#no further statements needed cause you are so right!

[dollfacefantasy]

kinktober day 20 - size kink jason todd x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, size kink, tummy bulge

"That's it, baby. Take it all. Oh, look at you go. Being so brave for me."

On the surface the words are soothing, but the tone of Jason's voice fills each syllable with condescension. Not in a bad way. The sickly sweet lilt strikes the perfect chord that has you wetter than any body of water on this earth.

Your hips rise and fall in measure rolls, your cunt embracing his thick cock with every motion. You have to take it slow. Otherwise, you feel like you'll tear yourself in half.

"Jay…" you whimper, lip wobbling and eyes gleaming with the need for him to coddle you, "You're so…"

A sharp whine from your throat cuts off your own words. Your head tilts back and then hangs forward. His tip brushes your sweet spot every time you sink down on him. It makes it nearly impossible to remain coherent. You'd never met somebody who could make you malfunction like this.

"I'm so what?" he coos, prompting you to finish your statement. He already knew the words on the tip of your tongue, but he still wanted to hear them spoken into the drafty air of your apartment.

"You're so big," you choke out.

Another moan falls from your lips before you grit your teeth. Your face scrunches up in tandem with your walls clenching around his length. Vaguely, you hear him chuckle. He then pulls you close and cradles you against his chest.

"And you like that, don't you?" he whispers.

He slumps further down on the couch. His feet press hard against the smooth wooden floor beneath the two of you. The muscles in his thighs flex as he begins to pump his hips up and down. You whine and clutch at his meaty bicep, melting against his warm skin and letting him do all the work right now.

You nearly forget he asked a question at all until he continues speaking.

"I know you do, doll. You like that when you're with me, you're helpless. Don't have to think. Don't have to move. Don't have to do anything but let me use this sweet, little pussy till I'm satisfied," he says.

Your toes curl, your thighs clamping around his own. The pressure doesn't stop him from moving though, not in the slightest. You inhale sharply before nodding against his neck. Of course, you like this. You love it.

You could never get enough of Jason's body. You'd study it forever if he let you. Your pupils felt magnetized whenever they had the chance to drift along his chiseled torso or mentally map the pathways of his scars. Adoration wasn't a strong enough word for how you felt in regards to his figure. Obsession seemed more appropriate.

Fortunately for you, Jason behaved much the same about your body.

In the mornings when he thought sleep still had a strong hold on you, he'd run his fingers over every curve he could find. He'd knead the swell of your ass and press tender kisses between your shoulder blades. As you'd start to wake, he'd wrap his hands around your waist and nearly pop a boner right then and there from how large they looked in comparison.

His favorite thing in the world after a long grueling patrol fast became coming home to you. Not even thirty minutes with your delicate body washed away all the stress caused by hard and rough people he dealt with beyond these walls. Some nights he'd prop your dainty legs over his broad shoulders and dive into your slippery cunt. Other nights he'd get right down to it, shoving his fat cock inside you and watching your belly bulge with the intrusion.

Tonight hadn't been either of those. He'd been home for a change. But having you curled up to his side and pressed against him while he read a book got him worked up pretty fast. It wasn't his fault the two of you just seemed to fit so naturally together.

"My good girl. Soft and sweet all for me," he praises as he continues fucking up into you. His heavy balls lightly slap against your ass with each thrust.

Your nails dig into his shoulder as the repetitive strokes start to build on one another. Small, whimpered expletives drip from your lips like a leaky faucet. He knows you're getting there. All he has to do is ramp up his efforts a little.

His hands lock around your waist like they do on hazy mornings. Just like then, he's obsessed with the way your skin dimples beneath his digits now. He boosts you back and starts bouncing you up and down in addition to his thrusts.

Your eyes roll back at the sensation and you take your bottom lip between your teeth. You don't have to do anything in this position still. He's strong enough to hold you upright all by himself. The only thing you had to do was like he said - stay still and let yourself be used.

"Can never get enough of you, baby, fuck," he grunts. His head falls back against the sagging cushion as he keeps working himself into you over and over. He glances back up at you slightly. "Is it feeling good?"

"Mhm," you whine, "So fuckin' good. So deep. All the way inside."

Your head bobbles around with the way he jerks you up and down on his lap. He smirks at your words and the airy way you say them.

"I know. I can see it," he responds, eyes flitting down to that faint and familiar bump. Evidence of his place inside you.

You only whimper in response. He drops you back down against his chest so one of his hands can slot against your center and rub your clit in fast, tight circles. The flickering feeling draws even more noises of pleasure from you.

The edge sneaks up on the both of you fast. You fall over it first. Your body spasms and seizes between his hands, but his strong grip is enough to keep you in place. For him, it explodes in a muted burst of ecstasy before burning into a brighter one. He wraps his arms around your smaller frame and keeps you flush against his sweaty skin as he fucks his load deep inside.

The both of you stay there while you come down. His chest puffs up and down with deep breaths. Even with all his exertion, his hand rubs soothing stripes along the column of your spine. You lie against him completely motionless, limp against the muscles of his chest. A little pleasure doll all for him to play with.

[huh-i-guess]

Fever

(Task force 141 x F!reader)

Summary: While out on a mission you are injected with a substance that might lead to a shift in the dynamics between the 141.

Warnings: SMUT 18+, sex pollen, fingering, dub-con/non-con (under the influence of sex pollen), choking, nasty Simon, Gaz has morals

Word Count: ~ 4.2k

(Reader's callsign is Pepper)

I don't own MW2, the characters, or the gif above.

“What the fuck was that?” You shouted as you felt a sharp pricking sensation on your left ass cheek. You reached behind you to feel what was causing the sensation and groaned as you felt a syringe protruding from your behind. You looked down and noted that you had stepped on a pressure plate of some kind and triggered the laboratory’s defense mechanism.

“Oh fuck, lass.” Johnny mumbled.

“Shit, Pepper.” Gaz exclaimed in disbelief.

“No fucking way. Why does this shit always happen to me?” You yanked the dart-like needle from your behind and examined the leftover contents. The remaining contents appeared to be a blue syrup-like fluid. You sighed and pocketed the syringe hoping you could take it back to base to have it examined by the scientists at the lab. 

“Pepper, what was that?” Price called over the comms hearing the distress in everyone’s voices. Your thoughts ran at a mile a minute as you tried to figure out if you should tell your captain, that you probably had a mild crush on and always wanted to impress, that you just stepped on a trap. Or if you should lie. You hated lying to Price. It felt like you were letting him down and any time you did, you found yourself immediately retracting your statement and telling him the truth hoping he’d forgive your indiscretion. You readied your mouth to let out some kind of answer but snapped your mouth shut as you heard Gaz from your right side, “Looks like they tranqed Pepper or something. We were sweeping the lab and she was the first one in.” You turned your head toward Gaz and offered him a look that was a mix of thankfulness and regret. 

“Shite. You're still standing, lieutenant?” Price probed in a tone that, only those close to him could tell, was full of doubt and concern.

“Yes sir.” You pushed further into the lab taking extra care where your steps landed. The lab had been recently abandoned by russian terrorists working on some kind of bioweapon. You could only hope that you didn’t just get dosed with whatever they were concocting. As the three of you pressed further into the dingy lab you felt like the mass of your body was slowly doubling. 

“Soap. Gaz. If I drop, I need two to keep moving. We need to get this intel out of here as soon as we find it.” You could faintly hear the heavy footsteps of the terrorists behind you.

“No way in hell we’re leaving you behind.” Gaz contended. 

“Listen I-” 

You were quickly interrupted by Laswell’s voice in your ear, “Pepper. Evac will get to you and the boys in 11 minutes. It’ll be 2 clicks north of your current location. We’ll get you to the safe house from there.” 

“Copy.” You replied as Soap took a step closer and fixed his mouth to ready a response to your order. 

“Lass I don-”

“Listen. We don't have time for this. I don’t know what I got hit with but I know that at the moment we have a job to do. Let’s keep moving while I can and clear the files we came for. You will keep moving if I drop and that’s final. This mission can't be a waste of time.” You were met with an apprehensive “Yes Ma’am” and a “got it LT” and you snapped your head around to continue sweeping the lab. 

You knew you were being harsh but if you gave them room to argue you’d be stuck here going back and forth with them about it. Truthfully it was a ruse to make it look like you weren’t basically shitting bricks. You couldn’t stop the thoughts that flew through your mind.  I’m going to die today. Holy fuck I’m not making it out of this. I don’t know what I got hit with. How long do I have? You didn’t have much going on in your home life so the thought of a family didn’t even cross your mind until you thought about who around you did have one. Soap had his sisters back in Scotland that loved to “force” him to watch those really crappy rom-coms that he claimed he hated so much but then recommended for team bonding nights. Then you had Gaz who had his mom waiting at home for him. She always sent him care packages with little hand written notes that gave him updates on the status of his neighbors’ cat who had slowly been making itself comfortable on their property back in London. She even sent him photos of the cheeky little tuxedo cat. Your mind shifted from thoughts about yourself to thoughts about them. I have to get these boys out of here. They have so much going for them. They really are some of the best we have to offer. I can’t let them down. If I can't get out of here at least they can. 

Gaz went to the computer and plugged in a decryption device and began to sift through the scientist's digital files while Soap went through some of the scattered papers left in the room.

“They were in such a rush to get out of here they weren’t even effective at scrubbing their drives. Pep, I think I might have something.” You walked to the computer Gaz was stationed at and noticed a folder titled “Project Vitality”. 

“Good job, Gaz get it and we go. Soap anything?”

“A couple of poorly redacted files with the same name.” Soap chipped from your left. You made your way to him and patted his shoulder in praise.

“Alright we gotta move.” You heard the footsteps boom as the incoming enemies approached. You felt yourself slowly start to stall and noticed you had a difficult time focusing your eyes. It was like you were wearing a pair of glasses that weren’t meant for you and you couldn’t take them off. You willed your eyes to focus but it was becoming a hassle. Fuck me. You turned your head to Soap on your left and said, “Soap I need you to take point on the way out. I'll watch our backs as we exit.”

“Are you-” he started then pressed out a short, “Will do.” The look on his face was filled with so much concern, that for his sake, you almost wanted him to ask you if you were okay. He turned and rushed out of the room followed by Gaz and you at the back. The three of you navigated the winding corridors of the combatant base and made your way back, passing the rooms you had previously cleared. 

“Pepper. How we doing?” Price questioned over comms.

“Got the documents and drives, sir.”

“I know you did. That’s not what I’m asking about.”

“What kind of answer do you want, Cap?

“You know what I want to hear.” You knew Price wanted the truth but you couldn't let him know the fact that you might be starting to lose motor function and that the mass of your body felt like it had doubled. There was a large part of you that wanted to make him proud and craved his approval so the thought of disappointing him always stirred something deep inside you. But then there was Gaz and Soap. They were your sergeants and they often looked to you for guidance. The image they had of you rarely faltered from confidence and strength. They were right by your side and were clearly worried for you. If you told the truth to them they probably want to stop and question your status or maybe even try to do some kind of makeshift field evaluation on you and you’d definitely lose out on valuable time. 

A shaky, “I’m doing just fine, sir.” fell from your lips then silence. A sigh from Price that was then followed by a gruff, “Bring it in safe. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Of course sir.” You acknowledged. He knew you were lying. The slight tremor in your voice told him exactly what he needed to know. 

Soap led the three of you out of the compound but not without running into a couple of the remaining terrorists that missed your group upon arrival. You, although struggling to see and move, caught the slight movement as you three made your way to the entrance of the compound. A brown jacket sleeve that moved just a bit too slow was all you needed to gather that the combatants had reached your location. Years of intense practice and strenuous training had you firing your weapon with a practiced precision that was barely impacted by your declining physical state. 

As soon as you exited the compound you were met with a glaring brightness from the snow of the siberian tundra. The almost blinding whiteness was a massive contrast to the dimly lit compound so the massive shift in intensity had your head spinning. Gaz noticed you stumbling but only met you with a face of concern and a hand on your shoulder as he watched you struggle to get your bearings. 

Trekking through the Siberian tundra in your worsening condition was one of the hardest things you'd had to do in your career. The whirling of the wind was so intense that it felt like someone was screaming directly next to your ear and the pressure of it was enough to make your head pound. The snow was coming down so hard that each snowflake that hit your face felt like a tiny pin prick over and over again. Your feet were so deep in the snow that it felt like you were gaining an extra 20 pounds of weight with the effects of the drug starting to control your movements. You tried to pull yourself together. It was undeniable at this point that you would not be winning the battle against whatever medication they injected you with.

“2 minutes till evac” Ghost chimed in your earpiece. Your hearing was so sensitive that you could almost feel the loud mechanical static and the whirl of the helicopter in the background of his response.

“Oh my days. Ghost is the one flying us out? I don’t want to end up out the bloody chopper again” Gaz groaned. Oh. I wasn’t the only one to hear the helicopter then. 

“It was either me or you freeze out there, Sergeant.”

“LT, if you fly that thing the way you drive, Gaz might be better staying down here. Less chance of him getting thrown from the bloody thing.” Soap chirped. 

The world slowly started to look like a mass of colors and shapes with no definite beginning or end. The only thing you could do at this point was push and pray that you were gonna have enough strength to make it to the evac point. Everything was so intense that overwhelming wasn't even the right word to describe the feeling. You struggled to pick up your head as you began to hear another distinct whooshing sound that could only belong to that of a Puma HC2.

“I’m here aren’t I?” Soap and Gaz stopped moving as Ghost put the helicopter on the ground. 

“I’m glad you are sir. Good to see you, Ghost.” Soapsaid as he flung the door open and made his way on the aircraft.

“Always good to see that ugly mug of yours, Johnny.” Ghost turned his head to get a good look at everyone. “ Pepper, you don't look too hot.” Ghost concluded as you dragged yourself into the seat next to what you could have only imagined was Gaz. The words that came out of your mouth were something along the lines of “Not” and “Good” but no one really understood you with how slurred your response was. They did however understand that something was really wrong when your body slumped backward and went limp next to Gaz. You could vaguely hear the commotion of Gaz, Soap, and Simon, around you as they shouted your name and desperately tried to keep you from slipping out of consciousness. The last thing you heard was Price pressing to be informed on your state and him telling Ghost to get all of you to the safe house. 

---

“A neurotoxin that sends the body into overdrive. Increases nervous sensitivity and impulsivity, and impairs functionality of the prefrontal cortex and hippocampus.” Price read from the lab report with a stubby cigar in hand.

“Why the hell would they want to make something like that?” Gaz questions.

“Apparently in small doses it can be used as an aphrodisiac that it increases blood flow throughout the body, promotes sexual stamina, and increases pleasure outcomes? They must’ve been trying to develop something to sell on the streets.” Price continues.

“Right so they dosed her with super viagra?” Soap questioned. 

“That's what it sounds like?” Gaz said. 

“I thought that stuff didn't work on women?” Simon interjected. 

“It looks like they’ve altered it so it impacts both sexes but they haven’t been able to work out the less desirable symptoms. Tachycardia, fever, headache, dizziness, loss of consciousness, heart failure, and death.” Price paced as he read the outcomes. 

“Oh shit.”

“Heart failure? Death? How do we make sure that that doesn’t happen?” Gaz frantically questioned.

“The only way the toxin can be expelled from the body is through coitus…” Price trailed off as he dropped his cigar into a bowl. That can’t be right. He read it three times just to be sure and the words on the page didn’t change. 

“Steamin’ Jesus.” Soap deadpanned.

“No blood way.” Gaz stood with an open mouth. 

“Someone has to fuck her.” Simon said. 

---

When you awoke, you noticed you were lying on a firm mattress and were surrounded by the smell of smoke laced with a heavy sweetness that only came from Price’s cigars. You felt undeniably cold and couldn’t help but to shiver. You rubbed your fingers across your palms and felt them drenched in sweat. As you slowly began to turn to your side, you were overwhelmed with the feeling of the rough sheet that laid under you. 

“What the fuck?” You noticed that you had been stripped out of your vest and snow gear and were left in your black polyester thermals. You could feel every inch of fabric that you wore and immediately moved to take off the thermals. You were left in your sports bra and underwear.  Why am I taking off my clothes? I’m freezing? You ran your hands up and down your body trying to get a semblance of warmth but then decided that putting thermals back on would be too much for your unusually sensitive skin. As you dragged your hand down the sides of your thighs you couldn't help but notice how good it felt to touch yourself. You moved your hands to your inner thighs and couldn’t contain the moan that slipped from your mouth. You brushed your hand over the gusset of your panties and whined at the feel of your hand gliding over your already sensitive clit. 

“Pepper?” rushed out of Gaz’s mouth as he entered the room. He looked over to the pile of thermals on the end of the bed. “How are you feeling?” he probed.  When did Gaz get so attractive? He wore a red henley that hugged his arms perfectly and his soft curls made an appearance without the presence of his well worn UK hat. He made his way over to you and touched your forehead. “You’re burning up. Damn. The fever’s started.” The feeling of his hand on you was almost indescribable. He was warm and firm and exactly what you felt you needed at that moment. 

You felt yourself acting on purely impulse as you grabbed his hand and dragged it down to your mouth. You started to kiss his palm and moved your attention to his thumb. You placed it firmly between your lips and began to suck. “Oh fuck.” Gaz exhaled as he watched you with wide eyes. You continued your ministrations and moved from his thumb to his index and middle fingers. You began to lick around his digits before you engulfed them in your mouth with a guttural moan. You could taste the salt and gunpowder from the mission and it only made you crave him more. You lifted your gaze to him and willed your eyes to meet his. The groan that fell from his lips was divine. You removed his fingers from your mouth and helped his hand descend to where you really needed him. “Fuck. No. I can't do that princess. Not when you're like this.”

“But I really really want you to. Come on, Kyle. It’ll help me feel so much better.” You purred. Gaz let out a shaky breath, pulled his hand from you, and walked out the room but not without you noticing him readjusting himself in his pants. Fine, I'll do it myself. You sighed and pulled your panties down your legs till they rested at your ankles. You slid your fingers between your legs and gasped at how wet you were. You slowly started to trail your finger through your folds, collecting some of the wetness that had dripped from you and began to rub your clit. As soon as your finger pressed against your reactive little nub you were in heaven. You started in small circular motions and rubbed until you felt you needed more. You moved your other hand to your breast and tugged at your nipple. You kneaded and grabbed your breast like it was the key to your survival. You’ve never felt like this before. It's like you can feel everything, everywhere, all at the same time. You felt the rough fabric of the sheets, the scratchy wool of the pillow behind your head and you felt the soft cotton that was resting around your ankles.  You were still shivering from the fever but you felt like you could feel the stimulation of your clit in your toes. You needed more. 

You moved your hand from your plush breast to rest right at your soaked opening. You circled your middle finger a few times just to get it wet, and sank right into your leaking entrance. “Oh fuuuuuck”. You could feel the pressure of the finger at your walls as you started to curve your finger inside of yourself searching for your g-spot. You continued rubbing your clit and curling your finger inside of you hoping to seek your elease. It felt so good but it just wasn't enough. You slipped in another finger and moaned at the intrusion. You started to pant and whine with how good you were feeling, but you felt yourself needing more. You continued the calculated movements and felt your orgasm approaching. You just needed a little more. One more push to get you there. One curl of your finger turned to two, then to three, then the pleasure turned into frustration. “Fuuuuuuck.” You groaned as you  pulled your fingers from your body and layed on the mattress in a heap of sweat and frustration. You felt yourself slowly drift back into the unconscious void even as you worked to steady your breaths.  

---

“She sucked my fingers. Wanted me to fuck her. With my fingers. Uh she begged me to. And she was down to her knickers” Gaz confessed as he dropped his eyes to his combat boots, too unsure to look at his team. 

“Did you lad?” Price probed. 

“No, I couldn't do it. I really thought about it and I- I don't know. She definitely has a fever though.”

“Hm.” Was all that left Price's mouth. 

“We're gonna have to check up on her. Make sure her heart isn't working too hard and see how to keep her satiated. For her sake.” Simon stated matter of factly. 

“Does it say it has to be expelled through “sexual intercourse” or can she just, ya know, uh.. “Get there”, and work it out her system.” Soap questioned, looking toward Price and seeking the answers he normally has. 

“Johnny. It says coitus.” Simon replied. 

“No one’s gonna fuck her like this. It’s not right.” Gaz stated.

“What if we have to?” Soap doubted.

“Maybe we should see if an orgasm is the solution. If that doesn't work then last resort, someone will do what needs to be done.” Price said with a sense of finality. 

---

You felt the press of two fingers at your carotid artery and shivered at the warmth they offered. You fluttered your eyes open and nearly jumped out of your skin when they met dark brown ones behind a human skull mask. You’d seen Simon before and regularly worked with him but you'd never woken to him standing over you like the grim reaper.  

“Jesus, Simon.” 

“‘Just checking your heart rate.” He confirmed. Simon almost always has his gloves on. To feel his fingers at your neck had you craving more of his touch. You grabbed his hand that was at your neck and splayed it across your jugular. You looked up at him with full, pleading eyes and felt him squeeze a bit. A light moan left your lips as you begged him to squeeze harder. The groan that left his mouth would surely implant itself in the depths of your mind for years to come. The sound coming from him went straight to your core and you felt yourself clenching your thighs. 

“Simon, please.”

“Fuckin’ hell. Don’t look at me like that. Not while you've got your knickers round your ankles.”

“Please. Si. I need you. I’m so fucking horny. I can feel everything Simon. Please just help me feel good. I promise I’ll be good. You can use me however you want. However you need to. Please.”

“Don't say that y/n.” He turned his gaze away from your face. 

“I mean it. Please help me.”

“Just my fingers darling.” 

“Yes. Yes, thank you so much.” You nodded your head eagerly and bit down on your lip. If your fingers weren't working to get you there, maybe his would. You parted your legs for him and he hung his head and rolled his shoulders while he let out a deep “Fuck”. His grip on your neck tightened and you felt your head go light. “Oh fuck yes.” His other hand made its way between your plush legs and ran between your folds. Simon’s eyes were locked onto your pussy and he was in awe of how wet you were. He knew what the toxins effects on you were but to see them in person had him stiff as a board in his pants.  Fuck this was so wrong of him. He knew he wanted to help you but part of him was living out his sick and twisted fantasies. To have you, a stunning woman, dripping wet and begging for him to fuck you, he’d be insane to not feel at least a bit aroused. He dragged a finger around your clit and almost purred at the whine that left your lips. He continued to make slow and tedious circles around your clit. 

“Simon, please I need more. Can you - mmm fuck- can you fuck me?” How could he deny you when you’ve asked him so nicely. 

“Only with my fingers, darling.” He slipped in two fingers and groaned at how tight you were. Your back arched so deeply and he wondered to himself what it would be like to be behind you when you arched like that. Simon began to work his fingers inside of you. He started with slow but deep pumping motions and moved onto scissoring his fingers inside of you searching for that special spot that he knows will make you tick. Your breath hitched in your throat and you let out a long high pitched squeal. 

“Is that it, darling? Right there? Hm?” He beamed with a sense of condescension that made your pussy tighten on his fingers. 

“Oh fuck Simon. Please, please let me cum.” His fingers were hitting all of the right parts of you and you felt your orgasm nearing. 

“Of course you can come, darling. Fucking soak my fingers. I know you need it. Come on, darling.”

You slid your hand down to your clit and rubbed it in furious circles. His grip tightened on your neck and you felt fuzzy everywhere. “Cum all over my fingers. Make a mess, why don't you.” And at that final comment from Simon, you felt the band within you snap as you had one of the most intense orgasms of your life. Your toes curled and your back was nearly curved into a C shape. Your pussy clenched and unclenched as Simon continued his assault. You felt your ears ringing from the intensity of the orgasm and felt like you lost hearing for a little moment. As you panted and tried to recover from your climax, Simon removed his drenched fingers from you, lifted his mask to just below his nose, and brought his hand up to his mouth. He locked eyes with you and you watched him in amazement as he cleaned you from his fingers. Your eyes flutter at how intense the sight was. His strong jaw, scarred but pink lips, and traces of stubble left you wanting more. He moved the hand that was on your neck back to your pulse point to check your heart rate.

“It’s slowed a bit. Get some rest," and with that he left the room and you felt yourself slip from consciousness.

[meownotgood]

forwards, beckon, rebound. / machine herald!viktor x reader, 18+, reader is fem bodied, angst, size difference, fingering, choking, dry humping, praise, russian terms of endearment, somewhat toxic relationship, mild augmentation kink, way too many emotions, mix of arcane + league lore / spoilers. word count: 16.2k

read on ao3

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Viktor enjoys making you feel helpless. 

Technically, it isn't enjoyment so much as it is a responsibility; you'll repeatedly show up at his secluded lab in the Undercity, and as he does with everyone who comes to his doorstep worn and destitute, he'll take it upon himself to give you what you need. You are like the rest of his endeavors — meticulously examined, ambitiously furthered. But unlike his various grandiose experiments and his pursuits for evolution, it isn't just his mind you occupy. 

There is some dusty, disregarded hole in his once-perfect mechanical heart, and if the hypothesis he's formed but doesn't want to acknowledge is correct, you are the most probable cause. Or perhaps, you'd be the cure. 

Carefully, with his usual amount of precision, Viktor pulls his leather glove from his hand. He allows his fingers to flex: scarred skin improved by intricately-crafted metal joints. He's positioned above you, large and imposing while he keeps you pinned beneath him. The firm, steel surface of his giant worktable feels cool against your bare back. The room itself is dim, worktable lit by an overhead lamp that burns when you happen to look directly at it. Thankfully, Viktor's armored form above you, encased in dark shadow, blocks out most of the light. 

The Hextech third arm on his back grasps your wrists unwaveringly, and keeps them in place above your head, utilizing an exorbitant display of strength. You can't move a muscle, not even if you tried. Lingering heat sears into your skin, radiating from the metal — from where the laser he's perfected could easily sever your wrists from the bone. 

What's more, you can hardly think. Your head is spinning; your heart pounds from between your ribs, fiercely yet uselessly. You can only stare at the glowing, emotionless eyes of Viktor's mask, and wait for him to decide what he plans to do with you. Gentle. With the way you're looking at him, you need him to be gentle, this time. 

He presses his palm to the center of your chest, where he can feel the erratic beat of your heart. Slowly, he begins to drag his hand down. It's a knowing, practiced motion — not as soft as it ought to be, considering his cold, purple-veined hand and calloused fingers. As his touch is brought down to your stomach, your waist, you shiver, and your body relaxes. Finally, fully. 

It doesn't take long for you to arch into his touches, just as he predicted, just as you always do. Your flesh loves to sing for him. 

This dance has been performed by the both of you numerous times beforehand. Viktor questions if you'll ever grow tired of it. Of the pirouetting, of revolving constantly around unspoken, trembling complications, just to return, to let your mind and your heart reel all over again. 

What he feels for you — what he has evaluated from you, because machines do not feel — is something unexplainable, foreign, futile. He knows this, this dynamic you've fostered; it hardly makes sense. You are allies with no common goals. You were friends, some disregarded years ago. Every other night, you stumble into his lab to interrupt his work, and he lets you. 

No, he indulges you. 

"You are quivering," Viktor hums, voice muffled and deepened by the mask's filter. A usual, matter-of-fact statement, but the edges of his tone sharpen in the wake of a held-back, dark chuckle. "You want me to touch you. Say it." 

The powerful, vastly-superior Machine Herald already has you right where he wants you. 

Slightly riddled with static, the way his thick accent curls around the words only serves to make you shudder more. Your breathing is choppy, your chest rapidly rising and falling. 

Not from fear, if Viktor had to guess. His scans of your heart rate would come across much differently if that was the case. This is from arousal. Clear, easily definable arousal. Just from his thick voice, his soft touch, and the imagery provided by his large body above yours. 

The sight of you is addictive. Addiction isn't a sensation built into his mechanical repertoire, but it's the best word he can think of to describe this. You are small when you're underneath him. So malleable, so fragile. So human. How abnormal. The compulsive surge that runs through his veins should not, according to all of his tests and conclusive research, be occurring. 

Viktor supposes this type of behavior would be more fitting of the past version of him. Presently, he doesn't have room to let time go to waste. His vision is all that matters. The old him, though, the Viktor you once knew would've given you whatever you desired without a second thought, even though he hardly deserved it. 

He was weak, once. For you, perhaps a part of him still is. 

You are intelligent, you always have been. He has cast away much of his past in pursuit of chasing a better, more important future, but still, he remembers each and every moment he shared with you quite vividly. They play in the background of his mind sometimes, persistent like a system error, recurrent like a late-night looping television program. 

Your inventions often kept pace with his. Your smile was bright, brighter than the pillars of light that shone from Piltover's grandest lighthouses. Starry-eyed and driven, you wanted to improve, as a person and as a scientist. You challenged him to push further right alongside you. 

Of course, you knew him better than most, but Viktor wonders: did you ever expect him to go this far? Did you ever plan on retreating back to Zaun with him, to fall further into madness together? 

By now, you must be smart enough to know he is different. What you might've had, a friendship or a partnership or something delightedly improbable, it is now nothing. Nothing more than another one of his shed weaknesses and old, discarded memories. 

Perfect machinery does not feel. Not even for you, no matter what it once felt. Scientifically, it can't. You should understand this relationship is not beneficial. He could and would gladly break you, it's what he built himself to do. And yet, as he's starting to realize, perhaps being broken by him is exactly what you want. 

"Please touch me," You're begging, as his palm caresses the all-too-human curve of your side. Your voice is warm, lustful. A sweet, familiar taste settles in the back of his throat, as you coo the old nickname you still reserve just for him. "I need you to, Vik." 

And just like always, because of you, because of his predisposed sense of responsibility, or perhaps because of an unrecognized fault in his complex machinery — Viktor gives in. 

He revels in your vulnerable, quivering limbs and your heavy, desperate gaze. The grip of his Hexclaw tightens on your wrists, your hands closing, fingers tensed. He drags his palm down your stomach slowly, carefully. His gentleness is calculated, but it is yours, all the same. 

Your legs spread for him on impulse when his hand reaches your thigh. He squeezes, before he brings his hand between them, allowing the end of his index finger to brush your clit; his touch is precise, with all the efficiency and learned confidence of a flawless, apathetic machine. He could make you fall apart for him so easily, every part of you perfectly attuned to his touch, and his touch alone. 

Yet, he's teasing you, careful and slight touches barely grazing where you're oh-so sensitive for him. Your thighs shake, and spread wider; your body is exposed to him, soft and sweat-soaked expanses of skin contrasting splendidly with his bulky, armored chassis of metal. Now, instead of his index, Viktor uses his thumb, providing more friction and a slightly firmer touch. You squirm, the pretty features of your face washed over in pleasure, before you breathe a small, satisfied whine. 

"That's it," He murmurs firmly. "To think this is all it takes to make you submit." 

Viktor allows his thumb to trace circles onto your swollen, needy clit, and your breath proceeds to hitch so deliciously for him. An action, and reaction. Repeated experiments make for predictable results. Hextech hand practically digging into your wrists, Viktor brings his free, metal hand to your cheek. Oddly tender, his cold palm cups your face. He isn't surprised at the response it gets out of you, your chest heaving with a deep, trembling sigh. Every part of your skin tingles, as you lean into his faux, steel touch. 

"Earlier, you wished to be defiant. Disobedient." Viktor scolds, his thumb flicking over your clit while his fingers brush your cunt, gathering your dripping slick on the digits. He takes his metal hand away from your cheek, and he presses it flat to the table, right beside your head. Your brows pinch disappointedly, clearly unsatisfied with his subtle form of punishment. 

"And now look at you. Wet and desperate." 

He's barely touched you, barely even begun with you, and you're already dripping. 

"I wasn't- I'm not disobedient," You're countering, although it's damn near impossible to keep your voice sounding steady when his persistent touch is toying with you. He's teasing, circling your clit agonizingly slowly, just to make you squirm. "I brought you everything you asked for. Like always." 

"Yes, and you did well," Viktor praises flatly. As though he's reading off a trained script, rather than watching the way your eyelids flutter as his knuckles brush your entrance. "Our current project will run smoothly now, utilizing the tech you acquired for us. But when I told you to wait, to bring the tech after I had finalized our plans, you did not listen." 

You admit simply, foolishly, "I missed you." 

Those words are familiar. You'll often tell him you missed him when he returns to the lab, home at last after finalizing a few affairs elsewhere. You said you missed his face the first time you saw it, your hands gently holding his cheeks, caressing metal and skin — despite how different he looks now. Despite the scars, the mechanical parts. 

He knows you missed him. In a soft, delicate way. In an indecent, desperate way. His form of longing is much, much different. When the mortal matter and fraying wires of his brain yearn to have your presence beside him, with him, under him, it is strong, it is carnivorous. It is encompassing. 

"You nearly comprised everything we've been working towards." Viktor's third arm tightens even more, making your wrists and arms go nearly numb. "There is only so much I can do to protect you. I disposed of the last enforcers to attempt tracking you down, but if you were to lead them here, you will not just be putting yourself at risk. You are threatening our entire vision with your recklessness." 

Carefully, his index finger finds your entrance: sensitive and wanting. He deliberately pulls his hand away when you whine, instead placing his palm back on your inner thigh. Your skin is soft to the touch. Your gaze stays steady on him, on the unflinching shape of his mask, your eyelids heavy, pupils blown with clear arousal. As though he encompasses all you need, anything you could possibly want, and everything that could devastate you. 

You are frustratingly beautiful. 

Viktor hums, the sound low, somewhat mechanical. He gently guides his hand over your neck, just how you like, until large, metal fingers are wrapping around your throat. Not squeezing, just tightly holding. Enough to ground you, to remind you of who you belong to. You let go of a sigh, your eyes growing heavier. Your heart is skipping, and with his hand around your throat, the subtle vibrations of your quick pulse shudder through his complex machinery. 

"Viktor-" You start, voice weak, barely there. "I'm-" 

"I know you want more." He squeezes your thigh, applies just enough pressure to your throat to make your mind go fuzzy. "Tell me what you have been waiting for me to give to you, what you desired so strongly that you ran to me, instead of following the plan. And perhaps, I'll let you have it." 

You tremble: a full-body, tingling shudder. Viktor — the Machine Herald — is so much larger, so much stronger than you. He's augmented himself to be significantly taller, significantly more imposing, and underneath him like this, you must look meager. Pathetic. Fully bare, your legs spread open for him. Giving yourself to him so easily. Your chest heaves, your mortal heart skipping and wavering at the sight of him above you, pinning you beneath his heavy, metal form. 

"Breathe, zayka," Viktor murmurs, his grip on your neck loosening up. "Your heart is racing. Focus on me." 

Taking in slower, deeper breaths, your mind quiets, your pulse calms. Stars and static thrum in the corners of your vision, your thoughts a knotted up blur. Viktor — his touch is all you can focus on — traces his fingers further up your thigh in approval. 

"There. Very good. You're alright." 

"Your fingers," You pant, "Please." 

Viktor scoffs, his tone mechanical and rough, "You can do better. Try again." 

Huffing, your head knocks the firm worktable when you toss it backward. 

"Bastard." Your hands clench and unclench, your wrists giving a poor attempt at struggling against their hold. To no avail, of course. "Are you at least going to let me touch you?" 

"No. Answer me. Do not make me repeat myself." 

You briefly gnaw on your bottom lip, your jaw tense, thighs shaky. "I need your fingers inside me, Vik. I've missed you, I need you, please. I'm going fucking crazy." 

Viktor's unmoving, glowing eyes examine you carefully. "That's it. That is much more sufficient. So exquisite, when you are begging. Take what you need, then." 

You're well aware he isn't the same man you once fell for, nor is he the soft-spoken, bright scientist you once knew. Rumors paint him as a maker, a monster, a machine. He is cold to the touch. He isn't supposed to feel, he removed such functions ages ago; they were useless to him. As were his failing lungs, his weak legs, his heart. A heart made from machinery never skips. It can't be blinded by love, or lust. It cannot be distracted by old, unkindled flames, in the same way you often are. You envy him, somewhat. 

But Gods, when it's just you and him in his lonely little corner of Zaun, and when you are at the pleasant mercy of his perfected touch, you swear, he feels more human than anything. Nothing else truly matters, because still, he is yours. 

Viktor's index finger slides inside you slowly, just barely stretching you around its thickness. You're wet enough that he could press it in easily, could have you melting and drooling over whatever you're given — but instead, he chooses to let the digit fill you languidly. The feeling is slight, enveloping and enthralling and familiar, yet not enough to make you feel full, at the same time. His fingers are long, dexterous. Pretty and scarred. 

You've watched him work on plenty of augments and automatons, hands tightly grasping a wrench to turn it, fingers carefully holding the ends of thin wires to thread them together. Each action swift, exact. 

With the same level of precision, Viktor presses his finger deep inside you, and crooks it upward to nudge it right against your sweetest spot — and you whimper, your whole body shivering, collapsing. 

"One is never enough to satisfy you," He asserts; he gently pumps his finger into you to a steady, easily manageable pace. "Isn't that right?" 

If his mask weren't there, you're sure you'd see him speaking through a slight grin, maniacal and crooked, impossibly him. Your heart pounds. You're doomed, you must be. 

In response, you nod your head fiercely. Another shaky moan tears through you as he works you on his slender digit. Pressing in, dragging out. Calculated and perfectly steady, like the continuous beats of a metronome. 

"Or," Viktor questions, "Should I have you come undone around just one?" 

"No," You snap quickly, although you're obviously in no position to be making demands. Your eyes flutter open, your face contorted in a mix of pleasure and frustration. He finds your desperation strangely satisfying. All for him. It's the same sort of hungry satisfaction that comes with working on an automation, striding closer and closer to a job well done. He adjusts, pushing your legs apart with his large knees when they tremble and threaten to close. 

"Give me two," You're pleading, "Please." 

Viktor hums, the sound low and vibrating. 

"Guiding you to your peak would prove trivial, even without the means of penetration. You are simple. Easy to unravel." His low, intimidating voice effortlessly sends goosebumps careening down your spine. "You could most likely be led to cum against my shoe or my thigh, from modest friction and my voice alone." 

"Viktor," You almost wince at how pathetic you sound. "Stop talking." 

Viktor eases his index finger as deep inside you as you can take, and heat surges across your form in thundering, breaking waves. "Why would I stop when you are enjoying it?" 

Oh, he knows you far too well. 

"Dammit, at least-" You exhale, trembling through a moan, and Viktor's Hextech arm holds onto your wrists impossibly tighter as your hips roll into his hand — desperate to feel more of him. It works, momentarily. Until he is using his free hand to firmly grip your waist: thick metal fingers digging into warm, pretty skin. He pushes you back against the worktable, holding you in place. 

You groan in frustration. "At least quit teasing me." 

"Such impatience. I am working you upwards, gradually conditioning you to take higher levels of stimuli. It will make the process as a whole much more pleasurable." 

"Gods if you weren't wearing that stupid mask, I would shut you up in no-" 

"I always satiate you, milaya," Viktor answers calmly, as he slowly drags his finger out, leaving you quivering and empty. The nickname he uses is tender, familiar. It reminds you of your once different life. Vividly, it forms blossoms in your chest, unfurling flowers and delicate petals. Tugging sweetly at your thudding heart, despite the cold artificiality of his manufactured tone. Milaya. His darling. 

Though, the Machine Herald does not covet. What he desires, he takes and makes his. 

"Interesting," He's muttering, seemingly mostly to himself. "Your neediness has greatly increased since the last time we convened. Normally, you are capable of controlling yourself. To a certain extent." 

He tsks, metal hand caressing slow, reassuring circles onto your waist, while his other palm dives back between your legs. His fingers drag over your cunt with an irrational sense of clumsiness, considering the motion is coming from him. He lets his fingertips search for nothing in particular, getting them slick with your arousal, nudging your clit carelessly with his knuckles until your back is arching, and your sighs are sharpening. 

"Sorry." You mumble a half-hearted apology, eyelids softly fluttering. 

"It was not a complaint." Viktor presses his fingertips close, dangerously closer. 

Your body needs him, needs what only he can give to you. His hands, his fingers inside you. Every inch of you screams for his touch. As though you are a solved puzzle, a piece of technology broken down to let him understand each individual part. Your thighs shake, and that's part A. Your chest heaves, your shoulders go tense. Significantly human responses. Components labeled B, C, D, V. Your lips quiver, before they mutter another breathless, desperate plea of his name. 

Predictable, and understandable. Yet, for certain, you are a delight to decipher. Those pieces and budding sensations come together as he thought they would, and they — and you, are primed to be bent at his will. 

You expect him to tease you further. When he falls silent, becoming more impossible to read than he already was, you feel your arms and your thighs tense with what must be anticipation. Surely, he can sense how eager you are. 

But Viktor doesn't falter, he does not hesitate. He guides his metal hand underneath your back, predicting its arch, and he presses two of his fingers, his middle and ring, to your drooling entrance. They slide into you with a filthy, wet noise; it's almost obscene how eagerly your cunt accepts them. How you plead with whiny utterances of yes, yes, your voice breaking, eyes closing. He eases them inside you slowly, fills you with them completely — until his scarred knuckles are nudging against you, and you're sobbing through a half-sigh, half-moan. 

He doesn't wait to hear you beg for more. You're given a calculated amount of time, just enough seconds to catch your breath and get used to the stretch of both digits inside you. He fucks you on his fingers, pumping them in and out to the tune of your broken whines and gasps for air. It's a gradual process. A coded, mastered technique well-baked into his mind, his heart, and his hardware. 

Of course, he's long since learned just how to make you fall apart. He has studied you, he's proceeded to subconsciously store your data in the most important vault in his mind. It is simply a matter of getting you there, of drawing out your pleas for him and your tremors and your pulses, to push you even further past your previous crescendos. 

You can always be louder. Finish harder. You deserve to. And when it comes to any and all of his endeavors, including this one, he is persistently, unquenchably ambitious. 

"Vik-" You're babbling, in a wavering voice he might logically, astutely label as precious. His quiet lab echoes with the whirr of various displays and devices. With your soft noises, echoing alongside the wet squelch his fingers make each time he presses them deeper. "Please, I just- I'm so- I want you so much-" 

"You have me," He answers rigidly. Prepared and intentional, his fingers move slower, drawing out your moans and your shudders of pleasure. "Or were you demanding more?" 

"I always want more with you." A faint, endearing pout forms on your features, the kind of look only he can draw from you. "Want- I want you to fuck me." 

It isn't anything of importance; just an aimless, desperate plea. The kind you might be expected to ask of him when you're in this state — your mind wandering, your body relaxed. You need fuel for your building fire, you need to hear him outline through words what he can't through actions. You cannot make him feel as you do, but Viktor is kind enough to let you play pretend. 

Though, for whatever strange, unrecognizable, illogical reason, he goes against the fixed line of actions he was previously adhering to, and he hesitates. He contemplates. He twitches, circuitry briefly inoperable, fuzzy and working against him. His center, his self-regulating core, hums with marginally more force than it did before. The hand he has pressed to your back trembles. It thrums with artificial, built-up heat, before he grips you much tighter. 

Fortunately, he rediscovers his composure as quickly as it waned. Viktor quirks his fingers into your sweet spot to make you cry out for him, and then he drags them half-way out — every moment agonizingly slow, so he can admire the way the digits glisten in the lamplight. 

"Filthy little thing." His voice is thick. His words are stern, making you picture how his jaw might be tightened. "I am already providing you everything you asked for, and yet still, you act greedy. Human desire is terribly intemperate." 

"As if-" You're squirming, sweating, your hair a mess, warm gaze and moon-wide pupils locked onto his obscured face. "As if you feel nothing from this." 

"I cannot feel. You are well aware of this reality. I suggest you do not continue to persuade yourself otherwise." 

"Bullshit." 

"In fact, I do feel nothing." Viktor brings his thumb to your clit on his next press in, rubbing it roughly, circling it precisely. "I am incapable of experiencing desire," His fingers crook and spread. "Nor enjoyment." They pump slowly, while they stretch you around their shape. "Or affection." 

"But you were worried about me- fuck- when I went off on that stupid mission," You're mumbling, barely able to speak through ragged gasps for breath, "You were fretting over my safety. You- hah, you stopped everything you were doing just to check on me, because you felt relieved, you felt happy when you saw me walk in, didn't you?" 

Did he? 

Hours earlier, you returned to his doorstep, and he knew it was you from the way you knocked; he put aside the small automaton he was working on, and hurried to meet you at the door. He gave you a quick once over — in this form, he is vastly larger and taller than you, to the point where you have to crane your neck to look up at him — but you assured him you hadn't been injured. When you fell against his armored chest in something of an embrace, he didn't push you away. Nor did he protest when you pulled his heavy, bulky shape on top of you as you fell back against the nearest surface, his additional sensors picking up your already increasing breathing and heart rate. 

He recalls your arms around him, hands tugging at his cape, removing sections of his armor, fingers threading through his hair. Soft lips pressing to cold steel — 

Viktor tenses. You are plenty capable on your own, capable enough that he rarely considers whether or not you'll return. You always do, after all. This mission was considerably riskier, though. Considerably more worrisome. 

If anything had happened to you, if he discovered you were injured or captured or worse, his subsequent reaction would be less than logical. His mental processes would malfunction, and he would lose the ability to think rationally. The stifling, unstoppable force that would build within him could be compared to something like rage, something like love. 

You swallow thickly, and the room swirls around you in a dizzy haze as Viktor slowly pulls his fingers from you. Leaving you empty. 

He murmurs, "Look at me." 

It's a little difficult of a command to follow, with your head spinning and your eyes all heavy. Still, you force yourself to breathe deeply, to steady, in the wake of the sudden lack of attention. 

You look up, and his hand, fingers slick and filthy, momentarily moves to grasp your chin. He tilts you towards him, to make sure you're watching. Viktor reaches up, and he presses a mechanism on the side of his mask. It hisses, releasing air, small puffs of steam streaming from either side. 

He removes it tentatively. He tosses it aside with a bit less caution, causing it to clink, spin, and nearly fall when it hits the upper edge of the table. 

You're met with messy brown hair, scarred skin, and familiar moles. The entirety of his jaw is made of metal, reconstructed into intricately crafted steel that continues down his neck and underneath his armor. His skin is overly pale, to the point where you can notice deep eye bags, and the criss-crossings of several individual, purple-hued veins. His expression is stern and deadpan, his brows slightly creased. He takes you in, gaze flickering down for a moment, then back up — and searing eyes, dark purple pools and bright orange suns, finally meet your own. 

"Your legs," He's instructing; his voice, no longer filtered through the mask, sounds warmer, clearer, a little less deep. Despite everything, terribly familiar, and blissfully human. "Place them around me." 

Unable to stifle a smile, you lift your thighs, casually locking them around his back at the ankles. You rarely get to see his face, and it's impossible to keep your eyes off of him, nor can you stop your heart from pounding. Viktor returns your gaze, cold and unflinching. It's like he's examining you, regarding you with the same restrained interest as he'd have for the subjects of his experiments. 

"There you are," You're cooing, head tilting, "Vitya."

Viktor's expression finally shifts from his usual indifference, his brows scrunching up to form a slightly irritated scowl. 

"Defiant again. As expected." 

"You used to like it when I called you that. Am I not allowed to tease you now?" You're laughing, and your smaller frame, still pinned underneath him, shifts somewhat when he loosens his grasp on your wrists. A faint amount of mercy. You offer him one of those radiant smiles he can't stand — can't resist. "You can be such a hypocrite." 

"Open your mouth," Viktor sneers coldly, "So it can be put to better use." 

With a firm, metal hand, he holds the curve of your soft side, measuring your individual tremors, paying attention to the steady movement of your lungs. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your lips. Your breath hitches, and your mouth forms a line. You can't help but roll your eyes. 

"I can just leave, you know," You mutter, your voice still playful, yet noticeably a few volumes lower. "But I'm guessing you don't want me to." 

Funny. You seem to think you could escape from his grasp. 

"Open. Your. Mouth. Before I give in, and do something I shouldn't." 

"I'm not-" 

Your protest fizzles out into a surprised noise and a subsequent sigh; Viktor grabs you, he pulls you closer in tandem with surging forwards, and his mouth promptly crashes into yours. 

Finally. 

The kiss tastes sharp, like iron and ash, like something distinctly him when his tongue slowly brushes against yours. You allow your eyes to close — but Viktor hardly leaves you any room for air as he practically devours you. It's deep, enthralling, and clumsy. Needy, on your end, and hungry on his. The kind of kiss that possesses you, consumes you. Your mind is dizzy, your breath is gone, but you need to kiss him more than you need to breathe. 

You melt into him gently, naturally. Like you were always meant to. His hand cups your face, his thumb brushing your cheek: a motion far too soft, far too important. 

When he pulls away, finally giving you some breathing room, your eyes immediately meet. Your chest is heaving, your heart warm and pounding to a tempo made just for him. His gaze is once again sharp, once again perfectly composed. 

You miss the softness of his lips already. "Vik." 

And he needs you, needs more of you. He's wanted to feel your lips against his for far longer than you or even he could have realized. Since those days when you were both young and stupid, when you vowed to achieve your dreams together. As though your gentle voice pleading his name is just tender enough to push him over a metaphorical edge, to flip some hidden switch in his complex mechanics — He kisses you again, again, again. 

All of this, it isn't meant for him. It is unfathomably human, from the way you breathe fervently against his mouth; stuttered breaths, quicker than his, heavier than his own could ever be. To the way he touches you, a half-machine's best imitation of intimacy. His still-human palm moves to brush your neck, then glides further to hold the back of your head. Your body is all awkward limbs and soft edges and smooth skin, but you fit underneath him oh-so perfectly. 

He can't stop. It doesn't seem real; Viktor imagines he must have fallen into a different reality, he's in a different body with a different, mortal heart. None of this makes an ounce of logical sense otherwise. Then again, when do you ever make sense? 

He can't focus on anything but your lips on his — because for a few fleeting moments, he isn't defined by metal and machinery; he is himself. He is a mess of muddled thoughts and imperfect touches. Your legs around his back pull his figure closer to yours, and you have him wondering what it might entail without any steel in the way. Just skin against skin. 

It'd be impossible for him to feel such a thing, when there's little skin left. His entire arm, his legs, his torso, his spine; they've since been replaced, improved upon. Is this the closest he'll ever get to you, to love? 

Waves upon waves of warmth wash over you, they drown you, they envelop you. Even once Viktor has finally pulled apart from you with one last soft kiss, you still aren't able to breathe. Your heart pounds against your ribs, so fiercely it almost hurts. 

He settles back above you, and as you calm again, he holds your gaze. His slender fingers move to trace the column of your throat, where they not-so-subtly seek out your pulse. It's racing for him. He looks remarkably composed now, compared to how disheveled you're sure you appear. 

Gently, he trails his hand upwards. His thumb swipes your kiss-swollen bottom lip. Your mouth parts instinctually, allowing him to carefully press the digit into your warm mouth, onto your wet tongue. 

"Do not leave," Viktor murmurs, an analytical edge already returning to his tone, in spite of what transpired between you. He pulls his thumb from your mouth, brushing it over your bottom lip again, smearing your lips with your saliva. "Stay for tonight." 

"Are you asking? Or is that a demand?" Your breath on his skin is foggy and hot. When it's clear he isn't going to answer, his gaze regarding you inquisitively, you propose another question. Your hands clench, they briefly push against the unyielding grip of his Hexclaw. "Will you let my hands go now?" 

"Tsk. Only if you are capable of keeping them to yourself." 

"C'mon…" You hum disappointedly. He appears routinely unaffected by your pouting. So, you change your approach. 

You shuffle, trying to get more comfortable. The table beneath you feels especially firm. "What if I say please? Is that what you're looking for?" 

"Go ahead. It will not affect my decision." 

"Seriously? But I want to touch you. You're so pretty." 

Viktor hesitates, but only briefly. He senses the whirring in his chest, the usual hum of his augmented components. Substitutions where imperfect pieces should be, strength replacing frailty, mechanics coming to life once more as his mind becomes forcibly unclouded. His systems are working as usual again. All it took to experience a malfunction was your lips on his, and all he needed to do to rebuild his composure was pull away. And you are still a gasping, heavy-eyed mess. 

Still, there is something troubling him. The same illogical functions that've been prodding at his mind since the very beginning. Lingering errors. Faults in his perfected frame. When he looks at you now, he strongly senses the push and pull of those inaccuracies. 

If he allows you to touch him, each framework, every mechanism — Everything he's been carefully constructing might come crashing down. 

Would that be so bad? 

Pretty. How ridiculous. Viktor scoffs, his jaw tensing up, his next words arbitrary. "Most are afraid when they look at me." 

Perhaps they should be. Perhaps you should be. 

But you just smile, your expression growing soft as you tilt your head, and you answer in earnest: "I don't think I've ever been scared of you." 

Again, there goes his worthless, thrumming, obsolete heart. 

You should be afraid of a man who's designed himself to fit an image you no longer recognize. You shouldn't try to get so close to him, when his compulsive obsession to destroy and remake borders on a clear line of danger. This new chassis embodies perfection. It has long since relinquished any weaknesses, but if you detested him, he wouldn't blame you. Others are reluctant to embrace his vision, save for a select, fortunate few. You and him have history. History that would make seeing him like this rather difficult, he assumes. 

Usually, Viktor is able to keep any oversights from throwing him off course. He can't be distracted from achieving his goals. The people of Zaun need him. This new body poses no hindrances. Pain doesn't disrupt him; it can be turned out, like anything else. Pain of the body, and pain of the heart. 

You, though. Any thoughts he has of you start as small blips. Tiny, persistent sparks. They build overtime, burning brighter, hotter. Until he sees you, and you look just like how you did back then, so, so long ago. There are tired lines on your face, faint scars, and he knows they're his fault. All at once, his mind is threatening to become a mess of discordant, fraying parameters, of processes that are refusing to function in the manner they should. 

He wants to keep you far, far away; far from him, from this lab. Far from this terrible, awful place you both grew up in. If he could, he'd have you go somewhere so very distant, where you couldn't distract him — where you could be happy and free. You will see the sky, feel the sun's warmth, and breathe fresh, cool air. It'd be what's best for you. And he will continue to further his endeavors in evolution. Alone, as intended. 

But ultimately, no matter what he winds up doing to his mind or his body, he would think of you. Of holding you or unmaking you, sometimes he isn't sure which. If you were truly afraid, if you ran, he wouldn't follow on your heels. But along with you, you'd take a piece of himself, a faint trace he would never get back; for better, or for worse. 

Viktor listens to the sound of your breathing: steady, deep. His gaze studies you, but it lingers on your eyes for longer than intended. You are still looking up at him, smiling, sparkling like a sky full of stars. As though he is a sky filled with stars. 

Your breaths become heavier when he presses his palm to the center of your chest. He drags his touch down, down. You are more sensitive this time, he notes. You lean into him once his hand caresses your pelvis, your waist, and you loosen your legs from around his back to become more comfortable. His fingertips trail up your inner thigh, and you shudder, you shiver. 

He thinks of kissing you once more. A couple times more, maybe. Proper judgment tells him he should resist. The thought remains there, lingering and burning between you. 

"Viktor…" You murmur, your voice a bit broken, but he's hanging onto every word. "Touch me again." 

Pleasant sensory inputs glow within him; tingling veins, reverberating wires. Overwhelming heat fills his shoulders, the back of his neck, his head — the heat of machinery, the warmth of his soul. 

Viktor grabs your waist assertively, metal fingers digging into your hip. His gaze doesn't waver from yours as he guides your thighs to spread. Suddenly, he pushes himself against you, until you are hopelessly pressed between steel and metal. Between him, and the worktable. 

You feel his weight, you feel the intricate ridges of metal plates and hard edges, the artificial heat of his much larger body radiating against your bare skin. Now, you are completely pinned, practically chest to chest, pressed underneath the Machine Herald so closely it's enough to make your head spin. You wonder if he can feel your heart beating. Perhaps he can hear it. Or maybe, he just knows your heart must be pounding for him, as it always does. 

Your limbs tremor with excitement. As his palm squeezes your thigh, you can't help but arch into his touch. Thin, skillful fingers press close and feel how wet you are — still so sensitive, already dripping out onto him. You aren't teased, you aren't even able to catch your breath, because two of his fingers are swiftly dipping inside you, giving you exactly what you need. 

It feels so right. Viktor reaches for your cheek. He encourages you to continue meeting his gaze when your eyes flutter and nearly close. 

Your gaze on his, you let his name leave your mouth in a series of sharp gasps, and desperate pleas. He fills you slowly, but wastes no time building a rhythm; his fingers pump into your sensitive cunt gently, then methodically. Satisfied, Viktor hums, and he carefully shifts his other arm down. He holds your back as it arches, further pressing you against himself. 

Now, the way he pleasures you is deliberate, it isn't enough, but Gods, you'll take anything he gives you. 

"That name," Viktor starts, speaking in a smooth, level tone, perfectly contrasting the airy huffs and whines you utter for him. The name he hoped to relinquish, his name. "It sounds best when you are pleading it." 

You smile through a soft moan. "It's my favorite. Such a sweet name." 

Precisely, determinedly, his fingers crook into the spot within you he knows all too well, and you crumble, you sob. 

"The tech you brought to me will accelerate the completion of our latest prototype," Viktor is explaining, matter-of-factly. As though the conversation is as simple as it is necessary. Like he doesn't have his large body shoved against you, and his fingers knuckle-deep inside you. It just serves to excite you further, honestly. 

"I will install the heat core, and adjust its interior components accordingly. We could have its systems operational by tonight. However, I doubt I will be able to focus." 

You take a forced, deep breath. "Yeah? Because of me?" 

Obviously, he wants to say. You'll be here, staying in his lab, as you usually do after a tough afternoon or a previous sleepless night. He doesn't mind. Your chatter might occasionally be disruptive to his work, but your voice is nice, it is calming. Your presence itself might be a distraction, an interference that his mind tells him he should discard, but having you here is a nice change of pace, compared to the long, lonesome hours he's grown used to. He has never minded. 

Sleep is less of a necessity for him. Resting for a handful of hours a few times per week is usually enough to keep himself operational. The torn leather couch he keeps in his quarters is there just for you. He no longer needs to eat in the typical sense, although he still needs to recharge burned energy. He keeps stocked up on the foods he remembers to be your favorites. 

It's strange, out of everything he's forgotten, he still remembers such useless, trivial details. Each and every detail about you. 

Without you, this space — the adjustments he's made to accommodate your presence, the dip in the couch from where you always sleep, your articles of clothing strewn over the floor and the couch arms. His lab would feel so empty. 

His next words sound much gentler than usual. Warmer, more desperate. 

"Because your voice will not leave my mind. Begging for me. Breaking for me," Viktor murmurs. He nudges his fingers against your walls, testing, teasing you. "Pleading my name." 

Once more, he challenges your limits; his fingers slide into you deep, so deeply you can feel them everywhere. Nudging at your core, filling you perfectly. As if on queue, you whimper a broken plea of yes, and as your eyes flutter, you're cascading into a needy mess of pleasant, shaky gasps. You writhe, your pinned hands trembling, wishing for something to hold onto. Though, he keeps you in place underneath him, blissfully unrelenting. 

"Say it," Viktor demands, "My name. Tell me who it is you need." 

"Viktor," Your voice is light, clumsy and slurring slightly, but in the way you say his name, there's an unmistakable lilt of pure adoration. You need him, you need to feel him everywhere: his practiced touch, his soft skin, his steel-built anatomy. You want him to not have to leave you, to not need to choose between you and the Undercity's future. 

You feel completely, utterly dizzy. You want so much. You want his hands, flesh or metal, to study every intricate inch of you. You want him to stop holding back, you need the both of you to make up for the stupid amount of time you've lost — "I- hhah- I want…" 

With your eyes nearly shut, static and stars flickering at the edges of your vision, you hadn't noticed how close he'd become until Viktor's voice echoes warmly, right against the shell of your ear. 

"You want me to fuck you?" 

And holy shit, his tone is sultry, his accent is thick — you shiver so hard you're sure he's left feeling the aftershocks, your body still pressed up right against his, even through his layers of metal armor. Viktor doesn't stop the steady pace of his fingers, pumping and arching and working you so well. Nor does he quit speaking, simply because he knows this is what you want to hear. What you need to hear. 

"You are insatiable," He scolds, although there's little emotion in his level tone. Just an obvious, already-known sense of acknowledgement. His voice is a thousand times more intense when it is curling directly into your ear; "You wish for me to render you even more weak than you currently are, so you can be shown exactly who you belong to? Oh, and how I'd fuck you. How I would take you. I would make a mess of you, I'm sure. You'd be begging to be given all of me. To be used by me." 

It's merely theoretical, a set of fake promises and dirty words to put pleasant visualizations into your mind — calculated, like everything he pursues. And it works. Predictably, your entire body shudders with pure, forceful need. You pulse around his fingers, throbbing like a heartbeat. You sob, and try to twist to face him, although it's impossible, considering you're still tightly pinned beneath his figure. 

You want to see his face, he figures, so Viktor shifts up. He re-puts himself in the center of your vision, and you glance towards him, eyes flickering across his face; your gaze on his is practically teary-eyed. Desperate and eager, you find ways to plead without words. 

You want to let go. Of course you do — always forced to be strong, you need nothing more than to melt at the hands of the last person left in Zaun that you trust. Even if he is more machine than person. Even though he is not right for you. 

For a moment all too brief, Viktor wonders what it would be like to push those boundaries. To truly have you, beneath his hands and in his heart, to feel you resounding beside him like the echoes of a rippling, rolling wave. 

How would he take you? No, how would you want him? 

He formulates a few possible outcomes. Perhaps you'd want him hard and desperately. You need to be put in your place, to feel him as close as he could possibly be while he molds you to his shape. You want to be obedient. A good little subject. You want to be called good, very, very good for him while he pounds you into the table, or maybe while he leans back, glowing, masked eyes focused solely on you, your hands gripping his armored shoulders so you can bounce on his lap however you'd like. The Machine Herald's perfect little pawn. He wagers with such filthy actions and words, he could make you even louder than this. 

You'd be pinned underneath him, and instead of his fingers, he'd fill you with all of himself — carnal and raw. Warm and sweat-soaked. Yet still, your body pressed to his would be agonizingly tender. 

Or maybe you'd want him in a different way. In a much softer way. 

Tenderness has never been afforded to him, it's hardly a concept he knows, but perhaps it's what he once hoped for. With you, it's what he once pictured. 

Every touch would be slow, delicate. Your hands interlocked. Bodies pressed together, galaxies against galaxies. So close, they could be mistaken for the same shape. He would learn you truly, and honestly. Warm and gentle, you would touch him soft enough to make him human again. 

Your voice would beg for him, whispering sweet nothings into his ears, against his form. Useless, perfect declarations of love. Viktor shudders. He imagines your hands, pretty and delicate, brushing the space between his shoulder and his steel spine. Feeling his scarred skin, alighting fiery sensations he assumed he'd long since lost. 

Compared to who he was before, he is much stronger. He must be strong, must be forged of grit and iron, he must not submit to worthless, human desires. But you make him oh-so weak. 

He isn't supposed to be weak. 

"Please," You're gasping. You are barely able to speak at this point, babbling sweetly between broken noises as he fucks you on his fingers; it's just enough to make you shut your eyes and imagine more. "Fuck- Vik- Oh, p-please…" 

Splintering, throbbing with mechanical heat, his inner workings surge with a sublime abundance of molten, unbridled energy. Burning, it's burning him up from the inside, melting him down and making him fragile. 

You've gone fuzzy beneath him — No, his vision is fuzzy. Your edges are blurred, your chest is heaving as his fingers barely leave you before pressing back in. His hand adjusts, allowing his thumb to brush your puffy clit on the next press in. When you whimper his name, as you've done countless times before, he swears he sees nothing but flickering, colorless static. 

Burning and heightening and building, he must be malfunctioning, experiencing crucial gaps in his design. This shouldn't be happening. He should not feel, and this isn't feeling, but there is something building inside of him, something with your name on it. 

No, no, your name is flickering through him, pounding against his mind like a drum, and he has to establish control. He has to fucking fix this. 

He needs to be closer, so much closer. He needs you in an unexplainable, all encompassing way. In a way that shouldn't be occurring. He doesn't want anything, he can't experience the sensation of wanting because it isn't meant to exist. 

Truthfully, he's past the point of no return, and you might be all that's left to hold him in place. Impossible. The only thing he's ever desired is progress, evolution. Improvement is what matters. Improving, fixing, augmenting. 

You are going to be the death of him. He needs to be pressed against you, holding you, in you, examining your inner workings, guiding you to reach your true potential — 

Something snaps. 

"Do you know," Viktor grasps your face, roughly tilting you in his direction. The newfound harshness to his tone is exhilarating. "How impossible it is to resist breaking you?" 

He laughs, the sound sharp, almost chilling; his smile is crooked, barely recognizable, showing off even more crooked teeth. His gaze holds your own until it practically burns into you. His body is hot. To the point of overheating. You feel the heated metal against your skin, pressing to your chest, your thighs, faint puffs of searing steam pouring out from gaps in the plating. 

The grip his Hexclaw has on your wrists is so tight it nearly hurts. But it's faltering, his hands are twitching. He seems to recognize he might be hurting you, and so he lifts off of you slightly, he forces himself to loosen his hold. 

There's a sound coming from him that echoes like grinding gears, like the hiss of burning filaments. Like something is crumbling. Fighting against itself. 

"It is all I have ever known, milaya." Viktor lets go of something akin to a sigh, although he has no need to breathe. He is utterly ruined — the poor excuse for a heart he once placed between his ribs is aching, shuddering with the anticipation of a touch, soaring with the softness that comes with a kiss. Is this what it feels like to be dizzy, to be lovesick? 

You shudder as his thumb rubs your clit, and he digs his metal fingers into your side, feeling the space just beneath your ribs. "You will soon understand," He murmurs, "And if you are incapable, I am still willing to teach you. To make you into so much more." 

There's a stirring in his chest at that, at the thought of completing you; a deep-rooted abnormality he can't quite pinpoint. Is it excitement? Guilt? Lust? 

You swallow. You're crumbling, as he sends tingles through your veins in the wake of more enthralling words. 

"You are mine. Your fundamental place is at my side." Viktor senses the building heat of his inner workings, a deep wave rolling up from his constructed spine to settle onto the back of his neck. Building, burning, breaking. "I cannot wait to unmake you." 

Pulling you apart would be delightful. 

Your pieces would be disassembled, separated by each individual, pretty, dizzying section, so you could be redone carefully, gently, with a sense of tenderness only he could manage. He wants to understand you. To know exactly what makes you tick, down to your most basic of functions. To be close. Indistinguishable, the both of you made from the same materials. If you were constructed in his image, your components marked by his influence, there would be no doubt who you belong to. 

Through breaking you and mending you, he wonders if he could find new ways to make you sing. You'd relax under each touch, shuddering and breathing his name as he completes your newfound enhancements. Gazes locking. Touches lingering. Metal soldering. Viktor trembles. Gods, how he wants you. 

Furthering your potential and heightening your pleasure both require similar sentiments. Trust, and vulnerability. Opening your chest to watch your heart pound for him is the same as measuring your hitching breaths, growing heavier the deeper and faster he presses his fingers into you. 

Because delicately pulling you apart just to put you back together is some metaphor for intimacy. Carving out a space for you within the confines of his fake heart is some synonym for tenderness. Holding onto his memories of you, replaying everything he can't quite forget to the point of near insanity — to the point where he attempted to forcibly remove you, by removing those emotions. Only to fail. Feeling these sensations for you when he shouldn't is some form of devotion. 

You shouldn't feel for him either, right? 

Having you there from the very beginning meant something; you were beside him when he only dreamed of becoming someone greater. When his ideas for evolution were just prototypes, when he first put the full extent of his weight onto both his legs. Didn't it mean the world to you too? 

You were equally misunderstood. By your peers, by the world. Just as you believed in him, he saw light in you, from the very start. He thinks you could burn bright enough to melt anyone who stands in your way. And now, years down the line, when he is seen as less than human, you only see him. Not what he's become. It's infuriating. It's unmistakably loving. 

You are panting. Getting close. Your bottom lip quivers, and your body tenses, each shudder more forceful than the last. His fingers echo a filthy, wet sound each time they pump into you, and your back is arching, you are simply begging to fall apart around him. For him, because of him. You deserve to. 

And you sing, voice trembling like plucked strings, "Just p-please. You can do whatever you want to me, I trust you- I've always trusted you. Vik, I need you. I'm yours. All yours." 

All his. 

Whatever he turns into, whatever becomes of his body, memories, and heart, you would still follow. No matter what his goal might be; to destroy this city for what it did to the both of you, or to work in unison to try and remake it. Or perhaps, he plans to become more. An example of perfection. A God. As if he isn't one already. 

The first time he touched you, when he felt the softness of your skin and heard the plea in your voice, and knew you were in his heart still, still, wasn't it akin to a prayer? 

Oh, he is going to unravel you. 

Viktor allows his grip on your wrists to finally, fully loosen; his Hexclaw presses flatly to the table, helping to support his weight. Relaxing, you exhale a deep breath, but you don't hesitate for long. Your arms waste no time wrapping around him, pulling him close. When you kiss him, a hand cradling his cheek like he is something breakable, and not a perfected piece of unstoppable machinery, the tender press of your lips to his feels undoubtedly inevitable. 

All he knows is since the day he pretended to forget about you, when he decided to become something more, his new heart beat steadily, his enhanced mind was clear. But his systems wouldn't stop buzzing. 

When he hardly knew where you were or what state you'd return to him in, the noise grew sharper. Fervently pulling, Hextech whirring, unsated electricity sizzling like fireworks underneath his skin. Having you in his arms once more only made the static form so thick, he thought his mental processes might completely go haywire. All he knows is that now, as he's kissing you, feeling your lips on his, your body against his own, and your hands tangling through his hair — for once, the static is silent. Blissfully silent. 

And he kisses you, harder than before. Softer than anything and everything. 

"Faster-" You're pleading brokenly against his mouth, between breathy kisses, your voice echoing through him, "More." 

Faster, harder, more. Whatever you desire, he's going to give it to you. Viktor mumbles, "Of course." 

Finally able to move, you hook one leg around his waist, you use it to drag him in even closer. You rock into his hand when his fingers spread and crook inside you, and you grab tight, messy fistfuls of his hair. His lips on yours, kissing you over and over, leave you little room to breathe. 

Once you've pulled away, you're gasping for air, and his gaze fixates on yours: examining, devouring. Viktor takes note of your every movement. How you grind into his fingers when his thumb teases your clit, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, brows pinched. How you fall back against the table when the sensations overwhelm you, eyes shut and limbs weak. Pulsing and tensing around him, so sensitive. So close to falling apart. 

Your arms wrap around him again, and he tries to keep the pace of his fingers steady, while you begin placing hurried kisses to his cheek, his neck. You kiss the side of his face, soft lips on soft skin. Then, your lips continue down, they press to his steel jaw. He tilts his head to let kisses fall over the expanse of metal that runs down his neck. Tingling phantom sensations curl into him and split him open. 

"Close," You're muttering, so quiet he nearly doesn't hear. You hold him as tight as you can manage. Your breath is warm on the side of his face, tickling his skin, making him feel even warmer within. 

"You are close?" He repeats for confirmation; his hand finds your side, and you grip his shoulders, hands brushing over thick plates of metal, desperately searching for something to hold onto. Your nails dig in, firm enough that he thinks the steel might chip. Viktor breathes a slight laugh, "You sound so sweet." 

"So- I'm getting so-" You swear, "Oh, f-fuck…" 

The only way he might quench what's come over him and steady his systems is by watching you come apart. Pleading his name, while you melt into a needy puddle of all the emotions and pleasant sensations he could never let himself have. Brought to your peak by his touch, his voice, because you are his, all his. 

Viktor's free hand traces up, cool steel carefully finding your collarbone, your neck. Then, his fingers are wrapping around. He squeezes your throat just barely, just how you like, enough to make you fall back with your arms sprawled above you. Your head is perfectly dizzy, as his fingers work you steadily, his thumb flicking your needy clit much faster. Pushing you closer, closer. 

Until it's far too much, and you are at his mercy, guided right to the edge of an exhilarating, electrifying precipice. 

"Let go. I have you," Viktor instructs, "Let yourself submit." 

Everything you've been building towards, all of his touches, all of this ecstasy, and how terribly you've missed him coalesces into this. Into a single, shuddering moment, waves upon waves of pleasure pushing you over the waterfall's edge. You're melting, cumming hard for him, your arms shaking, until he's removing his hand from your throat and giving you something to grab onto — delicate fingers laced with thick, strong, metal ones. Perfectly contrasting. 

Your vision goes white. Your body tenses and then goes limp, like you've been shut down. The high is forceful, before it becomes soft, ebbing over you with gradual warmth, his hand in yours enough to steady you. Heart pounding, you take quick, loud breaths. 

You can't help but feel disappointed when Viktor's hand releases yours to return to your waist. He holds you carefully, cold fingers brushing your skin reassuringly. Every touch feels deliciously raw, alight and sensitive. 

Your eyes open slowly. Viktor's hair is a mess in his face, likely caused by you. He seems flushed, if only slightly. His unflinching gaze flickers across your form, before it settles back on your eyes. 

"Breathe," He instructs carefully, gently. His hand grips your side a bit tighter; he's clearly affected by the way you sigh. You do your best to follow along, the aftershocks fading as your pulse slows, and as you start to calm. 

"There. Excellent, you have done so well," Viktor praises. He smiles slightly in satisfaction. "You have never been this breathless." 

Whatever words you could've formed in response don't come. They can't, not when his fingers are still inside you; not when Viktor is pressing them into your sensitive cunt just barely, squeezing your side as he delights in the way you whine. Pleasure, white-hot and familiar, surges through you fiercely. 

It's so much, it's so much, it's too much, he's already fucking you with his fingers, and before you can fully wind down, you're swiftly building towards another high. Your body needs this. You just aren't sure if you can take it. 

"Ah- shit," You murmur; reaching up, you tangle both hands in his hair, gripping tight for leverage. His expression remains infuriatingly calm. "I want- I need more. It feels so good, Vik," You're practically purring those last words, your whole body shuddering through another wave of ecstasy. "But I don't- I'm not sure if I-" 

"You can." Viktor interrupts, assured and composed. "You can cum for me as many times as I dictate." 

You're smirking now, obediently spreading your trembling thighs wide, while you roll your hips into his touch; his fingers are so thick, so impossibly, perfectly deep — "Hah- and you said I'm the insatiable one." 

"Yes. You are the most insatiable human I have ever known. And it would seem you are particularly insatiable with me." 

"You were once- Oh-" 

Your head falls back as Viktor nudges that sweet, tender spot inside you, and your body becomes limp once more. 

He takes the opportunity to bring the Hexarm's hand to your cheek. It's large enough to eclipse your face, the same way it was big and strong enough to easily pin both your wrists in its grasp. The heat radiating from the metal makes your eyes briefly flutter, before he trails it down to your throat. Perfectly responsive, your eyes grow heavy. He provides you with your favorite, much-needed pressure. 

You've watched him use this very same hand to solder metal and create machinery. The device could heat to a temperature a thousand times hotter than it is now, it's capable of firing off a single ray of concentrated energy potent enough to slice through steel. And he has that hand wrapped right around your neck. 

Fuck, that shouldn't excite you. It shouldn't have you quivering more and whimpering, shaking while you try your best to keep meeting his eyes, all because you so desperately want to hear him speak again. Praising you — You are doing so well for me, so pliant, so adorable. Or scolding you — Pathetic, aren't you? Quivering like a rabbit, and all it took was a little brush with danger. You are amusing. 

Whichever he prefers. Because Viktor is so much stronger, so much smarter, and it hardly matters what he chooses to say, when any and all of it still gets you off. 

Deep within your heart, you know he'd never hurt you. He would take away your pain if you asked it of him, so you wouldn't have to feel it again. His words can be sharp, simply because he wants to protect you. He wouldn't even attempt to put his hand on your throat like this if he didn't have complete, total control over the Hexclaw's laser. Carefully, he observes your every movement for any sign of discomfort, calculating and controlling each aspect of your pleasure — and it only serves to make your heart pound faster. 

Of course, he can tell when you start to truly shake. He knows every inch of you is melting with overstimulation, and he's going to give you more. 

"Take it. I know you are capable." His voice gives you goosebumps, while his fingers press into you shallowly, but the smallest movements are more than enough to make a mess of you. "There, perfect, you are performing excellently. Relax. Continue breathing deeply, nice and slow breaths. I will take care of you, love." 

Love. 

"Don't-" You choke, trying to keep your eyes on his despite the way your vision wavers and blurs; your reaction is immediate, predictable, and instantly satisfying. "Don't stop…" 

You're beautiful like this, when you're underneath him. Since his enhancements, compared to his new body, you are now much smaller. He had to learn to adjust to the touches you need, to be gentle. Like you once were with him. Your roles, reversed in such a crucial way. You are undoubtedly strong in your own right, but when it comes to him, you are as sensitive as you are receptive. He needed to study how to keep from holding you too tightly, how to regulate his temperature to not burn your skin underneath his hands. 

You are a pretty sculpture of quivering limbs and glistening skin. Your chest heaving, eyes fluttering. As beautiful as you were back then, before this. Before he lost the warmth he felt in his chest every time he saw you, before feelings on their own became mere faded memories. His iron consequence, locking away his dying love. 

He gives you another. Three fingers press inside your dripping cunt, stretching you, filling you. A hand grips your side, his third lightly squeezing your throat — he works your pleasure for all it's worth, and has you gasping as he wrings out your aftershocks. 

Viktor's mouth can't help but twitch into the slightest smile. "Look at you. You are worthy of the world." 

He would give it all to you. 

The Machine Herald will have this city in his hands. His vision is moving fast and accomplishing much, so it is only a matter of time. If you wanted more, he'd just have to reach even further. Relinquishing his human emotions left him without the need to be happy, nor content. But you, your happiness, keeping you safe, seeing you smile. It is stupid, foolish, doesn't make sense; his mechanics stutter, until he thinks he is choking on his own contradictory tenderness. 

His body is betraying his mind. There is heat at his center, more than the normal amount emitted by his internal components. A very human, very filthy amount of heat. His skin underneath his armor is flushed and warm, his chest is aching from the weight of your heavy destruction. You are destroying him, and he can do nothing but allow it. 

"I missed you," You murmur earnestly, voice weak, close to shattering. Your eyes are closed. Why, why are those words making his hands and his limbs and his heart shudder? "I missed you so bad- don't stop, keep fucking me Viktor- don't, please don't stop talking…" 

Is that what you're imagining? 

So he doesn't stop. 

As you fall back against the table, Viktor removing the Hexclaw and letting go of your neck, he leans in to speak right against your ear. "I am proud of you, lubov. Infiltrating Piltover must not have been simple. You brought me more than I required, you did so with much efficiency. And you returned to me safely. Allow me to reward you. Fall apart for me, cum like I know you so desperately need to." 

Your body curls, your hands move to his shoulders and grip them impossibly tight in an attempt to keep yourself steady. "Vik- Viktor-" You're gasping, you're close, "Kiss me, please kiss me-" 

His hand holds your chin, the cool, rigid steel of his thumb swipes over your bottom lip; teasing you, making you whimper. Sliding further, into your mouth, until you're tasting the sharpness of metal. Until you're gently sucking, feeling the intricately crafted notches and joints on your tongue. When he pulls it out and kisses you hard, when his lips press to yours and your high-pitched moans become muffled on his mouth, you cum on his fingers hard enough to see the afterimage of stars. 

He's trailing kisses down your jaw while you pulse around him, your thighs shaking, your head tilting to let his mouth find your throat. In the wake of his soft kisses, his foggy breath, you melt, and fully succumb to your shuddering high. 

Working you back down is a slow, patient process. A kiss onto your neck for every gasp you take in, the feeling of gentle teeth once your body starts to fully relax. Everything you've wanted, everything you missed; far too tender for who he's become. 

There are faint marks on your neck by the time he pulls away. Signs he was there. Proof he is softer than he is meant to be. 

You could stop here. Instead, the next few moments happen in their own special space of reality. 

Away from this city, away from his lab. A different plane made for just the two of you. Your mind feels dizzy, heavy. Viktor meets your gaze, momentarily scanning your face, waiting to make sure you've calmed. 

He is all you can think of, all that has ever mattered. And even when he is right here, you miss him so, so much. 

You tremble from the end of your spine to the top of your shoulders when he carefully pulls his fingers from you. He brushes his palm from your thigh to your side in one steady, soothing motion. You can feel the scars on his palm, the slight hesitant tremor to his still-slick fingers. You're reaching up, palm pressing to his chest. You absently feel the various ridges of metal. Smooth to the touch, armor radiating the faintest flickers of heat. 

He glances down, watching your movement as your palm brushes further, further. Delicate fingertips trail the dips and outlines that continue down his stomach. Eventually, you reach as far as your arm will let you, your fingers drawing circles onto the rib-like sections of steel crossing just above his hips. As he glances back up to you, he finds your soft, pleading gaze to be already looking at him. As sweet as he's always remembered. 

Your breathing is heavy. "Vik," You're begging, "We shouldn't- I'm sorry. This is stupid. I know we should stop, but…" 

He is going to regret this. 

Before he can stop himself, before his mind and his systems can even be led to form a single rational thought, Viktor is pressing the palm of his Hexarm just above your head, flat to the table. He is leaning over you, he is finding your cheek with a soft hand and a gentle touch. He's pulling you in, crashing his lips against yours, and he knows you're right — you shouldn't continue. He shouldn't allow this. 

Machines do not feel. The Machine Herald feels nothing, and wants for nothing besides evolution. But Gods, you're kissing him like his lips are a drug, all you need after wanting to kiss him for so, so long. Since before you both became dim shells of what you once were. Your legs are wrapping around him, your fingers are brushing his face with such devastating tenderness, and Viktor believes he is feeling everything. 

He's reaching down between your gasps for breath that make gaps in your kisses, and he's deftly activating a set of small, circular mechanisms on either of his sides. The armor on his chest unlatches with a clicking noise, platings becoming loose, unaligned. 

The larger, more cumbersome sections of his armor, including his gauntlets, cape, and shoulder pieces have been discarded from the start, making the portion of chest armor come off as two simple halves. He has to pull away, sit up straight, and partially slide off of you to remove it all the way. Both pieces of armor hit the ground with a particularly heavy thud. 

Most of his body has been replaced. Underneath the metal armor, there's just more metal; sections of iron that've been fused to replace muscle and skin, alloyed parts that reinforce his thin frame. 

You have only seen him like this once. He was fixing some miscalibrated platings on his side, a wrench in one hand, the Hexclaw's laser busy welding a suitable replacement. Two thirds machine, and one part still human, he was definitely much different from what you remembered. Still, there were small sections of pale skin on his back, split where his spine had been reconstructed. And jagged scars, adorned by faint, dark moles. His messy hair still falls around his face just like you remember it. 

You wanted to touch — he says he can't feel, but would he sense your fingertips as they traced his scars, would he shudder as your hands felt his skin? If you kissed what remained of him, his hand and each of his fingers, his back and each of those pretty moles, his chest down to his stomach, could you alight new sensations in him? 

You've never wanted to touch him more than in this moment. 

The bottom portion of his armor comes off much easier, leaving just the thick sections that cover his thighs down to his legs, including the steel brace mechanism. You're only able to catch the faintest glimpse, before he's pulling you into another deep kiss — a kiss that burns with every moment lost, his body pressing you against the table and beneath him. Your arms wrap around him, palms trailing across his back. 

As they've always longed for, your fingertips feel the back of his neck: the ridges and hard edges of his spine, the solid base of the Hexarm, his soft skin. Viktor physically shudders. When one of your hands tangles in his hair while the other falls, landing upturned beside you, he kisses you harder, he absently finds your hand and holds it in his. Your fingers lace together. His hand feels so warm, still slightly larger than yours. His skin is scarred, your thumb brushing over calloused knuckles and thin, purple veins. Every touch is so tender, earnest, human, it's nearly unbearable. Your hand was meant to be in his. Even if it won't last. 

It's a strange sensation, when his body presses ever closer to your own. Metal leads down from his navel, across to his pelvis, trailing underneath the armor on his thighs as one smooth, solid construction. Partially welded into his skin, but seemingly designed to make some sections removable. It is warm like the rest of him, designed with faint ridges and indents. 

Your legs, locked around him at the ankles, encourage him to press ever-closer. He devours you, kissing you deeper than you thought possible. You sigh against his mouth, and hold on tightly to his hair. His body rocks against yours in an instinctual, clumsy motion. Close, pressing, grinding. Warm metal and those perfect little ridges grind between your legs, against your core, against your clit. And you practically jolt. 

Oh. You break away from the kiss to toss your head back with a breathy, pretty noise. Pleasure threads through you, thick and unrelenting. 

Viktor mumbles something that barely registers in your ringing ears: Should stop, you manage to make out. And then, Are you alright? 

"Yes, I just-" You mumble, panting hard, "Don't. Don't stop." 

So Viktor grasps your waist in a tight, yet careful grip. His eyes never leave yours, gaze burning with a fire you've never once seen. He guides you to press against him, grinds his body against yours until you're making a mess of the metal. Until the faint ridges are nudging your swollen clit just right, until the heat of the iron is burning through you, into you, and your slick arousal is glistening on the steel. 

Your mind and heart are racing. 

"Oh, fuck-" You're swearing, your words surely seeming broken; he finds your cheek, he tilts your head up towards him, and you can't decide if the gesture is tender, or possessive. "I need you, I really, really do." 

His body feels as though he just touched the surface of the sun, and Viktor hardly knows if the warmth is coming from his overloaded systems, or if it's surrounding him, heat drawn thickly from the friction between the two of you. Perhaps it's a mix of both. 

Either way, he is losing himself. It's all happening so terribly fast; when his body rolls against yours, and you whimper through a filthy utterance of his name, there is a clear, undeniable response. A tingling in his veins, an eager sensation that shoots from his back to his chest to his core, consuming everything like a wildfire, and threatening to envelop all of him. 

He doesn't even know what to do with this. How to silence these disruptions, how to get his stupid brain to stop picturing you shuddering beneath his form as he presses against you, presses inside you, and brands every inch of you with his own name — 

"Milaya," Viktor hums, and you swear, his tone sounds lighter, his voice sounds strained. "I have always needed you. I'm not- No, I want- I shouldn't…" 

Trailing off when you cry out, he swallows. His thumb brushes your bottom lip as he continues to guide you towards him. Sweat beads on your chest, your thighs. He instructs, partially shakily, "Keep looking at me. Please." 

You've rarely heard him stutter or falter, never seen him anywhere close to worked up. You hardly knew if he had the capacity to feel this way, even though he certainly wasn't built to, even though he definitely isn't supposed to. And isn't it all because of you? 

The way your gaze locks with his as he rhythmically rocks against you has your heart skipping beats. There's a slight softness to his cold eyes, to his expression, that you're sure no-one else has seen before. Not since back then. You are impossible to resist, and this definitely needs to stop, this is definitely too far — it's going even further when your hand reaches down, fingertips clumsily tracing the edges of the metal seared into his navel. 

He knows what you want. You're greedy, a glutton for punishment, a sweet, terrible fool. But if he's honest with himself, perhaps he is worse. You are pleading his name again, the sound echoing unendingly in his ears, and Viktor is removing the front-most section of the metal enhancement: a thin plate that forms a triangular shape from his hips, all the way down. 

When he presses against your form, the next sensation to bleed into you is much different. It's smooth, soft latex, shoving against you. The last layer remaining between you and him and — 

And you can feel him. Straining hard and heavy against his underclothes. Firm and warm as he rocks into you, grinding all of him onto your throbbing cunt. You aren't thinking, you can't think anymore. Not when Viktor is hard, and when your heartbeat is so damn loud in your ears, you couldn't possibly hear anything else. 

"Viktor," You're murmuring, your chest pleasantly aching. Pleasure welds with emotion, walking the same shaky line, until your heart is unfurling with delicate petals that fill your throat sweetly, consuming you wholeheartedly, "I love you." 

If Viktor's mechanized heart was still capable of faltering from its pre-programmed rhythm, he's sure it would be fucking pounding. 

Every part of him is set alight. Burning, he feels smoke in his throat, and swears he tastes fire. He's overloading, practically overheating, like a fragile body trembling with need and want, like a system with too many programs open at once — and oh Gods, it just keeps opening more. His vision has long since gone blurry, and every sound in his ears is thick, as though he's been submerged in deep water. 

How long have you wanted to say those words? He thinks of quiet days spent with you in Piltover, the lingering glances and faint touches he tried his hardest to forget. 

How long has he needed to hear you say them? 

Honestly, he could cry, if he was at all still capable of crying. His mind is a mess. Heat is threading through his circuits, devotion and desire, a terrible softness; he's so soft inside, it hurts. It actually hurts, and he believed he taught himself how to forgo any pain. 

Electricity and faulty Hextech sizzle in his core, radiating, echoing. His damn foolish, worthless, synthetic heart. He needs to hold you, fuck you, break you. To encode this sensation into his head and his blood, because forgetting the way your voice strummed those words would be worse than admitting he is too weak to discard them. 

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

He doesn't deserve this. He was not built to love. Love should be thrown out, along with everything else. Love is a weakness. You may be fine with placing your heart on railway tracks, you might not think twice before putting yourself in danger, but if anything were to happen to you, he might be entirely consumed. 

With his mechanized existence, he could soon become immortal. This longing would surely stick with him after you're gone, an eternity of something he could never understand. Swallowing him whole, holding onto him tight. Endlessly painful. But right now, when he is here and stuck in a dream at the same time, when he is more of himself than he has ever been, and you are all that exists in his veins, could he ever manage to stop? 

You are so close to so much more. So close to ruining everything — just one last layer, one more touch. One movement, one press of his palms to your figure before he slides into you, one last massive, unfixable mistake. 

"Vik, please, please, I'm-" You can barely hold on anymore, as much as you've been trying to. You curl into him, grinding back against him hard; "I can't, I can't fucking- hhah- I'm so close-" 

Your bodies rock together desperately, beckoning and wanting more of what they shouldn't have. His heat radiates into your skin, and your breath fills the air in thick, heavy huffs. You're still so wet, and it makes every movement slick and simple. Your hands feel his back, his shoulders, his steel jaw, his face. Anywhere you can touch, you're making the most of it. 

Viktor finds your chin, he holds it delicately, and when he says your name, it feels personal; devastatingly so. Like he could make a home with the familiarity laced through each syllable. He breathes them like he did back then, coveting you so deeply. Muttering it as one final plea. 

If he can't fix this, perhaps you can reconstruct this part of him. Could you show him how to live again, could you instruct his mechanized heart, and finally teach it how to skip? 

"I have you," Viktor sighs, because he's sure you want to hear his words as much as he needs to say them. He doesn't require a working heart, when he can let all of himself echo through his still-human soul. "I love you." 

Your chest bruises with sparks in the wake of his gentle voice. Still somewhat robotic. Spoken as though each individual, inevitable word is one he is learning to speak. I. Love. You. 

Your legs and arms wrap around him, holding him as close to you as he could possibly get. Exhaling shakily, your whines are broken, your nails digging into his back. They'll leave red marks onto his pale skin; he hopes they do. His chest is pressed right up to yours. Viktor allows his forehead to rest just barely against your own, utterly tender, and he melts, as your thudding heartbeat echoes through him. Body to body, scarred skin on softer skin. Delicate limbs held around a partial chassis of firm, strong metal. 

Helpless. Perhaps for you, he is the helpless one. 

It doesn't matter; everything is crumbling away, and the both of you are thrown right back into reality, because you are falling apart for him at last. One last time. 

You shake, liquid hot pleasure drips over you like burning wax, and you're left at the mercy of your blistering, final high. Another few deep grinds into each other are all you need — the both of you throbbing, his jaw tensing, Hexclaw twitching, stiffening, and radiating a powerful amount of heat. His eyes flutter, the artificial glow behind them flickering like a dying lightbulb. You hold onto him tighter, and he lets go of a slight noise. A quiet, shaky, all too desperate moan. 

You stay rocking against one another even while you're cumming, even after your voice is sore from chanting Viktor's name so loudly, you briefly worry that anyone just outside of his lab might've heard you. 

Finally stopping, you only begin to relax once your whole body is entirely spent. 

You breathe slowly. In, and then out. Deep, calming breaths. Your heart pounds with force. The room refocuses around you, the harsh light of his various lamps burning into the back of your eyelids and making you see colorful spots. Viktor waits a few moments, before he shakily pushes up to prop himself above you. 

There's a hum of ambient, grinding metal coming from him. The hiss of steam. The echo of small shudders, and forceful gasps. Your vision is still fuzzy, your limbs incredibly weak, but you notice when he reaches for something; the thin metal plating, which he secures back onto himself. 

Once your eyes are completely clear and your heart is beating to a normal tune, you're finally able to focus on him above you. In barely any time, with a half-machine's perfected efficiency, Viktor has already regained every last aspect of his composure. 

"Stay. You require rest," He instructs matter-of-factly, his tone filled with his usual sternness. His gaze scans you up and down methodically. "I will supply you with a change of clothes." 

Right. Viktor's heart can't shudder like yours. Soft sensations have no need to linger. You'd almost forgotten. This is what you were always bound to return to: you, an ally. And he is just a machine. 

Through heavy, lovesick eyes, you admire the sight of him above you. His thin figure, enthralled in shadow, light reflecting off of the metal sections of his outline. He runs a hand through his hair to push it from his face, a gesture you find particularly endearing and human. 

"Oh, don't worry," You hum casually, stretching your arms and legs out. Your voice is light, foggy and still weak. The table beneath you feels firm against your back, but with how lightweight your whole body feels, you couldn't care less. "I don't think I'm moving even if I wanted to." 

Viktor raises a brow just slightly. He taps your neck with a single smooth, metal finger. "And something needs to be done about these." 

Briefly, your expression shifts into confusion. You tilt your head, allowing his fingers to trail further, and they examine the base of your neck down to your collarbones; the marks he left on your skin are swiftly darkening, forming blotchy, pretty bruises. 

Realizing what he's getting at, you smile smugly. "Worried someone's gonna ask questions?" 

"Half of Zaun acknowledges you as my right hand. I am not worried. But they will ask. It could prove arduous." Viktor explains, his tone exceedingly controlled. "Come. Hold onto me." 

When you don't immediately move, he stares at you expectantly. So, despite your tiredness, you listen, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his middle loosely. Viktor lifts you with ease. His heavy boots clunk with each step, and he carries you just a few paces from the table, setting you down on your back, and onto the familiar, ripped-up leather couch. It shifts, accommodating your weight and his. Compared to the worktable, when your back hits the soft yet worn cushions, you feel like you're resting on clouds. 

Viktor shifts, starting to move away, but you keep your arms wrapped around him, and speak before he has the chance. 

"Vik…" You're purring, "Stay here." 

A brief look of contemplation crosses his face, categorized by the slightest pinch in his thick brows. You smile, and nearly wind up kissing him again. He doesn't attempt to pull apart from you when you drag him closer to yourself, your lips gently brushing his cheek. 

At first, he's overly stiff. His arm fits underneath your back to hold you out of mere obligation. In contrast, his metal arm is kept beside you, refusing to touch, steel-jointed fingers flexing absently. But once your hands trail up, your fingers tracing the back of his neck, before they run through his hair, he honestly, earnestly relaxes. 

Your body underneath him is comforting. Limbs entangled, your legs brushing steel and the rigid metal brace. His head leans gently into the crook of your neck, almost hesitantly, as though he isn't entirely sure where to place it. He can't help but fall against you, bodies pressed into one another naturally enough to form the same grave. If he ever came face to face with death, he would refuse to accept it, unless it was just like this. 

You let your tired eyes close. You allow yourself to focus on his warmth, on the weight of him, and you can almost pretend this is natural. That you are in the past, or perhaps residing in a much different future. You are both lovers, as you wished you would be; simple and uncomplicated, nothing more, resting together in the dizzying comfort of your afterglow. 

It'd be nice. Nicer than anything you've been afforded. The only problem is Viktor is all firm steel and hard edges. His metal hand shifts to hold your side, and his fingers are digging into your skin, gripping a bit too tight. His weight on yours is making it damn near difficult to breathe. And right now, he is very, very hot. 

You frown, your eyes fluttering open again. "You're overheating." 

"My internal temperature is regulated by a liquid cooling apparatus," Viktor murmurs, after a moment. "It seems to be malfunctioning." 

His voice is smooth, as it always is, but it sounds much warmer, much quieter, when it's spoken this close to your ear. You sigh softly, and shuffle a little under him, trying to get more comfortable. 

"Ah. That sounds concerning." 

"The device will adjust itself in time," Viktor clarifies. "If it does not, repairs will take a few minutes, at most." 

Your fingertips brush over his back. They feel the thick ridges of his spine, and the thin steel shape of the Hexclaw's base. It feels cool and lifeless under your palm. "This is cold, though." 

"It is inoperational. It stopped responding, I will need to reset it individually." 

"That so?" You huff in response, laughing a little. You hold onto him tighter, and lean your head into his shoulder. "Whatever. Just don't let go of me." 

He doesn't. You exhale a long, weak breath. Your hands tremble slightly, as they uselessly grip onto the sections of cold steel that frame his shoulders. Viktor stays perfectly still, and he allows you to hold onto him as tightly as you need to. This might be the last moment you'll have together. For a while, at least. He has much to attend to, after this. Some tasks he can work on at your side, with your assistance, preferably. Some missions he must complete alone. 

The next time you speak, your voice is so fragile, he thinks he should be holding it in his palms. Or else it'll break. 

"We shouldn't- or, I guess I shouldn't have said… you know." You shudder, shaking all over before you tense. You're holding him too close to allow him to see your face, but he can picture your expression: slightly playful, to attempt to hide your uncertainty. "Gods, I'm so stupid. But I meant it. And I just-" You laugh, "I'm sorry, Viktor. Maybe you were right. I've been way too reckless." 

Viktor has no need to ponder his answer. "I know. Don't apologize. You should be resting, our conversation can continue tomorrow." 

You breathe deeply, and he quietly murmurs, his voice echoing through your ears, "I love you, milaya." 

Fake. Expected. A ghost of choked-back emotions, of all-too tender moments already slated to become forgotten memories. But something is there, something that tells you he's trying. For now, you'll take it. It's more than enough. 

You are close to falling asleep; every one of your nerves, washed over by warm, inviting waves, enveloped in his persistent heat. As though he can sense your building exhaustion, Viktor rubs your back with slow, reassuring circles — as best he can manage, considering your shapes are pinned too close together. Your breathing evens out, and you relax into his touch. Your mind feels as heavy as your weary, weak limbs. 

Your love would be soft, he considers, distracted. Gentleness personified, warm like your smile, like the radiant sun shining down on one's skin. Patient and alighting. Like being pulled by the wrists, wrested out of a rocky, dark sea — finally alive, and finally able to breathe. The still-human part of him feels in measures of softness. The mechanical part is much, much different. 

Heat is running through his veins. It's racing through his system, and he knows it isn't from any sort of malfunction. It burns. The taste of it is like sharp blood on his tongue, it spins in his head like the dizzy grinding of gears, sears through him with fraying wires and sizzling static. Pain and softness, forming a mix he might certainly call love, but might also swear to remove. 

There's a certain sharpness gnawing at him. A flickering, raw bruise, brutalizing him from between his ribs, regardless of his attempts to try and ignore it. Your efforts are failing. You are feeling, and that means you have failed. Even dying embers burn out the same as raging flames. 

You've drifted off, it would seem, your breathing slow, your body limp. So Viktor holds you just a bit tighter. 

For once, for the first time since he truly decided who he wanted to be and what he wanted to accomplish, he is lost. 

In the end, he is going to have to make a decision. One that will benefit his vision. Or one that will destroy him from the inside out. He must carve out these distractions, remove the sections of his heart that are faulty, or he must learn what it would mean to embrace them. 

It scares him, truly. Viktor, the Machine Herald, genuinely scared over something meant to be so trivial. Fretting over the one person he never wanted to lose, even though he was sure he'd already lost you. He wonders what his opposition would say, what those who view him as soulless might think, if they knew the truth. And if you knew? 

Just having to tell you, forcing himself to push you away, or coming face to face once more after he's altered his brain to completely forget you — No, the thought alone might be enough to seal his fate. 

He'll make up his mind before you wake. His head will become clearer, eventually. When your voice is gone from his ears, when your phantom touches tracing his skin have finally disappeared. Besides, this moment won't last, and he wants to savor what's left of it. 

Whatever happens next, wherever he takes this, he knows you will follow — to a different path, to a better future. Or to the ends of the earth. 

[sincerelybubbles]

could you write something where the reader is listening to reid going off on his tangents and when he gets insecure, just straight up saying. "no, go on. i like the sound of your voice." ? ty! 🤍

Don't shut up // no warnings as far as i can tell? lmk if not <3 pure fluff!! ty for the request <333

"They usually called her the Limping Lady but there's really no way to tell how many pseudonyms she used," Spencer is saying, dragging his hand through your hair where you lay on his lap, His other hand is busy grasping at the air while he talks.

"Because of the prosthetic leg?" You ask, urging him to continue talking. You're nearly asleep, eyes heavy and chest loose with the comfort of his proximity.

"Yeah. She actually nicknamed it 'Cuthbert' when she got the wooden prosthetic. It's actually pretty interesting - people have been using prosthetics for a really long time. We don't know exactly when people started using them in modern medicine, but the first evidence we can find of them dates all the way back to ancient Egypt where they found a prosthetic toe."

The documentary Spencer put on over an hour ago about World War II has long since been paused, Netflix's blinking "Are you still watching?" hovering uselessly on his laptop screen. He paused it ages ago to discuss the inaccuracies about Hitler's past, then Italy's involvement in France and the parallels between the almost French famine and the Irish famine, leading him to Virginia Hall.

All in all, you're in heaven. He's been stroking your hair, blunt nails scratching every so often, voice rumbling through his chest and stomach where your ear presses against. He's talking calmly, even, if not slightly rushed, like he can't wait for even a breath to keep telling you about everything he knows.

"I just want you to know all of the things I know, too, you know?" He told you once when you urged him to slow down. He's learned to take his time with you, eventually, realizing that you're not waiting for your opportunity to jump in. You don't spend your time with Spencer figuring out when it'll be your turn to talk next; instead, you lull in the comfortable space of listening while knowing he'll return the favor the moment you have something to say.

"Sorry, are you trying to sleep? I can shut up and turn the movie back on," Spencer says suddenly, hand stilling in your hair.

You open your eyes slightly to find him looking down at you, lip caught between his teeth, a hesitant look in his eyes.

Spencer doesn't often get insecure like this around you - you've spent plenty of time convincing him that there's no need - but moments like this still happen. You suppose it's a natural product of constant teasing and bullying through childhood.

"I don't mean to ramble," he mutters when he catches your eye.

"No," you say, interrupting him and reaching up to brush your fingers across his cheekbone and up to his eyebrows. "No, Spence, I literally love the sound of your voice. Please, keep going."

You watch him melt, afraid for a moment that his liquid brown eyes will start to water. You make a concerned noise, about to sit up and comfort him further, when his hand moves to press down on your collarbones. He holds you in place as he looks at you for a second, heated gaze causing you to feel warm. Slowly, he bends to press a kiss on each of your eyelids, right below your eyebrows. He rests his lips on the bones there for a few moments before moving to the next.

"I love you," he murmurs, the truth of the statement oozing out too sincerely to ignore.

He doesn't give you a moment to breathe before diving right back into his explanation of how ancient prosthetics were integrated into modern medicine, hand resuming its path in your hair and voice slowly bringing you to a calm half-nap.

[transmutationisms]

i understand no mental illnesses have been tied to any gene, but my understanding was that there is some evidence on heritability in some cases i.e. for ADHD “many genetic…risks…have a small effect” (doi:10.1016/j.neubiorev.2021.01.022); how are we to understand such findings through a antipsych lens?

okay I just want to be clear because I think a lot of you have a fundamental misunderstanding of what people mean when we self id as 'antipsych.' it's not that 'antipsych' is some sort of pie-in-the-sky theory that I pre-committed to and now have to reconcile with the medical literature—it's more like, I grew up as a very I Fucking Love Science Dot Com child, got interested in psychology among other things, started reading both popular and medical literature about it, started to notice that the things I was reading about psychology and mental diseases didn't really line up with the things I and people I knew experienced and heard when actually interacting with doctors and psychologists, and finally and only around about the age of 19 did I become aware that 'antipsych' is in fact a legitimate position that other people had come up with before me, and at that point I started to read things that you might be referring to here as being written 'through an antipsych lens.'

so, when I hear a question like this, ie one that presumes there is some contradiction between anti-psychiatric political commitments and the existing psychiatric literature, it suggests to me that you haven't really read the literature in question—where by 'read' I mean you need to actually look at the paper's methodology, and look at the process of knowledge-making that yields a sentence like "ADHD has genetic etiology." that's an empirical claim. evaluating whether it's true necessarily involves asking what evidence the person making the claim is offering. there are specific skills and strategies for doing this when you are a layperson dealing with specialised scientific literature; there is also a fundamental critical attitude you should adopt with regards to literally any claim, argument, discourse, article, etc.

it is always a good thing to recognise when you're in over your head and need help or further reading to understand a statistical method, piece of jargon, etc. but you do kind of have to, like, approach the issue with a fundamental attitude that just because someone said something in a scientific journal doesn't make it beyond reproach! read the claims, read the evidence, ask yourself if it makes sense. this isn't some rhetorical game of "I'm going to prove antipsych right"—the 'antipsych' is the loose umbrella term you are called when you actually read the psychiatric literature and critique the discipline's fundamental epistemological failures and disciplinary raison d'être. the horse draws the cart!

wrt 'genetic causes of psychiatric diseases' you also need to understand that many of you are tilting at windmills. I've never said genes don't have an effect on our affective and emotional lives. plainly, they do. this is not the same as "there is a distinct specific Pathology expressed in these genes; they are diseased and/or defective and this is why you feel miserable / cannot function / cannot go to work." like, we see these are two different statements, yes? if all we mean by ADHD is "a list of general behavioural dispositions" then yeah, of course those have genetic influences in addition to environmental ones. everything about us does. that does not mean that ADHD, the distinct and discrete clinical entity that psychiatrists presume exists (on the grounds of their patients having xyz problems), is indeed a 'genetic condition' or instantiates as a genetic mutation / malformation / differential expression / etc. this paragraph is foreshadowing.

having looked at the genetics section of this particular study for about 20 minutes (open-access here if you don't feel like searching by DOI), here are some things that immediately caught my attention:

this is just a meta-analysis of ADHD research. its claims are only as good as the underlying studies. a meta-analysis of shitty studies that had bad methodology will not 'even out' their respective badness, it will just produce a shitty meta-analysis that is intrinsically hampered by the bad underlying methodology. I've discussed this here.

the very first assertion under the genetics section cites three twin studies; I followed those links. first of all, these are written for other scientists, so they don't make a particularly clear (to lay people) distinction between the scientific notion of 'heritability' and what this term is typically interpreted to mean in popular discourses. so, to be clear, 'heritability' is an estimate of how much a given trait is caused by genetic factors at a population level. it does not tell you anything about how much an individual's expression of that trait is genetically caused, nor does heritability necessarily indicate the genetic cause is direct or dependent on one (or even a small number of) genes.

indeed, all three of these studies, and the overarching meta-analysis, assert that this genetic etiology is due to a very large number of very small genetic influences. this is not inherently scientifically unsound, but it does raise my eyebrows. how would we distinguish between a distinct pathology that is caused by a huge tangle of very low-impact genes, vs a whole bunch of behaviours that are socially stigmatised and grouped together on political grounds, and that also have some relationship to genetics, as does literally every physiological fact of human existence?

these cite twin studies, meaning basically they try to use comparisons between genetically identical twins and various other familial relationships to determine how much of a given characteristic is genetically caused. again, though, this is essentially boiling down to the observation that closely genetically related people have similar personality traits; also, twin studies in general have serious methodological problems with profound implications for the invocation of genetics in psychiatry.

in fact, the meta-analysis here also claims that ADHD can sometimes be due to "rare single gene defects" or chromosomal abnormalities. the study cited on the gene claim, for example, is also cited in the claim above, so I've already looked at it. the methodology here is to look at prevalence of ADHD among populations with certain known genetic conditions—that's it. now can we think of any other reasons why people diagnosed with one thing might also be diagnosed with another? for example, they're already in contact with the medical system. they have enough financial resources to seek diagnoses. symptoms of chronic pain & illness often manifest with attention disturbances. etc.

even if that were better founded, the claim they're making themselves here is that ADHD in fact has numerous genetic causes, all manifesting as the same behaviours and psychological disturbances. it's almost like those manifestations are not a single distinct pathology, but a group of 'signs' the clinician lumps together into a single diagnostic box regardless of whence they arise. hold that thought.

incidentally, that study also notes that initial heritability estimates for ADHD were much lower than what's cited now, and blames this on inaccurate self-assessment results, claiming the more recent studies using parent and teacher assessments of ADHD children are more accurate. of course, the actual diagnostic measure never became less 'subjective.' it's just that we trust it more if it's a parent reporting that their kids are all super ADHD than if it's the kid actually reporting their own experiences. because there certainly aren't any historical reasons why parents have felt the need to cling to the notion of a neurobiological, genetically determined distinct ADHD pathology!

similarly, numerous of these linked studies say that 'sub-threshold ADHD' (read: the behaviours considered to be ADHD symptoms, but at lower severity than clinicians have considered diagnosable) show the same genetic causal links—heritability. now that's also curious, no? almost like ADHD is not a discrete distinct genetically caused pathology, but a bunch of traits and behaviours that, like literally every human characteristic, have some genetic as well as environmental influence, and that are artificially grouped together under psychiatric taxa and presumed to be due to an underlying physical (genetic) defect.

indeed, what I'm laying out here is just the basic circularity that underlies all psychiatric diagnosis: we know you are X because you do Y, which you do because you are X, which we know because you showed up to the clinic and told us you do Y. I unpacked this logic in more detail here.

finally, and this bears pulling out from the list because it's important, multiple of these studies are claiming that they have identified general genetic risk factors for a broad variety of psychopathologies (example here). in other words, the claim is not even really that ADHD has specific genetic causes, but that some as-yet-unspecified genetic factor/s are generally responsible for what are diagnosed as mental diseases. how do we know that unspecified higher-order genetic factor exists? well, we don't. but we assume it's there. the same way we did for the 'general intelligence factor,' g, which by the way is entirely racist nonsense.

you may notice that basically all I've said here amounts to accusing psychiatry of failing to meet basic standards of empirical proof generally considered to be load-bearing elements of the 'scientific method.' this is not even really an 'antipsych' argument—it's, at best, a critique of psychiatry as it currently exists, using (in a locally uncritical way!) established standards of scientific discourse. I'm pointing this out both because it's an extremely valuable habit to get into yourself, and because I once again would love it if more people understood that 'antipsych' isn't really a prior theoretical commitment most of us just stumble into. it's a position we actively have to seek out, and often, what prompts us to begin doing that is precisely the experience of noticing problems like the above, and the corresponding utter failure of the psychiatric discipline to rectify such problems without nullifying its own epistemological foundations.

[nonsense-by-nell]

"Oh?"

Warnings: squirting, rough sex, clit slap, overstimulation, crying, intense orgasm, mean obanai kind of??? sorry its short, saw him in the new season and couldn't get the idea out of my head of obanai and his needy princess. Word count: 0.8k NOT PROOF READ

You can feel the slick coating your inner thighs, can hear the squelch it makes as your lover pounds you into oblivion. The essence of your previous three orgasms makes you embarrassed and you're thankful for the pillow your heads dug into, muffling your dazed moans and whispers.

His hand travels along your back, looping under your stomach to come in contact with your aching clit. Your body jolts, he hasn't started rubbing yet but your clit has already been vigorously rubbed into your last two orgasms and can't take anymore. You try to push away when he starts the tantalising circles, the only thing that does is piss the serpent hashira off and force you into an even deeper, more punishing arch, causing his length to hit further inside of you.

You choke on air, hands fisting the pillow even tighter as you try not to scream into it. There's a coil inside of you, it's getting tighter and tighter and it's bordering on painful. It feels different. Your eyes are squeezed shut in concentration, droplets of sweat racing each other on your tense body. You've never needed to concentrate so hard before, your usual babbling was exchanged for silence, teeth biting down on your lips harshly, trapping the sounds. The pressure is making you lightheaded and dizzy and you're struggling to breathe.

Obanai was intrigued. He's never seen you so silent. So still. So obedient. "You okay?" He asks after studying you.

You turn your head to the side so you can breathe, gasping out an airy yeah between panicked breaths. This feeling is consuming you, it's taking over your body, a sensation you've never felt before. Your in conflict with yourself, your back is arching further, pushing yourself back as far as you can go to feel him hitting you deeper, but your hand moves like lightening to grab your lovers wrist, weakly trying to get him away from your poor clit.

Obanai tsks under his breath, clicking his tongue in disappointment after. He bats your hand away, reattaching himself back to your clit to circle it with more pressure. His other hand, that was on your hip, cages both of yours and forcefully pulls them behind your back, causing his body to hover over yours and his thrusts to become more bruising.

"Never do that again." He warns in a low voice, right next to your ear, finishing his statement with a harsh slap to your clit that has you choking on a sob.

"Ob-Obanai! Don't! I- I can't. Dunno what's happening — fuck!" Your voice sounds watery, like you're going to cry any second. Your body stiffens, a coursing flame travelling throughout you until you're completely alight. "G-god Obanai! I cantttt!"

Obanai's two toned eyes widen in interest when he feels a spray of liquid hit his thighs and coat the futon, dripping from your legs as the spray continued. "Oh?" He whispers in your ear, before dragging you up to hit the back of his chest. He splays four of his fingers against your clit, prolonging your orgasm and forcing spurts of cum from you with so much force that they push him and his seed out of you, all the whilst his other free hand settles on your throat, squeezing lightly.

You're crying now, you'd never been so overwhelmed before in your life. A few more weak spurts follow and then they stop and he cups your soaking heat after letting his thumb brush over your clit. A cry tears from your throat, salty tears cascading down your flushed face. Your shaking, convulsing, muscles spasming.

"You're okay, princess," he whispers, voice as smooth as silk, deep and inviting. His cold hands slither around your waist to turn you around in his hold, two toned eyes observing you with intensity. He watches how your hands eagerly wrap around his neck, your shaking body collapsing in his embrace whilst you snuggle into his neck. Needy. You're so needy for his comfort, for his praise, for him to bring you back to reality after the brutal, overstimulating sex you both had. You were needy and he loved it. Adored it even, because you needed him. Couldn't possibly be okay without him. You were his. Only his.

"O-Obi," you whimper into the crook of his neck, dampening his skin with your tears.

"What's wrong, princess?" He rasps, his hand instinctually rubbing soothing circles into the soft skin of your back.

"Dunnooo," you whine. "J-just need you, Obi."

He smirks in response, kissing your head as he comforts you, relishing in your neediness. Music to his ears.

[heavens-devils]

I Hate You

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x female reader

Era: I honestly did not have a specific season in mind

Summary: You and Daryl are tasked with executing a supply run. The two of you are known to disagree and not get along, so Rick thinks this is a great opportunity for the two of you to become civil.

Warnings: Smut, rough sex, domination, swearing, masterbation, and slight violence

Word Count: 6,794

"You two have got to learn to get along eventually." Rick declared, marching behind you as you began to storm away from the male in an act of frustration.

You and Daryl had been known to bicker and disagree with one another. The biker easily got on your nerves, often causing the two of you to begin pointless arguments. If Daryl thought a bed should be situated one way, you always challenged his judgement. If you believed that a specific movie was the funniest of all time, the brunette would always scoff in disbelief before further explaining why that was the stupidest thing he had ever had the misfortune of hearing. It seemed as if almost everyday, the two of you could be found screaming in each others faces and calling one another cruel designations and offensive names. Carol had always claimed it was due to how similar the two of you are, and she believed that eventually, you two might become the closest of friends.

That statement always seemed to piss you off.

"You really think that sending the two of us out into a town infested with walkers is really that good of an idea?" You asked the sheriff as you spun around in disbelief. "We're going to get each other killed! Either that, or we're gonna kill each other."

Your features displayed a mixture of skepticism and perplexity. Your eyebrows were draw together, forming a slight wrinkle between your brows. Your eyes were dark, lids opened wide, and a demeanor of pure frustration glazed your vision with shock. Your lips hung open and your jaw was slack as you glared at the officer before you, your mouth ajar in anticipation as you awaited the males future statement.

Rick chuckled lightly under his breath as his eyes met the ground, laughing at your immature declaration. He did not understand why the two of you had loathed each other from the very beginning. You both were two of the best fighters the group contained, the pair of you were strong, determined, and often mysteriously silent. From the outside, one would believe that the two of you would make a perfect team.

"Look Y/N, we need someone who is quick and reliable to adventure out there and collect more supplies. And it would not be a wise choice to send either of you off on your own. You should always have someone accompany you incase of an emergency." Rick explained.

In all honesty, the male had mainly paired the two of you together in an attempt to spare the rest of the groups ears from the irritating sound of you two fighting everyday. Rick was hoping, practically praying, that some alone time would cause you two to bond. He intended for this trip to bring an end to your rivalry and possibly form a civil relationship between the two of you. However, he would never admit it, and his previous statement seemed the most realistic and believable.

And you fell right into Rick's trap.

You knew the sheriff was correct. You were aware of how thorough and dependable both you and Daryl were. You understood that you would be quick and Daryl would be a worthy protecter as the two of you scavenged for supplies and fought walkers.

About thirty minutes later, after some complaining and protest from Daryl, you were strapped to the back of the bikers motorcycle, flying through the empty, desolate streets. Prior to finally departing from the prison, the two of you had gotten into multiple disagreements. The first of which regarding the logical reasoning behind using Daryl's loud and attention capturing motorcycle as the vehicle of choice. And the other argument focused on attempting to persuade Daryl into using a different weapon, something you determined more close range and sturdy compared to his signature crossbow.

Throughout the motorcycle ride you two shared, every little incident and event had managed to piss you off. The way Daryl's greasy, dirty, and honestly disgustingly smelly hair continuously blew through the wind and proceeded to slap you across the face every five seconds angered you. The large amount of walkers his obnoxiously loud bike attracted to the narrow, barren road upset you. And simply the fact that you had to wrap your arms around the brunettes waist as he controlled the vehicle filled you with frustration. Every little thing this man did seemed to get on your nerves. Even the way he breathed throughout the trip seemed to piss you off.

You were displeased with the fact that you had to basically cling onto the biker for support. The last thing you wanted to do was hold the mans torso within your grasp. You hated the fact that your fingers clenched onto the thin fabric of his shirt and the reality that you often found yourself resting your head upon his upper back in order to avoid the gruesome attack of the wind. And deep down, you knew that Daryl was enjoying every single moment you were forced to rely upon him.

And the truth was, that he most definitely was savoring every moment of this ride. The male loved to irritate and antagonize you every way he could manage. He knew that every moment you spent grasping at his waist, forced to practically cuddle up to him, was driving you borderline insane.

After the two of you had sailed over the fifteenth bump scattered across the road, you had reached your limit. You could no longer handle every little infuriating action achieved by the brunette. The biker had appeared to deliberately drive across every single bump and hole he spotted within the road. And every time the motorcycle road over any sort of obstacle, your body began to uncontrollably bounce upon the seat of the bike, almost flinging you onto the pavement below.

Once you had finally crossed over the last bump, causing you to almost lose your tight grip upon the bikers waist, you finally exclaimed your thoughts.

"Stop! Stop the motorcycle!" You screamed into Daryl's ear as you yanked onto the leather of his vest, your best attempt at capturing the bikers attention.

The action of you suddenly tugging upon the male's clothes had caused Daryl to slightly jerk backwards. The fact that you had purposely pulled at the biker caused his hands to slightly falter upon the handle bars.

You heard the male mutter something along the lines of "Oh my fucking God." And "This stupid bitch." As he began to ease the vehicle to a halt. His words of anger almost made you slap the brunette right across the face. However, you still maintained some sort of self control and decided against that option.

Once the motorcycle came to a complete pause, the engine died down, and the biker placed the vehicle within a comfortable parking position, you practically flew off the seat, attempting to escape from the situation as fast as you possibly could.

You were swift to exit the seat of the bike, and once your shoes had successfully collided with the concrete of the road, you began to march back in the direct you came from. You did not grant the male with a singular explication for your gesture as you strode down the road in frustration. Although the pair of you were being very loud, your yelling combined with the previously continues roar of Daryl's bike, you did not spot a single creature lurking upon the edge of the surrounding forrest.

"Hey!" Daryl called after you, his heavy boots slamming against the ground as he followed behind you in a mixture of confusion and anger "Where the Hell do ya think yer goin?!"

After little to no contemplation, you decided not to admit any sort of confession to the biker as you continued down the desolate road. You had determined that any exchange of words or admission of your thoughts would simply cause an argument.

The reverberating sound of Daryl's footsteps chased after you as he seemingly attempted to escort you. The male was silent, not allowing any sort of claim to escape from his lips, but that didn't take away from the fact that you continued to perceive his frustrated and vexed grunts and huffs as he trailed behind you.

Most of your attention was focused upon the wilderness surrounding you, concentrating on deciphering any sort of clue that could possibly be caused by a lingering, unseen predator. Most of your awareness was absorbed with the task of remaining on guard and constantly informed. Due to this element, you had not perceived just how close the brunette had advanced upon you.

Whilst you were silently eyeing your surroundings, repeatedly flicking your concentration from one side of the road to the other, Daryl was adamant on catching up to you. He was dead set on forcefully ripping an explanation from you, one way or another. Your blatant disrespect and disregard of his inquiry had only made him much more irritated. The male could not fathom exactly why you had ignored him, and it was honestly very annoying and upsetting. Maybe even a little bit hurtful. But instead of confronting his emotions calmly and relaxed, he had quickly decided that the more bold and rather confident route was to replace his feelings with rage and fury.

The biker replaced his previous fast, short steps with rather long strides. He was determined to catch up to you, and he thought the perfect moment to execute his plan was when you were too busy focused upon the possible threats surrounding you and your survival. He swiftly advanced behind you, utilizing three, lengthy steps in order to arrive only about a few inches behind you.

He observed the back of your frame, the way your hair swayed when you walked and the manner in which your hips swung with every step you took. Every little feature about you in that moment only fueled his wrath; the way your arms dangled at your side, your confident movements, and most of all, your complete ignorance and disregard for Daryls entire existence, just completely and utterly infuriated the male.

Suddenly, you felt a group of warm fingers wrap around your wrists. The grip was tight, almost painfully so, in an attempt to control and dominate your movements. An almost inaudible yelp escaped from your lips as the brunettes digits made contact with your skin. His grasp was slightly painful, pinching your flesh beneath his clutch.

Using his current authority over your body, Daryl utilized this moment to force you to turn towards him. You were suddenly yanked backwards. You had almost no time to defend yourself as you were both swiftly and forcefully spun around. The biker had used a powerful amount of force to firmly make you face him. You were quickly turned upon the heals of your shoes until you were face to face with the biker.

You were suddenly met with the male's expression of fury; Daryl's brows were furrowed, his lips were pulled into a tight, thin line, and a thin coat of light garnet glazed his features, due to his intense amount of outrage and displeasure.

Daryl now had a firm grip upon both of your exposed wrists, his thick fingers wrapping all the way around your thin arms until the tips of his digits connected. The biker was currently shaking you before him, using the strength within himself to jerk your body back and forth, almost as if he was attempting to knock some sense into you. The two of you were so close, you could practically smell the scent of cigarettes lingering upon his breath and the smell of motor oil varnishing his figure. If you had truly desired, you were close enough to launch your head forward and slam your forehead against the males, in an attempt to escape his grasp whilst asserting your dominance. However, you decided against this idea, quickly coming to the conclusion that such an action would only exacerbate your current predicament.

Originally, you had predicted that Daryl would just drive off in a fit of rage once you had successfully dismounted his vehicle. You had previously believed that he would simply leave you to walk back to the prison on your own. He did not seem to care much about your survival before, so when the current events unfolded, you were both surprised and stunned. This was not what you had expected at all, and the reality of the situation was borderline frightening.

Frightening, yet somehow appealing.

The way the biker manhandled you and controlled you with his own strength caused a mixture of emotions to flow throughout your body. Feelings and sensations you had not experienced in a very long time.

The fact that you were feeling this way towards someone you had previously despised, and honestly currently still hated, made your anger intensify. You were extremely upset that a man you disliked so deeply could make your knees suddenly weak, your panties instantaneously soaked, and cause your entrance to clench with desperation. God, it made you want to grab the biker by the collar of his shirt and either break his nose or fuck him senseless.

"I said, where the Hell do ya think yer goin?" Daryl repeated, his tone quiet but his voice stern as he did his best to burry his seething anger.

Due to a mixture of Daryl's firm statement, his dominating control over you, or the displeasing emotions you felt within that moment, you felt your body suddenly freeze. It was as if a spell was cast upon you. You were frozen, unable to move, unable to think a singular thought, and even unable to breath. You had transformed into a deer within headlights as you stood before the male, motionless and frightened.

Maybe it was due to the fact that you had been focused upon surviving for such a long amount of time, that you had completely forgot what it felt like to want sex so desperately. Or maybe it was just the reality that you had not had each and every congruent thought within your brain fucked out of you in so long.

In an attempt to run from your suddenly outrageous emotions, you gained control over your body once more, escaping from the previous trance of fear the biker had situated upon you. You began to squirm within his grasp, attempting to wriggle your wrists out of his possession as you fought against his intense grip.

"Daryl, let go of me." You exclaimed, your words sounding small and impotent as they tumbled from your lips.

Suddenly all of the previous anger and confidence you had possessed evaporated, and your words were reduced to a weak plea. This was completely unlike you; typically, you were assured and stubborn, often facing your problems with determination and courage. However, in that moment, it felt as if you had been transported back in time, returning to a scared, young girl as your parents yelled at you.

Although you were fighting with all of your might and strength, you still were unable to free yourself from the biker's grasp. You were no match against the grown mans strength, and as much as you tried, you had failed to even slightly escape from his grasp. Instead, the bikers firm clutch only tightened, causing a slight whimper of pain to escape from your lips once more.

In order to regain your attention, to capture your wondering gaze, the brunette executed one final jerk, pulling you forward with force before basically shoving you backwards within a second. His grip did not falter throughout the entire ordeal, not even for a second.

And it appeared as if his attempt had succeeded. He had regained your attention and you were suddenly motionless once again. The slight sense of fear permeated your body as you frozen before the male. Every attempt at trying to escape had came to a halt. You ceased your struggle, terminated your previous endeavors, and swiftly concluded your frantic efforts.

You were terrified of meeting the biker's gaze once more, scared of the probable expression plastered upon his face, and petrified of the idea of the events to follow. However, you could not fight your natural instincts to connect your vision with the brunette as your eyes began to automatically wander back up the males frame.

Your view, beginning upon the dusty ground below you, previously focusing upon every little pebble and grain of sand as a distraction, began to slowly trail across his worn boots. Your vision examined the tattered leather of his shoes, perceiving every frayed crack and ragged particle that had been strained into the shoes over time. You wondered what had caused each and every scrape and cut upon his boots, contemplating the idea of the male frantically fighting zombies or spending hours working upon his motorcycle beneath the blistering heat of the sun.

Your focus migrated from the bottom of his frame as your vision danced up his lengthy legs. Your eyes were met with the sight of the torn jeans the male was supporting. Similar to his signature boots, his pants were not in very good shape. His trousers were torn and littered with holes, most likely as a result from his many hours of strenuous labor and arduous work. Although you would never admit it, you had always been fascinated by the idea of the brunettes legs. You had never spotted Daryl supporting any other form of bottoms father than his jeans. You often found yourself pondering upon the thought of what his legs looked like beneath his clothes.

Your vision traveled from his legs towards his broad chest. Although the male was supporting many layers, including a tattered shirt and his signature leather vest, you could still easily examine the outline of his toned body. You often wondered how exactly he managed to survive the extreme heat whilst enduring the variety of clothing articles he wore daily. His shirt was tight against his chest, his upper body easily filling his top in a rather flattering manner. Furthermore, every ounce of his exposed skin was covered in a layer of thick, gleaming sweat. The veins littering his arms were pulsating and the exposed flesh upon his neck was varnished with a layer of shinning liquid.

Before reaching the destination of the biker's face, your eyes couldn't help but glance down towards the grip he had executed upon your wrists. His knuckles had transformed into a light white hue compared to the rest of his tan skin, due to the sheer amount of force he was executing upon your limbs. The veins adorning his hands were easily visible, pushing against the barrier of his skin as his palms remained firm.

Finally, your pupils examined his face. The same expression of anger remained apparent upon his features. His lips were tight, clamped shut as if he was attempting to hold something captive within the confines of his mouth. His thick eyebrows were drawn taunt, pushed so close together they were almost touching. And his irises exuded a pure aura of rage. His pupils were dark and blown wide. If this was another circumstance and literally any other male had stood before you, a part of you would have believed that he was supporting a countenance of desperate, passionate, lust.

The dark look within the biker's eyes, the red hue glazing his skin, and the expression of pure confidence and determination only further reminded you how desperately you wanted to be fucked.

However, your vision quickly resorted to a detail you had almost previously missed. A small feature that you had quickly over looked just moments prior.

It had appeared as if the situation had finally claimed Daryl as well. He was alone in the woods with an admittedly beautiful and young women, someone he could easily drag and yank around, and the sound of your muffled whimpers as you fought against his grasp had finally taken control of him.

Daryl was hard.

It was a feature you had almost previously missed, due to his baggy jeans and the rather captivating circumstances. However, it was undoubtedly true. The waist of his pants were much tighter against his body compared to the rest of his bottoms. Whilst the legs of his jeans were much more oversized and loose fitting, the waist of his trousers were much tighter and filled in. A rather impressive tent had formed upon his groin as he stood before you, appearing as if his erection was fighting against his zipper for any form of freedom.

Daryl quickly noticed your attentive gaze focused upon his concealed member, and whether it was out of embracement or a mixture of desire and desperation, the biker began to yank at your wrists once more.

The male started to drag you back towards his motorcycle, and you attempted no sort of fight to oppose the brunettes actions. There was only two sensations currently coursing through your entire being:

The first of which being fear. You had no idea of the bikers current thoughts. You were defenseless against the large male before you. As he practically dragged you back towards his bike, you were very aware of the reality you were currently faced with. You were suddenly terrified of the idea that Daryl could hurt you, leave you stranded, or even kill you, and no one would ever know. You couldn't deny the intense emotions of fright and slight terror controlling every single one of your thoughts. Almost every single notion that is, except one.

The second of which being arousal. You had no idea of the bikers current thoughts. You were defenseless against the large male before you. As he practically dragged you back towards his bike, you were very aware of the reality that you were currently face with. You were suddenly excited of the idea that Daryl could pleasure you, dominate you, even fuck you, and no one would ever know. You couldn't deny the intense emotions of arousal and excitement controlling every single one of your thoughts.

Luckily enough, the second option of the pair ended up being the correct feeling.

Once the brunette had successfully hauled you back to his motorcycle with extreme force, he place you before the tail end of the bike. There was a minuscule moment where you wondered what exactly was about to happen. The biker was placed behind you, excluded from your vision, and his current thoughts were completely unknown to you.

You silently observed the view of Daryl's motorcycle in front of you. Your eyes wandered across every inch of metal, momentarily concentrating upon the worn leather of the seat, and utterly captivated by the way the sun shone across the vehicles black paint, expelling bright rays of light off of the object.

However, the moment quickly came to an abrupt end as both of the males hands suddenly let go of their previous authority and domination upon your lower arms. The bikers right palm quickly traveled down towards the small of your back, his finger tips gliding across the fabric of your shirt before arriving upon your lower spine.

His left hand danced down to the outer edge of your hip, firmly grasping upon the fabric of your jeans. His grip upon your waist was not as forceful and powerful compared to the previous clutch he had upon your wrists. However, the same sensation of dominance remained.

Using the strength within the palm splayed across your lower back, the biker easily push your body down into a ninety degree angle. His hand effortlessly controlled your upper body, shoving your chest downwards until both your clothed breast and the skin of your face met the worn leather of his bike seat.

The material was warm against your features, the heat of the dark leather pressing against your characteristics only furthered your emotions of arousal and sensations of excitement. As your head remained squished against the vehicle, the only view your eyes encountered was the wilderness surrounding the pair of you. The environment was quiet, the trees were still, and there was still, somehow, not a single creature within sight.

The hand Daryl had placed upon your hip remained firm, his fingers were tight against your waist in an attempt to keep your body both stable and steady as he altered your position.

The way the biker effortlessly moved and adjusted your frame caused your body to instinctively become frantic and desperate. As your ass remained in the air, you attempted to relieve any form of pressure from in between your legs. You pressed your thighs together, wriggling your lower body in an attempt to achieve even the slightest bit of pleasure. It had been so long sense you had felt this worked up and aroused that you found yourself acting like a horny teenager. Your movements were desperate, your entrance was aching, and your mind was filled with dirty and depraved thoughts.

As you stood defenseless below the male, you experienced a brief moment where you pondered upon the events that were about to unfold. A part of your mind was focused upon how wrong the situation was, how much you despised this man and previously believed that you would rather die a gruesome and painful death than ever participate within any sort of sexual act with the brunette you determined your enemy.

However, both dominating and destroying every logical thought within your brain was the loud and overpowering sound of your mind screaming: "YES, YES, YES!"

For a while, the only sound that entered your ear canals was the echo of the male fumbling with his belt, the sound of metal clashing together and the resonance of leather sliding against his jeans. You eventually heard the indication that the brunettes belt had been successfully removed, as the sound of both his leather belt and jeans hitting the ground below him entered your head. You felt the warmth and rough skin of his previously preoccupied hands return to your lower back. He swiftly tucked the tips of his fingers below the waist band of your jeans, sliding his digits beneath your bottoms until they were snug between the fabric and your skin.

You waited in excruciating anticipation as Daryl hesitated once more. His painfully slow movements and borderline teasing gestures were only further frustrating you, constantly reminding you how much of a stupid and bad idea this was. You hated this man, and you were willingly about to let him become the first person to fuck you in God knows how long. Every ounce of hatred you had for the biker suddenly reappeared, crashing down upon you like a wave as his nonexistent movements teased and tortured your desperate body.

Suddenly, his soothing, raspy voice was expelled into the previously mute environment surrounding the two of you as he finally spoke.

"Do ya wan this?" He inquired.

For the first time in history, the mysterious bikers voice did something to you. You had never exactly perceived just how gruff and honestly attractive the brunettes voice was. Your entrance clenched once more in response to the males statement, and all your mind could focus on was the slight possibility of hearing one of the bikers raspy, deep grunts escape the chamber of his mouth as he fucked you relentlessly.

You shook your head up and down against the rough leather seat of the motorcycle, signaling your agreement. Your nod was quick and frantic, a desperate attempt to get the biker to begin and stop teasing you.

Although the biker thoroughly understood your silent statement, he needed more. He deeply desired to hear you beg and plead for his aching member. However, although he was unwilling to admit it, you could have claimed he was a "stupid bitch" and you could have been as mean as you wanted to in that moment, and he still would have obeyed to his natural instincts and fucked you relentlessly, out of pure desperation and necessity.

"I need tah hear ya say it." He added, his eyes heavy as he stared down at your thin frame below him.

The way you appeared before the male was absolutely astonishing. Daryl had never once considered you as a desperate or weak individual, he had only ever seen you remain confident, calm, and controlled. However, there you were beneath him, rubbing your tights together in desperation, your back arched in anticipation, and completely under his control. He had never seen you so distressed and desperate before, and the view of his hard cock only inches away from your clothed body, twitching and throbbing in anticipation, only made him want to bury his dick inside you without waiting for any sort of response.

You rolled your eyes in frustration as once again, every ounce of hatred you had towards this man returned to you. You knew what he was doing, patronizing you until you were practically putty within his hands. And you couldn't believe that his constant teasing and irritation was actually working, it was making you even more desperate for the mans cock.

You spoke your desperation and agreement once more, an action you would have never previously carried out if it hadn't been for how desperate and needy you were for any sort of pleasure within that moment. If you were within your right state of mind, you would have flew up from your position, punched the biker in the face, before driving away and leaving him stranded. However, it was as if you were currently stuck within some sort of desperate state, and you would do anything to get fucked in that moment.

"God Daryl, just fuck me. Quickly, before we're eaten alive." You exclaimed, pausing for a short moment before continuing. "Please..."

The final addition of the word "please" was a measly attempt to persuade Daryl. You were not the type to beg or plead, however, every single porn you had ever viewed within your life had suddenly entered your brain, causing you to beg Daryl in an attempt to gain his agreement and further arouse him.

And thankfully, your strive had succeeded. The sound of you, someone who had previously never given the male the time of day, begging for his weeping cock sent a shiver down the bikers spine. Your desperation for his dick, the tone of desire lacing your voice, and the notion that he had gained full authority and dominance over you sent the brunette into a frenzy.

He was quick with you, taking your statement extremely serious. Without even bothering to unbutton your jeans, the male's large hands latched around your waist band before yanking your pants down. Suddenly, your nearly bare ass was exposed to the chill atmosphere surrounding you. You felt as if you were on display, naked and needy just for the stupid, annoying biker behind you.

Daryl didn't even bother with removing any other article of your clothing, he simply pushed your panties to the side, shoved your shirt farther up your back until the skin of your torso was also exposed.

The biker brought his right hand down to his throbbing cock, rewarding himself with a few, tentative strokes as he absorbed the exhibit before him. As much as he wanted to digest the memory of your exposed, desperate, trembling body as much as he possibly could, for later use of course, he knew he would have to pick up his pace.

The brunette was aware of the extreme situation the two of you were placed within; a zombie could appear at any moment, attracted to your loud actions and noisy expressions, and end both of your lives. He was aware of the reality that the two of you still needed to acquire supplies after this and return back to the prison at a reasonable time. Additionally, the biker did not want to finish too soon, before the fun had even started.

Once both of his palms returned to your now exposed hips, Daryl slowly brought the tip of his cock down to your aching entrance. He teased your hole slightly, tracing his head around your desperate cunt whilst collecting as much liquid as he possibly could. Such actions caused a frustrated groan to escape from your lips as you pressed your ass backwards towards the brunette, attempting to signal both your annoyance and desperation.

He allowed his member to smoothly enter you utilizing a singular, rough thrust.

You let out a hiss of slight pain once the male had successfully entered you. Although you were thoroughly a mixture of both wet and slick to the touch, it had most likely been months, maybe even a year, sense you had received any sort of action similar to this. Your walls were tight, and your entrance was even more tense, and the sensation of the males thick cock stretching you open caused a strike of pain to web throughout your lower body.

However, the pain quickly diminished and swiftly altered into pleasure. The fact that the biker was so rough with you, simply chasing after his own pleasure out of pure desperation, made the experience ten times more attractive. The reality that Daryl both easily and rather aggressively entered you without a singular thought regarding your physical state caused your body to perceive any sort of sensation as pleasure.

The sheer tightness of your hole could have caused Daryl to finish right there and then. However, he fought his instincts of chasing easy pleasure in order to appear much more attractive and manly than he really was in that moment. He would have been extremely embarrassed if he had spilled out it into you within one second, and he knew that you would never let him forget it.

"F-fuck." The male mumbled as he slowly pulled his hips backwards, suddenly moving at a much more leisurely pace than before.

Daryl's cock was thick and pulsating, throbbing with every slight movement as your walls squeezed around him. He was large, and he was filling you to the brim. If you hadn't been so debilitated with desire and pleasure, this moment might have been much more painful and agonizing. However, due to the circumstances, the biker was stuffing you and stretching you in all of the right aways.

His excruciatingly slow movements were an obvious attempt at trying to contain himself. And as both hot and complimenting as that fact was for you, you desperately needed the male to begin to move at a quicker pace. You needed to cum, and you knew that any sort of movement would have made this experience ten times more pleasing than it currently was.

"Faster." You instructed, your words vibrating against the seat of the motorcule.

And as much as Daryl wanted to defy your command and do as he wished, to dominate you and remain in complete control of the situation, he could not seem to control both himself and his instincts as he began to pick up speed.

With every snap of his hips, your walls caressed his shaft, causing the two of you to moan without shame. Whenever the biker would thrust his hips against your own, your body would propel against the motorcycle beneath you, causing every metal and fabric to rub against your skin as the vehicle fought against your weight.

He was quick, and so were you. If the circumstances had been different, this whole situation would have been almost beautiful. The two of you would have gone much slower, absorbing every slight ounce of pleasure each of you received as your insides wrapped tightly around the male. You would have allowed the brunette to move his body in a much more gentle and deliberate manner, to truly feel just how every ridge and curve of his cock danced against each surface and crevice of your entrance.

Your walls began to tighten around the males member as you felt him twitch within you. As much as you hated to admit it, you were close. It had been months sense you had last received any sort of pleasure, and the manner in which the motorcycle rubbed perfectly against each correct spot upon your body as the male slammed into you only brought you closer and closer to the edge. And honestly, you had no idea when you would receive any sort of action like this again, you were unsure when you'd be able to pleasure yourself once more, so you were honestly in quite a hurry to finish.

Furthermore, Daryl felt the exact same way. In all honesty, the way your hands grasped at his torso and every bump you hit during your previous ride only made the males cock strain against his jeans with more and more desperation. Your tight, slick walls brought him closer to his finish with every slight movement he achieved. Simply breathing seemed to send a wave of pleasure coursing through his veins.

"S-say my name." He stated, his voice gruff as he ended his sentence with a slight grunt.

The sound of his raspy voice and his slight accent almost pushed you over the edge. The way in which his dick vibrated when he spoke and his palms shook as he thrusted into you only intensified your pleasure.

However, your anger towards his self centered statement kept you grounded. As attractive as it was that Daryl seemed to pay no mind to your pleasure, only focusing on his own satisfaction and utilizing your body as a method to achieve his goal, you still could not deny the slight anger bubbling within you. You were completely aware of the reality that exclaiming the bikers name as you reached your conclusion would only further inflate his ego.

"Im n-not saying that." You responded, suddenly fighting every ounce of pleasure coursing through your body in order to not finish in that exact moment.

However, Daryl would not take no as an answer. He needed to have complete authority over you, to dominate you and practically mark you as his own territory. After all of these months, every time you yelled at him and patronized him, he needed to be in control.

"Say it." The biker reinforced, picking up speed in order to successfully persuade you.

His rapid and desperate actions did earn a few moans from you, however, you focused more of your attention on ignoring the male, hoping that would just make him forgot about the whole topic. However, your attempt obviously failed as he pushed the palm of his right hand into your back, forcing you further against the metal vehicle below you.

The male's actions caused your frame to become further pressed against the bike. Your chest was squished against the hot metal, your cheek became compressed against the worn leather, and the way your abdomen became smooshed against the motorcycle only intensified your pleasure.

"Say it!" He shouted, his tone angry yet authoritative.

You couldn't fight your own body and natural instincts anymore. His rough and dominant pace pushing you over the edge, causing you to finally give into his command.

"D-Daryl!" You cried, your entrance pulsing around his member.

A wave of complete and passionate pleasure erupted throughout your body. The pressure previously building within your lower abdomen finally detonated as you came around the male's cock. Your entrance repeatedly throbbed and palpitated against his thick member as your legs began to quiver. You let out a string of curses and moans, exclaiming your pure delight and satisfaction as you came. It had been so long sense you had been pleased in such a manner, your body could not handle the sheer amount of pleasure as you came like you had never before.

Not even a second later, Daryl pushed his hips as far into you as he could possible manage before he allowed himself to finish within you. You felt a warm sensation fill your lower body as the male let out a few, deep and rough grunts. You felt his member twitch violently within you as he came to a slow halt.

Once the biker had finished, he steadily pulled his cock out from within you, and even the slightest bit of motion caused the two of you to release matching yelps of pain.

As you remained compressed against the tail end of the bikers motorcycle, your legs shook and your breathing was rapid as you came down from your previous high of pleasure. No longer clouded with desperation and inferior judgement, you contemplated the events you had participated within only moments prior.

"No one can ever know about this." You stated as stared off towards the empty, silent, wilderness.

[seasprincess]

meanbf!rafe x sweet!reader

mdni

warnings: Smut, degrading, use of the word ‘slut’, denial, oral(m receiving)

A plus of Rafe Cameron being so rich means he owns more than one house.

So here you are sat in his pool house on his couch, Rafe’s arm draped around your shoulder. Watching some bullshit football on the tv. Rafes decision of course. You’d prefer to be watching something else. Anything else.

But you’ll sit here and watch it cause he promised to watch one of your ‘sappy pussy bitch boy’ movies. His words exact.

But you never said you’d watch it quietly.

“I don’t get it. That’s a foul right?”

Rafe sighs before taking another swig of his beer. God you do not shut up, and all the things you’re saying are just pissing him off more and more. The wrong terminology pilled onto completely wrong statements. He’s nearly at snapping point.

“Wait isn’t he going the wrong way? Rafe? I thought he was supposed to be on the other team no? I’m so lost Rafe I d-“

Before you can finish your sentence Rafe’s hand covers your mouth shutting you up. He leans close to your ear, you can feel his breath on the side of your face.

“If you don’t shut up I will make you. Do you understand?”

Rafe’s harsh tone sends a jolt of fear through you, he’s angry a lot so this isn’t the first time. But as scary as it is. It’s also attractive as fuck. So you decide to test him as you rub your thighs together.

You nod as he pulls his hand away.

Rafe sighs again before sipping more of his beer. Thankful to just watch the game in peace.

Which is short lived before you speak again. Of course you speak again.

“But what i-“

Rafe rolls his eyes as he looks at you. Seeing a little smile on your face, you know what you’re doing. He knows you know what you’re doing.

“You’re such a slut hmm?” Rafe says as his fingers start to fiddle with his belt, undoing it before he working on his jeans.

You let out a little whine at his words as you look at him.

“Sorry, forgot you liked to be called a slut.” He says with almost a sneer. He acts all high and mighty but deep down he is loving this. He loves when you’re like this. He loves you.

Rafe’s jeans and pants are now pulled down. His hard cock on full display as it hits his abs.

“But you’re pissing me off while I’m trying to watch my game. So you’re going to suck my dick like a good girl. Right?”

“Yes Rafe.” You instantly reply as you look at him. Rafe looks at you before his hand comes to the back of your head and guides it down to where he needs you.

And of course you open your mouth, wrap your lips around him and start bobbing. Being the good girl Rafe wanted you to be.

“Fuckkkkk. Such a good girl for me. Taking that cock so well.” His hand pushes you down further as he bucks his hips up slightly causing you to gag in his length.

You whine and moan around him as you move your hips. Trying to get any form of friction against the sofa.

Which of course Rafe notices.

“God you are a slut.” He says before smiling and slipping his hand into your panties. Fingers rubbing your clit softly as he groans. “I’m gonna cum in that pretty throat of yours and you’re going to swallow all of it.”

Rafe’s words mixed with his fingers rubbing your clit make you a whimpering mess. Falling apart so easily and all for Rafe.

And soon enough Rafe releases in your mouth and like he said you swallow. Sitting back up as his fingers keeping rubbing, and rubbing.

Until they stop.

You whine as you look at him.

“Shouldn’t have been so fuckin annoying and made me miss my game.” Rafe says nonchalantly as he goes back to his beer and the stupid fucking football.

[writteninlunarlight-years]

Older

This is for the @6esiree contest that they are holding! I hope you enjoy it, and even if it doesn't perform well, I am glad to have made something long! Word Count 3.5k Alastor x Gen Z Reader Based on Song Older by Isabel LaRosa TW: Sexual content, stubbornness, gen gap, age gap, tentacles, begging

Dying wasn’t the first thing on your list of exciting things to do. I mean, yes, you were a 23-year-old living in 2024, so of course, your will to live was low, but that didn’t mean you were ready for it when it happened. No, instead, death came hard and fast, all because you had some serious FOMO and a quite pitiful YOLO moment. 

One minute, you were having a great night out with friends, you had a handsome silver fox wrapped around your finger, and then the next thing, you woke to a red landscape of what you only assumed was hell. With your life, it made sense why ‘Hell’ was where you ended up. You died partying and sleeping with the older man, so it only made sense that this was where you would consequently end up. 

A deep sigh left you as you looked at the chaos around you. The only good thing you saw so far out of this event was that you didn’t have bills to pay anymore. It looked like as long as you played your cards right, you could get anything here without needing money. As that thought crossed your mind, an ad for redeeming sinners played on a nearby radio. 

The voice on the radio was alluring as all hell and had you questioning your life and undead choices. Not even five minutes into being dead, and you are already fawning over an older man's voice. It's good to know that living habits don’t die with you in the afterlife. 

Your resolve not shaken, you make your way to where the voice spoke of the Hazbin Hotel and find yourself at the base of a hill, looking up at a grand building with flashing lights. A shiver runs up your spine as you realize how powerful whoever runs this place must be. Maybe pretending to want to be saved would be well worth your time, then. 

Let’s get one thing straight here: you are no damsel; you may like your men older, but that doesn’t mean you need one. No, you are an independent queen who can do what she pleases. She just also realizes when to fold and when to hold her hand. Right now, seeking refuge from the fires and sex work was worth it; however, that didn’t mean you wouldn’t earn your keep all the same. 

While you thought about these prospects and made your way up to the door, you noticed it was open without you even having to knock. Pushing your head through more of the door, it was clear to see what type of establishment this was…a chaotic one. 

Just standing in the entryway, the sights before you were hilarious and intriguing. A cat at the bar grumbled as he watched a spider dance on the bar. A young lady resembling a lamb hurriedly tried to stop the provocative dancing while a gray woman yelled at the spider. A cyclops laughed hysterically while tossing what you could only imagine was a bomb. A small woman rushed around laughing and stabbing the air while a man who looked a little like the lamb girl walked through the room. 

The deer caught your eye the most, though, and it seemed you caught his, too, as he was the only one looking at you and your entrance. You two held eye contact, a shiver running up your spine. Oh, you definitely could get used to staying here. 

Nodding more to yourself than the deer man, you walked in further and cleared your throat, everyone stopping to look at you. With a slight wave, you smiled brightly and introduced yourself.  “Heya, I’m Y/N. Nice to meet ya,”

The room was silent, causing you to laugh awkwardly. As you slowly backed away, thinking maybe this wasn’t a great idea, the lamb girl came over and jumped on you. Holding your arms and bouncing, she spoke excitedly. 

“Oh my goodness, a new arrival! Hi, my name is Charlie. I am the hotel's owner,” She beamed proudly at the statement and motioned to the others all in the lobby area of the room, “And this is the Hazbin Hotel residents and staff! The cat is Husk, then Angel Dust, Vaggie, Cherri, Nifty, my father,” She leaned in and whispered, “Also known as Lucifer,” 

Laughing at your surprised face, she pointed to the deer man last. “This is Alastor. He is the hotelier; he helps me run the hotel! Was it his broadcast that brought you in?”

You shook your head at the information overload and laughed softly. Nodding to the question, you looked at everyone around. “Yes, I actually passed not too long ago, and as I was weighing my options on where to go, I heard the message on the radio.” 

Charlie beamed proudly at Alastor, who just smiled at you precisely as he had been this entire time. You couldn’t lie. He was drop-dead gorgeous. He was tall and fit, and if his voice sounded anything like how it did on the radio, you would be a goner for sure. He was an enigma and one you knew you had to be careful of if you wanted to make it out of this hotel with your head screwed on straight. 

“My my, I am quite honored my radio show was able to bring in a petal quite like yourself, dear,” He spoke so smoothly, and you knew right then how right you were; you were a goner. “I do hope you are staying here with us to be redeemed as Miss Charlotte wishes; I am eager to learn…more about you, miss Y/N.”

You swallowed thickly, nodding. Looking at the others, you laughed and began some small talk while they decided where would be the best place to put you. The conversations ranged from how everyone died to how people got here, and you learned more about how hell worked. Learning that Alastor owned many souls only made him more appealing and dangerous. 

As Charlie led you to your room, she made sure to inform you of the dangers of getting mixed up with Alastor. Being mindful of her warnings and the blaring alarms in your head that did not match the alarms between your legs, you made it a goal to avoid falling for Alastor at all costs. Oh, how wrong you were for that. 

Alastor had his eyes on you the minute he felt your presence near the hotel. You were unlike any other woman he had seen. You looked young and still full of life, so how could someone like you have died so carelessly? Not to mention, he did find you oddly attractive, and your calm demeanor was refreshing. He wanted you and in more ways than just your soul.

He knew the best way to any woman's heart was to court her and get her to fall for him slowly till she needed him and him alone. However, you were a tricky one to get under the skin of. You were so damn stubborn and stuck in your ways of being the lead in your own life that allowing him any control seemed futile. However, the challenge you possessed was all the more thrilling to him. 

It started off simple: He escorted you around the hotel. He wanted to lead you around like a gentleman, but you had your own plans. As he talked and explained a specific part of the hotel, your attention was elsewhere in your explorations. 

“Y/N, dearest, are you even paying attention?” he asked you sharply as you looked at the paintings for the millionth time since your arrival. You really wanted to listen to him, but this was kind of boring. After becoming close with the others, you were eager to hear more about their lives than be trapped with the man you swore not to sleep within this proximity to you. 

“Sorry, Alastor. Yes, I am listening. I was just wondering about some of the paintings; they are quite pretty.” You were honest, at least in the fact that you enjoyed the paintings. Someone had a knack for art, and you were not shy to admit it. However, when you soon learned it was he who chose all the art minus a handful, you quickly shut down your praise. 

The next time Alastor tried to win you over and claim your soul was when he began opening doors for you. He never thought the day would come when he saw someone challenge him so brazenly. However, that was probably the day he fell in love with you, as he allowed it to happen.

“Uh…Alastor, what are you doing?” You looked at the opened door with your arms crossed, your body still midstep from when he raced ahead to open the door. 

“I am being a gentleman, Miss Y/N, that is all.” He looked so innocent, but you had heard more stories and learned so much about him from the shadows. He was no innocent man but a cold-blooded killer. You wouldn’t lie, though, that his past and present only made you that more attracted to the idea of him. You wanted him biblically, and it only made you hate his advances more, as you didn’t want to lose your soul. 

“No, thank you, Alastor. I can open my own doors.” You quickly took the door from him, closing it and reopening it before walking through. The look on Alastor's face was akin to pain and frustration. He was not a fan of your independent attitude and was willing to bet he could break you before the year ended. 

Alastor resorted to making sure you always walked on the right side of the road, that your chairs were pulled out for you, and that your food was pre-cut; he even went out of his way to acquire a simple ruby necklace for you to wear so others knew you were accounted for. However, you were stubborn and not taking on his advances. All you would give him was that Cheshire grin and stubbornly push his buttons by mimicking his chivalry with your version. 

When it came to Alastors courting skills and all his advances, you managed to turn them down in the same stubborn way. However, it didn’t go amiss by Alastor that each turn down went from cold and distant worry to more playful and light-hearted jests on your part. Was it possible you were falling for him, too? 

He admitted to himself a while ago, just as you had that the immediate attraction you two felt despite the age and generational gap was mutual. He didn’t know how to break you while you were too worried about becoming his next meal, even though the way he wanted to eat you was not how you were thinking. 

That was until one fateful day when the hotel was barren except you two. You had sat perched in the library reading some trashy romance novel, hoping to get yourself off while Alastor was busy with his work. Busy working till his shadow happened to inform him of what you were reading. 

The book you had chosen was interesting in that the main female lead was a time traveler who managed to end up in the olden times as a helpless damsel needing a strong man to care for her—the complete opposite of what you were as a person. However, you wouldn’t lie that the thought of letting Alastor take care of you wasn’t electrifying; it just went against everything you stood for. 

However, reading the book and getting to the more intense sex scenes where the woman is restrained and taken care of sexually only caused you to feel more of a heated desire for the man who had plagued your thoughts since you made eye contact with him all those months ago. Sighing deeply, you flipped to the next page and moaned softly at the words, wishing it to be you. You wondered how long your and Alastor’s game of cat and mouse would play out until one caved.

Alastor entered the room and looked over your shoulder. He was enamored with you rutting into your leg as you read the heated pages. He smirked as a tentacle wrapped around your throat and pulled your attention up from the book to his eyeline. “My dear, what do we seem to have here?” He practically purred, and you whimpered softly. 

You were already so close to release on your heel that you didn’t realize the pleas coming from your lips. You needed an older man badly; you needed Alastor—someone who would worship your body. As the pleas left your lips, it didn’t take long for Alastor to pounce on you, his pent-up desire for the independent brat growing. 

Alastor wasted no time and already had your sleep shorts pooled at your ankles,  ratty nightshirt hiked up your back and drooping off one shoulder. Your inner thighs were slick and glistening with arousal from your earlier menstruations while reading.

 Alastor hummed in amusement, bending you over the couch, his cold tentacles holding you in place as he moved down your back. His soft breaths tickled you as much as they excited you. He hummed as he saw your pussy in full view, a smile growing on his face. He touched it softly, slick coating his hand as he spoke, “My dear, you are already soaking; you were thinking about me, weren’t you? Thinking about me taking you just like that man does in that book.” He smiled wider, lining his face with your slick. “All you had to do was ask, beautiful.”

A tender hand pushes down on your back, further squishing your chest into the soft plush of the couch arm, his other hand grasping firmly at the fat of your backside where Alastor’s face is lapping at your dripping cunt. Soft mewls cry from your lips, hands reaching back to grasp his head, fingers tangling through the soft red and black locks, being mindful of his ears. He only grunts in response as he continues his onslaught on your most sensitive area.

What felt like minutes and hours at the same time passed; your legs were trembling, knees threatening to buckle under you with three orgasms already coaxed out of you on his tongue alone, milking you of your sweet, slick nectar. Your quiet, strained cries did nothing but aid the tightness in Alastor’s dress pants, his cock oozing arousal in his boxers, dampening the fabric beyond. Every involuntary shift of his hips causes more friction and tension with the fabric, sending a groan throughout your pussy.

Alastors noises vibrate against your cunt, shocking your overstimulated and oversensitive clit. All you can do is cry out as he pushes himself deeper, closer. his tongue is merciless and selfish as he threatens to swallow you whole. At this point, you're begging for him to relent, repeated pleas of his name falling from your lips as the familiar heat builds in your core, and you writhe under his hands. The cold slick of his tentacles digs into your skin as he takes hold of your ankles and wrists now to keep you open. 

Everything becomes overstimulating as the world begins to spin. Your jaw goes slack, and saliva pools in your mouth as it threatens to spill over your swollen lips. Tears are streaming down your flushed face, your hair is frizzy, and your eyes are practically rolling to the back of your head as yet another release washes over you, sending a shudder through your body.

Alastor finally pulls his face away from the space he has claimed as his between your thighs, not without flattening his tongue over your cunt for a last taste gathering all of you he could. The tentacles held you tighter as he smirked and sat upright, admiring the mess he had made of you. A slick shimmer on his face as he licked his lips, “Delicious, better than any venison I have ever had, dove.”

As he stands up, his hand on your back pushes you back onto the couch arm. He kneaded the flesh of your backside, groaning at the sight in front of him. His hands meet your hips, pulling you back on his clothed erection. A small yelp escapes your lips at the friction against your sensitive area. Your frayed nerves against the soft material that soaks up your arousal and previous releases. 

You whine as he rocks his hips slowly, grunting as he watches the material dampen quickly before he pulls away from your hips. His movements are hasty, and he does not waste any more time as he uses more tentacles to help not only hold your wiggling form but also get his clothes off him. He liked this sight of your half-dressed attire as he held purchase over you, dominance you refused till now to give up.

Once he was undressed, he bleated softly at the warmth of your puffy, swollen folds as he rubbed his cockhead up and down your pussy before catching your willing slit. He groans at the tightness that welcomes him; the slick, clamping, spongy walls that pulse around his dick almost milks him of every last drop of cum. 

Your voice is hoarse, almost gone by the time his cock is sheathed in you, his cockhead brushing your sweet spot as you feel him abuse your need for him. You can feel every prominent vein of his cock against your spongy walls; they're practically ingrained in you as your pussy is molded to take his dick.

A creamy, white circle forms at the base of his cock as he pushes his length inside, his girthy dick stretching your weeping pussy with loud, lewd squelches. He doesn't give you time to compose yourself. He's selfish tonight, unapologetically so, because you had been toying with him for too long. After almost a year of cat and mouse, this is finally how he takes you. You drove him mad.

It isn't long until your backside is red, his hips pistoning into your sopping cunt, the sight of your slick pussy swallowing his red, angry cock so needily, sucking him in so desperately and clamping around him was addicting, and the feel even more so. His pace isn't lovely; he's mean, relentless, and bruising.

"Fuck sweetheart, so needy for me; you could have just told me how much you wanted this from the get-go. Saved us both precious time," he whined in your ear, his cock drilling into your tight hole as he nipped at your earlobe. Claws out, he uses his hands, kneading the fat of your ass, a sharp slap to your skin causing it to turn even more flushed and red as he fucked himself stupid using your cunt.

He was growing more and more pussy-drunk, drool forming in his mouth and pooling in his permanent smile, leaning over to place his lips onto the expanse of your shoulder. He pressed lewd, wet kisses against your supple skin, adding to the marks and bruises from his teeth as his demonic form began to take precedence.

With how hard he was holding on to you with his hands and tentacles, you were covered in bruises. He was marking you as his not only with chivalry and jewels but pretty marks that will mar your skin for weeks. He tightened his hold around your throat, pulling you up to a sitting position. He pumped into you harder, watching your stomach grow with his length in you. He groaned heatedly as he transformed more; his hand was pulling you up while his other hand began pushing down on the spot on your belly where he was poking through. 

As you both whined and felt relief, he growled in your ear, “I will make you all mine, my Doe. Not a single person can have you now.” He pushed harder for a few more pumps before you two were spilling over one another. He filled you to the brim, his seed spilling out before he could even pull out of you. With a satisfied hum, he let his body slowly return to normal as he slid out. 

You were fucked out beyond belief. He smiled, gently picking you up and placing your clothes back on you. He held you in his arms and sighed, acting as if he didn’t just release eons of pent-up sexual tension on you. He snapped his fingers, redressing, and walked with you in his arms to his chambers. There, he would repeatedly remind you who you now truly belong to. Soul or not, he was the one to dominate the disobedient brat you were.

[kaiyunsim]

80’s makeout session —

pairing : idol!anton x non-idol gn!reader

summary : you and your boyfriend, anton, haven’t seen eachother for a while so you and his members decide to surprise him (features wonbin + shotaro + seunghan)

warnings : fluff, making out, anton being lwk touch starved

a/n : first riize fic ! hope u guys enjoy :3 also i wrote this in like 30 mins so yeah !

— w/c : ~1k — not proof read ! —

anton was always a person who liked to show affection, even if it was embarrassing for him. his members would make it their mission to try and tease him as much as possible whenever you were mentioned.

it’s been a while since you’ve seen anton since he’s been busy with his group, preparing for their upcoming comeback. he’s been texting you over and over saying how much he misses you. if the members ever saw your conversations, they would never let him hear the end of it.

missing his contact as well, you decide to take a peak at his schedule and see he has a show soon. now wanting to surprise him, you contact wonbin and see if he’ll let you in backstage. after asking the company, he was actually able to get you a backstage ticket as staff.

you make it to the concert, walking into the backstage to meet up with wonbin. you got some snacks earlier as a thank you to him for letting you in without anton knowing. you see him waiting outside, leaning on the wall, trying to appear nonchalant. you found it funny.

“hey wonbin, thanks for letting me in” you thank him before handing him the package of snacks. you can see his nonchalantness leave him for a moment as he smiles at the food but as soon as he realized he puts the straight face back on.

“we should be thanking you,” wonbin argued, “anton wouldn’t stop talking about how much he missed you”

you giggle at his word but you aren’t surprised. after all, he would always text you about how he would miss you.

wonbin takes you to an empty preparation room before leaving you there to go and grab anton. after a short delay, the door creeks open to reveal the tall brachio boy in front of you who appears stunned that you are in front of him.

“y/n..?” he spurts out, mouth opened from not expecting anything. wonbin told him that there was a surprise here but anton thought he was kidding.

you open you arms reaching for a hug before he closes the door and runs over to give you one. “oh my fucking god i miss you so much,” anton mumbles into your shoulder, “we’re so busy with the comeback and tours”

“i know, but i’m here right now,” you reply with a smile, giggling after being able to see your boyfriend after so long. “i missed you too”

anton takes any remaining words out of your mouths with a much needed kiss with lots of feeling. you could tell he needed it and too be honest, you needed it as well. he leans into you, further deepening the kiss increasing both of your heart rates.

you pull out of the kiss, regaining your breath, “jesus, someone’s needy for some kisses,” you tease anton.

“of course i am, i haven’t seen you in forever. this is the best surprise the hyungs got” he smiles, giving you butterflies in you stomach. how can someone be so cute?

anton digs in for another kiss, this time you lean into him. you could tell he was all giggly cause his hands were on you waist keeping you from leaning in further.

“calm down there y/n,” he chuckled, his smile looking bigger than ever.

“okay then anton, whatever you say,” you roll your eyes but while you’re distracted he kisses you again.

the small sound of the door behind him opens up to shotaro, “the show is starting soon so get ready,” shotaro’s eyes slowly dart to you, “oh and hi y/n,” his voice softer and offering a wave before leaving to get his finishing touches done.

“you should leave and get pretty,” you joke, looking at his messed up makeup.

“you better be here after the show,” he says looking as cute as ever.

some more knocks are followed by that last statement, “hurry up anton, stop making out already,” it was likely the voice of seunghan.

anton flushes, “looks like i should go” he says as you give him a giggly nod. you know his hyungs are going to tease him for this but both of you think its all worth it.

[sugurouge]

— diabolic waltz : getō suguru x f!reader

content warnings! DARK CONTENT, dubcon/noncon, yandere themes, size difference, strength difference, corruption, power dynamics/imbalance (reader refers to geto as master), pet names (doll, whore, toy, bunny, little one), hair pulling, water torture/forced drowning/waterboarding, punishment, deep throating, mind break, degradation

summary: You should know better than to behave greedy or entitled, but if he so sweetly entices you to misbehave, even the impeding punishment doesn't stop you from taking what you need. Until it's time to pay up. And Getō makes sure you always pay your debts.

wordcount: 2k | my kinktober masterlist

──── ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧ ────

by clicking read more you are agreeing to consume dark content. don't interact if you cannot differentiate fiction from reality.

Geto rests comfortably in his armchair, dark purple eyes rake over your needy body—only hidden beneath a layer of satin. With you in his lap, there is at least a sort of solace to his tiresome days. He likes to view you as a sick way of rewarding himself, his prize for making it through another 24 hours. Hence why you're always kept on display whenever it's just the two of you. Him and his property, the weak human that somehow won his twisted interest. Nothing more than eye candy for him. You're so pretty until you turn needy and start talking too much.

"Master, please—" you start your advances all over again. Ever so prettily as your nails drag over Geto's exposed chest; you have long since pushed aside the layers of his attire.

Geto heaves a heavy sigh. It's his first indicator for you to shut your pretty mouth before he sends curses your way. Yet, simultaneously, he can't resist the torture; cannot keep his right leg from bouncing to cause friction against your puffy lips. Teasing you further to hear more whimpers instead of your actual voice.

Your hands press against his body as you try to control the bouncing, but the friction created by your dress brushing against your nipples makes it impossible to form coherent or cautious thoughts. Your legs clench around Geto's muscular thigh, attempting to maintain the pleasurable feeling.

"You really wish to bother me like that right now?" His dangerously low voice challenges. Suguru is well aware that he is the cause of your distress, but would he ever admit that? Not in a million lifetimes.

You know full well what will happen if you say yes, how your day will turn out if you give in to your own neediness when your master isn't the one to initiate. Your glossy orbs beg him without another word spilling from your lips as you nod.

A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. You're just so dumb; how could he not adore you? The minor tilt of his head gives you the okay to shed your dress, to expose your perfectly clean body to his eyes. It's one of his priorities, to always have his doll look prim and proper. Soft and dewy skin, rose oil spoiling your figure to make it shine in the low afternoon light and envelop you in faux innocence for him to ruin.

You sink down to your knees right between his legs, your delicate fingers running over his muscular thighs up to his stomach, but the "tsk" coming from Geto's lips has you freeze immediately. Doe eyes look up at his intimidating stare, while his entire face remains stoic—almost bored, as he rests his cheek in one of his palms.

"Hand or thigh, no cock," he bluntly states.

You try to suppress the whine rising in your throat, try not to furrow your brows at his statement.

"Well, what will it be, bunny?"

He doesn't actually ask. Geto simply enjoys oversaturating your lusty mind with difficult decisions. You're always so afraid he will leave you.

"Hand, please, please," you bat your lashes at him even though you're painfully aware of how little effect it has on him. Yet he pats his thigh, indicating for you to sit on his lap once again. Your body follows suit.

"Any other wishes?" Narrowed eyes stare at you, they make you feel small and vulnerable as his hand dances along your thigh, drawing close to your needy pussy.

Your eyes snap down to his dishevelled clothes, raking over the layers of fabric that hide his perfect body from your gaze and touch.

You inhale sharply the moment his fingers snap you out of your thoughts, penetrating your walls deeply without warning and immediately curling against your clamping muscles. Yes, Geto might be okay with listening to your begs once in a while, but his pleasure lies in overwhelming your pathetic body, not preparing you softly.

Your head lolls back, fingers holding onto his shoulders, though they twitch to run through his black strands. You are well aware of the fact that he'd never let you ruin his hair.

Soft moans spill from your parted lips. He taught you to stay quiet, to not ruin his image of you—his sweet doll.

Yet the feeling is too good. The way his fingers stretch your cunt, your slick dripping down over his digits and palm. Your hips roll against his hand, pretty whines causing your chest to heave so perfectly for Geto to enjoy the sight of your tits.

He adds a third finger with ease and uses his thumb to draw intricate patterns on your clit, applying more pressure on the nub once he feels you tighten around him. "Such a needy whore..." he mumbles impassively.

But his cold voice, the boredom laced in his words mixed with his brutal ministrations, are exactly what you've grown to love from your master. It's so clear that you're doing something wrong, that you're messing up his perfect routine—but you just can't help it.

Your whines grow louder, small fingers now gripping onto his wrist as the coil in your stomach tightens further and further before it explodes. You fall forward, against Geto's chest, covering his neck area with moans, tears, and sweat as you gush all over his hand and dirty his robes.

Goosebumps run over your heavenly skin, clearly proving how overwhelmingly good he can make you cum with just his hand by now.

"Disgusting..."

You flinch slightly at that, eyes squeezing shut from just one word coming from Geto. He pulls his hand out of your tight cavern, your slick clearly coating his skin as a scowl spreads on his face. "You enjoy this? Staining me with your slutty needs?"

You create some distance between your bodies, shamefully staring at his hand before your eyes trail over his tainted clothes. You didn't plan on this happening, didn't plan to make such a mess, especially not over him, but why does he have to be this good?

Being a disappointment still has the same effect on you as it did from the start, causing tears to spill from your eyes as your body starts to shiver. "'M sorry, I didn’t—I wanted—"

"Time for a bath, no?" he sighs and gets up, pushing your smaller body off his lap with little care as disgust is clearly painted on his features.

Your butt meets the hardwood flooring and you try frantically to stop the tears from running down your face. Pleading ever-so sweetly with a shaky voice for your "Master..." to have mercy.

The clacking of his shoes stops the moment he stands beside your body once again. Long fingers card through your locks before he kneels beside you and tugs at your roots.

"How much longer are you going to make me wait, little one, hm?"

The sting on your scalp rips you out of your struggling mind; it forces you to rely on your instincts if you want to get out of this unscathed tonight. "Forgive me," you whisper.

So incredibly cute.

Geto takes a deep breath, eyes running over your body as he hums. "Five minutes."

You nod in perfect understanding and immediately grab your gown before hurrying over to the bathroom.

Aftercare is important, he always tells you. And aftercare you shall give him.

So you let water fill the spacious bathtub, let the most expensive bubble bath fill the room with a soothing scent as you light candles to set the mood and welcome Suguru in.

You stand in front of his large frame, looking up at his face to grant you permission to undress him, carefully undoing the ties of his gown before letting the heavy garments hit the floor. You will wash them as well.

Only his briefs aren't yours to touch as he walks past you and finishes undressing himself before he sinks into the warm bathwater.

You watch him the entire time—how he leans back against the expensive porcelain of the tub, arms resting around the rim—looking oh so inviting. His eyes meet your gaze, appreciating your obedient state as he slightly tilts his head to make your body move.

You follow his silent order, going down on your knees right behind his back, cool fingertips carefully reaching out to lie on his tensed back.

The stark difference in temperature makes Geto hiss in annoyance, slightly flinching out of your reach as he glares over his shoulder. You are quick now to rub your hands together, mumbling your apologies before trying to touch him once again.

Small fingers soothe his skin, spoiling his muscles. You always start with his shoulders, using a sponge to have the warm water coat his exposed back and chest, massaging the well-trained area until his breathing calms down and little groans escape his throat.

Only then do you move on to kneel next to him, carefully admiring his relaxed features—he looks almost angelic. So calm, almost innocent.

Until his eyes meet yours and he holds out his hand to you. The exact hand he used to make you cum and that was tainted with your juices.

You focus on it, carefully massaging his fingers and ‘cleaning’ him further. "Good little doll..." Suguru breathes his praise out between his soft lips. It's usually the only compliment you receive, so you make sure to savour it.

You smile gently and finish up your care of his hand until he takes it out of your hold. He brushes your hair out of your face, leading his hand to reach around the back of your neck as you bend over the bathtub, nails digging painfully into your scalp while being pulled forward to be met with the bathwater.

You squeeze your eyes shut immediately, trying desperately to keep your lips sealed as you're pushed beneath the surface. Your nails grab onto the porcelain of the tub, weak muscles trying desperately to stop him from shoving you down further, but it's to no avail. He's much stronger than you'll ever be.

Geto lifts your head back up out of the water, and you suck the air back into your lungs—which quickly mixes with the bathwater as he dunks your head down again.

Your screaming is drowned by the transparent liquid all around you.

It becomes a loop—the pain of him tugging at your roots, being met with the cold air of the bathroom before he pushes you down again.

It becomes a loop—the pain of him tugging at your roots, the cold air of the bathroom meeting your skin before he pushes you down again. Your mind loses focus, your fight grows mellow until he pushes his erect cock between your lips. It jolts you back awake. Not only are you drowning in the water, but you also have his thick shaft infiltrating your mouth. Tears mix with the water, nails digging into his abs and thighs as your attempts to scream vibrate along his cock.

Geto groans. His eyes roll into their sockets as he completely relishes the feeling of your convulsing throat around his member—all while in the comfort of his bathtub. But he has to stop. Sadly, at some point, he remembers you’re not actually a doll. Your body grows slack, and the struggling of your throat diminishes.

Only then does he pull your head out of the water, letting your body slump over the edge of the tub as he slaps your cheeks until you wake up. Your head pounds as you choke up water; it almost feels like someone is ripping your lungs apart.

“Stupid toy…” Geto mumbles, already dragging your head down and forward again.

“No, no, please, not again!” you frantically plead, and he stops—stops right before the surface of the water meets the tip of your nose.

“Why not? I made you cum how you wanted to as well, didn’t I?” he analytically proclaims. “Now suck like I taught you.”

The sting of the water is maddening; only the stretch of his cock against the back of your mouth inflicts more pain upon your body as he guides you up and down with water infiltrating your lungs.

It all becomes a blur in the end, and it’s hard to tell what is real and what a bad dream when you wake up the next morning in your soft king-sized bed, dressed in one of his favourite baby dolls, and his strong arms around you.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

I have no clue how this guy hasn't divorced his wife. If my partner looked at me with disgust about anything that wasn't literally disgusting, I'd be googling "divorce lawyer."

by Sam Williams

A week ago, my wife and I went to John Lewis to look at air fryers. As we entered the store, I put on an FFP3 mask because of Covid. My wife looked at me in disgust and said, “Oh, you’re wearing a mask?” I replied, “Yes. There’s a lot of Covid around, and I don’t want it. Do you?”

She responded, “Well, the trouble is, I’m not wearing a mask”.

I said, “Yes, I can see that. I wish you would. The trouble is, every time I’ve caught Covid, it’s been from you. I’m disabled with long COVID, and every time I get reinfected, it makes me really, really ill”.

So here’s my question: does my wife not care?

I want to use this piece to spark a debate about who we are as people. Are we kind and virtuous, or are we selfish and indifferent? Writing an article about what stops people from wearing masks, while I live with the pain caused by my wife not masking, feels like an oddly meta activity.

That’s right, folks: it was probably my wife who gave me Covid in the first place. Although, to be fair, neither of us knew about masking or long Covid back then.

The case for masks amid rising Covid I need people to wear masks or ensure clean air so it’s safe for me to go out—especially in healthcare settings. Yet, most people refuse. I asked my wife why she doesn’t wear a mask, and she said, “There’s no point, because nobody else does.”

I understand the futility in her statement. Many people don’t wear masks simply because they don’t care or because they think Covid is over.

If my wife were a cruel or unkind person, it would be easier to accept her refusal to wear a mask. But in my experience, even many kind people—even those on the political Left—can be cruel when it comes to disabled individuals.

Although my wife has struggled with my disability, she is generally a kind person. In my autistic brain, it seems perfectly logical that she should wear a mask to protect me from airborne viruses. Yet, logic loses when it comes to personal choices and disability.

Misconceptions about Covid and masks People think Covid is “just a cold.” Some even believe masks themselves make you ill. I think people don’t mask because of ableism and because they’ve been conditioned to associate masks with the pandemic itself.

It’s the same conditioning that leads them to blame lockdowns and vaccines for Covid, rather than recognising these measures were designed to mitigate its spread.

When people see me in a mask, they’re reminded of the acute phase of the pandemic. My presence confronts them with an uncomfortable truth: their refusal to mask contributes to the deaths and disabling of others. It reveals they may not be as caring as they like to think.

I wish more people would remember the Covid dead and choose to wear a mask to prevent further loss of life.

Why people don’t mask The biggest reason, I believe, is a failure of public health communication over wearing a mask. The government declared Covid “over,” and most people still trust what they’re told. Many would resume masking if asked, but the government is too afraid of the right-wing media and too indifferent to disability to make that request.

Then there’s the pervasive idea of “health supremacy”:

The belief that only people with pre-existing conditions get long Covid.

The notion that a “healthy” immune system can fight off the virus.

The argument that we don’t need vaccines or other preventative measures.

Some even suggest that “living your best life” and going out for brunch are more important than protecting loved ones. The low mortality rate of Covid is used as justification, with a dismissive attitude towards the elderly and those with long Covid.

Many fail to consider the quality of life endured by those with long Covid or the rising number of children affected. Parents, it seems, don’t care enough about their kids, or they’re unaware that long COVID in children has doubled in the past year.

There’s also peer pressure and groupthink. No one wants to stand out by wearing a mask. “If it were really unsafe, wouldn’t everyone else wear one? Wouldn’t the authorities tell us to mask up?”

When I do convince others to wear masks, it’s usually a flimsy surgical one—barely adequate protection.

The personal cost of not wearing a Covid mask If we continue as we are, everyone will eventually develop long Covid. Those who still mask are only delaying the inevitable because we’re so outnumbered.

I know people who’ve lost friendships and family connections over masking. Others restrict their contact with loved ones to stay safe. Some have even been lied to by family members about masking.

And all because people must have brunch.

It feels grossly unfair to be forced to choose between family and health. For me, it’s not just about Covid. With a weakened immune system, other airborne viruses are just as harmful. Every cold or similar illness sets me back by months.

The fatalist in me whispers: stop masking. If no one else is wearing a mask, why fight it – just let long Covid take me. Every reinfection only worsens my condition.

A systemic failure The government—New Labour or otherwise—has shown little interest in preventing the spread of Covid or developing treatments for long Covid. The societal denial of this reality is overwhelming.

Until we build a society and government centred on community and care instead of selfish individualism, we’re doomed. Is thinking of others really too much to ask?

If only long Covid weren’t an invisible disability. If it caused something visible—like the loss of a limb—perhaps people would be forced to act.

The point of wearing a mask: not just for Covid Here’s why masking matters:

It reduces your viral load if you get infected.

It sets a good example for others.

It shows courage and strength.

It protects vulnerable people, including the disabled, chronically ill, and immunosuppressed.

It proves you have empathy and intelligence.

[xayasmrxsoftlyx]

Imagine a Butterfly Alien

Imagine...

you're a human whose been farming and growing plants for as long as you could walk. You like the birds, the bees, the butterflies, even all the bugs that others thought were gross and useless...worthless, yet you've found appreciation of them.

you're also not ignorant to the fact that aliens have made their presence and cultures known to your world for a little while now. You've yet to meet any in your tiny farming village, but you're sure they can't be too different from any other humanoids you've met before. To say you're a black sheep to your village in those statements would be a massive understatement.

That's not to say you're surrounded by bigoted, closeminded individuals- on the contrary, your little village is eager anticipating meeting these new friends no matter what variety they are. So excited and willing to accommodate.

So, you're more than a little surprised when one day you hear a loud crash on your farm and go running over to investigate only to see a massive Butterfly Alien having torn his wing and crash landed your on your front lawn. Right near your butterfly bush, you reflect later. In the moment, you're sheepish to admit, you're spending the time panicking and crying.

At first, the Butterfly Alien is dazed and equally confused, interesting distended eyes seemingly peering around. You're sat next to him, face flushed and teary eyes, voice high pitched and fast paced; he's in pain and immediately notices tear within the upper quarter of his right wing. You can only assume he starts to suffer shock as he begins to violently tremble. At this point, you're more than upset at yourself for not going to at least one Culture seminar your village held to ease the welcome and culture shock of/for your future visitors.

You're frantic and nearly as trembly as the Butterfly Man you attempt to touch Him, but you flutter your hands around (adorably) unsure if you'd stress or hurt Him further. Tears finally begin to fall as the anxiety of it crests- the Alien flutters His wings quickly, almost desperately, as if gauging them, testing their abilities. You gasp loudly as the tear rips the top quarter of His wing off right in front of your eyes. You begin to hyperventilate as the Man begins to tremor again, whole body shaking like a leaf caught in the wind.

You can't quite see what happens next, eyes blurring your vision with thick tears causing you to wipe at them with the back of your hand. It's as you're doing that when the Butterfly Man moves. It's quicker than you imagine He could move before He's up; and one second later He's flying again.

He doesn't even appear to turn back as he glides up into the sky, as if He'd never crashed at all. You're left there blubbering, blurring vision flicking between the sky and the dinner plate sized wing remnant left in your yard.

You can't understand why, but when the breeze starts to pick up, you snatch the piece of his wing with your shaky hands and hurry inside feeling as if you'd seen a ghost. Unsure where to go with it or what to do with it, you find the biggest frame that you had that could fit it and frame it. It's the only way you can think of no harm coming to it further. It's beautiful, too, soft but vibrant colors popping against the whites of your wall as you hold it up in the sun.

You look into attending some of your village's culture seminars a few hours later after your heart stopped racing and mind spinning with everything that had happened.

Imagine as you're walking into town to see when the next Culture seminar is and you're hearing from whispered shadows as you're walking into town "did you see?" "did you hear?!" "They finally came!" "We need to throw a Welcome Festival!" "I wanna make them food to welcome them!" "I-I heard they're all...single..."

You fluster again when you reach the center of your village square, there's several insectoid aliens that have migrated to your village- drawn by its rich agriculture and farming lifestyles. There's only one Butterfly Alien, though, it's here, and only here, finally here that you get a good look at the person who literally crashed into you life.

He's not just beautiful, all colorful wings and lean muscles and graceful movements, He's handsome, too. He's got these masculine humanoid traits that add a rugged edge to His beauty- He's got a distinct jawline and defined cheekbones and whilst nothing about Him is particularly sharp or overtly (humanly) masculine, there's a defined demeanor to Him that pulls in favor of His handsomeness. The tear in His wing helps strongly to add that ruggedness.

It's hard to tell with eyes like his if you've met his gaze but with his posture shift and almost sheepish expression coming over him you feel as if you may have. You flush, flustered by his attention even so indirectly. The head of your village, MeeMaw, eagerly invites the couple of them into her space and once they're out of sight the whispers turn to full on chatter.

You huff, trying to push past how out of whack everything's become in one day and now you suppose you have a dual purpose for lingering by MeeMaw's quarters. You'll definitely need those Culture Seminars after today, and you suppose while you're at it....You could try and give the Butterfly Man His wing back to Him....You don't know if He needs it, but at the very least you'd have an excuse to talk to Him. You just hope you don't get shy on Him...you certainly didn't make the "best" first impression

(Little do you know, He thought it was so cute. So panicked over Him without knowing Him. So worried over Him without knowing He'd been there to peep on you after seeing just how cute you were tending to your farm

(Imagine He's just so grateful and thinks you're the cutest, sweetest little thing to save His wing for Him. Were you going to go looking for Him like some sweet and brave Knight in shining armor? How adorable!

(So sweet, little human, so cute! Gosh, you must be His! You must be made for Him! Why else would you have been so scared for him? You wouldn't save just anyone's amputated limb, would you? You must...love Him!

(You have no idea, either, until much later anyway, just how rare He is. Insectoid Aliens aren't the most intergalactically social so they're pretty rare off their own planets- Butterfly Aliens especially so, even more so. Mostly due to the fragility of their wings and inability to regrow. If someone wanted, it would be so easy to destroy or even rip His wings from Him, yet you wept over Him. Many would steal Him away, cage Him forever; yet you let Him free. Let Him keep His freedom. You're truly one of a kind. Just as He is.

(That must mean He's right- you are made for each other. He's glad you think He's handsome, He'd fight you for your love even if you were to think He isn't.

[38riku]

𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐃

making the phantom bride final four feel things (it's my favorite event sue me)

warnings — suggestive? light flirting.

𝐀. 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀

"stop glaring or i'll mess it up."

as if to prove your point, his brows pinched further, causing you huff in irritation. "okay. what's wrong? you were psyched up like two seconds ago."

"yeah, well, that was two seconds ago and now is now." his rebuttal caused you to roll your eyes. 'boys' you thought as a viable excuse before trying yet again to straighten his eyeliner.

his eyes darted around the room where the others did similar things: riddle fixed his lapels, epel examined his bouquet, and rook practiced his lines, everyone was unaffected by the current circumstance.

not the rampaging bride that is going to doom a teenage boy to the eternal afterlife, no, the fact that you were straddling him in a small vanity chair.

why was such a compromising position seen so casually? now that he thinks about it, the two of you were rather touchy – piggyback rides, you holding his arms, hugs, etc. – still, this is really teetering the line of friendly affection.

"done!" beaming, you leaned back a bit, causing him to hold on to your waist a bit firmer to keep you upright. "riddle! you have a keen eye, is it straight or what?"

the house warden walked over to the two of you and ace was sure he'd call out how inappropriate this is, but he didn't. instead, he nodded and complimented you on your handiwork.

"no need to thank me." you snorted, getting up to go help the others.

riddle chuckled, patting his freshman on the shoulder as he spoke, "are you upset that they're casually intimate with you or are you upset they might act like that with someone else?"

"w-what?!" ace's cheeks flushed red.

"i may be romantically handicapped but i'm more perceptive to it than you think. i can only suggest to say something sooner than later."

he lowered his head, still blushing, diverting his gaze away from your swaying figure as his house warden's words sunk in.

damn. he did want it to mean something.

ace doesn't know which is more embarrassing: his crush on you or that riddle was the one to make him realize.

𝐑. 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒

"may i offer a suggestion?"

riddle hummed, meeting your eyes in the vanity mirror. "and what might that be? it's impossible to elevate perfection, you know."

ignoring his arrogant statement, you took a seat, propping his collar up and undoing his tie. "i think you'll stand out more it you tie it differently." you explained your actions, pausing momentarily until he nodded for you to continue.

he watched as you knotted and twirled the fabric, straightening it here and there, and you were done a minute later.

"a bow? it's rather ... cutesy."

"but you're cutesy."

riddle choked, coughing loudly and catching the attention of the other occupants of the room. as they began to walk towards him, he waved them off, effectively keeping them away from his flustered form.

"w-why would you–"

"the cuter you look, the less they'll take you seriously, and as one of the strongest mages left that's perfect for us to break their defenses."

of course, you meant it as a battle advantage – that is your area of expertise, after all.

"don't look so surprised." you joked, flattening out his collar and he hopes you can't feel the heated blush on his neck. "you were thinking the same thing too, right?"

"no, actually... i can't say that i was."

you tilted your head sideways, doubting his words but dropping the subject. "well, from now on don't look down on being cute, kay?"

standing from your seat, you left his vanity to tend to grimm, who, was arguing with ace about who knows what.

if he had half a mind he'd scold them both and cut off the small feline's magic, however, his mind was completely blank.

cute. you think he's cute.

riddle didn't take it as he usually would. for some off reason he felt giddy inside, wishing you meant it in a different ... more flirtatious manner. the poor boy has zero experience but wishing might work, right?

𝐑. 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓

"you need to talk normally to us so they won't be suspicious. try again."

if rook wasn't used to a strict training regime he'd undoubtedly call you a harsh teacher, but, as a lover of all things beautiful and magnificent he tossed the thought aside.

"no can do mon cherie. her actions are horrendous and nowhere near beautiful." he signed, placing a hand over his wounded heart. "but you, darling, are as heroic and magnificent as ever."

he watched as you rolled your eyes, placing a hand on your hip as you began to reprimand him for his lack of seriousness.

although he heard the words coming from your mouth, he couldn't help but focus on everything else.

despite not being a contender in this entire ordeal you were still dressed beautifully. the color is ethereal on you, he must make note of the hue for later ... and whatever scent you adorned had his senses on ten.

don't you know never to where perfume when there's a hunter nearby?

"rook! are you even listening to–"

all too suddenly he had your hand in his, the other gripping your waist firmly to keep your surprised form upright.

"let me give it to you straight then. the unseen beauty of your compassion and tender heart outshines that of a world class model. not that you aren't attractive, no, no, quite the opposite."

"how greedy can you possibly be?"

deep. rich. clear. his voice was positively enthralling when he dropped that phony accent (it does have a charm of its own in your opinion)

"perfect!" you beamed, his grip on you loosening in surprise of his own. "i knew you could do it. she'll be knocked off her translucent feet i tell you!"

rook allowed you to walk away, scolding epel who wiped his makeup off for the ninth time deeming it unmanly.

he couldn't help but laugh. he broke character, purposely, but he did nevertheless, and don't think he didn't notice the flash of attraction in your eyes.

never let your guard down in front of a predator, mon cherie.

𝐄. 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐌𝐈𝐄𝐑

"i swear on the seven you'll have more problems than a poof of blush if you keep testing my patience."

epel felt a chill run down his spine at your words but he stood his ground. he let you do the liner, tousle his hair all nice, and even spray a painfully potent cologne – but he draws the line at that pigmented puff of doom.

"i'm telling ya i'm not wearing that!" he argued back from the other side of the table. the two of you were playing chicken to the amusement of the others who were nearly done with their preparations.

"stop being a big baby!"

"i ain't no baby!"

he flinched back as you narrowed your eyes in a glare. for a moment, he felt sorry that grimm had to live with such a scary person.

"fine. don't wear the blush." you slid the compacted container to his side of the table, raising your hands in surrender.

"let me redo your hair then. it'll fit the look better, baby."

yeah. that's right, you better listen when he — wait, baby?

you pushed him down in the nearest chair, undoing the small ponytail you had before in favor of something else.

epel thought this earlier but your hands did feel amazing as you twirled and pinned his hair. he nearly fell asleep the first time but he knew better than to let down his guard.

"what do you think of this, baby?"

you were teasing him but jeez, why did it make his heart race?

"doesn't matter what i think." he huffed, and you laughed softly at the statement.

"well, i'm no ghost bride with unnaturally specific standards but you look good, baby." this time, you drawled out the pet name, winking, and then leaving him alone to question everything.

in the end he came to the conclusion that he should've just let you put the damn blush on.

© 2024 — 38riku. Do not copy or repost or plagiarize my work. All Rights Reserved.

[verhanz]

❝ [sloppy] ❞

↳ “how bts like to get fucked”

↳ boypussy!bts x reader

↳ dom!reader, sub!bts, (kinda) implied poly!ot7, reader isn’t gendered but has a dick, unprotected sex, vaginal penetration, squirting, dacryphilia, praise kink, degradation/slut shaming (consensual dw), breeding kink, daddy kink (r. receiving), pet play, mentions of bondage, lmk if i’m missing anything <3

↳ don’t know if anyone else fucks with bp bangtan… but i know i do!! also catboy yoongi is sooo hot to me - rory

❝ [kim seokjin] ¡! ❞

↳ seokjin will take you in any way you could think of. this man loves getting fucked more than anything in the world, so feel free to bend him over whenever you want. but he especially loves when you have him ride your cock, making him do all the work without you even lifting a finger. although jin is the #1 pillow princess, he can’t help but enjoy it when you punish him by making him seek his own pleasure without your help.

“what do you need, jinnie?” you can see how your words make him shiver from where he is sat in your lap. “please want your cock. i’ve been waiting for days!” his eyes are getting more teary the longer you make him wait. “i know you have been, sweetheart, i can feel you dripping through your panties.” he gasps, hips slightly shifting to gratify the pent up need radiating through his body. seokjin lets out small whines at the feeling of your cock rubbing against his clothed pussy. your hands come to rest on his hips to stop his movements, making him cry out, tears finally leaving his eyes as he pathetically pushes against your hands to let him move again. “if you want my cock, you can get it yourself.” once he hears your statement, jin is immediately scrambling to pull down both of your underwear and sliding down onto your dick. his slick walls easily suck you deeper as he rests his hands on your shoulders to help keep himself up right. he sits still for a moment, beautifully empaled of your cock, only to be startled back to reality when you place a sharp smack on his ass. “thought you wanted it bad, jinnie, what’s taking you so long?”

❝ [min yoongi] ¡! ❞

↳ yoongi likes it best when you take him from behind. holding himself up on his hands and knees, back arched as you pound in and out of his messy cunt. he loves it when you play into his fantasy, turning your little kitty into a bitch in heat. yoongi wants you to put a collar on him and place cute cat ears on his head, maybe even push a tail buttplug up his back hole. if he gets deep enough into his headspace he’ll start meowing, which makes you start fucking into him at a feral pace while you pump him full of your seed.

all that was heard throughout the dorm was the sound of skin on skin and the wet noise of slick being pushed out of yoongi’s hole. every time you hit his special spot, he would let out a string of meows which only encouraged you to fuck him harder. “does it feel good, kitty?” “meeoow~” was all he responded with, not being able to communicate with words once he got this far into his own head. “want me to fill you up with my pups? gonna knock you up just like you’ve been begging for, kitten.” your vulgar language causes the man’s arms to give out, making him fall face first into the mattress, the cat ears sliding further down into his disheveled hair. you reach your arm under his torso and force him to arch his back more, causing him to fuck your cock deeper into his soaking pussy. the wet sounds made by your ongoing thrusts cause yoongi to cry out, clenching around your dick as he gets closer to his climax. you groan at the feeling and finally fill him up, making him whine and cry as his greedy pussy sucks up every last drop.

❝ [jung hoseok] ¡! ❞

↳ hobi is a slut for seeing your face. any position where he can look at you while you fuck him will make him come very quickly. he loves when you put his legs over your shoulders while you fuck into him, the angle shooting pleasure straight to his core. he’s so loud in bed, unable to stop himself from screaming out when you hit the right spot inside him. he doesn’t even care if his members hear the noises he lets out, wanting them to know that he’s getting fucked by you so well.

“oh myyyy godd!!” hoseok’s screams reverberate around the room as you continue to piston into him at and incredible speed. each time you thrust into him his body goes flying against the headboard, legs flailing from where they are stationed around your shoulders. “that’s it, seok-ah. let everyone know how good i’m fucking you. bet they’re rubbing themselves to the sound of your moans.” your words have his legs trembling and his hands grasping at your arms, which are placed on his hips to keep him in place. “please! please i need it so bad!” hoseok cries out, the amount of cream caking at the base of your dick increasing after each thrust. “i’ll give you whatever you need, baby.” as you finish your sentence, he meets your eyes and you can feel the way he tightens at the intimate connection. your increasing speed causes immense pressure in his pussy, causing him to squirt around you. the liquid soaks both of your stomachs and makes the slide of your cock into his overstimulated pussy much smoother.

❝ [kim namjoon] ¡! ❞

↳ joon likes to get fucked laying on his bed with his legs wrapped around your waist. it’s so relaxing for him to have the ability to sit back and be taken care of. he enjoys you fucking him at a fast but gentle pace, relishing in the feeling of your cock sliding in and out of his walls. joon absolutely loves when you come inside of him but he doesn’t mind if you pull out and nut all over his thighs and tummy.

“taking me so well, joonie” “thank you, thank you- i love it so much. fucking me so good~” he replies, eyes struggling to focus on yours as you continue to thrust inside of him. “are you close, baby? i can feel you getting tighter around me.” your words makes his eyes roll back into his head and his mouth fall open in a silent moan. “gonna come! please can i come?” you lean down to suck on his neck as he keeps begging for release. you reach you hand between your two bodies, quickly rubbing his clit to bring him closer to the edge. “of course you can, baby. want you to come all over my cock.” at your words, he flings his head back against the pillows and allows the pleasure to overtake him. he releases his juices around you, soaking your hand and the bed sheets beneath you. “such a good boy, gonna come inside you now. i know you want it, baby.”

❝ [park jimin] ¡! ❞

↳ jimin really loves riding you, goes crazy at the thought of being able to take your dick however he wants. he especially likes reverse cowgirl, he loves twerking on your cock to hear you groan and give him a good slap on his cheeks. the sting only helps to keep him going, riding you harder once he knows that you are enjoying the view. another fan of creampies, he doesn’t like to let any of your come go to waste. if it slides out once you’re done with him, he’ll scoop it up with his fingers and shove it back inside.

jimin turns away from you, straddling your hips and lining himself up with your large cock. he is always excited when he’s able to take you inside him, no matter how long it’s been since it last happened. once he slides down to the hilt he looks back at you, only to find you staring straight at his butt. “i can never get enough of your fat ass, min. you always look so fucking good taking me.” you end your statement by gripping both of his asscheeks in your palms. jimin whines at once the possessive feeling of your hands on him disappears, leaning forward slightly and shaking his ass on your cock, listening to the sound of it clapping against your skin echo around the sweaty room. you groan at the sight and plant your feet against the bed, bucking your cock deep into jimin’s waiting pussy. he knows that by the end of the night he’ll be full of your seed and that satisfies him enough to let you set the pace, grasping the skin of your thighs in his small hands. “that’s it daddy, jiminie loves your dick so much.”

❝ [kim taehyung] ¡! ❞

↳ taehyung likes to be held while you’re having sex. whether that be you holding him tight to your chest while you gently thrust into him on the bed, or pining him against the wall as you claim his pussy for your own pleasure. as you go between the different scenarios, tae has his preferences of how he likes to be treated and addressed. if you’re slowly making love to him on your shared bed, he likes when you praise him and tell him how well he’s taking you. on the other hand, he loves when you call him a dirty whore when you are fucking him so fast he can barely comprehend what’s going on. as long as you give him proper aftercare, he’s happy.

“how do you want it tonight, taetae?” you gaze down at your sub from where he’s seated on the couch. “want to feel it. please.” he looks at you with puppy eyes and a pout that you would never be able to resist in a million years. “of course, jagiya. you know i’ll always give it to you however you want.” you lean down to scoop him into your arms, his legs automatically wrapping around your waist and his arms circling your neck. you carry him through the hallway, unable to focus on your steps as he sucks on your neck. you come to a stop outside his bedroom door, pushing him against the wall, unable to resist the urge to take him any longer. you shove your pants down and push his panties to the side, inserting your cock into his waiting hole and setting an overwhelming pace. taehyung throws his head back against the wall as you push into him and whisper dirty things into his ear. he comes alarmingly quick due to the amount of stimulation you were providing him with, you following shortly behind him, pulling out to come across his stomach. as you come down from your highs, you hear the door open down the hall and a voice ring out, “can we join next time?” you laugh at the request, knowing tonight is gonna be long for both you and taehyung.

❝ [jeon jungkook] ¡! ❞

↳ one of jungkook’s biggest kinks is bondage. he loves the feeling of being restricted and not having the ability to touch you. it makes him incredibly wet that you are able to do whatever you want to him and he can’t do anything to stop you. he likes when you tie his hands behind his back and fuck him doggy style, having to shove his face into the pillows to quite his screams. he also loves having you eat him out before fucking him because it gets him nice and ready to take your fat cock, but also it turns him on so much seeing you not be able to resist yourself when your face is shoved in his cunt.

“yes!! fuck me with your tongue! feels so good… i don’t know if i can wait any longer.” as soon as jungkook says that, you remove your face from his pussy, grabbing his hair to pull his back flush to your chest. “you’re not going to come until i’m fucking you with my cock. do you understand?” he immediately nods at your words, grinding his ass against your bulge as he tries to get you to put your dick in him. “words, guk.” “yes! yes! i understand! i promise i won’t come until you tell me to!” you let out a satisfied groan at his words, shoving his legs apart to line your cock up with his entrance. as you push in, jungkook can’t help but scream into the sheets beneath him, the pleasure in his core building up as you bottom out.

[dough09]

Surprise!!

You were walking home when your phone started ringing. 'My loveee 💕' displayed on the screen. You pick it up with a slightly wide smile. "Hii what's up?" "Want me to drive you home mi amor?" You could hear the flirtatious tone coming from him. You couldn't help but laugh. "Stop joking, you are all the way in Spain."

"Wrong, I'm home, arrived an hour ago" he smirked and you could hear it. "What?" Shock formed on your face and your legs couldn't move an inch.

"You heard right, I am here, anyway I don't need your answer I already have the keys just wait for me." "But S-sae!" You couldn't make anything of the situation. "It's cold so I'm going" with that he hung up. No further words needed.

The hand that was holding your device lowered still trying to process the situation. Time passed while staring at the cars. Each car that looked like his (not that there is a lot) caused your eyes to fill with anticipation. You definitely looked like a teenage girl with some kind of separation anxiety, or at least who was deeply in love.

Not that it was so far from the truth.

Finally the car you've waited for turned inside the parking lot and you ran towards it. You opened the passenger door with a big smile and dropped your bags.

Arms nestled around his neck as he leaned away from the steering wheel. "Someone missed me" he chuckled into your neck, reciprocating the hug. "Why didn't you tell me you're back!!" Although that was more of an excited statement than a question. "It was better this way, no?" He smirked. "Well.. I guess I like this version too." You grinned against him.

He pulled away and raised your chin while looking into your eyes. "I'm back." His gaze softened and wandered around your figure, staying a minute more on your face. He missed you so much that he just couldn't admit that. His days were so poor and emotionless with just those nightly video calls. He does often thank the world that scientists have discovered them. Without those he'd surely die. And he isn't exaggerating.

"I've missed you Sae." And you know very well he did too. The feel of his lips on yours made this moment electric. Dancing together at a fast pace but still not forgetting the passion behind it.

Your love, and his amor. The feeling couldn't be described even by a poet who is famous worldwide. Never in this world could someone find the right words for this feeling. Something out of this world. Bigger than planet Earth.

Something ethereal.

“Let's go home.” He chuckled against your lips finally pulling away. He threw your bags in the backseat. “Oh and I got you something.” He gave you a bag.

A bouquet of flowers towered out of it while it also contained your favorite sweets. “Thank you!!” You giggled happily. Leaning into him again. “I love you.”

“I love you too, mi Vida.”