#flesh is outdated

[the-most-humble-blog]

[dovewingkinnie]

forgot if i posted these two but !! other more minor characters from whimsinoia!! (you might notice they're redesigns of old ocs !!) their names are Lovely and Moon !!

[latenightagain]

people expressed interest in meat type, so it's about time i show you these examples! the 'of flesh' family tree was based on the thought that it'd be funny if 'wall of flesh' was just one of a whole class of monster, all of which were something of flesh. many of them are rpg monster archetypes. starting with a pound of flesh, you adjust their phenotypes to influence their growth. phenotypes may be adjusted via environmental pressures and mutagenic objects and places. if you like these please check out my pinned post!

[pestercide]

...

[lowstakesvampires]

behold... the early 2018 version of this much longer recent comic

[orcelito]

Ok I reaaaaally really really need to stop reading so much fanfic. I read another 30k ish fic this morning and it was SO GOOD but I keep squeezing my brain thru binge reading (bc I can never read things in moderation I guess) and it is leaving no room for writing brain

Vaguely tempted to go back over ITNL for edits tho. Especially the first chapter. Since I'm gonna need to reread it anyways to get back into it, it'd be nice if I could smooth some things out with it...

Hmmm

[my--possession]

hold on who are your ocs. i know of casey by name through tags only but nobody else

my current main ocs (the group that has casey in it) are casey, sorrel, ramona, icarus, linden, angela, and rex! i don't rly talk about some of them that often here bc. well. im gonna be honest i very much have favorites... but i would love asks about any and all of them !!

[sirfrogsworth]

So, when one puts those little quotation thingies around words, it gives the impression that the person actually said those words.

Peter did not say this.

At all.

He was on a podcast with Marc Maron and was specifically talking about the Snow White movie.

"Literally no offense to anyone, but I was a little taken aback when they were very proud to cast a Latina actress as Snow White, but you're still telling the story of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Take a step back and look at what you're doing there. It makes no sense to me. You're progressive in one way, but then you're still making that fucking backwards story about seven dwarfs living in a cave together. What the fuck are you doing, man? Have I done nothing to advance the cause from my soap box? I guess I'm not loud enough. I don't know which studio that is, but they were so proud of it. All love and respect to the actress and all the people who thought they were doing the right thing. But I'm just like, what are you doing?"

When I read that, I did not get the impression that he does not want little people cast in fantasy roles. To me, it seems like his issue is the outdated stereotypes of the dwarfs in the Snow White story. He was at odds with the characterization and also the hypocrisy of progressive casting while maintaining harmful stereotypes for another marginalized group.

I think Snow White in particular has a lot of baggage attached for little people. For many folks, it is their only exposure to little people. This is probably something little people have to deal with all of their lives. When they are bullied, I imagine this story is often used to insult them.

Juxtopose that with the fully fleshed out dwarf characters in Lord of the Rings. They have their own personalities and backstories and motivations.

I mean, there was even a hot one.

If I were to extrapolate what Peter means...

It would be nice if little people were cast in real roles that are more substantive than jokey stereotypes.

I don't think he had any intention of implying fantasy roles were off limits. I think playing Trumpkin in a classic CS Lewis story is a lot different than the seven dwarfs from Snow White.

I get there is frustration about this sentiment. Some little people can only get cast in those types of roles. And they don't want to lose out on the work. For some that may be their livelihood.

But there has to be some middle ground where we progress and give better representation without harming those actors' ability to pay the bills.

[the-most-humble-blog]

[sobbingscripter]

Tags: [mlw][mdni][established relationship][praise, praise, PRAISE][soft dom jason][mdom][little bit of a daddy kink if you squint][fingering][slight somnophilia][jason speaks spanish btw, not a lot][slightly instructed masturbation][mating press][adoring][scar mention][implied creampie]

It's hard to believe that the hands that were bashing skulls just 30 minutes earlier, are the hands that are cradling your face so sweetly, calloused fingers gently patting sunscreen onto your face, caressing the soft flesh beneath the pads of his thumbs.

Emerald pools meet yours inbetween slow blinks, a warm and barely noticeable smile plastered on his face, dimples digging into those tanned cheeks as Jason lets out a soft breath.

"You're so pretty."

Jason murmurs sweetly, thumbs brushing over the skin beneath your eyes, his knees digging into the mattress on either side of you, thick thighs straining against his cargo pants, fabric tautly tugged as he sets his weight atop your lap.

Pinky fingers resting just below your ear, feeling the steady thump of your pulse as it beats beneath your skin and Jason leans forward, soft lips pressing against your forehead.

"So... So pretty."

He praises softly.

"Jay, are you okay?" You question with a snort, delicate hands lifting to wrap around as much of his wrists as you can, halting his adoring touches as you stare up at him through your lashes, a brow raised in confusion.

"You're a bit more.... Lovey." You add with a hum, soft thumbs brushing along the skin of his wrist, exposed by where his compression shirt had ridden up.

"No reason." Jason hums quietly. "I just saw a bloodstain that reminded me of you, so I ended patrol a little earlier."

"I'm sorry," you scoff, "a bloodstain?"

"Yeah. I hit a guy's head against the wall and it splattered like a heart." Jason reaches into one of the many pockets in his pants, obviously fishing for his phone. "Wanna see?"

"No." You sigh softly. "No, I do not."

It's a quiet type of affection when you're watching old episodes of 'American Dad!', on an outdated but still amazingly efficient Wayne Tech laptop, the device resting on the empty nightstand as Jason cards his thick fingers through your hair. The scent of leather, blood and gunpowder clings to him alongside that distinct scent of Moroccan coffee and the cacophony of smells envelop you as he curls a thick arm around you, his legs entangled with yours.

Your face remains buried in the thickness of the warm flesh of his neck, your body curled up to his chest as you absentmindedly listen, sleepiness and weariness slowly tinging your peripheral vision with blackness.

"You want me to turn it off?"

Jason's voice is soft, so sweet and low, as he shifts against you, looking down at you from long lashes and twinkling emerald eyes stare at your forehead adoringly. Watching the way your baby hairs curl and frame your hairline so prettily.

"No no," you murmur sleepily, "m'listening..." You reassure quietly, staring up at Jason with bleary eyes and fluttering lashes, before burying your face in the expanse of his chest. The action makes his breath hitch, and his fingers twitch with nervousness, because you're nuzzling right at where the autopsy scar bisects his chest.

The raised scar tissue does nothing to deter you from relaxing against him, your breaths even and low.

Every once in a while, a sleepy giggle slips past your lips from particularly crude jokes and comments, and you occasionally peek over your shoulder, eyes flinching at the brightness. Until you look back at Jason, and you nearly coo.

Eyes closed shut, eyelashes reaching his high cheekbones and his expression is pinched into that little frown babies have when they sleep. So angry and adorable, and you card your fingers through his hair, the white tuft earning an extra stroke before you allow yourself to succumb to the sleep, the cartoon continuing to play silently.

A deep breath leaves your nose just as you fall asleep, and the warmth of Jason's body lulls you sweetly, even as his fingers sleepily stroke patterns onto your lower back.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

"You're so pretty." Jason mutters sleepily, his gaze lowered to where your head rests on his thick bicep, your hips pressed against his as his deep, rumbly voice resonates through your back. Jason feels trickles of drool drip down his arm, pooling on the pillow below but he pays no mind to the liquid, his mind already focused on one thing.

"You're so smart and you're so loving and attentive."

A calloused palm slides down the waistband of your sleeping shorts, stretching the elastic of your panties as two digits drag through your slippery folds and your brows knit into a little frown. Lashes flutter and you tilt your head just enough to meet Jason's gaze.

"Birdie?" You murmur sleepily, swords slurred and you wipe your mouth with one of your hands. "Are you ok— oh..."

Your lips form that pretty 'o' shape that Jason just loves to watch take place, pouty lips glistening with spit and your brows twitch.

"You mind?" He asks softly, his fingers stilling from their ministrations and he leans over you a bit more to keep his eyes on your dimly illuminated face, bleary eyes staring up at him and you shake your head.

"...don't mind.."

Letting out one of those sleepy sighs, you allow Jason to manoeuvre your body, tossing your thigh over the leg tucked beside you, and your thighs are splayed beneath the covers. He continues his motions, fingertips rubbing soft and lazy circles around your clit, feeling the way slick coats his digits and a soft kiss is pressed against your forehead.

It's gentle.

Like you're the most precious thing he's ever touched, the most priceless art piece he's ever laid his eyes on and another kiss is planted against the hollow of your temple.

Fingers gently probe at your slickened slit, his knuckles brushing over your puffy and glossy pussy before gently easing a digit into you and he nearly whines, burying his face in your hair and inhaling the scent of your shampoo.

It's so... Luxurious. He should start using your shampoo more.

Your lips part and hot breaths leave your lips, eyes fluttering open and meeting Jason's gaze.

"You look so pretty..." Jason coos softly, nearly melting as he thrusts his finger into you, feeling the way your gummy walls tug and suck at him, the sticky give of your cunt makes the lewdest squelches that makes his cock twitch in his pants.

"...besitos..." You mutter sleepily, lips pursing and brows twitching as you feel the way his digit prods and rubs against that gooey spot that has you arching your back against the sheets.

"¿Quieres besitos, amor?" Jason questions softly.

He can't help but feel the way his heart thrums whenever you speak to him in Spanish, your words just a bit slurred from sleep but sweet all the same and he leans forward, lips brushing against your own.

"You want me to kiss you?" He teases softly, before pressing his lips against yours. It's sweet, the way his mouth moves against yours, pulling away in small recessions and he swallows the whine you let out when his second finger is nestled sweetly in your cunt and you're throbbing.

"Atta girl, keep taking my fingers."

His thumb continuously flicks and brushes over your slickened bud, the little nub sensitive underneath his fingers as Jason coaxes an orgasm out of you.

Pulling saccharine moans from your lips and watching the way tears gathered on your pretty lashes, your chest heaving and nipples pebbling beneath the fabric of your T-shirt and he hums softly, pressing a kiss against your cheek.

"Good job, baby, good job." He croons to you sweetly, shifting until he's hovering over you and he's peppering soft kisses along your collarbones. And he's gently pulling your panties and shorts off, setting them aside before his hands move to the backs of your thighs, pushing them towards your chest and he watches the way your sticky cum smears across your inner thighs and needy pussy.

And Jason's pushing his sweatpants past his hips, until you place a hand on his lower belly, feeling the way the muscles flex beneath your palm.

"Take... Take off your shirt this time?"

You murmur softly, the light of the laptop bouncing off your pretty irises and you can see the hesitance in Jason's eyes.

"Please?"

You know he's always been a bit nervous about his autopsy scar, the large 'Y' extended across his torso entirely, raised scar tissue pinkened and smooth.

And when you catch the way he anxiously grasps for the edges of his shirt, you reach for the laptop, gently shutting it and the sigh he lets out is audible.

"Thank you, baby." The rustle of fabric fills the air before Jason's bare chest is pressed against you, the fabric of your T-shirt doing nothing to stifle the warmth of his body as he kisses you, his hips slotting between your thighs and his thick cock resting across your mound, ending just below your belly button.

"You think you're ready for me to put it in?" Jason asks softly, his hand reaching down below, his thumb swiping across your clit sweetly and you let out a shaky breath, nodding your head.

"Mhm, I'm ready."

"Can you be a doll and put those pretty legs on my shoulders?" Jason whispers softly, rough hand wrapped around his base as he notches the flushed tip of his cock at your slick hole, tracing along the seam of your cunt as he waits, patiently for you. You shift and readjust, moving your legs to rest on his shoulders and Jason hums.

"That's my sweet girl." He praises you, and the dim lights of the street allows you to watch the way his expression crumples in pleasure, his plump bottom lip caught between his teeth to muffle a whine as he slides his cock into you.

"Fuck, you're so warm." Jason breathes out, brows twitching and his hands move to rest on either side of your head. Hot breaths fan your features and Jason's hips begin to move.

He's not thrusting or pounding.

He's rolling his hips. Hips carved into the slightest bit of chub, thick and scarred thighs on either side of you, sinewy muscles surround you from all sides and Jason groans lowly.

He's stretching your cunt to fit him and the burn is phenomenal, your nails dragging down his back as his rotund tip leaks against your cervix, precum and your cum mixing to form a creamy ring at his base.

It's sweet and perfect.

The way your cunt grips him tightly, the way your lashes flutter shut and Jason leans closer, pressing his lips against yours with a gentleness that seems so uncommon for a man of his size. Of his profession.

"You're perfect." He breathes out. "So fucking perfect."

Bated breaths and murmured praises, kisses planted along the side of your face as his hips occasionally still, just so he can push the ball of his nose against your pulse, feeling the erratic thrum of your blood. And his hips grind into you.

"Nice and slow, yeah?" Jason's hands fist the sheets, your ankles brushing against his ears and occasionally, he plants a kiss against the protruding bones. "Does it feel good?"

And you can only nod, whining under your breath before finding the ability to talk.

"Feels so good..." You breathe out. "Keep fucking me. I—" A gasp nearly shakes you to your core when his fat tip pushes against your cervix in a way that has your thighs shaking, "—'m gonna come..."

Jason nods his head, shifting your body just a bit and he removes your legs from his shoulders, veiny hands wrapping around your ankles as he pushes your legs towards your chest. And he fucks you deeper, grinding against you before he breathes out.

"Play with your pussy for me." He sighs, lashes falling shut as he feels the way your cunt spasms when your fingers swipe over your clit in one of those experimental ways. Clearly, you're not good at masturbation but it's fine.

He'll teach you.

"Circles baby, circles." He guides sweetly. "The circles are gonna feel good while I fuck you."

Jason's lips press a kiss to the sock covered arch of your foot, his eyes laser focused on where you tease your clit, whines and mewls slipping past your lips until you gasp, toes curling and chest heaving.

And your hips twitch when you come, sucking him in with vigor as you soak the sheets beneath you and your hand moves, brushing along the expanse of his scar. And Jason's cock twitches needily, a whimper slipping past his lips before his hips stutter just a bit.

"Don't make me lose my rhythm." He huffs out, a shaky laugh leaving him as the dimples in his cheeks deepen.

You're like if the ocean was a furnace.

Squelchy sounds and lewd sloshy sounds with each buck of his hips and Jason bites his bottom lip as he feels his orgasm slowly build, his skin prickling with goosebumps and his nipples stiffen in a way that he just knows has your ego soaring.

"Shit, 'm gonna come soon." He grumbles, his hand leaving your ankle to card through his hair, pushing the damp strands out of his vision. And before his lips can part to ask where you want it, Jason's body shudders when your hand moves, wrapping around the base of him and he feels the way he gets just a bit lightheaded.

"Don't pull out, okay?"

Taglist:

@jasontoddswhitestreak 🌸

@lucky-beheaded 🌻

@fayethefaerie 🦋

@anesthesia-4rizzle 🎀

@feral010 ✨

@blckbarbiedoll 🌷

@allycat4458 🪻

@custardpuddingprincess ⭐

@couldeatthatgirlforlunch 🦄

@theamazkngskye 🍄

@titchx0 🦆

[nanamiskentos]

THE BOLTER ★ naoya zenin

prologue ⋆ ★ whoever said 'love at first sight' was lying, this is more like loathe at first sight. unfortunately, it seems like you and naoya zenin are stuck in the same boat together.

but at least the two of you can put on a great show.

pairing ⋆ ★ naoya zenin x reader genre tags & warnings ⋆ ★ afab!reader, arranged marriage, enemies/rivals, first meetings, outdated views on marriage and wives, public consummàtion, éxhibitionism, voyéurism, ooc naoya to a point but he's still a massive jerk, aphrodisiàcs, mild overuse of bloody/fruit symbolism, oràl (f. receiving), reader pushes naoya into a koi pond, gojo cameo (he wants to go home 😱)

word count ⋆ ★ 9k a/n ⋆ ★ i watched my lady jane 😭 could be a part two to this, or series of husband!naoya but idk...🤷‍♂️

"Stop fidgeting. You look like you're about to bolt any second," Naoya mutters, his voice low, biting through clenched teeth. Sharp, amber-glazed eyes slide sideways to lock onto you, dark brows pulled together in irritation. He's still got that plastic smile in place for the elders, a façade of civility that's only skin deep.

You meet his gaze with a smile that could cut glass, all sweet and syrupy, the kind of smile a bride's supposed to wear. Serene, demure, perfect. But you know better, and so does Naoya Zenin.

Oh, how I wish I could just walk right out of here, you think, lips curling just a fraction. You can barely keep the sneer from slipping through. "Well, I'm looking for the nearest exit," you murmur, barely above a whisper, voice as sweet as honey, "All I can smell is that stupid cologne of yours, and it's making me sick. Did you seriously bathe in it, or something?"

You can see the flush violently flash over peach-toned skin, first his cheeks, and then the tips of ears. Naoya's fingers twitch, hidden beneath the voluminous green sleeves of his haori, betraying his irritations. You can tell he's just dying to throttle you right about now.

"No wonder your clan sold you off like a broodmare," he hisses, venom dripping from his words, sickly sweet with malice, "I bet they couldn't wait to get rid of you."

You heroically bite back the urge to stab him with something sharp. You know it would have been so easy, to have a blade hidden in the folds of your robes. God, it would feel so good to shove it right between his ribs.

Instead, you take a delicate step forwards, sandals clicking softly on the polished floor. The attendants bustle behind you, their soft paces blending with the thick air that's rich with incense, pine, and the sweet smell of roasted chestnuts.

"How sad that Naobito Zenin had to buy a wife for his youngest son. Desperation really doesn't suit you, Naoya," you keep your tone placid and amiable, "Though, let's be honest, most things don't really look good on you."

You can feel Naoya bristle next to you, the faintest tremour in his posture. It feels nice to have struck a clean crack through his iron-clad composure. Victory tastes so sweet.

Without missing a beat, Naoya slides his hand over yours, the picture of practiced, marital tenderness as the two of you approach the threshold of the feast hall. All eyes are on you now, the guests straightening in anticipation. But the slender pads of his fingers are pinching at the flesh of forearm, sharp enough that they would be leaving an impression.

You wrinkle your nose, fighting the urge to wince. His grip is painful, and even though you want to pull away, you're not giving the moron the satisfaction of hearing you gasp.

"Yes," Naoya murmurs, too charming to be sincere, his voice dripping with false affection, "And how sad that out of all the mouthy, insufferable wenches in the world, I got saddled with you."

"Well, someone's mad," you sigh melodramatically, lowering yourself onto the cushions at the head of the table, folding your legs beneath your copious layers of silk, "Stay mad. And ugly."

Your new husband scoffs, sinking beside you, as his long limbs stretch out with lazy grace before crossing them. He looks far too comfortable for your liking. You wish someone had scattered tack needles under him, just to watch him yelp.

You watch quizzically as Naoya reaches across the low table, drawing a slice of pickled radish from the porcelain bowl. You watch, blinking, curious even as well-manicured nails balance the slide between elegant fingers.

He just flings it at you. The sodden radish hits you square in the forehead, the cold and wet slice dropping into your lap with an unsatisfying plop!

Bitch.

See, you already had been having an awful day. The kind that dragged you through the mud and left you feeling as though you had been drowned in your own perspiration.

Trudging through the gates of the Zenin estate, as the sweltering summer heat drowned you in sticky humidity. The estate was sprawling, its grandeur suffocating — all sharp angles, and lacquered panels of wood. Meticulous gardens designed less for beauty, rather for flexing obscene amounts of wealth.

The Zenins did not lack for wealth, that was for certain. But taste? Subtlety? Humility? Those were luxuries that they couldn't seem to afford. Whoever said money couldn't buy class had clearly been familiar with the big three clans of the jujutsu world.

It wasn't just the heat. It wasn't just the estate. It was all this, from this stupid contract to the commitment, to your life here. Your new home.

The summer heat clung to you, heavy and wet, like a damp cloth draped over your shoulders, sapping any energy you had left.

Eventually, you'd given up entirely on the elegant cushions and carved chairs of your new quarters, opting to morosely plant yourself cross-legged on the cool, polished floor. It wasn't graceful, but at least it was comfortable.

Attendants fluttered around you like busy little bees, arms laden with swathes of silk and intricate jewellery in shades of forest green. They moved in perfect sync, as though their every motion was rehearsed for the new bride. And you, well, you were supposed to sit still, look pretty, and wait for whatever nonsense came next.

But fuck that. Proper propriety be damned. The heat had you feeling too raw, too suffocated. So, you had been stripped away from the layers of heavy silk and ceremonial robes. Left in nothing but a thin, creamy-white cotton yukata. It hung loosely from your frame, clinging to your skin in the oppressive humidity, beads of sweat gathering at the back of your neck.

And just as you had settled into the most brief, fragile sense of peace, the soft groan of a sliding door shattered it all. A servant stepped inside, shoulders stiff as their eyes fell upon you. As though they could sense your sour mood.

"He will see you now," the servant said, eyes lowered, voice tight, "In the gardens."

He. Naoya Zenin. Your soon-to-be husband, for the evening's grand spectacle and festivities.

A pit began to twist uncomfortably in your stomach. You had never even met this man. Hell, you didn't even know what he sounded like, nor what he looked like up close, what kind of man he really was.

Everything about this arrangement had been handled by clan elders, who were more concerned with keeping up appearances than with any personal connection. Their mouths were always full of flowery promises, and backhanded compliments, none of which did anything to ease the sinking feeling that made a home in your gut.

The reviews on Naoya Zenin though? Those were more consistent than the elders' pleasantries.

Arrogant? Check. Irritating? Beyond measure. A man with a superiority complex the size of the country? Absolutely, what a shock. Naoya Zenin was the youngest son of one of the wealthiest clan heads in Japan, so entitlement practically ran through his veins as though it were his birthright.

The one thing everyone seemed to agree on, though? The man was handsome, fine-featured. Of course, they'd say that to placate you, as though a pretty face could somehow excuse all the other bullshit. But you weren't quite in the market for a glorified Adonis as a trophy husband.

With a resigned sigh, you trudged forward. Each step felt heavier than the last, the sound of your sandals echoing on the winding stone path that stretched out before you. You tried to ignore the fatigue that settled in your bones, the faint feeling akin to that of a medieval monk walking towards his doom.

Your first impression of Naoya Zenin? You didn't like his voice.

"Weren't you meant to be here an hour ago?" He's calling, tone smooth and melodic. But there's a languid air about it, and whiny. You don't know nor understand why, but it makes your skin crawl.

You narrow your eyes at the back of his figure, perched lazily on a rock, legs swinging carelessly over the edge. Naoya's broad back is turned to you, gaze fixed on the iridescent koi gliding lazily through the pond beneath him. He hadn't even bothered to look at you yet.

First impressions were everything, so you did your damn best to hold back from snapping, "My apologies. There was a...delay," you bite out, your fingers tugging impatiently to tighten the sash of the thin robe around your waist.

You had half a mind to just turn around and leave, but no, it just wasn't in your lucky cards. Not when your family had practically signed you away to the Zenin clan, forevermore and all that nonsense.

Naoya lets out an exaggerated sigh, all long and drawn-out, as though your presence is enough to inconvenience him. His head tilts lazily, turning just enough to throw a half-lidded, uninterested stare in your direction.

"Well? Don't just stand there. I'm not going to bite."

The restraint it took to not roll your eyes could have won you sainthood. Still, you refrained. Barely. You hoped your expression conveyed what you really wanted to say. I am mentally chasing you around with a big stick and a hornet of wasps, but I'm refraining because I'm polite and I was raised right.

Reluctantly, you step forward, just as the wind picks up while you move. Sweeping the light cotton fabric around your legs in a way that made you wish for anything but these damp robes. You certainly don't miss at how Naoya's golden eyes widen in mild interest, tracing every curve of your figure. Warmth flushing down the back of your neck, and not just from summer's golden glare.

But then, your betrothed scowls, "Too good for the Zenin robes, are you?"

You cross your arms over your torso, the motion defensive. Naoya's gaze suddenly drops again to the pushed swell of your chest, lingering far too long.

"It's hot."

Naoya suddenly shrugs, all primped arrogance in his charcoal-gray and forest-green robes, like some ashen leaf springing obstinately out of cold winter ground. "Whatever. You seem adequate, I suppose," he flicks a hand dismissively, "I don't care for this attitude of yours, but you'll do for everything else."

"I'll do?" Your voice pitches an octave higher, incredulous, "What the hell does that mean?"

Naoya begins counting on long, slender fingers. As though he's sizing you up, checking boxes, "What do you think I mean? Just the usual requirements for a wife. Pleasing to the eye, which you are, I'll admit. But it's much less pleasant when you aren't smiling."

You spot a loose stone skittering on the mossy earth. You could absolutely brain him with that, right here. Right now.

But the man doesn't let up, "And of course, childbearing hips." He's waving a dismissing hand, "Well, clearly, I can see you have those. Tch', don't make that face. And a bit of wit for conversation — I refuse to marry an empty airhead. I mean, can you imagine?" Naoya's laughter is sharp, all glossy red lips over sharp fangs, "Docile, obviously. I think that might need some work, but — hey!"

Before you could think better of it, your hands are on him. Pushing, shoving, your frustration boiling over as your palms meet the flat, toned planes of his chest. The satisfaction of sending him tumbling back, of stupid, pretty golden eyes going wide as he flails, arms caught in the air. Priceless.

And then, with a splash! He disappears into the pond, the koi scattering like flashes of colour. Your betrothed surfaces slowly with a snarl, water dripping from his golden head of hair, plastering it flat. A piece of moss hangs awkwardly to Naoya's template as you stand over him, chest heaving.

"Harebrained! Idiotic! Empty-headed! Shallow, pompous, arrogant!" The words tumble from you, reckless and from the depths of your sudden-found hatred, "Rocks for brains! No wonder no-one wants to marry you, with that stupid, backwards nonsense. And your voice, it's stupid! And, well, there's clearly a lightbulb off in that oversized skull of yours. Don't you ever, ever say things like that to me again!"

For a moment, Naoya says nothing. He's only staring up at you with his mouth pressed into a thin, flat line. You realise in that brief silence, that you betrothed bears an unsettling resemblance to an angry, speckled hyena.

Rather than offer a rebuttal, or heaven forbid, an apology, a sodden arm shoots forward, fast as a viper, clamping around your ankle. And the world tilts.

"Don't you dare! Wait — no!"

He yanks at you hard, and with a sharp yelp, you tumble straight into the water beside him. Cool, refreshing water slaps your face as you sputter, wiping thin algae from your cheek. The koi scatter, unimpressed by human antics.

You're gasping as the chill must surely be soaking through your thin yukata, giving...quite the view to the eyes of others. No wonder Naoya's suddenly smirking, and you can see rosy lips part to deliver some awful, sleazy comment.

"Not a bad sight, don't you — mmph!"

You've scooped as much water as your hands can manage, flinging it straight at his face — watching as Naoya Zenin splutters, pinning you with a glowering stare that could cut through glass.

You were still simmering hours later.

The sun had already shifted, sinking deeper into the afternoon, but the humidity clung to the air like a thick and suffocating blanket. You were scowling at absolutely nothing, letting the maids drape you in layers of deep, emerald silk that shone like fresh leaves after the rain. Edges embroidered with delicate golden vines and flowers that twisted around your limbs.

You barely felt the soft hands of the maids as they pressed cool, rosewater-soaked pads to your cheeks and the crook of your neck. Idly wondering if they had plucked out every last remnant of pond water and scum that clung to your hair.

One of the older woman, with a sharp and matronly face, walked up to you, a platter balanced gently in her hands. At first, you didn't even register what she was offering, too preoccupied with nursing your own misery. But the food looked absolutely perfect, delicate rolls that had been sliced so neatly they could have come from an Imperial painting.

You raised an eyebrow, "Shouldn't I eat after the ceremony?"

The woman gave a knowing glance to the other maids, but then her gaze flicked back to you. Careful. "This will help with your appetite for the latter half of the ceremony," as though she were choosing each word precisely, "It is...custom. Master Zenin would also partake in this tradition. It will make things easier."

Easier, huh? You stare at the plate again, and not that you didn't appreciate it, but if they really wanted to settle you nerves — they could have offered you a rolled blunt. But sure. Why not?

With a little sigh of resignation, you popped one of the sweet rolls into your mouth. The flavour was fresh, like citrus. Something like yuzu, perhaps? There's a hint of honey, and an odd aftertaste that lingers at the back of your throat, a touch bitter. You narrow your eyes, for it is something like ginseng.

You take a second roll, letting the smooth cream slide along your tongue, as you click your teeth. Well, if it would calm you down enough to keep you from throwing Naoya Zenin off the temple stairs, then...sure. You'd eat the whole damn platter if it meant you would be able to fight the urge to punt bricks at him.

And so, this circles you back to the beginning your sordid tale. The rooms buzzing with voices, and clinking porcelain in celebration, but somehow, all you can focus on is the man sitting beside you.

Naoya's practically been ignoring everything on his plate, pushing food aside with passive disinterest. Meanwhile, you've been aching for a good meal, your hand moving to scoop another bite of soft, fragrant rice. The nobles and elders have been weaving their way around, painted with polite and practiced smile — an endless cycle of verdant-draped Zenins, crimson-robed Kamos, and more clans all looking to suck up to Naobito Zenin.

There's another man, swathed in a vibrant, dark blue. You watch as Naoya stiffens as the white-haired man doesn't bow, just shuffles forward. As though his presence is more of a courtesy rather than a display of genuine well-wishes.

"Gojo," your husband is muttering, petulant all of a sudden.

The white-haired man grunts, blindfold wrapped around the upper half of his face, "Zenin." You swear you can feel his eyes on you, and there's something unnerving about the way he moves through the room, as though he can see much and more, without nary a glance.

So, that was Gojo Satoru.

You feel someone tug at your sleeves, and Naoya's golden eyes are still fixed on Gojo's broad back with a sharp, defensive gaze, "Stop looking. It looks stupid as fuck. And he'll still see."

You blink, wrenching your arm away from his cold grasp, "How? He's got that —," you gesture to your eyes, "That thing on."

Naoya scowls, fangs poking underneath curled lips, "Trust me. He can see better than anyone here."

"Is that why you're scared of him, or something?"

Naoya's jaw tightens, and he reaches for a platter of fruit, a pomegranate globe falling into the palm of his hand, "I am not. Tch', watch your words."

"Or what? You'll push me into the koi pond?" You snipe, watching him, fascinated despite yourself. His hands are elegant, precise, even. Tearing into the fruit with a casual brutality that makes something flicker oddly deep in your chest.

The juice, rich and ruby red, drips lazily down his fingers, following the slope of his knuckles. Staining the fine silk of his sleeves in a losing fight. As though the fruit had been desperate to remain whole before Naoya split it.

How strikingly brutal to witness. There's something almost obscene about the mess he makes, how the juice is pooling thinly on the silk. How the sweetness of the fruit is ruined by the way it's overpowered.

You think your new husband is the kind of man who would see a dangerous sort of beauty in the way he wrecks things.

But Naoya has surely noticed your stare. The corner of his rose-teak mouth twitches as he looks up from his conquest, fingers still dripping with thin crimson.

"Something wrong, wife?" He's asking, voice slick with amusement. You faintly wonder why there's a low buzz in your ears.

The question is sharp-toned, but there's something underneath his smooth voice that almost dares you to continue watching. As if he's aware of the effect of proxy brutality. You want to scowl, to look away, to prove that you aren't transfixed by the bleeding mess of an awful man.

"Nothing at all," you reply, and voice is colder than you'd intended — all to mask the faint trace of fascination that lingers in your tone.

Naoya glowers at you, lazily lifting his hand to capture the blood-red streak with the tip of his tongue. The faintest trace of wine marking the curve of his jaw. What an oddly intimate gesture, one that shouldn't be nearly as captivating as it is.

With a casual flick, he's breaking off a piece of the pomegranates flesh. White and succulent, with the little arils clinging to the flesh like jewels.

"Be a good wife, and open your mouth."

You glance down at the fruit in his hand, irritation flickering at the back of your throat. Licking acidic flames in your chest, "I'm not hungry anymore."

Naoya doesn't even bat an eye, his gaze already bored as he leans back, unimpressed by your resistance. Infuriatingly arrogant in his manner, "Don't want people thinkin' there's something wrong with my bride. Go on, open."

With a sharp, deliberate sigh, you part your lips. Heat suddenly coiling tight sinews around your hips. Eyes locked onto his hazy, copper gaze with the slightest flicker of defiance.

Naoya tips the arils into your mouth, and you take the opportunity to nip at his fingers, pointed and sharp. Just enough to make him jerk back in surprise. His eyes narrow, and for a moment, you see conflicted disgust flash across his face.

But the taste, the sweet and tangy burst of juice on your tongue, it catches you entirely off guard. It's blooming across your senses, like the most unexpected pleasure. The tartness of the fruit lingering longer than you'd anticipate. Despite yourself, you almost lean into it.

Naoya's expression tightens as he wipes his hand on the edge of his robes, so irritated. But a flicker of something darker passes across his features. Whether it's annoyance, or loathing, or something else, you cannot tell.

"Better now?" Naoya mutters, voice thick with irritation as though you'd personally dragged him through a field of thorns.

"All thanks to you," you reply, sardonic sugar snapping through your teeth. Wiping the corner of your mouth with a lazy swipe of your thumb, smearing away the fruit's crimson stain.

Naoya's grumbling something under his breath about summoning Ten Shadows to whisk him out of this ridiculous wedding feast. Something far more sharp and acerbic follows, but it's not able to cut through your growing haze.

You're about to respond when his hand — warm, and rough, replaces your own. Thumb pressing against your lower lip with a firm, almost possessive and angry drag. Wiping away the sticky remnants of the juice.

Without thinking, or without fully understanding why, you let your tongue dart forward, brushing the pad of his thumb. A slow, deliberate gaze. Teeth follow, with dull pressure, as you pull the digit just a little further into your mouth.

You can feel the shift almost immediately.

Naoya goes still, the barest hitch of breath betraying him before he yanks his head back like you'd scalded him. But not before you catch the faintest tremour in his grip, or the way his sharp eyes darken. His neck flushes, a telltale searing burst of heat creeping up beneath the golden fall of his hair.

"They give you something before the ceremony?" His tone is off, almost accusing, as he's clearing his throat. Glowering at you, as if you're to blame for the crack in his insurmountable arrogance.

You shrug, fingers brushing the rim of your shallow cup. Letting cool water trickle down your suddenly parched throat, "Yeah. Something 'bout relaxing me. Or making things easier." You frown, a little breathless, wondering why heat coils in your chest, and prickles at the nape of your neck, "It didn't do anything at the time though."

Naoya stares at you for a beat too long, his teeth catching his lower lip. Worrying the plush, pink flesh — dragging a thin, cold hand through flaxen hair, rifling pale green roots.

And then, your new husband's scoffing, "Same here. Not that I need help performing there." His gaze is sweeping over you again, slow and deliberate. His eyes trace the curve of your mouth, the swan-slope of your throat. The heat of his amber eyes make your skin prickle, tugging at something just beneath the surface.

"I think you'll make it easy enough."

Your pulse kicks against your ribs. Eyes snapping to him, ignoring the dull throb low in your groin, and how each breath of air seems so much sweeter and heavier, "Make what easy?"

Naoya's expression wavers, just for a second — enough to give you a glimpse of his own faltering composure. As though he's genuinely fearing that you're that clueless, cocking a dark brow with an edge of incredulity.

"You don't think that platform's there for show, do you?" He's knocking his head back towards the dais behind the two of you. The plush, emerald cushions scattered over velvet drapes that pool at the sides. Ornate and so uncomfortably obvious for all those who have eyes.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

Naoya's metallic eyes glint with triumph, watching the realisation dawn on your features like it's the best entertainment he's had all evening. His lips curling into something that's more of a lion's grin, rather than a smile, "You're not that stupid, are you?"

"I'm not!" You snap, "I just didn't think — I didn't realise, it was going to be...there." You're jabbing a jewel encrusted finger at the platform, not caring which fussy elder sees.

Naoya's grin sharpens, teeth flashing with unrestrained, wolfish amusement. Jerking his chin towards the dias, "Yes. Right there. What'd you think? Some privacy, or maybe, a little mood lighting?

Your scowl hardens like stone, "Well, no. But —"

Your husband sarcastically interrupts you, chopping the air with one hand, "No, no. You're right. Why didn't we think about setting the mood? Lanterns, maybe? Candles, or how about a live string quartet for m'wife just because she said so?"

Your glower deepens, a slow burn crawling beneath your skin. You forgo the water this time, opting instead for the nearest cup of sake. The burn of it sears your throat, a welcome distraction.

"You'd think people would drop this kinda' thing by now," you mutter, swallowing hard as the air seems so much warmer, "It's the 21st century, for god's sake."

Naoya shrugs, the silk of his robes shifting as you can watch a thin drop of perspiration roll into the crook of his neck — you wonder if he's just as affected as you are right now. Wondering who will crack first. "I don't mind watching. Or being watched."

The sake nearly comes back up, "You're obscene."

A soft hum, dark and amused, slips from his throat. Then a finger, his finger, hooks beneath the curve of your jaw. Titling your head towards him with a hardened pressure that feels surprisingly gentle in this hazy state.

"M'wife wants me to take them out instead?" Naoya's voice is a lazy drawl, but there's a dangerous gleam in his amber-shard eyes. Thumb skimming lower, tracing the delicate dip of your collarbone as a shiver prickles down your spine, "Force them all away so I get ya' all to m'self?"

You swallow hard, breath hitching as his hand lingers, "Yeah. Because I'm sure you could take on an entire room of sorcerers. Jus' so we could —"

The corners of Naoya's mouth twitch, his eyes dark with something almost hungry. And jeering, "Just say the word."

Your gaze flickers to the far corner of the room. Gojo Satoru sits there, arms folded across his opulent, oceanic yukata. The head of the Gojo clan looks thoroughly put-out, sandwiched between two elderly women that gossip into his ears. His white hair gleams under the warm lanterns, and you're certain that Six Eyes can catch every word being passed through this room.

"No-one can land a hit on Master Gojo," you murmur, voice slow and syrupy. The heat in your blood feels unnatural, liquid fire curling beneath your skin, pooling low in your belly. Your head is swimming by now, heavy and light all at once.

And there's Naoya's stupid, stupid cologne. Something dark, and wooden. Edged with a sharp spice, clouding your senses and tangling with the sweet, heady ache that builds in your chest. It's all too much, his nail dragging into the tender skin of your neck. Just over your jumping bulse.

The worst part? Your body betraying all rational thoughts, leaning into your husband. To find yourself closer to this man that you do not like. Entitled. Arrogant. The heir to the Zenin clan is fuckin' awful.

"Mhm, perhaps they can all watch then. Stay as I fuck my wife, yeah?" Naoya says, low and quiet. But there's no softness to it, only possession. A claim that crackles at you, sends you hurtling towards no good end.

"You know I don't like you, right?" You breathe, marvelling at how little it would take to close this distance, with nary a care for whose eyes have turned to you now.

A huff of laughter escapes your husband, warm and bitter, "I don't quite like you either." His hands have found the edges of your robes, teasing the silken fabric, and for a moment, Naoya Zenin looks almost thoughtful. Except that priggish smirk never quite leaves his face. His peach-tinged skin flushes darker, and his glassy eyes flicker, "But they wanted a show, right? Wanna' give it to them?"

You don't even wait to consider. Ignoring the protests of the elders, who jump and claim that these things have to be done in all due time, with proper ceremony.

The kiss is fast, furious. Lips crashing into his before the words have fully left his mouth. You taste rich and tangy fruit on his tongue, and it's both maddening, and so sweet, mixing with the sake that's drenched your mouth.

Naoya's faint sound of surprise, the soft grunt as he sinks into the kiss? Hiking a toned arm around your waist to pull you closer as the audience gasps? That's a victory.

You drag your mouth back, letting clingy and cloying strands of slick linger in between your lips. You've been pulled right onto your husband's lap, perched on his emerald, jewel-toned haori. Taking in the sight of Naoya briefly speechless, warm and angrily flushed.

"Not playin' fair," Naoya seethes, "K-know your place, wife."

But you're too far gone now to entertain his bullshit, pawing at the edges of his robes. Swivelling your hips down so you can have some pressure applied where you need it most. Right over there, a thick and solid curve that has the both of you gasping, "M' so, hah, feelin' so faint."

Naoya groans, and curls his fingers over the nape of your neck, forcing you to look down at him from your perched position, "L-listen to me all proper, an' I can fix that."

"Enough!" A sharp voice cuts through the heat between you, splintering like glass shattering on stone. You blink, dazed as dew begins to gather on your lashes, just in time to see a twitching elder standing at the edge of the room, face blotchy red beneath a crown of thinning white hair. He's shaking a bony finger in your direction, pale robes swishing, "Enough of this depravity!"

"There are proper proceedings to this ceremony, to this consummation." His voice is rising, veins straining in his neck as the room is silent, "Not whatever this is!" Waving his hands now, as though his gestures are enough to warrant purification.

You try to muster some level of embarrassment, some shame as the eyes of the room fall on the two of you. But all you feel is a thick ache and thrum of heat still simmering, pulse skipping in your throat. Your lips tingle from where they touched Naoya's, tasting of sake and sugar, and —

Oh. His lips. You glance at your husband, whose mouth is still glossy and swollen from your kiss.

Naoya's barely turned his head towards the outburst. He's already running his hands down your robes, doing his utter best to undo whatever he can. To lave sharp fangs over skin, and leave blooming marks. He's languid, half-lidded, with a wicked spark of amusement dancing in his eyes.

He looks thoroughly unbothered, tongue flicking lazily over his lower lip, "Proper proceedings?" Naoya drawls, the corner of his mouth tilting into a smirk that makes you desperate to catch it, "Isn't a little late for that? Hah, I mean, ya' spiked m'wife and I. How are y'not shocked when she's panting over me like a bitch in heat?"

The elder turns a deeper shade of red, spluttering as he gestures to the raised dais and neatly arranged cushions. You press your lips together to hold back a thin whine. Naoya, having pawed at your ceremonial robes enough, has been sinking teeth over the swell of your breast, making you gasp.

"The platform! The customs and —"

There's a crowd of eyes on you. The elders, the clan heads, the nobles, the sorcerers. All of them, scattered through the room, lingering like ghosts. Some, you think, have left for sanctity. You're not sure when, your mind is still a haze of warmth, and confusion, and lust. Too caught up in the way that Naoya's fingers brush and dig into your waist.

But there are others still here. Stubborn, and not powerful enough to grant themselves leave, and so, they cannot claim the right to exit. You're aware of silent whispers, of the way they lean in and keel over. Faces pinched in curiosity, discomfort, as though you're a prized creature in a zoo that they both hesitate and marvel to look upon.

With no choice but to watch the Zenin heir with his hand on your waist, his new bride of the clan. The future madam that they're now forced to acknowledge.

"N-Naoya," you mumble, tearing your nails into the fine haori. Some desperate hope to expose searing skin to the air, already sweltering in the summer heat, "Can't we jus' -"

Your husbands tuts, pressing a firm finger to your candied lips, "Shh! Gotta' make sure m'silly wife knows how to speak up. So everyone can hear, try again." He sounds almost pained, and you wonder how Naoya Zenin hasn't absolutely lost his mind by now. For you feel as though gauze has been draped over you, casting a veil over your senses.

You hear someone mutter disdainful murmurs, something about a spoiled Zenin brat indulging his good-for-nothin' wife.

You can see the flash of anger, and the promise of blood cross Naoya's face, so you seek to roll your hips against his once more, "Jus' thinkin', y'know," you gasp against his slack jaw, "Why don't we jus' move to the platform? I mean, they wanna see, right?"

Naoya's nodding, sandy hair falling into his eyes, "Hah, yeah. That's right. Wanted a show, and that's what we said we've give, jus' gotta hope you can keep up."

He's sweeping you up, hand tight around your wrist as he pulls you over in a brief stumble, pushing you down over the dais. Over green, plush sheets as he splays you out, "Better like this? Tsk, 'ts for me to decide, not you, wifey. And 'm thinking, I like this view so much more."

You're struck by the sight of Naoya Zenin, and it hits you like a sudden wave. Sharp, and bitter, and so impossible to ignore. It's that feeling again, the way you had stomached the creamy rolls on the platter. The same kind of cloying tang that hits the back of your throat when you swallow too fast. The ginseng, and sweet citrus.

His eyes are still glassy, pupils unfocused, and it's the shimmer of tears clinging to the dark, long lashes framing his eyes that make you pause. Crystalline, fragile. But he's already ahead of you, moving faster than you can think, swatting your hand away with forceful grace, pressing his mouth to the corner of yours.

"You jus' gonna keep lookin' at me?" You murmur, reeling from the searing heat of his mouth. Taking in the sight of mussed golden hair, green roots entirely out of place. The divot of creamy, tanned skin from where his robes have loosened.

Naoya blinks, shaking his head as if he's trying to clear it, "You gotta' tell me where you wan' it first." Lips parting, as if he's suddenly not sure what to say to you, like he's drinking in the sight of you and he can't stop.

He's patting a hand to your chest, cupping the swell in your robes, "I don't know if you wan' me here," and then, he's dragging a hand lower still, hand folded over the thick robes that cover your thighs, "Or, here. Probably got ya' weepin' like a poor, little slut down there."

You scowl back at him, "Watch it, 'm not a slut."

Naoya grins, all wolfish canines, "Wasn't talkin' about ya'. Was talkin' about her." Giving you a loving pat in between your legs, "Thinkin' if I pushed these stupid robes right up, everyone could see you drip right onto my waiting hand."

You gasp, pushing your hands onto his broad chest, groaning as his fingers trail further down. Pulling the silk of your robes up further, so your thigh meets cool air, "Can I request a-anything, then?"

Naoya hums, lips pursing as his brow quirks, mocking even, "Wasn't planning on givin' in to ya' so easily, but just this once. Only 'cause it's our wedding night, don't you think?"

"Wan' your mouth."

You see a flash of something pass over Naoya's face. As though he's warring with himself, some obstinate spirit telling him otherwise, but he shakes his head, almost amused, "Y'know, I should have sent ya' back the minute you pushed me into tha' stupid pool. Shoulda' demanded another one. A wife that isn't so mouthy."

He's chuckling now, splaying your thighs further apart with rough hands, an odd sort of deference painting his fine features, "And now look at what you've got me doin', hey?"

Naoya's tutting at you, shaking his head in faux disappointment when you whine in embarrassment, "This is what you wanted, right? For me to show e-everyone jus' how wet you are. I mean, hah, look at this."

Pinning the thickest part of your silken robes over your abdomen, so your legs were bare, parted so he could slot in-between. Amber eyes almost bewildered as he took in the deep, swollen outline of your glossy cunt underneath flimsy garments, "Sittin' there like this, the entire time?" Naoya whistles low, cold and cutting, "I mean, fuck, ya' can really see everything here."

"Shut u-up," you sputter, hearing your own pulse thrum in your ears, in-between your legs. You barely have a chance to take in syrupy air once more, for Naoya's hand is there, swift and firm, pressing over your mouth. Fingers cool against your skin, it's not harsh. But it's forceful enough to swallow your words, as his eyes light up with that familiar, mocking amusement.

"Careful now, wifey," he's grinning, looking far too pleased, "Ya' don't get to give me orders, 'm gonna be doing you a favour."

Naoya doesn't seem burdened by this, not at all. In fact, if anything, he looks downright pleased, like the sight of your weeping, drizzling cunt before his eyes is a golden opportunity that he intends to savour.

He's got an icy finger sliding over the waistband of your gauzy, flimsy undergarments, toying for a brief second. You can see it in the way his beastly fangs curl into a grin, like he's getting off on the scandal of it all. Of having everyone watch in quiet silence as he suddenly tugs. Hard.

The fabric splits with a squelching hiss, thick and sludgy, as you gasp, feeling the heat throbbing in your pussy swell as the cool air hits where you're most sensitive, "You ass, t-those weren't cheap."

Naoya rolls his eyes, amber disappearing into white, "So?" He's drawling, looking up at you from between your thighs, "What, you think I'm some broke bitch?" He's popping a single, long digit into his mouth. Having swiped a curious hand through your glistening folds, marvelling at the slick, translucent strands that followed him. Tongue flicking over the tip like he's savouring something, "Fuck, you're kinda' sweet. Heh, who woulda' thought?"

You open your mouth to protest, but he doesn't even give you the chance. Not even a mere second to form the words, for his hand is patting your cheek. Leaving something sticky and cool lingering on flushed, warm skin. Your own arousal glimmering in the lantern light, upon your skin, for all to see.

It's as if Naoya's humouring you, and it's almost affectionate. If not for the edge in his voice that makes you tighten your thighs around his shoulders, "Don't worry y'dumb, little head about it. Y'know, shit — almost lost a drop there, you know, you're the future Madam of this clan now, right? Anything you want, you'll get."

And he's giving you a look now — head tilted just so, almost tame. Like a promise wrapped in docility. Almost. If you didn't know of him more, if you weren't already simmering with tampered fury from your first meeting, earlier in the day, you may have been fooled. Might have fallen for the gentle downturn of his lashes, like ink pooling on creamy skin. The slow, deliberate way he puffs a small breath against your glossy cunt. Doing you a favour, indeed.

His grin is all teeth, unapologetically smug, as though he knows what you're thinking. Knows that he's destined to clash with you, to draw proverbial blood and blades whenever it amuses him, but he's got you right where he wants you now. Under him, and splayed wide.

Your waiting cunt pooling sweet juices over his wandering fingers — the sharp tip of Naoya's nose twitching before ducking and brushing through your glistening folds. A satisfied chuckle when you arch your spine, desperate for more friction.

"Not that patient, are ya'?" But you don't think you'd be wrong in assuming that Naoya can't hold out much longer, for the crack in his voice betrays him. That melodic, charming, insolent tone giving way to a deeper rasp, like granite grinding against the earth.

You don't know what comes over you, carding a hand through golden, soft locks of hair. Digging into pale green roots, "Think your audience is gettin' bored?"

Naoya almost, so very almost, purrs at your nails digging into his scalp. Pushing himself into your trembling cunt, letting his tongue paint a thin, long stripe right through your throbbing pussy. Reaching up right to your swollen clit, briefly flicking over it.

And now, Naoya is not a sentimental man. Fuck that, he's never been one for gushing, and roses and nauseating sweetness. But this may very well be the first time that he's ever understood what it means to be pussydrunk.

For he's shooting amber eyes up, to where your expression has twisted, almost blissful and idyllic compared to the frown that's been marring your face all day. He'd hate to say it, but he's almost content as the sweet moans that fall from your plush lips, over and over.

"T-that's good, hah, Naoya, 'm — s-so good," You're cracking an eye open to see your flaxen-haired husband snickering, enjoying how damn sensitive your puffy folds are to his ministrations. Only the mild, quiet shuffle of the elders harkens you to their presence, them bearing witness to the consummation.

"Yeahhh," Naoya drawls, angling one bare thigh so it sits over his shoulder, where his robes have slipped right off, "Good, huh?"

"S-surprisingly."

He pinches at your clit in retaliation, just lightly enough that it sends a jolting sensation through your quivering form, but not enough to bring sheer relief, "Watch your whoreish mouth, wife. Could jus' leave ya' here, high and dry." And Naoya's scowling, but despite himself, still pushing his pulsing tongue to the very apex of your core. The glossy, winking entrance where he meets little resistance from your waiting, gummy walls, "Could jus' leave ya' here, and have you rub one out yourself in front of everyone, so you can get off on your own."

You should be ashamed, flushed and embarrassed at how he's speaking to you. There's brief fantasies running through your mind, of strapping your husband down and taping his mouth so he can stop running it so crudely, but you file the thought away for now, arching your hips further into him. Dragging your sloppy, leaking cunt over his face — something he surprisingly welcomes.

Naoya, who's leaning deep enough in between your thighs for the golden strands of hair framing his forehead have been dampened by your arousal, a darker, sandy shade. Pouty lips covered in sweet, tangy sheen, and sticky from munching at your glossy folds.

"Bet they're all watching you," Naoya grins, with little warning as he slides a slender finger into your cunt, immediately curling it in search of some spot, "Bet they're wishing it was them in m'place. Tastin' you like this."

You can't help the involuntary clench of your walls at his words, and Naoya's eyes widen, lashes blown long enough to kiss his eyelids, "Mhm, you like that. But hey," your husband's pumping determined fingers in and out of your cunt, rummaging and massaging at sticky walls, "You're my wife now. Mine to fuck, they can't have what o-only a Zenin can have."

"Can y-you —" You're writhing now, legs spread even wider and you frankly don't care at this point who can see the light reflect your dripping cunt, "A bit f-faster, hah." Let them see, right?

Isn't that why they had you all dolled up, squirming in your seat during the feast so they could watch you fall so undone? And fuck, Naoya would probably slit the throat of another man who dared breathe what he saw this night, if not for your honour, but for his own ego.

"F-faster? Greedy, tch' and you said you w-weren't a pretty, little, slut!" Each word is punctuated with his fingers falling in a curved arc through the air, smacking down over your drooling pussy. Sending sloshes of slick spattering over his finger tips and the edges of his robes, "That's it. Jus' keep your hips like that."

"Heh, hope the lot of ya' are paying attention because she's p-pretty close right about now."

You don't even know who he's speaking to, or where his words are directed because it's an endless rotation for you now. Circling your hips over Naoya's nose, with him greedily lapping at your cunt, with a satisfied look in your eye that just screams of him planning to hold this over your head for at least six months.

You're practically soaking Naoya's smug, beautiful face, smearing translucent mirror-sheen over his chin, and he's pistoning clever, cruel fingers in and out of your tight heat. Messily toying with your throbbing clit, pulling at and under the hood until you're heaving for gasps of sweet air.

"B-bet you'd feel tighter around my cock, y'know that?" Naoya grunts, lips curling to suck around your clit, "Was plannin' to take ya' right here, but think 'm a bit greedy now, hah. Show's gonna be over soon for these cunts, but 's only jus' beginning for us, wouldn't you say, wife?"

You're certain that he must have left bruises at your hips now, right over your groin as he drags you impossibly close to himself, as though he's determined this public display will leave no question as to whether the heir to the Zenin clan can pleasure his wife to the point where you're practically trembling, and abandoning your loathing of the man, temporarily. Just to squirm as tears hang from the edges of your lashes, gleaming from the stimulation, "Wait, w-wait, 'm gonna, I think 'm gonna —"

There's a satisfied noise from Naoya, almost like one of relief, though you know he would be loathe to admit just how affected he is by your climax.

There's a shooting, fleeting sensation in your abdomen. Tremours of pleasure practically streaming and gushing out of you, as you see little else but stars and streaks across your vision, "S-so good, Naoya, fuck. Fuck! I think 'm still cumming, hah, oh my god."

You're hardly even aware of the gushing slick that sprays across Naoya's face and how briefly stunned he looks, and so utterly pleased with himself as you ride out your high. You certainly don't miss at how he almost doubles over, as if there's an equally tightening sensation in his groin as well, pleasurable just from the sight you spread bare for him.

The look on his face cuts sharp — triumphant, smug in a way that speaks of retribution. As though he's just scored the first point in a game that's only just begun.

Before you can so much blink, dazed from your orgasm as heat continues to throb between your thighs, Naoya's arm tightens around your waist. A quick, practiced motion that pulls you flush against him. He's grinning like a man who's already won, a faint and cooling flush now painting his features in some blissful afterglow.

But then, he kisses you. Rough, messy, sloppy even. His lips are hot and unrelenting against yours, a press of teeth and frustration that's more greedier than anything he's done so far. "There, that's it. Tastin' yourself, aren't you?" Naoya's murmuring, nipping at your lower lip.

His arms shift, and he's scooping you up effortlessly. Tilting your world for the second time that day. You're cradled sideways in a bridal hold, against the broad frame of his chest, as his fingers are splayed possessively over your still bare hips. The bastard doesn't even break a sweat.

"Put me down," You scowl at him, but the recent climax is still painting your breathy vocal cords, lacking the heat you had hoped for.

Naoya's golden eyes glitter with amusement, "Nah. We're jus' getting started, don't you think?"

You instinctively grip his robes for balance, and you can feel your husband's chest rumble with laughter, rich and infuriating, "I'm starting to think this whole hate game is a charade, or a ruse. You actually like this."

"I'm starting to think you want a concussion."

Naoya makes a faux-move to drop you, to have you pile to the floor in jittery limbs and crumpled silks, as you desperately cling to him tighter, "Mouthy woman. Can't stand that. Don't like you at all."

The elders, a cluster of now pale-faced men who look like they've just swallowed their own tongues, gape in stunned silence. Their eyes dart between you, rumbled and flushed — thoroughly compromised with the slick that still runs down your thighs. And the heir of the Zenin clan, whose lips are still moist, glistening faintly.

Your husband's tossing them a lazy, half-lidded gaze over his shoulder, "Well," he says, dragging the word slowly, "Like I said, show's over." His voice drips with mock reverence, "We're going."

"Where?" One of the elders, bold or perhaps just stupid, dares to croak, voice thin and trembling like dry parchment.

Naoya stops, just for a breath. His gaze pins the man, golden eyes cold and dangerously amused. "Where do ya' think?" Words like a blade, dripped in honey, "Our quarters, 'course."

He doesn't wait for a response, doesn't even glance back as he pushes past the screen door with you still cradled against his chest. His momentum sends it rattling against the frame, and the hushed, horrified whispers that follow are clearly music to his ears.

You glance up, your pulse a rapid thrum against your throat as you take in the faces of the nobles you had excused themselves earlier, milling outside. They shuffle uncomfortable, some pretending they have somewhere better to be. Others frozen in a mix of curiosity and thinly veiled disdain.

Gojo Satoru is still there too, leaning against a wooden fixture, his jaw tight, as though he's working through something unpleasant. Glowering and grumbling something about leaving Tokyo for this, about the Zenins having no class as usual, and you get the idea that unlike last time, his blindfolded gaze is sweeping anywhere but you.

You bite back a smile.

"But...but the consummation!" The elder follows through the doors, his voice thick with outrage, "How can we be sure — the ceremony, it requires —"

Naoya doesn't even let him finish. You can feel the smirk against your temple, pressing over the shell of your ear, "I did all this," he's splaying your robes aside, "With jus' my mouth. Think I can do even better with my cock. Don't worry," He drawls, "I'll make very sure it's all handled."

"I'm going home," Gojo Satoru loudly announces, to no-one in particular.

[science-hoes]

Jack Abbot is full of empty threats.

That’s what you tell yourself every time you make a snide remark about his age. The adjectives to tease him with are endless. Old. Ancient. Vintage. Outdated. Decrepit. Elderly. Archaic.

“You’re gonna pay for that one day.” His voice is low, the frequency just enough for you to ear.

He doesn’t say how. He doesn’t say when. He doesn’t say where. So he must not have a plan.

“Whatever you say, grandpa.” You tease before turning on your heel to handle another patient.

Jack watches you leave, the swing of your hips nearly hypnotizing him. He knows exactly how you’re gonna pay. He’s just waiting for the right opportunity.

It happens one night after a few too many beers in the park after your occasional day shift. You sit way too close to Jack on the metal bench, thighs brushing together, but he never moves away from the contact.

And you will not shut up. “Gotta get ya home, grandpa. S’almost your bedtime.” You slur in his ear, your breath making the hair on his neck stand at attention.

Jack holds his alcohol better than you, and he takes your hand to lead you to the parking garage. “You need a ride home.” He says, voice firm but kind.

When he opens the passenger door for you to hop in, you giggle at the amount of CDs tucked into the side of the door. “Who even uses CDs anymore? Don’t you have Bluetooth?” You tease.

Jack just chuckles and shuts the door in your face. The ride home isn’t any quieter. You’re reading off the release date of every single album you can get your hands on, all of them predating your existence. He says nothing, just the smug smile of an animal who’s about to devour his prey. You’re too captivated to the artifacts in his truck to notice.

He walks you into your apartment, and you throw your arms around his neck before he gets a chance to shut the door. The kiss is hungry, long overdue, and exhilarating. Your alcohol level has begun to taper off, that’s what you tell him, when he hoists you up by your thighs and takes you to your bedroom.

Thrown onto the mattress like a rag doll, you quickly remove your layers of clothes. Jack wastes no time flipping you over onto your stomach, dragging your ass back until it smacks against his hips, rubbing his achingly hard cock against you.

“Just let me know when it’s time for your vitamins, and we can take a break.” You call back to him.

A firm swat on your ass draws a sharp scream from you as he runs his fat tip through your dripping folds. “I think it’s time to teach you a lesson, baby girl.” He husks.

The first slow thrust splits you in half, and you’re both far too loud for the thin walls of the apartment. His thrusts move quicker, sharper, and you’re starting to feel that spring coil in your abdomen. His fingers are reaching around your waist to circle your clit in concentrated form.

“Jack, please!” You scream, drooling against the comforter of your bed.

“What’s that? I can’t hear you, doll. Must be my old man ears.” Jack hisses in between thrusts.

Oh.

So that’s his game.

You whine when his pace picks up, pistoning into you like a machine. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” The words tumble from your trembling lips.

“You’re sorry? Yeah? I bet you are.” He grunts, his hands tightening on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh.

His cock is hitting that spongy spot inside you with precision, and you start to meet him halfway with the thrusts. “I’m close, I’m so close. So so close.” You cry.

Jack half smiles, looking down at where your bodies are joined, admiring the cream that’s slathering his cock. “Gonna come for me, kid?” He asks, the lilt in his voice condescending.

“Yes, Jack, please. Please don’t stop.” You beg, grabbing onto your comforter for dear life.

And then everything is still. Jack stops moving. He’s inside you still, but he’s completely halted all efforts to pleasure you. Your release fades away from the lack of stimulation.

“No!” You scream, pushing back on his cock to try and revive your orgasm.

Jack lets out a fake sigh of an apology. “Oh, sorry, love. You know how I am. Just get tired so easily.” He hums, palming the flesh of your ass cheeks, massaging gently as you pathetically thrust back against him. He slowly begins to meet your thrusts halfway again, but not at the pace you want.

“You already made your fucking point.” You hissed through clenched teeth.

Jack’s hips begin to move faster, speeding up with each one of your desperate cries. “Did I? Sorry, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

You don’t respond because now he’s fucking you again like he means it, like he can’t keep up this charade forever because, fuck, he wants to come in you so bad. He feels your walls begin to tighten around him, and he knows your orgasm is hovering off the shore again.

“I’ve got an idea.” Jack mumbles, grabbing both of your wrists and pulling them behind you, like he was a dirty cop arresting you. “How bout you let this old man fuck a baby in you, huh? You like the sound of that?”

His hips slammed into you so hard that his balls are spanking your pussy with each thrust. You’re so, so unbelievably close, and his words are hurdling you to your release.

“Won’t be around for much longer, don’t want you feeling lonely without me.” He muses, his own grunts becoming louder with each snap of his hips.

Your heart fluttered in your chest, and you nodded stupidly at his offer. Jack clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

“Answer me. You wanna have my baby?” He growls.

“Yes, yes, yes.” Each answer a punctuation to his hips smacking against your ass.

“Let me hear you say it.”

“I wanna have your baby.”

“My ears don’t work too well, doll. Gotta be louder than that.”

Your abdomen tightens, and a white hot wave crashes over your entire body. “I want to have your baby, Jack!” You screamed.

“Atta girl.” Jack praises before spilling into you the moment he feels your walls contract around him, coating them with white spurts.

When you collapse onto your stomach and Jack flops down next to you, catching his breath, he gives you that smug smile that you love so much.

“Gonna keep calling me old?” He taunts, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.

You smile and grab one of his large wrists. You lead it down to your leaking pussy, shoving his fingers in to plug your hole. “If this is my punishment, I’ll keep calling you old til the day you die.” You breathe. “Which should be any day now.”

[mrs-hatake]

LADS reaction to you wearing a mini skirt and it accidentally rides up

Pairing: Caleb x F!Reader, Sylus x F!Reader & Zayne x F!Reader. ⟡ Genre: boys being boys, fluff, gege x meimei, ⟡ Word Count: 1.3k ⟡ O.D.P (Original Date of Publication): December 18th, 2024

A/N: a request from my old blog where anonymous had said, So~ I saw ur lad boys requests were open 👀🍵 and I was wondering if I could request their reaction if you were wearing a mini skirt and it accidentally rides up

Sylus

April showers bring May flowers. As well as cool and sunny days. When one can finally shed off their thick winter coats and slip into something lighter, more colorful and maybe top it off by wearing a cropped jacket.

Y/N is strolling down the streets of Linkon, accompanied by children’s laughter and much needed heat after the long winter season. She doesn’t always spend her day off downtown, choosing to be lazy at home and recharge. But seeing how lovely the weather has gotten, she finds herself out of her pajamas and into a cute white knit top and black mini skirt. 

She doesn’t do much downtown; window shops for about an hour, grabs a late breakfast and stops by a flower shop.  When she enters the park to rest under a large tree with its leaves acting as an umbrella to shield her from the scorching noon sun, she spots an ice-cream truck. 

Happily eating her ice-cream, Y/N doesn’t notice a couple of boys chasing each other on their bikes. They rush past her, kicking dirt in their path and sending a strong gust of wind Y/N’s way. 

“Watch it!” Y/N yells after them, grumbling at how reckless kids are getting with each passing year. 

“Nice view.” Comes a comment, along with a satisfied whistle. 

Y/N turns, anger burning in her eyes and a stern talking to on the tip of her tongue when she is met with a familiar handsome face, “Sylus?” She asks, her head tilting to the side. 

“In the flesh.” The man in question is sitting on a bench not too far from where the ice-cream truck is, a book between his large hands.

“What are you doing here-” Y/N cuts herself off when realization dawns on her; Sylus had seen her pale yellow underwear when those stupid boys zoomed by in their bikes, hiking up her mini skirt. 

A pretty blush dusts her cheeks and Y/N quickly averts her gaze from Sylus’ amused reds. 

Zayne

Linkon’s Public Library is one of the city’s most prominent buildings despite libraries being an outdated concept. After all, thanks to modern technology, everything is now digitized and an individual can gain access to billions of doors of information with a simple tap of their smart wrist watch.

Still, despite such conveniences, many still seek the warm embraces of a library. A place that feels familiar, as if reuniting with a relative after years apart. Even someone who has never been in a library before, can share this sentimentality. The aroma of book pages and the feel of the leather on the tip of the fingers, no modern device can replicate such sensations.

It’s why Y/N is spending her lunch break at the library instead of being at the cafeteria, eating and catching up with her colleagues. Although she loves them and would die for them, sometimes she needs a break.

And one of her favorite hobbies is picking up a book from the library and reading about previous generations, decades and centuries and their lifestyle.

She’s currently in the 21st century section, scanning the titles of various books when one at the very top catches her eyes; Surviving Quarantine and Covid-19. 

Y/N reaches up to grab it but the shelf is way too high for her to reach. Even when she stands on her tiptop, Y/N’s fingers still struggle to graze the book. She stretches and stretches to no avail. She tries to jump but that doesn’t help her wrap her fingers around the thick book. 

Just as Y/N tries to stand on the ledge of the book case to give her an extra boost, warmth engulfs her and an arm appears in her line of sight. Y/N is caught in a daze as a smooth looking hand easily grabs the book and pulls it out of the row it was resting in. 

Following the arm, Y/N is pleased to see her doctor, “Zayne!”

Zayne isn’t someone who can show emotion on his handsome and youthful face but he has been trying as a small smile tugs the corner of his lips. 

“You should be more careful,” Zayne says as a form of greeting, “Your skirt was riding up. You never know who might be watching.”

Flushed with embarrassment, Y/N takes away the book, “Will do.” she chuckles awkwardly, unaware of the way Zayne’s gaze darts to her thighs and back to her eyes. 

Zayne will take this to his grave but he was spending the past ten minutes watching Y/N trying to grab the book. Every time her skirt hitched, Zayne leaned further, nearly falling off of his seat, trying to catch a glimpse of Y/N’s underwear. And he would’ve been successful if he didn’t hear people making their way to where they were. After all, only Zayne is allowed to watch such a mouthwatering sight. 

Caleb

Finally…Finally, after six long months, Y/N wakes up with excitement buzzing through her veins and heart thundering wildly. Today’s the day Caleb is coming home after his training program. 

She spends an hour and a half in her bathroom; washing her hair with jasmine scented shampoo and rubs honeydew scrub on her limbs and abdomen, shaves all the tiny hairs littered across her body and curls her hair just the way Caleb likes it. 

Y/N then spends another hour trying to choose the perfect outfit to greet Caleb home.

After three mountains of clothes pile up in her room, Y/N decides to wear a white, off shoulder top with a matching mini skirt.

Just as Y/N is doing her makeup, she hears a car door slamming from outside her window. Eyes widening in alarm, she rushes to her window where she spots Caleb leaning into the window of the electric yellow cab. 

Oh, no! He’s home early!

As if on maximum speed, Y/N spreads peach colored lip gloss across her lips and pats a thin layer of powdered blush on her cheeks in less than twenty seconds. She takes the stairs by two and is out the door just as Caleb is waving off the taxi driver.

“Gege!”

Caleb turns at the sweet call of his meimei, her cute nickname at the ready when it dies on his tongue. 

Everything around him slows. The sounds become muted and his surroundings fade away into a blur. Except for Y/N who shines like the morning sun. 

She is running towards Caleb but at the same time, her skirt swaying with the breeze. Every time Y/N comes down from the stone stairs of the entry path of their grandmother’s home, Caleb’s blessed with the sight of Y/N’s cute lace pink underwear.

How Caleb wishes he’s wearing his video recording lenses right now. He doesn’t ever want to forget this heavenly sight.

“Gege!” Y/N calls again before jumping into Caleb’s eager and greedy arms.

“I’ve missed you!” She smiles up at him, “Did you miss me too?” she pouts at him and it takes all of Caleb’s will power not to kiss her. 

“Y-Yeah…” Caleb clears his throat, hides his face in her hair and inhales her scent–jasmine and honeydew– to calm himself down, “I’ve missed you too.”

Pleased with his answer, Y/N beams at him, pretty eyes glowing with delight like the night stars. 

Y/N leans into the hug, unaware of how her warmth sends a thrill down her spine, how his heart is beating so loud he’s scared she might hear it. Heat pools Caleb’s in his stomach, a familiar sensation that he has tried not to chase after. So, he gently, albeit regretfully, pushes Y/N away.

Before she can pout at him–pretty eyes filled with unshed tears– and send Caleb into a frenzy, he rushes to say, “I got you a present!”

Grateful for the distraction, Caleb guides Y/N to their grandmother’s house. As much as he wants Y/N, wants her for himself, it’s not the time…yet.

[imnotjustreadingg]

flesh arm? no thank you, give me the metal one

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x avenger!Fem!Reader (y/n) Genre: Fluff - Angst - Reader hurt - Lies  Word count: 1888 Summary: Bucky spent years feeling guilty for what he was and what he did. Y/N, his girlfriend was the only thing that reminded him how good life can be. Having a metal arm was difficult and when he accidentally hit her, his world collapsed. Y/N found a easy way to make him change his mind

The common room echoed with laughter. You were curled up at one end of the couch, half-covered by a thrown blanket, giggling at something Sam had said while Bucky sat beside you, a rare grin stretched across his usually guarded face. His vibranium arm was slung lazily across the back of the couch, his whole posture relaxed in a way you didn’t see often.

Now alone, you were teasing him—something about his outdated music taste—when he chuckled, leaning back and waving that metal arm in mock offense. And then it happened. A sharp but light tap on your upper arm. You didn’t even register it at first. It wasn’t painful. Just surprising, like bumping into a doorknob you hadn’t noticed. Your laughter barely faltered. But he did. Bucky went still. Utterly, terrifyingly still. His smile faded instantly. His eyes locked onto your arm, wide and full of alarm. He pulled back like he’d touched fire.

“Bucky?” you asked, tone gentle, brows furrowing when you saw his expression.

“I-I didn’t mean to,” he said quickly, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t see where you were-God, I didn’t mean-did I hurt you?”

You blinked, confused at first. “What? No-wait, is that what you’re-?”

But he was already retreating, both physically and emotionally. That wall he worked so hard to keep down around you started building itself back up brick by brick. He rubbed his flesh hand over his face and muttered, more to himself than to you, “Damn it. I wasn’t paying attention.” You reached for him.

“Bucky. Hey. Look at me.” He didn’t. So you scooted closer, placing your hand carefully over the one he kept clenched in his lap. “It didn’t hurt. I swear. It was barely anything.”

He shook his head slowly. “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have—Y/N, I hit you. Even if it was by accident. Even if it didn’t hurt.” His voice cracked on the last word. You could feel his guilt radiating off him in waves. It made your heart ache. “Bucky,” you whispered. “You didn’t hurt me. You startled me. That’s all. It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t scary. You’d never hurt me.” He finally looked at you then, and God, the look in his eyes broke something in you—because he wasn’t looking at you, not really. He was seeing a past he couldn’t escape, one you knew he carried like chains around his wrists. So you brought his metal hand to your lap, cradling it gently. A soft breath of laughter escaped him, almost involuntarily.

You smiled. “Come on, Barnes. You really think I’d let you off the hook if you’d actually hurt me? You think you’d still be sitting upright?” That made him huff, and you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “There he is,” you said, leaning into him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder. “You’re allowed to have fun, Bucky. You’re allowed to laugh. You’re allowed to be human.” He swallowed hard, then whispered, “I’m always scared I’ll slip. That I’ll forget how strong this thing is.” You squeezed his hand. “Then we figure it out together. Okay?” He didn’t answer with words but when his fingers curled around yours, warm and steady, you knew he believed you.

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The incident in the common room was small. Barely a blip in the timeline of your lives at the Tower. But something shifted after that. Not between you two at least, not in a bad way. If anything, you were closer. But Bucky noticed how you started asking him for things. Little things. Specific things. It was always something simple. Something harmless. And always something that meant he had to use his metal arm.

It started with the jar. “Hey, could you open this for me?” you asked one lazy afternoon, handing him the stubborn pesto jar from the fridge. He took it without a word and popped it open with a smooth twist of his metal hand. “Wow,” you said, eyes wide with mock awe. “My hero.” He snorted, handing it back. “You loosened it.” You shrugged, grinning. “Still counts.”

Next came the bookshelf. You stood in your room, frowning at the towering wooden shelves like they’d insulted your ancestors. “Hey, Buck?” you called, and he was there in a second. “Can you help me move this? It’s too heavy.” He gripped the side of the shelf with his metal arm and lifted it like it weighed nothing. “Where do you want it?” he said, holding in the air the bookshelf. You blinked. “Seriously? You didn’t even grunt.” He smirked. “That was me being polite.”

Then there was the couch incident. You apparently choose the heaviest couch in the shop, but when you first bought it that wasn’t a problem. So now you were going to use it for your purposes; movie night in your room while all the avengers were out. You were stretched out across half the couch with your legs draped over his lap, blanket tucked under your chin. The remote slipped behind the cushions with a dull noise. “Ugh. It fell under the couch,” you mumbled. “Mind grabbing it?” Without missing a beat Bucky slid your legs off his lap, stood up and reached the floor with his arm founding the remote, then casually lifted the entire couch just enough to retrieve it. You gawked. “Did you just… lift the couch?” He handed you the remote like nothing happened. “You wanted it, didn’t you?” You narrowed your eyes. “I could have reached for it myself, you know.”

“Then why didn’t you?” You didn’t answer. He raised an eyebrow. And then it clicked.

That night, while you brushed your teeth, Bucky leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, arms crossed, watching you through the mirror. “You’ve been doing it on purpose,” he said. You spat out your toothpaste. “Doing what?”

“The metal arm thing.” You shrugged innocently. “Have I?” He stepped closer, his voice softer now. “You’re trying to make me use it more.” You glanced up at him. “Trying to help you stop flinching when you look at it.” There was a pause, just the faint buzz of the bathroom light between you. Then he slipped his metal arm around your waist and pulled you gently toward him, the cold plates warming slowly against your skin. “Did it work?” you whispered. His voice was low, steady, full of something quiet and sacred. “Yeah. It worked.”

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You continued the following days, lifting your suitcase or handing him your favorite mug, trusting him not to crush it when your hands were full. One night, during movie night, you shifted the bowl of popcorn into his left hand without even looking up from the screen. Every time, you smiled like it was nothing. Every time, his chest tightened a little.

You were tucked into his side on the couch, his vibranium arm wrapped snugly around your shoulders like it belonged there (because it did). His flesh hand rested lightly on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth as the movie flickered on in the background. He’d been quiet tonight, but not the tense kind of quiet you used to worry about. Just… settled. At peace. That peace, of course, was exactly why you decided to stir the pot. You turned to him, completely straight-faced. “You know, your real arm is starting to give me the ick.” His head snapped toward you. “Excuse me?” You gave an exaggerated shiver. “Yeah. I dunno. It’s just so… skin-like.” He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You mean human?” “Exactly!” you gasped, as if it was the most horrifying concept in the world. “It doesn’t even glow. No shiny parts. No dramatic sound when you move it. Honestly? It’s a little boring. Kinda scary even.”

“Oh my God,” Bucky groaned, throwing his head back against the couch. “You’re impossible.” You leaned into his side, tapping his metal bicep. “This one, though? Top tier. Looks cool, feels cool, opens jars, moves furniture…what doesn’t it do?” you said smirking.

“It doesn’t feel,” he said quietly, without bitterness. Just stating fact. You looked up at him, your teasing fading into something softer. “That’s not true.” He met your gaze, puzzled. “It holds me,” you whispered. “That’s all I need it to feel.” He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked at you like you hung the moon then, “You’re the worst. You know that?” You grinned. “And yet, here you are. Letting the ick arm touch me.”

“Okay, first of all-” He tackled you gently onto the cushions, rolling you beneath him with a laugh. “If anyone’s getting the ick, it’s me. You’re obsessed with this arm.” You giggled, running your fingers down the smooth, dark plating. “Maybe. But can you blame me?”

“No,” he muttered, dipping his head to press a kiss to your neck. “Not one damn bit.”

You were perched at the kitchen island in one of Bucky’s Henleys and a pair of sleep shorts, nursing your second cup of coffee while half-listening to Tony rant about someone leaving the toaster dial set to 7. Nat was calmly buttering toast. Steve was flipping through a newspaper like it was still 1943. Sam was already on his third protein shake.

Bucky entered quietly, looking almost shy, until he spotted you and immediately softened. He padded over and, without a word, slid his vibranium arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. You leaned into it like it was second nature, pressing your cheek to the cold metal with a content little sigh. None of this was unusual anymore. What was unusual was that Steve had apparently just noticed the pattern.

He tilted his head and frowned a little. “Hey, Buck… I’ve been meaning to ask.” You glanced up lazily from your mug. Steve pointed between the two of you with his spoon. “Why do you always now touch her with your metal arm?” Bucky didn’t miss a beat. With the most deadpan expression, he said, “Oh. She’s afraid of my real arm.” There was a pause. Tony blinked. “I’m sorry-what?” You sipped your coffee. “Yeah. It gave me the ick.” Bucky nodded solemnly. “She said it’s boring.”

“I never said boring…” you added casually.  “Yes you did” he replied. Nat choked on her tea. Sam nearly spit his shake across the counter. Steve looked between the two of you like his brain had blue-screened. “You… you’re kidding. Right?” You finally grinned, nudging Bucky’s stomach with your elbow. “Obviously.” Bucky chuckled, eyes bright. “She’s not afraid of me, punk. Not even a little. She’s the reason I don’t flinch when people look at this thing anymore.” He flexed the vibranium fingers gently, still resting them over your shoulder. Steve softened. “Well… good. I just noticed it and thought…well it’s nice.” Tony raised an eyebrow. “Nice? Steve, he literally wraps her in an arm made of Stark tech every morning like a human weighted blanket.”

“Jealous?” Bucky asked with a smirk. Tony sniffed. “Please. If anyone touched me before noon, they’d be dead.” You laughed softly, leaning further into Bucky’s embrace. His metal thumb rubbed slow circles into your upper arm. And as the kitchen filled with laughter and snark, Bucky just looked down at you safe, warm, alive in his arms and thought, Yeah. I trust myself now. Because she did first.

[bunnis-monsters]

Return to your side

PREVIEW

Vampire x Fem!Reader

WC: 5k+

warnings: arranged marriage, handjob, squirting, pussy eating, creampie

He could smell death on her skin, something like decay and smoldering flesh. Her body was growing weaker by the day, and by god he could almost sense her life force draining from her.

Disease was like a wild beast, ravaging and devouring the bodies of whoever’s path it crossed. Unfortunately, while tending to a sickly child, she got caught in the middle of its quest, and was infected.

Valentine lived a solitary life, one that most would pity him for. Every day seemed to drag on and on, eternity looked grim.

When he met her, everything began to just… make sense. She was kind and a bit feisty, full of life and energy. Instead of dragging on, each day was new and ripe with adventure.

For a short period of time, it seemed like everything was going to be okay.

Then, a new disease began to spread through the land, killing off entire kingdoms and leaving both nobility and the common folk at death’s door.

No one was safe… not even her.

The first cough went unnoticed, Valentine simply continued to work as she placed a hand on her throat.

Strangely enough, she felt a bit weak and feverish that week, unable to do her daily tasks around the castle. Valentine spoiled her rotten and she took pride in being able to help him with his work while he was so busy… but now she could barely get out of bed.

Valentine was a scattered mess. He nearly collapsed when she started coughing up blood. Usually, vampires would become overwhelmed by the scent of it, but her blood smelled like rotting flesh.

She was dying.

He tried everything he could to keep her alive. Various types of acupuncture, medicines, herbs, visits to the apothecary, nothing seemed to work on the vicious disease ravaging her body.

On a moonless night, he knelt by her beside, his undead heart aching as she spoke her final words.

“Don’t… cry…” she murmured, her skeletal hand caressing his cheek and wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop. “I may die… but my love will… persist through it all…”

Choking on a sob, he leaned forward to press his forehead against hers. “I don’t want to be alone… I can’t stand it, I won’t let you go.”

She began to hum, carefully running your fingers through his soft locks. “Then I’ll come back… I promise. I’ll… find you…”

The clouds covering the moon moved out of the way for just a moment, letting its light shine on her face one last time.

“I love you, Valentine.”

With that, she drew her last breath.

It took several days for reality to set in. Valentine still came to her room every night, sat beside her slowly decaying corpse, and kissed her head.

“Goodnigh, my dear.”

~

Darkness fell over the land, leaving you nothing to light your path. Everyone warned you to be home before nightfall, but you foolishly ventured on, wanting to gather more fresh herbs for dinner.

After all, you were out camping in such a nice cabin, why not take advantage of the change of scenery and eat something you gathered yourself?

Life in the city was hard, and you thought a change of pace would be nice. After all, in only a few months you were to be married off to someone you didn’t know.

‘Aren’t arranged marriages outdated?’ you thought to yourself as you forced your body to move forward.

Your father was wealthy and a bit distant, but you never thought he would marry you off to someone you hadn’t even met!

It was just supposed to be a walk to clear your head, to try and make sense of what your life was becoming.

Well, now you were lost in a dark and wintery forest with your phone dead and scarf blown away with the wind.

Wanna read the rest now? Go to my Patreon or Kofi!

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[rallamajoop]

So why are there so many gay vampires?

From the time of Carmilla all the way up to the works of Anne Rice (a universe that seems to get only less subtle as the years go on), gay vampires have been a thing basically as long as anyone was writing about vampires. Lesbian vampires have been a genre all their own for decades. Bram Stoker, author of the most famous vampire novel ever written, was gay himself. So why vampires specifically?

I’ve seen people attempt to answer this one before, and there are all sorts of contributing factors I could point to here, from the genres’ beginnings with Lord Byron (infamous bisexual disaster fuckboy), to modern discourse about why queer folks so often find themselves identifying with the monsters and outcasts of fiction. Few other monsters besides vampires can so easily pass for ‘normal’, or are nearly so well known for their snappy dress sense and ‘unnatural cravings’ for human flesh. And that’s without even getting into all those skeezy outdated stereotypes casting queer people as predators, or the idea that even one ‘gay experience’ could somehow ‘convert’ you into being one yourself.

But to my mind, there’s just one really important thing that makes vampires so gay, and it’s the same thing that makes them sexy in the first place: plausible deniability.

You see, a vampire’s bite is simultaneously a) ridiculously sexual, and b) not even a little bit sexual at all.

You don’t have to look far for vampire canons where there’s nothing sexy about being bitten by a vampire. Bloody, violent, painful, sure ‒or just clinically miserable, human bodies torn open or hung up to drain like a human blood bag. What’s sexy about getting bitten by a mosquito, or a fecking leech? The diet of the actual vampire bat requires it to process so much water that it apparently spends mealtimes busily pissing out the difference, and the anti-coagulants in its saliva leave the wound bleeding messily long after it’s gone. The basic act of feeding is no more inherently sexual for a vampire than it is for a zombie.

Vampires are even a surprisingly acceptable monster to market to children. There’s a vampire muppet, a cartoon about a vampire duck, and a whole series of books about a vampire rabbit. You can put a vampire on the side of a cereal box without undue outrage. Vampires do not have to be R-rated for sex or violence.

So of course vampires will go after victims of the same sex. Do you stop to inquire whether the cow you’re eating was male or female? It’s all just predator and prey!

Until it’s everything but.

Do not let the ‘vampires aren’t supposed to be sexy!’-purists fool you. The tradition of sexy vampires goes all the way back to the oldest folklore, where the first victim of a newly-risen vampire was often their still-living spouse. Vampires were even occasionally known to get women pregnant (a convenient excuse for any widow who might turn up pregnant slightly too many months after their husband's death). The ‘original’ Nosferatu sounds more like an incubus than the naked mole-rat creature they made that movie about. The demon lover aspect of the vampire has been there all along.

And it’s not hard to imagine why. If someone is biting and sucking on your neck, then either they’re a vampire, or they’re well on the way to second base (other folklore has its vampires feed directly from their victim’s heart, which is scarcely less suggestive). The implications of an exchange of bodily fluids were never subtle, even in Stoker’s day (I'm looking at you, Lucy-with-the-three-husbands), and the vampire as a sexual predator was a popular literary device well before Stoker's time. Beautiful vampire women would seduce men to their demise, and the males of the species might visit the bedroom of some innocent maiden time and again. The Victorian obsession with mesmerism, meanwhile, provided the perfect explanation for how victims might be hypnotised into eager compliance, and perhaps not even remember being fed upon at all. Vampires have been the ultimate guilt-free sexual fantasy since way back in the day, compatible with all your awkward Victorian mores! (Not quite ready to admit they're sexual fantasies? No problem: he's just here to, y'know, suck on your neck a bit. No subtext here!)

The whole act of biting is so suggestive that in the early years of vampire cinema, it wasn’t shown at all, not even between opposite-sex participants. The camera of 1922’s Nosferatu maintains a demure distance during the climactic scene where the heroine is finally bitten and slowly drained of blood, and Universal’s Dracula conveniently fades to black or cuts away whenever it’s about to take place. But even if the biting has to take place off screen, who’s to say a vampire isn’t going to pick victims of both sexes?

The stately tradition of the lesbian vampire has cinematic examples going all the way back to 1936, with Universal’s Dracula’s Daughter. Though the titular vampire has a nominal male love interest – a psychologist who naively advises her to confront her temptations without fear – the result of his advice is a famous sequence where she picks up a young woman under the premise of wanting an artist's model, and convinces her to remove her top. No actual biting or nudity is shown (it was only 1936), but her fate is left in little doubt.

By the era of 70’s sexploitation, all such subtlety had been abandoned. If we’re all good with naked boobs, who’s going to be offended by a little biting?

In fact, when it comes to men rather than women, a vampire bite was, for many years, far too sexy to be shown, or even alluded to. Nosferatu clearly feeds on that film’s Jonathan-expy, but our only evidence is the bitemarks on his neck in the morning, and the final sacrifice to defeat the evil monster must naturally be female. Universal’s Dracula had to ignore explicit studio mandate that only the brides should be allowed to feed on their own Jonathan-equivalent, as to even imply that Dracula himself had fed upon a man was obviously far too homoerotic to contemplate (never mind that it’s Dracula who must be established as the threat in this opening sequence, or that it’s Dracula his victim will spend the rest of the film obsessed with).

But in that unspeakable land of male-on-male homoeroticism, you might be surprised how much homo we can squeeze in even without resorting to fangs-in-necks. The Lost Boys is surely one of the most homoerotic vampire films ever made, but there, the one big blood-drinking scene is rendered in a bloody massacre of slasher-movie violence. And though Anne Rice certainly describes the scene where Lestat drains Louis of blood in lurid detail (and even has them spend their first sunrise together sharing a coffin), Louis is already thoroughly seduced before he ever reaches this point.

You see, the lore of the pop-cultural vampire conveniently comes with a second and equally-compelling target for plausible deniability: the act of making a new vampire.

Obviously, to work, this has to be deliberate. A world where anyone bitten by a vampire becomes one hasn’t much to offer us, and the relationship between maker and fledgling can just as easily be framed as parental, as recruitment into a cult, or purely transactional. But whichever way you twist it, the implications of choosing another to share in your own eternal youth and immortality… like, I don’t have to spell this one out for you, do I? Did I mention how that thing where a vampire’s traditional first victim tended to be their own mortal widow goes all the way back?

But if we’re not ready to be completely obvious with our mainstream audience, some alternative explanation can always be provided for cover. Lestat doesn’t really want Louis, he just wants Louis’ money! (He also really wants Louis.) The Lost Boys just want Michael to join their gang! (Their very, very pretty gang, who swan around in mesh shirts, tank tops and assless chaps.)

The two sides of the vampire-deniability coin aren’t mutually exclusive, either. Carmilla drinks her new paramour’s blood, but also gazes into her eyes while promising her you will be mine. Drinking blood is a key part of making a new vampire in so many vampire stories, after all.

Carmilla isn’t even the only gay vampire story of the Victorian era. I recently posted about two other fascinating examples, both featuring male/male pairings: one being pretty much just a gender-flipped version of Carmilla, and the other a tragic love story filled with significant "vampire = gay lover" metaphors (why oh why must the townsfolk keep us apart, when we’ll only ever be happy once we’re united once more?) This stuff goes surprisingly far back.

In fact, you can find queer subtext in vampire fiction that predates even Byron and Polidori. 1819's The Vampyre was the first published vampire story, yes, but the first known work of vampire-fiction in the English language is a poem published by John Stagg in 1810, also called The Vampyre (look, the genre didn’t exist yet, you didn’t have to be creative with your titles).

In brief, Stagg’s poem recounts a conversation between a wife (Gertrude) and her dying husband (Herman), whose dear friend Sigismund, lately deceased and deeply mourned, has returned as a vampire. Night after night, he crawls into Herman’s room to drain his blood. Herman’s fate is already sealed, but unless Gertrude takes action, it will surely be she that Herman will take as his own first victim when he rises from the grave.

There may be nothing intentional about the queer subtext of this tale. A vampire’s victims often include friends he knew in life, as Stagg himself cites in his introduction. But if Herman’s first victim will be his wife, what are we to read about the fact Sigismund’s first victim is Herman? Especially given how long he’s kept secret from poor Gertrude that his dear ‘friend’ has been climbing into his bedroom each night, lying beside him in bed and sucking and draining "the fountain of my heart!" while Herman moans and tosses (in pain, obviously!), always leaving him "exhausted, spent." Ultimately, Gertrude is saved only when both Herman and Sigismund are staked through the heart, and we close on the image of them slumbering together in the tomb.

It is, however you turn it, pretty gay.

I reiterate: this is the very first known work of vampire fiction written in the English language. The second was the one that was kind-of-written-by, kind-of-stolen-from, and unambiguously based on bisexual-disaster-fuckboy Lord Byron. And the two most influential works of vampire fiction of the next hundred years would be Carmilla, the very lesbian vampire story written by a… presumably straight man? And Dracula, the not-completely-convincingly-hetero story written by #1 Walt Whitman fanboy Bram Stoker. Vampires have always been very equal-opportunity kind of monsters.

There are, of course, plenty of influential heterosexual vampire tales to fill out the roster too. Varney the Vampire, a penny dreadful from the 1840s, was so successful it ran for over 200 chapters. The 1960s had their own wildly successful Varney-equivalent in the soap opera Dark Shadows. Love it or hate it, we really can't ignore Twilight either. My own introduction to the genre was Christopher Pike’s The Last Vampire series, which came out alongside the original Vampire Diaries novels. So there's plenty of material around to keep the straights entertained – and honestly, that’s only as it should be, because the very thing that makes vampires so queer-friendly is that the sex of their victims doesn’t matter. And it’s so easy to make vampires sexy (let alone a full vampire-proposal!) that even the Victorians could do it.

Now, if your reaction to all this theorising is to tell me "but the LGBTQ’s shouldn’t have to hide behind plausible deniability!" I can only counter, "well sure, but why should the straights have all the fun?" Because playing with all the ambiguity of "is this monster really just after my blood or is this going somewhere?" can be all sorts of fun, regardless of the genders involved. And as long as they’re up for exchanging bodily fluids with persons-and-or-victims of either gender equally, why not have some fun with it?

So, okay, maybe the real title of this post should have been "why are there so many pansexual vampires?" But the answer doesn’t change. Vampires have been the bisexual disaster fuckmonsters for as long as anyone’s been writing about vampires, and have been a metaphor allowing people publish barely-coded gay attraction since 1872. And much like the queer community, they’ve only become more complex, more sympathetic, and all the more popular as romantic paramours as the years have gone by.