a crooked grin.

What followed was a circus.

Gangle’s comedy mask dropped and shattered. A wave of gasps and slack jaws followed. Kinger poked his head out of his fort and screamed in solidarity. One jaw hit the ground right next to Gangle’s mask.

Zooble didn’t look up from their magazine. Ragatha, on the other hand, looked like she’d seen a ghost.

Caine slowly retrieved his mandible from the floor, holding it up beneath his eyes.

“WELL, WELL, WELL! THIS REVEAL CERTAINLY MERITS A GRAND CELEBRATION!”

“Are they gonna get freaky, Caine?” Bubble chimed in.

Ragatha burst into tears.

Pomni had not expected that kind of reaction—from anyone. She didn’t dare glance at Jax, though she could feel his hand stiffen in hers. Maybe she should have talked to him first.

She dropped his hand and slipped away toward the hallway before Caine could declare a wedding or worse. She didn’t look back—but as expected, Jax followed.

“Hey, what gives?” Jax burst in behind her, cheeks a shade darker. “Dating?” He held out his hands.

“Relax, Jax. I told you—I have a plan,” she said, hopping onto her bed.

“Right, well, lay it on me,” he grumbled, placing his hands on his hips.

“Caine’s been pairing us lately, forcing us on dates. I think he’s trying to get us to…fall in love.”

Jax stared.

“You think he’s going Cupid on us?”

“Exactly.”

“So what, you're giving in to it?” He raised a brow.

“Wha- no, of course not! That’s why we’re going to fake date. If Caine thinks he succeeded, maybe he’ll stop trying.”

“So we just pretend we’re in love and he backs off?”

“That’s the idea.”

Jax considered it. He imagined Gangle giggling, Zooble teasing him to death... yeah, no thanks. But if it got Caine off his back, it was worth a shot. It’s not like fake dating Pomni could actually go wrong, right?

“…Right?” 

He snapped back to reality. “Jax, did you hear anything I just said?” Pomni groaned into her hands. “We have to function as a team if we want this to work, okay?” 

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s do it,” he said flatly. “But only if I get to break up with you at the end.”

Pomni smirked. “Alright, deal…boyfriend. But try not to have too much fun.” She cringed a little.

Jax chuckled. “You better not call me that, though. If you’re going to be my lover, you have to call me by a pet name,” he grinned. He’s gonna have so much fun with this.

“A pet name…hmm, okay. Uhh…Jaxy?”

“Boooooring.” He slumped against a tower of alphabet blocks.

“Oh, I got one for you,” his grin growing. “Pompeii.”

“That’s a city, you idiot,” she smiled. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

She lay on her stomach and rested her hands on her face. “The Jaxler.”

“The Jaxler?” he repeated. “How is that a pet name, Pom? Do you hate me that much?”

“Hey, your name is only three letters—it’s hard!”

“Pomodoro Technique.”

“Pomo-?” Pomni burst out laughing. Jax chuckled with her.

It was dumb. And fun. It was always fun with Pomni.

Then—POP!

“MY SUPERSTARS!” Caine materialized inches from them. “LOUNGING AROUND WHEN YOU SHOULD BE CELEBRATING YOUR LOOOOVE!”

“Did you guys get freaky~?” Bubble asked again.

Before they could respond, Caine snapped his fingers. In a flash, they were back in the common room, now decorated in a nauseating explosion of red, pink, yellow, purple, and blue. The cast sat at the table, looking miserable.

“Caine, wait!” Pomni stammered. “There’s no need for this! Really! We, uh… we’d rather have some alone time. To… be in love?” She laughed nervously.

Jax cringed at her awful delivery. He stepped in.

“What she means is, we don’t want a stinkin’ party. Relationships come and go without it being anyone’s business. Leave us be.”

He took her hand and led her back to the hallway.

Surprisingly, Caine didn’t stop them.

Back at the table...

Gangle was the first to speak.

“What’s going on?”

“Pomni and Jax are dating, isn’t it obvious,” Ragatha spat, arms crossed.

“Good to know they make calendars together,” sighed Kinger.

“You guys seriously believe they’re dating?” Zooble finally put down their magazine.

“Well… Pomni said—” Gangle began.

“Pomni’s lying. I don’t care why. But it’s obvious. Jax doesn’t care about anyone. It’s unnatural.”

Gangle didn’t know what was worse: Jax dating Pomni, or pretending to. Either way, it was suspicious. And with Jax, suspicious always meant bad.

“ZOOBLE!” Caine popped in way too close to their face.

“CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS? WE DID IT!” He held up a hand for a high-five.

Zooble didn’t reciprocate.

“Caine! Stop bothering me with your obsession with those two! And WE didn’t do anything—don’t involve me in any of this.” 

As though he didn’t hear a word they said, he screamed in their ear, “BUT I’M DISAPPOINTED THEY INSISTED ON THEIR ROOM—I CAN’T EVEN WATCH FROM INSIDE!”

“You are seriously crazy,” Zooble muttered, inching away from the floating dentures. “Caine, you have to give them space. Don’t you know anything about couples?”

I’d love some space myself, they thought.

“YOU’RE RIGHT!” Caine declared. “I MUST LET THEM INTO THEIR COCOONS… UNTIL THEY EMERGE AS BUTTERFLIES!”

Zooble rolled their eyes. What does that even mean? They wondered what it would take to get Caine to leave them alone. Relationships were overrated anyway. Especially in a place like this.

————————

Thanks for reading whatever this is! I might make a comic version of this, but it wouldn’t be in this much detail. I don’t wanna commit myself to the au too much and write a full fanfic, it’s just for fun :3

Edit: I’m a liar

Matchmaker Caine AU masterpost for comics and more

[ackermanrage]

hey! it’s the nonnie that asked if you’d write for jjk once requests are open :3 so excited to request a megumi x reader! i was thinking the fic could be about protective!reader with megumi because i’m tired of seeing him get beat up all the time 😭 i’m not too sure what i want the storyline to be, maybe when they’re on missions together or reader gets revenge for him by fighting todo for that one time he threw megumi through a building? 🤣

ᴇʏᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇʏᴇ

megumi fushiguro x fem!reader warnings: violence, blood, injuries, swearing, bruises an: I lowkey forgot the whole scene of todo fighting megumi 😀 the only thing i remember is todo asking him "whats your type in women?" lol. i just made up something i hope your fine with that 😭

You don’t make it in time.

You’re helping Nobara handle a cursed spirit on the other end of the forest when you hear the something crack.

It’s a sound you know too well.

You run—cursed energy bubbling under your skin, but when you break through the trees, Megumi is already standing on unsteady legs, slumped against the side of a crumbling wall.

A wall Todo just threw him through.

You freeze.

He’s coughing. There’s blood on his lips, his shoulder’s twisted like something popped out of place, and he’s still glaring up at Todo like he didn’t just get ragdolled like a freshman sorcerer on his first mission.

"Don't be so dramatic, Fushiguro," Todo scoffs. "You're tougher than that, right?"

You see red.

But you don’t move—not yet.

Because Megumi turns toward you, shakes his head once, subtle.

Not here.

And he still has that stubborn, indifferent look on his face—the one that says it doesn’t matter, like he didn’t just get fucking thrown.

Later, you patch him up in silence. His knuckles are bruised, his jaw swollen, and he doesn't flinch when you press a cold cloth to his skin.

But your hands do.

He notices. Of course he does.

“…You’re mad,” he murmurs.

“I'm livid.”

His lashes lower. “Don’t be. I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be,” you say. “You shouldn’t ever have to be.”

---

The mission briefing should’ve been routine. You’re half-asleep in the back of the room, fingers lazily spinning a pen

“It’s a joint-grade assignment in the Kyoto region. A curse outbreak, two 1st-grades. Kyoto’s sending backup as well.”

“Backup?” you ask casually.

“Yeah. Itadori was supposed to go, but he’s covering a separate mission in Osaka. So instead... you’ll have Todo Aoi.”

You sit up so fast the pen clatters to the floor.

Megumi, beside you, tenses just enough for you to notice.

Ijichi keeps talking, unaware. “Your objectives are clean-up and exorcism."

You lean over. “He’s going to be on the mission?”

Megumi doesn’t look at you. “Yeah.”

“…Don’t start anything.”

“I won’t,” you say. “Unless he does.”

---

The shrine is already collapsing under its own weight when you arrive, half-buried in cursed residue, and the air burns with cursed energy. The curses are somewhere inside. You can feel them twitching under the floorboards.

You and Megumi move like muscle memory. He summons Nue, shadows crackling, while you drive your palms into the ground, sending fractures snaking beneath the curses like detonators.

Fracture Bloom. A technique born from contact-based damage. One touch from you is enough to split concrete. Two touches? You can break a curse from the inside out.

It’s clean. Focused and Fast.

Until Todo charges in like a goddamn wrecking ball.

“Outta the way!” he yells, slamming through the wall you just reinforced. He plows through the second curse in a full tackle, slamming it into a support pillar.

The entire ceiling shudders—and collapses.

Megumi dives out of the way, barely dodging a thick beam of wood. He lands hard, breath knocked out of him.

You don’t even think.

“Megumi!”

You’re by his side in seconds, hands on his chest, checking for fractures. He waves you off with a grunt—but his arm’s already swelling, and his left side isn’t moving right.

Your blood goes cold.

Todo walks over like nothing’s wrong. “Relax! I took it down!”

You look up. Slowly. Dangerously calm.

“You could’ve crushed him.”

He blinks. “What? He’s fine.”

“You think because you’re fine, everyone else is too?”

“I was helping.”

You stand up.

Megumi grabs your wrist. “Don’t.”

You don’t look at him.

Because your cursed energy is rising too fast to control now. It’s not pulsing—it’s vibrating under your skin like something about to shatter.

"You're reckless. Arrogant. And if you ever touch him again—"

Todo scoffs. “What, you’re gonna teach me a lesson?”

You smile.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think I am.”

Your cursed technique flares like a ripple through glass. Your cursed energy sharpens, thickens, the air around you warping like heat off pavement.

You move first.

Todo raises his arm to block—and your fist connects.

A crack splits across his forearm like ice breaking under weight. His expression falters.

You twist, slam your knee into his ribs, then palm-strike his side—three points of contact. Fractures bloom across his torso, cursed energy disorienting his center of gravity. He stumbles back.

“This isn’t a game,” you growl, dodging his wild counter and sweeping low. He falls—and you’re on him in a blink, one hand pressed to his chest.

“Every time you’ve hurt him, you’ve laughed it off.”

He struggles.

You press harder.

“Well I'm not laughing.”

The fracture pulses outward from your palm—shatter lines spidering beneath his skin. Not lethal. Not even lasting. But painful.

Todo grunts. “You’re strong,” he admits, winded.

You lean in. “Don’t touch what you don’t understand.”

And with a final push, you send him flying—through the half-standing shrine wall and into the dirt.

Megumi doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then Todo coughs from the rubble, sitting up with a groan. He looks at Megumi. Not you.

“…You’ve got people,” he says. “Didn’t think you did.”

Megumi’s eyes flicker. Just once.

Then Todo looks at you.

“…Noted.”

---

The hotel room is quiet. Lantern light flickers on tatami mats, the scent of rain seeping in from the open window.

You sit on the floor, fingers red with antiseptic, bandaging your bruised hands.

Megumi walks in, towel around his neck, fresh from the bath. His hair’s damp. His arm’s still wrapped from the fight.

He looks at your hands. “You didn’t hold back.”

You don’t look at him. “Didn’t want to.”

A pause.

“...Why?”

You set the gauze down slowly. “Because I’ve watched you take hit after hit. Pretend it didn’t matter.”

He looks away.

“And I’ve watched people laugh while they did it. Like your pain was part of the show. Like you were just durable enough to be a target.”

Megumi swallows.

“So I hit back,” you whisper. “Because no one else ever did.”

His voice is barely there. “You didn’t have to.”

You finally look at him.

“I wanted to.”

You move closer, brushing hair away from his eyes. “You protect people every day, Megumi. Let someone protect you. Just once.”

Silence.

Then—quietly—he leans forward, rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters. “And terrifying.”

You smile. “Don't you like that about me?"

“…Yeah,” he admits. “I do.”

©ackermanrage - please do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work!

[sage-nebula]

PKMN - Good Times Don't Make for Effective Threats

Notes: Happy pride month, have some toxic yaoi. This takes place in the same timeline as my ongoing fic Grounding Techniques, but it happens before that fic starts, so it can be read as a stand-alone. Takes place after episode 89. Contains content warnings for mild physical torture (the torture is real but it's nothing graphic), mild starvation, and mild psychological torture. Also, Spinel might be into pain play.

Word Count: 1,172

- - -

There were many ways to break a human mind, but the most efficient method was to break the body first.

It wasn’t necessary for all human minds, of course. Some would bend under visual hypnosis, and would snap just as easily under direct cognitive manipulation. Yet the more willful someone was, the harder it became to break them while focusing on the mind alone. The stronger they were, the stronger their resistance was. Breaking them physically diverted their attention, gave them less energy to put toward resistance when so much of it was focused on keeping their body together.

Spinel’s first three test subjects had not been as willful as his current one, a fact that was frustrating and exciting in equal measure. Each of them had only needed sessions in the conditioning chair—Subject 2 needed more than Subjects 1 or 3, but the conditioning chair had been enough for them in the end all the same.

Subject 4, on the other hand . . . it had been five weeks and three days, and Subject 4 still showed no signs of relenting. Initially, Spinel had seen fit to treat him as he had the other test subjects, once he’d recovered from his injuries. He had been given a locked room with a bed, end table, books, and a chair; he was allowed to rest comfortably between sessions, though he spent most of his time trying to escape the room instead. (He had succeeded twice, which was Spinel’s fault; Spinel saw to it that two gallade were posted outside his room after that, to prevent any other mishaps.)

Those privileges were revoked four days ago. Subject 4 had been relocated to a holding cell brightly lit by fluorescent lights around the clock. There was no bed, nor were there chairs. Instead, two metal cuffs had been installed in the back wall, just high enough so that—secured by his wrists as he was—Subject 4 could not sit down, but also could not stand up straight without dislocating both of his shoulders first. He was given water to drink each day, but had been without food for thirty-two hours. His discomfort on the security feed had been palpable.

Spinel scanned his badge against the keypad securing the holding cells, and after a soft click the door slid open to allow him entrance. In this wing, all other holding cells were empty; Spinel thought it best to keep Subject 4 away from the so-called Five Heroes, lest he pull off another miraculous escape attempt with them in tow. As such, the holding space was silent, save for Subject 4’s labored breathing as he struggled in vain to find a comfortable position against the wall.

Spinel stood quietly on the other side of the glass for a long moment, drinking in the sight before him, before he said, “No one is coming for you, you know.”

It wasn’t possible for Subject 4’s—for Friede’s—posture to tense any more than it already was, the strain on his shoulder and back muscles being what it was. But Spinel still saw Friede’s jaw lock at the sound of his voice, and when he raised his head, his eyes were dark.

“What?” Friede asked, voice hoarse from the strain.

“No one is coming for you,” Spinel repeated. He let his words sink in for a second before he continued. “Your little group disbanded. They believe you’re dead. No one is looking for you, and no one is coming to your rescue.”

Spinel smiled as Friede looked away. Physical torture was a proven effective method at breaking the human spirit, but psychological torment helped just as much. Studies had proven that when people lost hope, they were far more likely to fall victim to whatever or whoever could possibly return it to them. It was how cults were successful. Take someone who had nothing and offer them something to believe in, and you could make them do just about—

“Good.”

“What?”

“I said, good.” Friede looked back at Spinel, an asinine grin on his lips despite how he tried and failed once again to sit, and then stood as much as he could before a cringe of pain forced him back down. “The last thing I want is for the kids to get mixed up in this. Keeping them away is the right thing to do. I can take care of myself.”

Spinel snorted. “Yes, you’re doing a very good job of that.”

Despite the strain from the cuffs, Friede flipped Spinel off with both hands.

“But you do realize I could bring the children here at any time?” Spinel continued. “I know where they are. Having my Explorers retrieve them would be no problem at all.”

Friede snorted. “Sure. But you won’t.”

“Why not?”

The grin that parted Friede’s lips was almost feral, his eyes burning like molten gold under his fringe. “Because if you do, I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth.”

It was an empty threat. Even if Friede was given the opportunity to harm Spinel, he was in no condition to do so, and with his intelligence there was no doubt he knew at least that much.

Yet though the threat was empty, the thought of Friede’s teeth against his neck, applying just enough pressure to bruise but not break through . . . Friede’s ragged breaths hot as his lips moved up, nibbling around Spinel’s earlobe, his strong hands with their soft callouses stroking down Spinel’s chest to his hips, to under his waistband—

Heat uncoiled in Spinel’s stomach like an agitated sandaconda and flashed through his body. The glass was clean enough to not offer much of a reflection, but the little bit he could see revealed just how red his cheeks now were. On the other side, Friede’s grin was gone, replaced with a suspicious frown.

Spinel cleared his throat.

“Not even forty-eight hours without food and you’re already prepared to resort to cannibalism,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his lab coat to retrieve an apple. “You’ve surprised me yet again, Professor.”

“Can we really call it cannibalism if I don’t swallow and stop when you’re dead?” Friede replied. Spinel squeezed the apple on the words don’t swallow, but he didn’t miss how Friede’s eyes locked onto it the second Spinel brought it into view.

“Hmm, I suppose not.” Spinel tossed the apple lightly into the air before he caught it again. Friede’s eyes followed the movement. Spinel smiled. “Do you like apples?”

A muscle twitched in Friede’s jaw, but he didn’t reply.

“Well, if you do, then you’re welcome to have this one . . .” Spinel buffed the apple against his shoulder, “. . . after your session today, if you’re good. I’ll see you later.”

Friede said nothing, but the way his fingers curled into fists in their shackles said enough. Spinel dropped the apple back into his pocket as he walked away. Once he exited into the hall, he leaned back against the closed door, and allowed the cold steel to cool his burning skin.

[nik0nk1]

HEAR ME OUT

Beerus!Viltrumite!Reader in the mainstream universe. So like this has been on my mind since I've gobbled up your fic. And like wait.. Hear me out. Basically the villains in the world tries to ally with Reader. Like, obviously, the GDA and Cecil will work their asses off to keep it a secret 'cuz its so easy for Reader to be swayed by food especially if they are newly arrived on earth. Reader doesn't hide it though. They announce every time they save someone that the reason they're still alive is their skills on cuisine. So like I'm thinking one villian (turned civilian) was doing heinous deeds and ofc Cecil sent Reader there and as Reader bashed the henchmen apart- the villain threw food (bros underground base is basically his house) at Reader who was advancing towards him and Reader ate it and was momentarily distracted, and the villain ran off with a new identity. STILL it caught the attention of other villains too (somehow) and they did the same, to bribe or distract (distracting is much more better), and they just work hard to get their cooking/baking skills better. It was a lot so at some point Mark just has to babysit bro even though said 'bro' can obliterate him whenever they want. Idk its just rlly funny to me.

Author's Note: I def hear you outtt, wait let me cook😋. Also if I continue this, I'm planning on making it into a Mark Grayson x Reader

Beerus![Name]

Crack, OP![Name], Mark is So Done, Viltrumites Are Freaking Out, [Name] Just Wants Food, Mark Has a New Problem, Thragg is Losing His Mind, Canon Divergence

Mark Grayson x Reader

Word count: 525

•|~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~|•

“The Viltrumite with a Fatal Weakness”

Cecil Stedman had prepared for many things in his career. Alien invasions, rogue superheroes, and even the occasional apocalyptic cult. But this? This was stupid.

“You’re telling me,” Cecil said, rubbing his temples, “that the world’s villains are bribing [Name] with food?”

Donald, looking just as tired, nodded. “Yes, sir. There’s been a shift in crime patterns. Instead of fighting, most villains are now focusing on… culinary arts.”

“We have reports of Machine Head hiring Michelin-star chefs, Komodo Dragon robbing bakeries instead of banks, and even Doc Seismic—Doc Seismic, sir—is apparently taking culinary classes.” He added.

Cecil scowled. “Explain.”

Donald sighed and pulled up surveillance footage. On the screen, [Name] stood in the ruins of what used to be a villain’s hideout. Smoke curled from the collapsed walls. The air shimmered from residual heat.

Kneeling before her, a bloodied and trembling crime lord held out a silver platter.

[Name] narrowed her eyes. “You expect me to spare you?”

The villain, still shaking, lifted the dome cover. Beneath it sat a delicately plated dish—perfectly seared meat, garnished with fresh herbs.

“…I researched your preferences,” he stammered. “It’s… flame-roasted, the way Viltrumites prefer it. I even ensured the seasoning wasn’t Earth-standard.”

Silence.

Then, [Name] exhaled slowly. She reached out, took a piece, and tasted it.

The entire GDA war room leaned forward.

Cecil clenched his jaw as [Name] chewed, then swallowed.

Finally, she spoke.

“…Acceptable.”

The villain collapsed in relief, his shaking knees falling into the ground.

[Name] straightened. “Your technique is flawed,” she continued, flicking a glance at the dish. “The fire was too low. It lacked the intensity necessary to sear properly. But…” Her gaze softened. “You tried.”

With that, she turned and flew off, plate still in hand.

Cecil stared at the screen in horror.

“…Sir?” Donald asked.

Cecil took a deep breath. “We’re all gonna die.”

---

Meanwhile, Mark was suffering.

Mark Grayson had been through a lot. He’d fought aliens, nearly died multiple times, and watched his own father beat him to near death. But this?

“This is ridiculous,” Mark snapped. “You’re letting criminals go because they can cook?”

[Name] barely spared him a glance as she examined the dessert before her. “They are improving. The last attempt at this… ‘soufflé’ was a failure. This one has a stable structure.”

Mark gestured wildly. “That’s not the point! These are villains! You were sent to eliminate threats, not judge pastries!”

[Name] finally looked at him, unimpressed. “Incorrect. I was sent to ensure compliance. If they dedicate themselves to this,” she gestured at the food, “rather than destruction, the result is the same.”

Mark opened his mouth, then closed it.

Mark wanted to argue—but then he remembered last week, when a heist had turned into a live-streamed baking tutorial because Killcannon had challenged Furnace to a “bake-off” for supremacy.

This was his life now.

“…I hate that you have a point.”

“…Cecil is gonna lose it.”

[Name] took another bite. “That is not my concern.” Her eyes were not leaving as she watched Mark mumbling to himself.

Cecil, watching from the surveillance room, took another long sip of whiskey.

Author's Note: jdjsjbsjsj this was so fun to write jfjdjjdj, thanks for the idea anonymous(⁠´⁠ε⁠｀⁠ ⁠)

[multifandom-exe]

Oblivious - A. Hotchner x Reader

Request: Hotch x bau reader where hotch has feelings but reader is completely oblivious? 

Word count: 2k 

A/N: this is a rewrite of a fic from like 5 years ago, if you want to check out the original here to see how much has changed. Feel free to leave requests! PLEASE LEAVE FEEDBACK IN COMMENTS OR ASKS PLS i need to know if I'm still writing like I'm 14 😭.

The line. There was always a line. A line between good and evil. A line between love and hate. A line between professional and personal. That was a line you loved to flirt with, to teeter on, to play with like it was your favorite toy. Of course, you shouldn't be flirting with your boss, but when he was stood there, in that suit that highlights his shoulders and his wrists and his thighs and oh god... 

“(Y/N)?” And the way your name came from his lips was like heaven on earth right there. “(Y/N)?” What? A hand lightly brushed against your shoulder as he moved his head to be in eyeline with you. Slight concern in them as he gave you a small smile, sending electric through your body and thoroughly grounding you to earth. 

“Yes, I'm sorry, I'm just... tired.” You tried to look anywhere but his eyes as you so desperately tried to cover the train of thought that had your skin buzzing and your heart racing. You glanced at his hand on your shoulder as he took it away, wanting to whine at the loss of contact.  

Flirting with your boss was your own self sabotage. But you relished it every time. Every touch he missed. Every glance he didn't see. Every time your heart rate sped up as you saw him leave his office. He didn't notice any of it. And it made you want him all that much more. You should've been glad. Ecstatic even. Because once he realized you liked him, in a way he didn't like you, in a way no subordinate should ever like their boss. That line would be crossed. And no amount of ‘I'm sorry’ or ‘let's forget about it’ could undo it. 

Morgan and JJ stood a length away, taking in the scene in front of them. You, absentmindedly playing with your hair, a sign of flirting. And him, fiddling with his hands as he looked into your eyes whilst you spoke. 

- 

“Do you think they’ll ever notice the other is so head over heels for them?” JJ stated, watching you two with a look that's usually only reserved for Henry when he doesn't understand what he did wrong, or when Emily is openly talking about someone right behind her. A grimace more like. 

“Nope.” He started, popping the ‘p’. “They've been doing this dance for too long; I'm starting to think it's never gonna happen.” He tutted and tried to take his eyes off... whatever was happening over there. 

- 

“You look nice today, by the way. You do every day, but you know.” His attempt at flattery didn't go amiss as you smiled bashfully. 

“Thank you, so do you. I enjoy this side of you much more, the happier side. Is this some new technique to raise team morale?” You quirked an eyebrow as you smiled at him, desperately trying to quell the faint blush on your cheeks. 

His smile faltered slightly. Right. The team. It's been years since he flirted with anyone and clearly, he must be doing something wrong if you're thinking of him and the team. Every day he saw you. And every day he just wanted to throw caution to the wind and hold your hand, touch your face, stroke your hair. Feel you. Gently. Fully. Months. Months of slight flirts and fleeting touches and he feels no closer to being with you now than when you first joined the team. How one of his best profilers could miss something that was right there, he would never know. He was sure he was getting to the point where he looked pathetic. Rossi had even mentioned it to him, a late night in his office over a bottle of scotch. ‘I'm starting to question your profiling skills Aaron, if you two could see what everyone else sees, you'd know there's no question about what happens next with you two’. But here he was, trying his best to put his heart on his sleeve, and even that wasn't working. Or maybe it was, and you knew, and you were simply saving him the embarrassment of rejection. 

A cough broke him away from his thoughts. He looked at you as you nodded your head towards your nosy team members, who stood absentmindedly watching the two of you. He copied your cough and looked pointedly at his team. 

“Back to work.” He said firmly, turning to touch your arm and give you a small smile before returning to his office. Your cheeks heated as you stared at the spot on your arm, slowly walking back to your desk. You sat in your chair, thoughts going a mile a minute and you sighed, pulling your files closer. 

“Oh, Hotch your just so dreamy!” Morgan lays his hand dramatically on his forehead, attempting to mock you. 

“Oh (Y/N), you look absolutely ravishing today.” Emily came over to join in the teasing, doing her best Hotch impression. 

“What are you two idiots yapping about?” You looked up at the scene, laughing inwardly at their antics. 

“Cmon, Hotch is so into you!” Came from JJ as she giggled softly. “And I'm willing to bet the feeling is reciprocated.” She tugged at your cheek, pointing out the obvious blush dusting them. 

“Okay, we’re all bullying me, stay mad.” You tried to joke but they all gave you pointed glares like you were the stupidest person in the world. “He is not into me! He just wants someone in this office to actually do their work.” You giggled before pulling all your files together. You pushed your chair back and stood up to deliver your files for the day. 

“Keep telling yourself that, Sugar!” Derek shouted as you walked away, receiving an unceremonious middle finger in response. 

You jogged up the stairs to Hotch's office, raising your hand to knock on the door, finding it already open. Your heart hummed against your chest at the thought of him hearing the ‘workplace gossip’. Well, can it really be gossip if it's true? 

“I have the files you wanted.” You held them close to your chest as you absentmindedly played with the small pieces of paper sticking out. The tension in the office was palpable. The same tension that hung over you when you looked a little too long, or smiled a little too brightly.  

His head snapped up at your voice and he broke out into one of those very rare Aaron Hotchner smiles TM. “You can just put them there.” He pointed to his desk, trying to shield his face that sported the same bright pink as you. As you approached, he begged to every god on earth you couldn't hear his heartbeat threatening to break out of his ribs. There was a beat of silence as you put the files down. You knew you shouldn't linger, but you couldn't help it. Youd do everything in your power to look at him a second longer each time he leaves. He looks up at you. He really looks at you. Eyes so bright whilst still working a job like this. Plump lips being gently bitten between your teeth. That conversation, outside. A conversation he never should've heard. This was his in. 

“They are right you know.” Your head lifted gently, taking you away from whatever thoughts lingered. Your eyebrows knitted together as a nervous smile and quizzical look painted your face. He stood and moved around his desk toward you. “i am ‘so into you’.” He tried his best to keep his earth shattering confession as light hearted as he could, rolling his eyes a little at the end of his sentence. He sucked in a breath as your face didnt move an inch from the shocked look plastered on it. God. This was the worst idea ever. He could already feel the anxiety and the nervousness and the everything, trying to claw its way out of his throat. His usual stoic look must have faltered, as he felt you lay your hand on his arm, breaking through his layer of despair. 

“Hotch.” Your eyes softened as you looked at him, and your eyes closed lightly, a blush spreading on your cheeks. It felt like this wave of emotion had hit you and you just wanted to cry. The line. It had been crossed, and it was so utterly terrifying, and felt so fucking amazing. 

He had obviously mistaken your soft tone as one of pity, of rejection. He stuttered slightly and turned his back to you, flushing deeply. He babbled, about how ‘sorry’ he was, and how we should ‘just forget he said anything’. God, he had taken risks in his life, but this was possibly the most, stupid, miscalculated, inconcieve- 

“Hotch!” Your raised voice broke him out of his spiral as he turned to face you once more. You moved toward him and lightly pushed a stray hair from his forehead. He so desperately wanted to lean into your touch. “Whatever is going on in that pretty little head of yours, at least let me finish what i was saying.” He shook his head lightly, like he was trying to shake his thoughts away, as he gazed into your eyes for the first time since his confession. “I'm totally into you too.” You mirrored his earlier words with a slight giggle. And just like that, a wave of emotion erupted in him. He breathed deeply, not realizing he was depriving himself of air waiting for your answer.  

He moved to softly run his thumb over your cheek as he gazed at you lovingly. “I've been wanting to tell you for so long. I tried flirting but I figured I just wasn't very good because you hadn't realized.” 

“Stop. I've been doing the same thing!” You gently dropped your head to his chest, laughing incredulously at the stupidity, that two very intelligent profilers had missed all of this. So oblivious. Both wrapped in their own little world of desperate pining.  

“How about i take you on a date? I could definitely use some time away from this office.” He lifted your chin gently, so you were looking into his eyes. 

“I couldnt think of anything better” You gazed at him, happiness threatening to burst your heart into two. 

Bonus 

Through the large office window, the 5 profilers stood, huddled around your desk, staring intently, like it was the finale of their favorite rom-com. They all sighed a huge breath as they saw you lay your head on Aaron's chest, all turning to eachother with the most shit-eating-grins. 

“I think, Reid and Morgan owe me 20 bucks.” Rossi smirked as JJ and Emily burst into laughter. Morgan hit himself on the cheek playfully with a little ‘ouch’ before rooting through his pocket for a 20. Reid had tried to argue ‘as Hotch's best friend, of course you'd understand him the best’ But it was to no avail, as Rossi just stuck his hand out and gave him an unconvinced look. He sighed and rooted through his pockets.  

After much laughter and gossip, they all turned back to see you placing a chaste kiss on his cheek and hurrying out of his office. They caught him lifting a hand to where you had kissed. Upon realizing his blinds were open, he promptly shut them, trying his best to plaster his intimidating look back on his face. You stopped at the top of the stairs as you realized all eyes were on you. You coughed and tried to indignantly hide the blush that coated your cheeks.  

“Back to work.” 

-

let me know what you think! and pls request this was so cute.

Taglist

@back-totheoldhouse

[ponderingmoonlight]

Satoru Gojo purposely keeping the scar you gave him instead of using reversed technique

Pairing: husband! Gojo x reader

Word Count: 1,6k

Synopsis: When his skin gets busted by your sheer excitement, it doesn't feel right to Satoru to use his reversed technique and simply heal.

Warnings: fluff fluff fluff, Yuji's "death" scnene in season 1, blood lol

Thank you dear anon for aggressively reminding me that it's canon for Gojo to not have any scars, it really helped me cooking up that fic! 🤍

Every step feels like hell, the only thing that keeps you from collapsing onto the floor being the reassuring hand of your husband on your shoulder.

This can’t be true, it’s just impossible. Yuji Itadori was a member of Jujutsu High for a few weeks, just started to get to know this world better. This was supposed to be an easy mission, the three of them should have made it out alive with ease. But apparently, Sukuna decided to show up. And apart from injuring Megumi, he violently took Yuji’s life by ripping his heart out. A heart made of pure gold, a heart so precious that you couldn’t help but care for that boy the minute you saw him.

But now he’s dead.

Your hands start shaking immediately the minute you step into this cursed room you visited far too often, gazing at Yuji’s body covered by a cloak. This isn’t a bad dream. No, the blood covering the white cloak tells you more than urgently that Yuji Itadori isn’t there anymore.

“Please tell me that there’s a chance he’ll come back”, you mutter.

Oh, how much both Shoko and Satoru hate to see you like that. It’s not a secret to anyone at Jujutsu High how deeply you care about your students, loving them like your own children. Of course, this isn’t the first time you’ve seen a student die in front of your eyes. In times like these, jujutsu sorcerers pass away like flies. But Satoru knows what you’ve seen in Yuji, that he somehow reflected parts of yourself. And still, you weren’t able to protect that boy, both Satoru and you coming too late to rescue him.

“I really wish I could, but he shows no signs of life. I’ll move on to autopsy now. If you want to say goodbye…Maybe do it now and leave afterwards.”

Satoru wraps his arms around you just in time before you slide onto the ground, holding you tightly against his chest.

“This is not fair”, you breathe out, head still not able to accept Yuji’s farewell.

He was so young, so full of life. He doesn’t deserve to die, he still had so much ahead of him. There needs to be something you are able to do. Aren’t Satoru or Shoko able to use their cursed technique?

“He didn’t show any signs of life for hours by now, (y/n). Not even Shoko or me are able to bring him back to life. I’m so sorry”, he mumbles against your ear out of nowhere.

So this is really how it ended? With Yuji getting killed by none other than Sukuna himself? Like in trance, your wobbly legs carry you to the autopsy table his lifeless body lays on. You want to stretch out your arm, want to look at that precious boy one last time before Shoko does her job.

But you can’t.

“I can’t look at him”, you blurt out.

With a swift motion, you turn around and burry your face against your husband’s chest.

“It’s okay babe, just look at me, okay? You don’t have to do this.”

Satoru’s arms keep you from losing yourself completely, soak up your falling tears while his head rests against yours. Oh Yuji, you’ll never be forgotten. All the laughter’s both of you shared, his potential, how he always cared about others. You will think about him every time the sun starts to rise, when new students get greeted, when you kill another curse-

“Hey, what’s up? Huh, what are both of you doing here, Gojo-sensei?”

This voice…

That was Yuji Itadori.

Out of instinct you turn around rapidly, not even noticing how the back of your head crushes into Satoru’s forehead with full force. He sees starts, blood taking his sight in an instant while his mind isn’t even able to comprehend it was Yuji who just spoke.

“Yuji! Are you okay? Are you hurt? You’re back!”, you babble out, embracing the boy in a tight hug.

“To be honest I don’t even know what happened last and I’m pretty hungry…Oh, you’re bleeding Gojo-sensei!”

You’re…bleeding? You turn around in confusion, following Yuji’s eyes.

“OMG SATORU!”, you cry out, the sight of your husband covered in his own blood shocking you to your core.

When did that happened…Was it…you?

“I guess you were so happy to see Itadori that you’ve forgot about me standing behind you”, he mutters amused.

“Babe I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just got so carried away and-“

“Don’t worry about me. Reversed technique, remember? I’ll be whole in seconds. Just look after Yuji, I love you.”

You let out the breath you were holding, the bright smile forming on your gorgeous face making Satoru forget the world around him for a moment. You are so caring, so passionate. And you are his wife.

“I’m a lucky man”, he mutters to himself while pressing the tissue Shoko handed him against his wound.

There you sit, gently caressing Yuji’s cheeks and asking him over and over if he’s okay.

“You really are. This isn’t a problem for you, right?”, Shoko questions with one glance at the laceration on his forehead.

The shocked look on your face replays itself over and over in his mind, lets a chuckle escape his lips. With the help but his reversed technique, it would be way too easy to get rid of that minor wound. Within seconds, there wouldn’t even be a scar left, just his flawless skin. But…it was you who did this to him out of sheer excitement. It sure would be nice to look into the mirror and get reminded of you daily, right?

“Oh, I might as well keep that”, he replies with a sly grin.

- a few weeks later -

You sit on the edge of the couch, desperately waiting for that time of the day. Even after being married to that force of a man for 4 years now, you find yourself getting all excited when he announces that he’s going to shower. Because going to shower means that he’ll come out just wearing boxers with his body still a little wet and his hair sticking to his face in that delicate way.

“Still waiting for me, huh? It’s not like you can see me naked every time you want, babe”, he finally purrs.

Your heart skips a beat. This man…How is it even allowed to look so breathtakingly gorgeous? The way a single droplet of water runs down his cheek, how he gently strokes his damp hair back.

Wait. You squint your eyes a little harder. What is that on his forehead?

“What do you have there?”, you question, rubbing your own hand against the ride side of your forehead.

This almost looks like a scar. But Satoru shouldn’t have scars. After all, he’s able to use reversed technique, healing himself in the matter of seconds. Is it just dirt? No, that definitely looks like scar tissue.

“Oh, it’s nothing”, he immediately tries to brush you off, pulling his hair back into his face.

“No way Romeo, come back here right now”, you demand.

With a swift motion you lift yourself off the couch and hunt after him.

“Is that a scar?”

“It might be…”

“Why didn’t you just heal it? Show it to me!”

When you finally catch him, you slick his hair back again. Only to be greeted what indeed looks like a middle-sized scar. But why and how did this happen, why didn’t he just heal like he usually does?

“You really don’t know where this came from?”, he challenges you.

You blink a few times. What the hell is your husband talking about?

“Why would I know where this came from?”

“Because it was you, (y/n)?”, he playfully bites back.

You? Your mind races, searching for a single moment you ever hurt your husband. You were never really able to even hurt him, no matter how berserk you went in training. When was the last time you even wounded him? But wait, there was this one time you made him bleed, that one time when…

“This was when Yuji woke up-“

“EXACTLY!”, Satoru cries out and gives you a round of applause.

“But why did you keep it? You said you’d be able to heal it…”

“Because I didn’t want to. This scar right here”

Gently, he takes your hand in his and traces the soft scar with your fingertips.

“will always remind me of what a wonderful human being you are.”

Oh. Your eyes turn glossy in an instant, staring up at your loving husband while he gifts you with the most breath-taking smile you’ve ever seen.

“Satoru”, you breathe out.

There is no time to waste. You wrap your longing arms around his tall frame tightly, aiming to never let him go again.

“Every time I look into the mirror, I think about my wonderful wife”, he mutters into your hair.

“Y’know, you could just take a picture of me or something-“

“No. I would rather just keep that scar of my wonderful wife smacking me over a student.”

You hit him playfully over his comment, a giggle escaping your precious lips.

“Come on, it wasn’t like that…”

“I’ll always tell the story like this.”

Tags: @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @hellkaiserinphoenix @lauv4chuuya @shadowfoxey @starlightanyaaa @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen @magalimachete @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut  @mynahx3 @sad-darksoul @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix @chuyasthighs0 @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @wxwieeee  @froufrousnowman @tomiokathedepresso  @gojosrealwife  @coffeeluvr96 @mahi-tamashi @weebotaku21 @chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brain  @risuola  @sugurulefttesticle @wordskeeper @baku2345 @polarbvnny @ruixrei @bam-bam-bam-bame-blog @lavenderdrxp@localhehecat @alicerhr @kayleegomez @belovedvamp @wifenanami @chilichopsticks @dlwlrmas-world @oikawarz @darkstarlight82 @satoreo

Dividers by @saradika 🤍

[ruinix]

you think you'd be able to write smth with pillow prince! quinn x reader by any chance? Your luke one was so so good!

Hey there, lovely. I am so happy that you liked pillow prince Lukey (here). My braincells turned into a more angst route, but don't worry you will be swooping in to save the day. Disclaimer: This fic is in no way telling that Q gets panic attacks. This is only fiction. If you experience panic attacks, there are many ways to manage them—grounding and breathing techniques and medication. You will be okay. You can skip over the Angst. There will be a blue page-break. Only if you want to...Do whatever that pleases you, lovelies. Sidenote, new banner format unlocked...how do we feel about it? 🥺 (Canva is a lifesaver. Like always, pictures came from Pinterest. We thank Pinterest gods.)

Just Him

18+. Whore thoughts. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Severe Panic attack (Hyperventilation, verge of passing out). Self-doubts. Smut. Pillow prince!Quinn. Dom/Sub Dynamic: Subby Quinn. Unprotected sex.

Quinn tried so hard.

As a captain, he needed to come up with strategies on ice. As a captain, he must lead his team to victories. As a captain, he must endure. His pain didn't matter. He needed to play through gritted teeth, swallowing his groan as he pushed his muscles harder, keeping his face free from any signs of discomfort, any signs of weakness. He must be strong. He must be resilient. He must. He must.

Yet even the strongest soldiers break.

As soon as Quinn exited his car, his head was spinning. His axis tilted while he turned his front door open. He could barely locked the door as he sagged against the wall, his chest squeezing, the corners of his vision darkening and compressing closer and closer until he had no choice but to close his eyes, yet even the darkness closed in. Tighter. Squeezing him. Caging him.

Cold sweat beaded his skin. His hands trembled with the violent shivers running down his body. His heart pounded, slamming violently against the chest that felt like vise. He needed out, yet the only thing he could do was drop to the floor as he panted shallow breaths that did nothing for him. He couldn't breath, taking in a lot of air yet no oxygen reaches arteries. He gripped the front of his shirt, right over his chest. He covered his lips with his other hand.

He tried controlling his breath, tried forcing himself to breathe through nose, tried to exhale as long as he could. Yet he failed. Just like how he failed to get his team a win tonight.

He couldn't do this. No matter what he did, it didn't feel enough. If he couldn't even get his shit together, how could he lead the—

"Quinn!"

Your voice sounded far away, muted, distorted, like he was underwater while you were screaming for him, but it managed to bring him up. He opened his eyes to see you rushing towards him with a paper bag. You held it securely over his mouth and nose, gripping him by his shoulders, pushing him against the wall using your hand that clasped his.

"Breathe, Q," you said. "Match my breaths."

Quinn tried, his tears falling when he couldn't. His vision turned splotchier, tears falling down his cheeks. He was going to pass out.

"Breathe for me, Quintin," you ordered. Your voice deepened a tone as you push against his chest harder. "Breathe. For. Me."

Quinn focused. His whole being stood in attention to your words. For you, he would. One breath at a time.

Through dimmed vision, he looked on the rise and fall of your chest. When you inhaled, he inhaled. When you exhale, he did. Then you started telling him to focus.

You demanded five things he could see. His eyes, with blurry and tight vision, trailed.

Your diamond stud earrings. Your hoodie that was his. The hair clip that held all your hair. The flowers he had brought yesterday that was now on a vase. Your face, tight with worry.

He nodded. Now, you asked for four things he could touch. His hand moved.

The cold tiles of the hallway. The grout in between. The softness and firmness of your hand that gave him reassuring squeeze. The delicate skin of your cheek with wetness of your tear that fell as you blinked.

He nodded. You sought three things he could hear. His ears listened beyond his ragged breaths.

Your music blaring from the living room. Someone's dog barking through the night. Your voice as you muttered his name—firm and strong yet so afraid.

He dipped his chin. He's no longer suffocating but trapped. You urged for two things he could smell. He used his inhale beyond breathing.

The lingering smell of what you've cooked. Your soft, sweet, florally perfume.

He held your cheek. His hand was not as shaky. His heart was not beating in pain. He leaned forward, his tears rolling down his cheeks. One look from him and you knew what he needed. Still, you asked for what he could taste, before you crossed the space and pressed your lips against his.

You with the taste of caramel and fruits and mint.

A whimper escaped him as he turned desperate when you deepened the kiss your tongue moving with his, encouraging him our of the darkest corners of his mind. You've brought him out of the confines of his mind, grounding him to reality that he wasn't alone.

After a few more seconds, you gave him one final peck. You rested your forehead against his, your hands on his cheeks, fingers grazing his jaw. You settled on his lap. He could feel you shaking—not as much as he did, but you are.

But before his guilt pooled in his chest, you muttered, loud and clear, "Oh, Quinn, my sweet boy. I got you. I got all of you."

He sobbed, his tongue finally working, no longer feeling like lead in his mouth. He told you about everything. Every fucking weight settling on his fucking shoulders. Every loss that piled and cut him down. His disappointment that festered because the playoffs felt so fucking faraway. He ranted and ranted.

You listened. Your hands moved, smoothening over his chest, his shoulders, his collarbones, his cheeks. Not once did you look at Quinn like you were tired of him. You knew he needed you so you provided your touch, your comfort, your presence. He knew you understood him. He knew because you knew him more than he did. You were always his pillar. So strong as you held every piece of him while he broke into pieces. So kind as you held him firmly, waiting for him to gather up those pieces, letting him feel your weight on his lap, on his chest more than the pressure on his shoulders.

"Let it out, Q." You started humming a tune that eased his soul. "You did what you can. It's enough. You're enough, Quinn."

Before you, if someone were to tell him that, he would scoff and would beat himself further down. Being in the NHL, those words sometimes felt untrue.

Now, with you, he greedily take it in. He desperately needed to hear it.

You knew that, so you repeated those words every time he crashed down, every time he get swallowed by panic attacks as soon as he reached his home.

The only place he could be vulnerable. The only place he could just be Quinn.

Not the Canucks captain.

Not anyone.

Just Quinn.

Minutes turning into an hour. You both would stay in the entry way until his tremors stopped, until he finished crying, until all that was left was Quinn, all pieced together, all comfortable with your hands rub his back.

"Feeling better?" You asked, pressing a kiss on his neck, right on his pulse. When he nodded, you grinned at him, pride shining in your eyes. "That's my good boy."

Shiver ran down his spine. The praise has engrained itself to his needs. He could barely say anything—too exhausted—standing up because you told him to, trailing after you then sitting down on the sofa because you told him to.

He followed everything you ordered. He feel secure and content when he does so.. It felt natural. It felt good. In this home, he didn't need to put up a front. He didn't need to exhaust himself by staying in control. He only needed—wanted and yearned—to let go because he was in good hands. Your hands. You were safe. The safest in this world.

He watched you scooped soup into bowls. He wasn't blind not to see the meal you had prepared—now in containers—that should be for dinner, but you knew he never liked eating after a panic attack. You quickly put it in the fridge before you came over with the bowls. For him and you.

"Eat," you said with a smile.

The hair on his body stood. His heart was, again, pounding in his chest. Fluttering in satisfaction, instead of thundering in pain. He loved your commands. Casual. Simple. Ever since the beginning of your relationship, you were in control. Not in a controlling way, no. More in a caring and loving way. Affectionate. It made him all mushy and pliant to your wishes. Quinn yearned your control over him. So he followed. No questions. No complaints.

You started talking about your day, further removing Quinn from any more lingering thoughts of everything that weighed him down. You told him about the parcels you had to unbox, happily telling Quinn that you washed the hoodie he had requested. The more you talk, the more his lips stretched into a smile, his gaze softening, his soup emptying.

At some point, after you took your bowls, after you take of your hoodie, Quinn's eyes wandered down to your chest, to your pebbled nipples, under your thin and cropped camisole. Then down to your exposed lower abdomen as your sweatpants—his—slid an inch as you settled beside him, your arm linking with his. Despite the exhaustion, his cock stirred.

He couldn't focus on the movie you started, not when you were so close, not when he realized you weren't wearing anything under those pants, not when you leg came up, wrapping around his, fully cuddling him. He couldn't listen or see beyond you. It got harder when you settled further, your thigh grazing his fucking hard-on as you slide it upwards.

"My love," he rasped, his hands turning into fists.

You smirked, eyes travelling to meet his. You moved your thigh, letting him to feel the friction, his blood thrumming through his veins. You teased, "Does my sweet boy need something?"

"Please," he begged, needing to touch you but he knew he couldn't. Not yet. Not without your permission.

He whined when you got off him. He hated the few seconds you weren't touching, but he sighed as your hands glide over his thighs, undoing his pants, unzipping him, tugging the waistband of his boxers. His cock sprung up. So hard that he was fucking dripping with pre-cum.

"You're so hard, Q. Look at you getting yourself wet." You grinned, your eyes tracking the bead sliding down and down, licking your beautiful lips. "Oh, so messy, Q. What will I do to you?"

Quinn cursed, gritting his teeth as you lazily jerked him. He panted, lifting his hips when you moved to remove his pants.

"Such a good boy," you praised, leaning over. Your tongue glided from his base to his tip, licking away the mess he was creating on himself. "Mmhmm, you're so divine, Quinn."

"Fuck!" He could only curse, stripping his shirt, hiding his face behind his arm as he weakly jutted his hips. "Oh, please, my Love." When you licked his sensitive slit—kissing, sucking, and spitting on it—his eyes rolled up just from the sensation, from the pleasure zapping though his whole body. "Don't wanna come so quickly. Can't."

"You can, Quinn. You can." You encouraged as you jerked him harder, using both your spit and his pre-cum. "I'll take care of you, Quinn. You can let go. I have you."

He shook his head, whimpering, whining, sobbing. He didn't know how to say it. He didn't want to come in your mouth even if it felt fucking amazing. No. He wanted—

"My sweet boy forgot his words," you hummed, standing up while your hand still jerked up and down his length. Just one push on your pants, it fell off. You mounted his lap, exchanging your hand with your pussy. So fucking wet as you ride along his length. "So needy, Quinn. Next time, I need you to tell me what you want, okay, handsome?"

You gripped his wrists, guiding his hands to your hips. He grasped them with need, anchoring himself to you as you finally take his cock into your weeping pussy.

"Yes." Quinn nodded, stuttering his moans. You were so tight, so perfect around him. So wet and ready for him. "Please.. Please. Please."

"Needy boy," you whispered into his ear, nipping his earlobe, sucking it. "My sweet, perfect, needy Quinn. You feel so good. Do I feel good?"

Your praises etched themselves deeper than anything that could touch him. All he could think about was how your pussy felt, how your hands touch him so gently yet so roughly as your nails dug into his skin, making him groan from the mixed sensation of pain and pleasure.

"Yes." He cried out.

Your pussy squeezed, making him writhe. You grabbed his cheeks, kissing him. You moan into it, into his soul, as you greedily swallowed his sounds. He could feel your smile, your delight. It was crystal clear to both of you that he was utterly yours. To take. To fuck. To love. That was exactly what Quinn wanted.

When you rolled your hips, taking him deeper, he let out a loud moan, his head tipping back. He gasped, breathing choppy whines as you kissed and marked his neck.

"That's it, Q. Just let go," you moaned. "You are perfect. There's not a thing that I would change about you. My good boy."

He still tried to hold back. Pleasure wrecked down his spine, his eyes turning blurry, his heart pounding, his balls tightening. He was so desperate to hear you say that he was your good boy. Especially when you started kissing and sucking the sensitive skin where his jaw meet his ear, when you kept encouraging him to let go. He tried and tried and tried, but he was so weak.

"I got you, Quinn," you said as you let out your moan. The familiar pulses of your pussy got Quinn's resolve to break. "Let's come together. Be a good boy for me. Come."

And he did. When your words became an order, it was harder to last. You wanted him to be good, and he was. He came hard so hard that his eyes were once again rolling back. Every spurt felt like it was drawn from his very soul. His vision hazed over with a film but sharpened at the sight of your face of pleasure. Your pussy convulsed around his cock, as you let out your own shout as you crashed down with him.

You both panted, sweat dripping down your temples. It took you both minutes to recover. You laid on him, your camisole was now transparent on some places from your and his sweat. Your breaths hit each other's skin. Your lazy smiles marked your faces as much as the red-blue kiss marks you've made on his neck.

"I love you," Quinn muttered, hissing when you squeezed around him. He tucked your hair away from your face. "Thank you for bringing me back. Thank you for being here."

"I will do everything for you, Quinn." You kissed his nose. Your eyes filled with tears. "I love you, my Heart."

His eyes watered immediately from that. While he professed his love every time he calls you his Love, you always did too when you call him your Heart. It meant that if he lived, you would too. Even if one of you fell deep into the trenches, the other would always be there, helping each other to heal, to be strong, to be whole.

You were two beings with lives entwined. Until you have children or not. Until you two grew old that your backs would curve. Until your next lives.

Not one of you would let go.

Never.

This could've been a drabble. It might get formatted into a drabble...who knows...Hope you like it! 🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️

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[its-luna-noel]

puppy chronicles

01. the broken puppy | gojo x reader

The JJK men are gifted a hybrid puppy. ...wait, that kind of puppy? alpha!human!jjk men x omega!hybrid!reader

warnings: 18+, MDNI, f!reader, hybrid!au, omegaverse, hybrid!reader, omega!reader, clan leader!gojo, pet play, collars/leashes, previous abuse, smut, masturbation, heat/rut, knots, oral (f! receiving), mating press

word count: 7.4k next: the obedient puppy | geto x reader

masterlist | link to ao3

notes: hi there, i couldn't get the idea out of my head so here it is, this is my first a/b/o fic so i hope you enjoy! this one is more exposition-heavy than i plan for the following ones. next up is geto:)

When Satoru Gojo finally takes his seat as clan leader, there’s a line of people eager to pay their respects, to shower him in praise, to give him gifts.

He wants to send them all home; he has enough money to never need a single thing any of them give him, but he sits and smiles and accepts every gift, even from elders who grimace at him and wish he never inherited the techniques he did.

He can’t help but feel a little smug as they turn their back and leave.

It’s clear that many visitors are simply there to try and earn his approval, to get on his good side before he finally makes all the changes he’s dreamed of since he was a teenager, since he saw the injustices of the system they’ve created.

He can’t wait to raze it to the ground.

The procession continues for what feels like hours, until finally, the last visitor approaches his seat, an old woman hunched in her age. She shuffles towards Satoru, and he lets out a silent sigh. She’s one of the original elders, one of the traditionalists that he can’t wait to take down. He’s sure she’s convinced he shouldn’t even be clan leader, despite his power, simply because of his outlook.

Oh, well. Her opinions change very little for him.

She bows before him in a sign of deference. “A gift, for you,” she says, and he almost sighs again, because he doesn’t want whatever she has for him, whatever ceremonial robes or old book of rules or whatever bullshit she’s here to give him.

Instead of handing over a dusty tome or a delicate box, she turns to the side and beckons over one of the bystanders.

Satoru turns to look, still expecting some traditional gift that only a corpse would hand over. But his throat constricts, and his eyes widen, and he’s staring at the young man who approaches.

The man’s hand is clenched, and around his fist is wound a black leather leash, which is pulled taut to keep its captive at heel. The clip of the leash is linked to a matching black leather collar, a silver o-ring pressed into the soft throat of its wearer. And then, startling blue eyes catch on bare skin, and there you are, head bowed and hair curtained around your face as you crawl on all fours towards his seat.

Satoru fights to swallow. He doesn’t know whether to feel disgusted or…aroused. “What is this?” he asks.

The old woman smiles, like the situation isn’t anything strange. “A hybrid puppy,” she says, “for your entertainment.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows again; his cock bobs as it twitches in his pants. “This is inhumane,” he replies, staring at you, and he tries to pretend that he’s looking at you with concern instead of with rapt attention.

The woman just continues to smile. “Sir, it’s tradition. Take this gift and enjoy.”

And then the leash is placed into Satoru’s waiting hand, and he holds the leather limply as the surrounding crowd bleeds out of the building.

Leaving the two of you alone.

Satoru’s six eyes are all focused on you, examining every part of you, every part of your beautiful body. You’re wearing nothing but the leather collar and a black leather harness, a strappy thing with small silver o-rings at each juncture. From beneath your hair poke two fluffy puppy ears, swiveled backwards in submission, and at the end of your spine is a matching fluffy tail, long beautiful fur obviously well-groomed. Your eyes are on the floor, your hair still obscuring your face, but you sit obediently on your heels, waiting for his command.

You don’t even tug on the leash once.

Satoru swallows again, because his mouth is so dry at the sight of you and all your bare skin, the smooth expanse of your body only broken by erotic black leather, your nipples hard in the slight chill of the quiet room.

His hand tightens around the leash.

He has to take a deep breath, to look away for a moment to gather himself because jesus christ you’re his in every meaning of the word, and the alpha inside him can’t get over that need to touch that body of yours offered so obediently to him. But the rational part of his mind, the human part, recognizes how vulnerable you are right now, how small and helpless you look at the foot of his seat. So he takes another deep breath and finally speaks, finally addresses the hybrid puppy at his feet.

“Are…are you okay?”

The question surprises you; no one’s ever asked you that. You don’t raise your eyes from the floor as you nod.

He’s silent for another moment. Then he speaks again. “Let’s…let’s get you dressed.”

He stands from his seat, and for a moment he’s towering over you, seeing how small and fucking delicious you look at his feet, and he again has to bite back an overwhelming desire to kneel behind you and bite all over you, marking you as his. But he holds back, and he takes yet another deep breath. “Come on…you can stand.”

You freeze at the words; you’ve never been encouraged to stand, to bring yourself up out of your submissive position in order to stand at the same level as those around you. You’ve always been treated like a pet, a puppy, something cute to pet and something sexy to use. And so, in your shock, you finally raise your eyes from the floor, and you look up at him, checking to make sure he really means it.

And then you meet pretty blue eyes, startling in their depth, their brightness, and you’re lost in them for a moment as you wait for confirmation.

He offers a gentle smile, but it wavers like he’s in pain. “It’s alright,” he softly encourages, nodding down to you. “You can stand.”

So you push yourself off the cold floor, stumbling on wobbling legs as you rise to your feet, and he steps forward to catch you, hands catching yours to steady you. “It’s alright,” he says again, but he doesn’t meet your eyes, and you think maybe it’s because he thinks you’re a disgusting hybrid, a little freak, but it’s actually because he’s torn between pitying you and wanting to slam you down onto the floor and fuck you right there, his cock already starting to strain against his pants because he can feel your heat, can feel how soft your hands are, can only imagine how good they’d feel elsewhere– He shakes the thought away.

His large, warm hand rests between your shoulder blades as he leads you out of the audience room of his family home, which now belongs all to him.

He leads you down hallways, through the labyrinth of the Gojo family grounds, across the property until you’re finally following him into his bedroom. A flash of apprehension and even fear spikes into your chest, but you try to swallow it because this is your purpose, this is your calling, to be an obedient little puppy for Satoru Gojo, to follow every order and be the good girl you know you can be. And so once you’re at the bed, you turn to look at him, turn to see if he’s expecting you to go back onto your knees and worship him as the clan leader he is.

Instead he smiles softly, moving to gently pet your hair and your fluffy puppy ears. But when he raises his hand towards your face, you flinch back, averting your eyes towards the ground. And he has to fight to swallow, because he knows puppies only react like that when they’ve been hit before, and a burning fury wells in his chest at the injustice of it all. Who could possibly hurt such a pretty, precious girl? He drops his hand, leaving you untouched, and repeats in a quiet voice, “Let’s get you dressed.”

He has to help you out of the harness, the strappy leather full of confusing buckles and rings. But his practiced fingers make short work of it, and he’s sliding the fabric away, tossing it onto the floor for him to take care of later. Then he moves his deft hands to the collar on your throat, and you flinch once more, like you’re afraid of the power he has when holding you there.

He doesn’t tug, or tighten, or hurt you. He just unbuckles the leather and steps back, holding the collar and leash in his hand as he watches you.

You stare up at him, eyes wide and confused. It’s been a long, long time since you’ve been without a collar, and your throat feels strangely bare without it. Almost unconsciously, you raise your hand to touch your bare skin, fingertips stroking over the cartilage of your trachea…

You’re not sure if he’s giving you freedom or if he’s showing you that you aren’t worthy of his collar. The thought makes your stomach clench, and all of a sudden, tears are welling in your eyes, and your tail tucks between your legs because you can’t bear to think about what will happen to you if you cry right now, but you can’t help it, how have you already lost your collar, you haven’t done anything bad have you–?

Satoru sees your reaction, and his eyes widen, and he drops the collar on the mattress like he doesn’t even care about what that piece of leather symbolizes, and it just makes you cry harder, until sobs shake your shoulders and big, fat tears cascade down soft, round cheeks.

His hands come up to cup those cheeks, thumbs brushing tears away, though they’re quickly replaced with more. You avert your eyes, your fluffy ears pinned down in distress and apprehension, and even though he’s touching you so gently, you’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop and for him to raise his hand against you for being an emotional little wreck; you’re supposed to be a fun toy, an amusement park attraction, something to gaze at and play with, not something to watch bawl your little eyes out.

Satoru’s not angry; he’s just starting to panic.

“Sweet girl,” he says, and his voice is so soft and gentle when he speaks, his thumbs still stroking your cheeks, “I just want you to be comfortable. Do you want your collar back? Would that make you happier?”

You whimper, not wanting to say yes, because you shouldn’t have to ask for a collar; he should want to give it to you, should want you to wear his ownership proudly.

His heart nearly breaks at your expression, at how big and watery your puppy eyes look, and he just gently shushes you again, leaning a little closer as his fingers continue to just gently brush over your skin. “It’s okay. I want to get you something you like, alright? Something that fits you better, something that’s ours alone. Is that okay, pretty girl?”

You nod a little, still looking miserable, but the idea of getting a new collar, one that he picks out, one that’s more personal to what he wants from you, soothes a bit of your heartache. You reach up and wipe your tears with the back of your hand, and Satoru can’t help but smile at the endearing motion. One of his hands trails to your chin, giving a gentle squeeze between his thumb and forefinger.

“It’s alright,” he comforts you again, taking a slow step back to give you some room to breathe. You almost don’t want him to; you want him to be close, want him to touch you, want him to grab you, to treat you like a thing to be played with, an object to be thrown around and pinned down and taken–

He doesn’t. And his gentle hands almost burn on your arms, almost ache on your skin, because you don’t understand why he’s doing this. What’s in it for him?

Satoru notices your apprehension, how timid you seem while you wait for him to finally snap and show you how much of an animal he can be, too.

But he doesn’t seem angry with you, nor derisive, nor aggressive; instead he still seems endlessly caring as he hands you clothes from his own wardrobe. He turns back to you, trying not to look at your naked body, at the smooth expanses of skin now unbroken by the leather you’d been strapped into when you arrived. And instead of dressing you like your previous handlers would’ve, he gives you back your autonomy and lets you dress yourself.

The gesture probably means little to him, but for you it’s monumental.

He lets you get dressed, his eyes respectfully averted (even though he’s already seen everything, through the strappy harness you were wearing), and while his gaze is on the opposite wall, you take the opportunity to examine him. He’s handsome, that much you can admit, and seemingly much kinder than the previous handlers you’ve had. He let you stand, let you dress yourself, let you get out of that flimsy outfit you were strapped into before you met him. And you almost want to thank him, but you know better than to speak out of turn, so you just get dressed in what he gave you, warm sweatpants and a big t-shirt that hangs off your shoulders. When you’re done, he clears his throat and returns his gaze to you.

God, you look so adorable in his clothes.

His eyes are soft as he watches you stand there, shoulders stooped in submission, like you’re waiting to be kicked while you’re down. An ache worms its way into his chest, because he doesn’t know how anyone could treat a pretty puppy like you with such an unforgiving hand.

A pretty, obedient, broken little puppy.

But he, even if he can’t admit it to himself, can’t resist saving something broken.

He tilts his head curiously, and he can’t help but ask, “Can you…um, sorry if this is, uh, rude, but… can you speak?”

You nod.

The corners of his lips twitch in a hint of a smile. “Can you say something, then?”

You hesitate, and then in a soft voice, almost like you’re afraid it’s a trap, you ask, “What do you want me to say?”

His smile grows a little when he hears your voice, quiet and timid. “Anything. Whatever you want.”

And so you think for a moment, because you’re so rarely allowed to speak your mind, to say whatever you want, and really at this moment there’s only one thing you want to say. Your fluffy tail swishes nervously from side to side, and you avert your gaze as you whisper, “Thank you.”

His eyes soften once more, and his voice is just as quiet when he asks, “For what?”

You just shrug, eyes on the floor. It’s clear you’re done speaking now, so he decides not to push. Instead he leads you down the hall to the guest bedroom and swings the door open, revealing a plush bed stacked with half a dozen pillows and several blankets.

You can’t help it; your tail wags a little at the sight. You’ve never had your own bed.

Satoru watches your tail swish from side to side, smiling softly. Then he gently tells you, “This room is yours, as long as you want it. Get some rest, alright? I’ll come find you in the morning. Feel free to go down to the kitchen if you get hungry, or come find me if you need anything.” Somehow, he’s pretty sure you won’t be leaving the room for the night, too shy to ask for anything even if you needed it.

So he leaves you with one last smile, and he returns to his room, and his door isn’t even latched all the way before he shoves down his pants and drags out his aching cock, one hand steadying himself against the bedroom door and his teeth digging into his lower lip as his thumb brushes the aching, blushing tip, smearing precum along the slit as he fucks dry into his hand.

He closes his eyes, biting his lip even harder to hold in the whimpers because he can’t get the image of you in that black leather harness out of his mind, the way your tits bounced with every step, your perky nipples hard in the cool air of the estate. How you looked on a leash, at his feet with your perfect fucking pussy on full display for his perverted fucking eyes– Fuck–!

His hips cant forward, stuttering as he squeezes the base of his dick, and he can’t believe he’s touching himself over the thought of your pretty mouth, the way they looked when you spoke, when you thanked him. He wants to give you something to thank him about.

He wants to heal you, wants you to speak, to smile, to laugh. Wants to see that tail wagging again, this time so fast back and forth because you can’t contain your joy.

He wants to save you.

And so, with shoulders heaving and a pathetic little moan stuck in his throat, he cums in his hand, imagining that it was your tight little hole he emptied himself into.

Then, feeling ashamed for the way he objectified you the way you were clearly so afraid of, he cleans up and goes to bed, determined to make it up to you, even if you had no clue what he did behind closed doors.

~

The next morning, when Satoru knocks on the guest room door and pokes his head in, you’re already up, sitting on the bed with perky ears and a wagging tail.

He smiles a little; you look much better than you did last night, with a soft light in your eyes. It looks like sleeping in your own bed and not being subservient for one night lit a bit of a fire under you, and you look like the happy little puppy that you should be. “Hey,” he greets softly, leaning against the doorframe. “Can I come in?”

You nod, tail wagging softly against the sheets. You watch him come into the bedroom, his steps light and quiet, and you can tell he’s trying not to scare you, trying not to force you back into your timid unease from last night. He sits gingerly on the end of the bed, watching you the entire time to make sure he’s not making you uncomfortable by being this close.

You’re not uncomfortable. Your tail wags a little faster, and his smile widens.

“I had my assistant cancel all my meetings today,” he tells you. “We’re gonna go shopping, alright? Get you some things, like toiletries and clothes. Okay?”

You nod, and tilt your head a little to the side. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to speak your mind.

Your voice is still soft and tentative when you speak, like you’re still scared he’ll raise a hand against you if you do. The thought makes his stomach ache. “A…collar?” you ask, and your ears go back nervously, like you’re ashamed to ask for what you want so dearly.

He smiles and nods. “Yeah, I’ll get you a collar, sweet girl. Something we both like.”

So he takes you shopping around town, letting you get anything you like, willing to get anything you ask for. You’re still so soft and timid, but he can pick up on how your eyes catch on a dress you like, on how those eyes widen when you see beautiful jewelry, on how those eyes close when you smell various high end perfumes.

He gets you anything you like, and he can’t help but enjoy spoiling his new puppy.

As you walk along streets and peruse different shops, he glances over at you, unsure if he should ask what he’s been wondering. But he figures if you react poorly he can just make sure you spoil you that much more, so he clears his throat and says, “So…tell me about yourself.”

You glance over, fingers trailing the soft fabric of a sweater you found. “Like what?”

“Anything. Where are you from?”

“The city.”

“What’s your family like?”

You shrug a little, turning your back on the sweater when you see the price tag. Satoru just picks it up anyway and drapes it over his arm. “I don’t really know. I was born and raised in a puppy mill.”

That pulls him up short. A puppy mill? “What?”

You just shrug again, keeping your eyes averted. “It’s pretty common for hybrids these days. Everyone’s trying to make money selling us. Usually they’re bought young, but some of us, like me, are kept past 18 to be trained as collector items.”

That makes him sick to his stomach. “Collector items? That’s…that’s awful, sweet girl.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” He’s frowning at you, watching you navigate the small shop, unsure of how you’re responding to this so casually. “I’m sure they didn’t treat you well there, did they?”

Your voice is quiet. “I guess not.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“They have to train us somehow.”

Satoru can’t decide if he wants to break something or throw up. “Sweet girl, that’s not how it’s supposed to be. You know that, don’t you?”

You just shrug once more, and he’s not sure how to convince you that you should be treated well. Besides just doing it himself.

So that’s what he decides to do.

He can spoil you, and pet you, and give you treats and do anything else your little puppy heart desires, and that’s what he promises to himself. To give you the care, the respect, the adoration you rightly deserve.

Then, finally, he lets you pick a new collar, this one soft and pink, much daintier than the black leather that once adorned your throat. He holds it up, glancing between the accessory and your soft neck, imagining how it will look on you and making sure he likes the mental image. Then he nods, smiles down at you, and pays for that, too.

You’re practically buried in shopping bags when you arrive back at the estate.

Satoru helps you put away your things in the guest bedroom, which he now guesses belongs to you. He hangs up your new clothes in the closet, turning away as you push his sweatpants down over your hips, getting changed into a new outfit that he bought you.

Somehow, that makes him feel just as possessive as seeing you in his clothes.

Then, finally, when you’re dressed and comfortable, he reaches into the final bag to grab your new pretty, pink collar with gentle hands, his long, pale fingers wrapping around the leather. Then he steps in front of you once more, his hands brushing aside your hair in order to bare your throat for him, and you stand perfectly still, accepting your collar.

He gently buckles the collar around your neck, the o-ring resting against your throat once again. The coolness of the metal and the soft touch of leather is almost comforting, sending a shiver up your spine. His fingers gently stroke the rings of cartilage on the column of your trachea, and your lips part a little at the touch, your chin tilting up to give him more room. You watch his eyes, waiting to see if he’s going to grab you and force you against the wall, to take you like you know a strong alpha like him can–

But he doesn’t. He just slowly pulls away and offers another soft smile. “It looks great on you,” he tells you.

And now, seeing the collar that he chose, that he bought, he knows you’re fully his. And that is a responsibility in and of itself, a responsibility to help you heal from whatever it is you’ve been through.

~

The next several days pass without incident, and you slowly get more and more comfortable at the Gojo estate.

You walk around without a leash, your collar still pressed into your throat, on your own two feet, slowly coming out of your subservient nature to become a happy little puppy. Satoru can’t help but smile as he watches you move around his space, around his home. Your tail wags whenever you see him, betraying your excitement, and he can’t help but be endeared by the emotive gesture.

It’s not until your first heat that Satoru starts to struggle.

You’d been on heat suppressants until you came to the estate, and Satoru honestly just forgot that it was important to get you back on hormones if he wanted to respect you and your timid boundaries.

The moment your scent breaks, cloying and sweet, so fucking delicious, he almost throws the dinner table out of the way to get to you and scent you. But instead he just looks up in surprise, and you’re already a blushing, stuttering mess as you scramble from your seat, ears pinned back anxiously. You haven’t had a heat in years, and you’re not sure how to deal with one at this new home, given to this handsome, kind alpha who has taken such good care of you since you were gifted to him.

Despite how hard he’s fighting it, you can see the hunger in his eyes.

His pupils are fully dilated, blown so wide his beautiful blue eyes are just a rim of sapphire around black. He grits his teeth, knuckles turning white as he clenches his fists, hoping his nails digging into his palms will keep him together long enough to get you comfortable and then run like hell to get away from your sugary sweet scent.

His voice is strained when he speaks. “Go on back to your room, okay? I’ll have my assistant bring you some blankets and cushions, and you can get comfortable.” He doesn’t even mention what he wants so desperately to say, that if you start aching, if you need someone, just call his name and he’ll come running to soothe the pain. He assumes you don’t want it.

When he doesn’t offer, you just nod and back away a step, tail hanging low. He must think you’re some disgusting animal, to not want to let out his alpha instincts on you. Must think you’re a freak to not want to bury himself inside you, to give you his knot for your first heat in years.

You don’t let him see your disappointment, your hurt.

You go back to your room, and you’re whimpering into your pillow with how hot and wet you feel, your heat coming back with a vengeance after being on hormones for so long. You bury yourself under the blankets, curling up to ease that cramping ache deep in your core, that need for the alpha that’s only a few hundred feet away.

The alpha who’s fucking his hand – again – right there at the kitchen table because your scent is still in his nose, wrapped around him as he pants and groans, his fist slamming down against the wooden table so hard the legs creak and moan.

His assistant brings you a pile of blankets, pillows, and cushions, getting you ready for nesting. You use your teeth and paws to make a nest, spinning around in circles and tamping down the base of your nest before using cushions and blankets to set up little walls, creating a cozy, dark environment for you to ride out your heat.

Satoru slowly comes back down, going to wash up in the bathroom before he approaches your room. He feels better now, having worked out his aching frustration into his fist, and he wants to check on you to see how you’re doing.

He knocks on the door, steeling himself before swinging it open and poking his head in. He sees your nest, a pile of cushions and blankets all organized in your own way, and he can’t help but smile at the sight, so fucking endeared by how good you are, what a beautiful little puppy you are. “Hey,” he greets, and every time he breathes he can smell you, smell how sweet you are.

Your head pops up out of your nest, and his heart aches at the adorable sight. He can hear your tail wagging against the cushions. “Hi,” you say, and your voice is so soft and quiet, so sweet, that he has to fight not to just push his way in and hold you, because he knows if he crosses that line everything else will just fall away, and it’ll be far to easy to come in and take what he wants, what he thinks you both need.

He steps into the room, movements slow and cautious, not wanting to scare you in your vulnerable position. “How are you doing?”

Your tail is still wagging, moving even faster as he walks a little closer. How are you doing? You’re desperate, you want him, you want to touch him, you want him to use you like the puppy you were supposed to be. Your collar feels nice and comfortable, and you want him to clip a leash onto it and tug and pull, to force you to heel while you take his knot like a good girl.

You don’t say any of that. Instead you say, “Okay. It hurts.”

He makes a soft sound of sympathy, moving a little closer. “I know it does. Do you want some company in there?”

You perk up, and you nod a little, moving away from the entrance to your little nest you made, blankets and cushions arranged in a nice little fort with enough room for both of you. You’re curled up in a corner, and he slowly crawls in, closing his eyes against the swirl of sweet scent that hits him once he’s in your nest.

It’s been so long since you’ve been in heat that you’re unused to how good he smells, how his musk fills your nose and you lean closer, snuffling like a true little puppy as you crawl closer, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, nudging your nose against his scent glands at the base of his neck.

He chuckles quietly, his hands gentle as they rest on your waist, itching to pull you in and wrap you up. He fights the urge. “You like scenting me, huh?”

You nod, still sniffing at his glands, and the scent seems to calm you down a little. You curl up against his side, and you gently lap your tongue against the junction between his neck and shoulder.

He sucks in a sharp breath, body stiffening. “Sweet girl,” he says, voice tight. “Don’t do that.”

You pull back immediately, looking chastised. “M’sorry,” you say.

He looks down at you, examining your shy expression, how your eyes are still looking at that spot on his neck. Your tail is no longer wagging. “It’s alright,” he quietly replies, “but…you shouldn’t do that to just any alpha you come across. It’s very…intimate.”

You tilt your head a little. “You’re not just any alpha; you’re you.”

The statement floods him with equal measures of affection and possessiveness. He has to hold back a groan. “Sweet girl, I’m a patient man, but you can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” You sound stung.

His words come out in almost a growl. “Because I won’t be able to control myself.”

You whimper, and he thinks he’s scared you, but then you lean in a little closer. He can smell your scent even stronger now, and he almost groans, his fingers digging into your waist. “Stop controlling yourself. I’m a good puppy, I promise.”

He grows again. “I don’t doubt that. But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Please.”

And so, because you’re begging, because he wants to spoil you, because he can’t deny you a goddamn thing, he grabs you, pulling you close. You gasp softly, hands coming to press against his chest as your big eyes gaze up at him. “Tell me you want this, sweet girl.”

You whisper, “I want this, Mr. Gojo.”

He grips you tighter. “Don’t you dare call me that,” he says, tugging your body against his. “When you moan my name, you better call me Satoru.”

And then he grips your hair in one hand and crushes his lips against yours.

You let out a relieved moan, the sound humming against his mouth. You let him carry the lead, let his lips part yours and his tongue brush into the wet heat of your mouth. His lips on yours starts to soothe the pain, the deep ache, but it makes a fire deep inside you burn hot. Your body curves into his, your fingers tentative as they curl into the hair at the back of his head.

He tastes so fucking good.

He pushes you back against the pillows and cushions, pinning you beneath his slim body. His mouth continues to move against yours for several long moments, until he starts to kiss down your neck, towards where the collar sits. You arch your back, curving your body further into his mouth. Your eyes flutter closed, and all you can do is feel as he brushes his tongue against your throbbing pulse.

Then he inches his way lower, and he nips at the collar, tugging on it playfully before pulling back to look at you, a small smile on his kiss-swollen lips.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs to you, bumping his nose affectionately against yours. “My perfect little puppy.”

He can hear your tail wagging as he dips closer once more.

He presses a line of kisses down your shoulder, over the top of your chest, nipping at your collarbones lightly, not even hard enough to leave a temporary mark. He’d love nothing more than to mark you up, to leave soft loving hickeys on your skin, but he also can’t stand the thought of leaving bruises on your soft little body when you’ve been through so much.

He won’t do it; not this first time.

His hands move to the hem of your sweater, one of the soft things he bought for you on your first little outing together. He pushes up the fabric to your ribs, fingertips brushing against the soft, smooth skin. You shiver, and he can’t hold back another smile at the feeling of you quivering under his hands. He pulls back enough to examine the look in your eyes, taking in the nervous expression there, how your ears are swiveling anxiously as he touches you so softly, something you’re still not used to.

“You okay?”

You nod, gazing back at him, chest rising and falling a little more rapidly with his hands on you.

“Can I keep going?”

“Oh, yes,” you whisper, and if you weren’t so self-conscious, you’d be begging.

He grins down at you, watching your pretty lashes flutter before diving back down, kissing the exposed flesh of your chest as he pulls your sweater up over your head and tosses it aside. His hands slide up your sides, tugging your body up into a pretty little arch so he can kiss down your torso. His tongue flicks over your nipple, and you whimper quietly when he starts to gently suck.

At the beautiful sounds you’re making, he’s grinding his hips into the soft cushions, searching for stimulation on his already sensitive cock.

He continues kissing down your body, until he reaches the waistband of your jeans. He kisses along the line of fabric, kissing the soft skin just above it, until he uses his teeth to slowly, teasingly pull down the metal zipper. His blue eyes gaze up at you through white lashes, his lips curled into another small smile when your hips rise from your nest. He grips your plush hips, kneading the flesh before pulling down the denim fabric. Then his mouth is back on you, pressing kisses to your thighs, arms wrapping around your limbs and holding you in place while he swipes his long, burning tongue over the thin fabric of your underwear.

God, you’re already dripping.

He groans, lashes fluttering as his eyes fall closed at the sweet, decadent taste of your slick. He moves somehow closer, making out with your cunt through the fabric, drenching it with his spit as he continues to grind against the cushions.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growls into your pussy, lapping at the syrupy taste. “Goddamn.”

You whimper again, hips grinding against his face with a desperation like you haven’t been touched in years, and he wonders if maybe that’s true. That just makes him want to try even harder to make this fucking amazing for you.

He tugs your panties down your legs, lips following his hands until the fabric is removed and you’re left entirely bare beneath him, looking like the prettiest dessert he’s ever seen.

So he leans in, because he’s never been able to resist something sweet, and swipes his tongue over the length of your cunt.

He groans again, the vibrations making something deep in your belly flutter. You taste so sweet that it nearly aches, and he just buries his face deeper between your legs, eating you out sloppily, spit and drool drenching whatever inches of your skin weren’t already soaked with your own arousal.

He can feel the desperation inside him growing.

His tongue lightly brushes your swollen clit, and that small amount of contact is enough to make your hips jump in his hands. He grins, wrapping his lips around you and sucking lightly, tongue still flicking gently. As he does, his fingers come up and spread your lower lips before his long, dexterous middle finger pushes inside your body, curling against your spongy walls.

You let out a soft cry; he just wants you to make those noises again and again. So he starts rubbing your clit with his tongue with fervor as he adds another finger, diving deep inside, earning another moan or whine with every thrust of his hand. His fingers curl again, hitting that spot that makes your back arch so beautifully.

It’s not long before he’s practically drenched to the wrist in your slick.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his tongue still lapping at your clit, “you’re so wet. You ever had someone do this for you, huh? Ever been touched like this?”

You shake your head rapidly from side to side, and he can’t fight the satisfied smile that curves his lips when he sucks your clit into his mouth. The idea that he’s the first one to touch you like this, the first one to bring you this pleasure, especially during your heat, sends a possessive spike through his chest.

He can feel you getting closer with every stroke of his fingers, with every brush of his tongue. You’re tightening around him like a vice, and so he whispers sweet encouragements between your thighs, “Come on, pretty girl… Let go for me… 

You’re fighting it; you don’t want this to end.

You’re whimpering, eyes rolling back, and he just smiles up at you, his free hand gently squeezing your thigh, trying to encourage you to relax. “Come on,” he says again, fingers stroking your g-spot to bring you over the edge, and he watches the muscles in your thighs finally relax before you’re coming, hard, in his mouth.

He moans loudly, licking you through it, his hips grinding against the cushions once more, because fuck, he can’t take it anymore, can’t wait to be inside you.

Once you’ve gone boneless beneath him, chest heaving up and down as you try to catch your breath, he leans up on his knees, pulling off his own shirt and revealing his muscular torso, looking so delicious you want to lean in and lick him clean.

Then he unbuckles his belt, pushing his pants down his strong thighs, revealing the straining bulge in his tight boxer briefs.

And then you watch as he pushes those down, too, revealing his pretty pink cock to your virgin eyes, and you’re practically drooling at the sight.

He puts his hands under your thighs, hauling your legs up and over his shoulders until he’s got you bent nearly in half underneath him. You whimper at the angle he’s got you at, and he takes his weeping dick in his hand and lightly slaps your clit with the glistening head, once, twice. Your body jolts with every smack, and he smiles down at you before aligning himself with your slick entrance. He pushes his hips forward, slowly sliding inside your drenched pussy. Your mouth drops open at the insane stretch of him, of how fucking massive he feels, like he’s stuffing you full as he takes his time splitting you open.

Once he’s fully seated inside you, he pauses for a moment, both of you breathing heavily.

“You alright?” he asks, his voice only slightly strained with pleasure. You feel so warm and tight around him, your walls fluttering with every breath, and he’s not sure how long he can last with how fucking good you feel.

You nod, looking up at him through your lashes, swollen lips pouted out with every huff of breath. “Please,” you whine quietly, hips shifting under his, “need you.”

And so he starts to move, dragging his aching cock nearly all the way out of you before slowly pushing back in, and your eyes roll back into your head at how full you feel. You’re pretty sure you can feel him all the way up into your mouth at this point, with how far he seems to be buried inside you, and then he pulls out back before repeating the motion, over and over again, fucking you slow and affectionately into the cushions.

You hope every heat is like this.

Your lips are parted, and you’re drooling at how perfect this feels, saliva dripping out of the corner of your mouth, and he leans in, crushing your own thighs against your chest. His tongue runs along the corner of your mouth, licking up your own drool, and then he pushes his tongue back into your mouth, feeding you back your own saliva mixed with his.

It’s filthy, it’s delicious, it’s divine.

His tongue swirls with yours, and you’re hardly even kissing at this point, it’s just the two of you tasting each other. 

And as you taste, as he continues to fuck you gently, you feel the desperate stretch of his knot, the swelling base of his cock.

On instinct, you nearly go feral for it.

“Please,” you whimper into his mouth, and when he pulls away a little to ask what you want, you just reach down and grab his hips, holding him close as he continues to gently rock into you. “Please please please…”

Your nails dig into his slim, muscular hips, and he grunts at the slight pain, at the tiny crescent marks you leave on him. He growls in your ear, leaning down to nip at your neck, right above your pretty new collar. “Yeah? You want my knot, huh, pretty girl? Want me to give you a puppy?”

You whimper again, louder this time, higher in your register, because all you can do is shudder under the weight of your instincts to take his knot, to take his puppies. You nod so desperately that your hair flutters around your face, getting stuck in the wet spit at the corners of your mouth. His eyes flash and he leans in again, his lips finding the source of your sugary sweet scent. Then he parts his lips and sinks his canines into your scent glands, pupils blown wide, running purely on instinct as he bites. You cry out, and you’re not even sure if it’s in pleasure or pain or some delicious combination of the two. And your heart thumps with vigor at how much affection you’re nearly drowning in as he mates with you.

And as he bites, he cums, filling you with his seed, burying so deep that he empties himself right against your cervix. And he sinks his knot all the way into you, stretching you all the way open, plugging your quivering pussy until he’s sure his seed will take.

And while you both come down from the high, he kisses along your cheeks and nose and forehead and jaw, making sure you know you’re worthy of being adored. That you are worthy of being saved.

Of being loved.

thanks for reading! -luna xx link to ao3 | next: the obedient puppy