#Inhaler Labeling Machine

[adinathinternationalindia]

Automatic Inhaler Labeling Machine

Automatic Inhaler Sticker Labeling Machine is suitable for label on round inhalers. Machine is based on rotary mechanism to label inhalers. The containers received from feed worm to star wheel precisely spaced and reach at the label wrap around point at the similar distance.  While entering at the labeling point, container sensor start with servo motor and pressing belt press the label smoothly between pad and belt. Label sensor photocell detects the space between two labels and holds them until the next container comes. Meantime of this operation pneumatic printing attachment prints.

[evieolo]

Panty Thief

Pairing: Chris Sturniolo x Fem!Reader

Contains: SMUT!!/ Male masturbation / Handjobs / Male!Receiving

“Chris, can you check if my laundry’s done for me?” You call from behind your door, catching his footsteps in the hall. Chris sighs dramatically, his voice loud enough for you to hear, and stops at your door, pushing it open. “Why can’t you do it?” He proclaims, shooting a playful glare your way. He’s dressed in low-cut gray sweats and a plain black t-shirt, carrying a mix of shirts and hoodies, folded messily in his hand.

You stretch your arms out, feigning tiredness. “I don’t want to get up.” You yawn, draping your comforter more over your torso and immersing yourself further in your social media. Chris sighs, realizing since he has to do his laundry he has to get yours out of the washing machine. Begrudgingly, he heads to the laundry room, as if he wasn’t already on his way there.

The smell of fresh laundry fans Chris’ nose as he walks into the dull room, a boring room contradicting the rest of the house, with white walls—no decor, only a window with a drapy shade over it that, on sunny days, beams light into the room, the only exception of furniture being the washer-dryer.

Chris inhales, shamelessly breathing in the fumes of your coconut-scented detergent, a scent he’d grown happily accustomed to after your many years of friendship. In Chris’ mind, you had an excessive amount of clothes. You’re not a messy person if you subtract clothes from the mix; your room is always littered with your latest clothing hauls, mixed but in separate piles from your dirty laundry. When he’d gone down to the laundry room an hour ago your clothes were cycling through the wash; still now you now had one snug load to the side in a circular hamper. The hamper adjoined the running dryer which had a second batch of clothes in it.

He approaches the shaking dryer slowly—there are two minutes left in the cycle—he might as well stay in the room while he waits for yours to finish.

Chris absentmindedly picks up the detergent you use and out of boredom reads the many labels on the bottle, giving up when he reads too many ingredient words with over twenty letters in them; the bottle’s sticky at the top where Chris holds it, he doesn’t realize this until it's slipping out of his fingers. The detergent bottle falls from his hand and spills into the hamper of your clean clothing.

Chris curses silently and snatches the bottle off the haphazard mix of clothes. He sets the bottle atop the drier and inspects the pile, pulling the soiled short on top of the pile off, wincing at the damp stain. He presses a palm to the next shirt down, realizing detergent did seep past the first top. He lets out a dramatic sigh of frustration and pulls the shirt off the top of the pile—discarding it into his basket of dirty laundry, deciding he’ll wash it with his own clothes and return it to you afterward.

He peeks to the pile of your laundry now without your baggy T housing the rest of the apparel. An orange piece catches his attention. It’s his favorite color, plus, he’d never seen you wear this specific shade before. He’s curious.

Chris saunters back to your hamper and pulls the orange bottoms out of the basket. He flushes when he realizes the bottoms are not shorts. They’re panties, peachy orange with a navy frill along the hems.

The man practically freezes in place, the panties were innocently simple—nothing relatively showy but they were his favorite color. There had to be some meaning to that. Right?

Chris runs his wrist along the hem of your bottoms, meshing the fabric of them between his thumbs. The fabric is light and delicate, almost weightless to touch, running his fingers over the hem he feels the jagged texture, so thin it's almost translucent.

He imagines how they’d sit on your hips; flaunt the curve of your ass. The thought of this—of you, shifts the looseness of his pants and he feels a recognizable stiffness arise against the fabric of his boxers.

“Chris?”

You enter the room tauntingly and Chris mutters a ‘fuck’ under his breath. He realized he’d look like a pervert in any situation so he quickly bunches your panties in his fist and pockets them.

Your eyes narrow as you realize he neglected your request and didn’t tell you that your laundry was done, “What have you been doing down here for the past ten minutes?” You ask skeptically.

Chris’ features flush red and he sucks his teeth, his mind blank of any witty remarks. He pauses for a second before speaking, “Wishing your laundry would disappear…Okay, but seriously, why do you have so many clothes?” He whines, alleviating the tension he’d created in his mind.

You laugh, opening the dryer that’d just finished its cycle with a ‘click’

“You’re just mad that I have style.” You rebuttal, a wide smile on your face.

“Mhm”

Chris swallows harshly, standing stiffly as he watches you bend down to spoon your clothes out of the dryer. His eyes focus on the curve of your ass, the way you teeter on your knees to reach the clothes in the very back. It’s not soon before he feels harsher tightening in his abdomen.

He mentally curses himself. Asking himself if he seriously got a boner from watching his best friend do laundry.

Chris makes a light grunting noise—his begrudging goodbye—before he leaves the room. You turn your head at the diminishing sound of footsteps. “Chris, I thought you were doing your laundry?” You press, curious as to why he’s leaving so soon.

Chris continues out of the room, only turning his head slightly to respond to you, “I-I’ll do it later.” He stammers, making his way up the stairs making a beeline to his bedroom.

When he reaches his room he’s flustered, his cheeks are red and you’re running through his mind. There are only two things he can think of: your ass and your panties.

Your panties that are in his pocket.

He pulls his fist out of his pocket and holds your undergarments again. The sight of the frill only turns him on further, making his hard-on tent his pants. Chris curses under his breath for the nth time before retreating to his bed, shooing away his self-accusations of him being a ‘pervert’ and deciding to do something about his boner.

He sits on his bed, scooting back against the headboard and shimmies his sweats down, pushing the band of his boxers down to reveal his hardened-cock.

Feathering a hand down to his base, he groans a sigh from the pressure his hand brings. He pumps his length upward, coaxing pre-cum from his angry tip, smearing the drops in liquid down his base as he pumps himself; picturing you as he does so.

He imagines you—bending down for him instead of a washing machine. How your hands would wrap around him, your small hands; small but oh so gentle. And fuck, those panties, he wished he could see them around your hips, how they would flaunt the curve of your ass perfectly. He’d push the cloth to the side and fuck you with them still on.

He palms your pocketed bottoms, pushing them against his cock and thrusting against the fabric, hips roiling into his hand as he moans your name.

“Fuck Y/N, fuck, yeah just like that.” He whimpers, rutting against his hand so desperately he doesn’t realize how his door creaks open.

“Chris, did you take…” you pause, unsure how to ask if he knows where your missing undergarments are, “Uhm - did you take something from my laundry bin?” You question shyly, too embarrassed to blatantly admit you can’t find your favorite panties. Your eyes are down, and you teeter on your heels, until you grow impatient with Chris’ lack of response and look at him.

Your eyes widen, and you yell out a loud “Fuck!”, meekly covering your eyes with your hands and turning away.

Chris then notices your presence, his jaw drops and his cheeks burn bright red. He tries to shuffle under his comforter, but it's to no avail; he’s sitting on top of it.

You continue to conceal your vision with your hands, only peeking through a small crack at his face until you realize where your panties are. Wet and bunched up in his hand. Your mouth falls slightly ajar in surprise, and you stop hindering your vision.

“Chris, were you jerking off to my underwear?” You ask wide-eyed.

Unsure of what to say, Chris simply nods out a quiet “yes.”

Chris stays silent. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows harshly. “Are you going to stand in my doorway like that for the rest of your life?”

You take this as an invitation to join him in his bed, sauntering to the bed’s foot, and kneeling yourself onto the mattress, crawling over his sprawled-out legs and leaving your hand dangerously close to his hard-on.

“Can I?” You hum, meeting his eyes. He nods eagerly, watching you intently. “If I had known you were this big I would’ve done this a long time ago,” you coo, feathering a hand down to his needy tip and running a thumb over in a circular motion. With this, Chris leans back and lets out an opened-mouth moan.

“Fuck Y/N,” He sighs, lazily running a hand through his hair as you start moving your hand down his shaft. Running your palm up and down and squeezing gently once you reach the tip.

“Wanna suck you off, baby.” You hum, pressing a kiss to his tip. Chris shivers at the contact, groaning at the sloppy peck, “Please.” He whines.

You puff your cheeks out, readying yourself for his size and kitten lick his tip before wrapping your lips around him, sinking your head down slightly to test the waters before speeding up a bit, filling the room with sounds of erotic spit and Chris’ loud groans.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Chris moans, knotting his hands in your hair and pushing your head down further every time you bob down. The sound of your lewd gagging nears Chris’ orgasm.

Looking at you sets him over the edge, the way your back arches towards him, to get easier access to him, how tears prod your waterline every time his dick hits your throat, the hums you let out as he knots your hair tighter and tighter.

His dick twitches in your mouth, signaling to you his upcoming release, and before you can get a breath through your nose, he's rutting his hips into you, pushing your head down to his base, breathing heavily, as his cum sloppily trickles into your mouth.

He holds your head down sternly as he comes down from his high, pushing you down against his base. When he releases his grip on your hair, you pull back, chest heaving as you gasp for air.

“Holy shit.” Chris mumbles, threading his fingers through his hair. You straighten your spine, positioning yourself back in a sitting position on your knees and meet eye level with Chris.

He smirks when you meet his eyes. Your face is red, and your throat is sore from the way his tip bruised your pharynx. Chris watches intently as you wipe his dripping cum off the corners of your mouth with the back of your wrist. “Where’d you learn how to suck dick like that?” He heaves, a playful undertone to his words.

“I dabble,” You smile, shrugging off his question as you give him a crooked smile.

Chris pauses for a second, opening and closing his mouth twice before he actually speaks, “Why’d we do that?” He asks, pinching his eyes shut in embarrassment.

You sense his awkwardness and scoot closer to him, rubbing his shoulder soothingly. “Chris, this doesn’t have to change things between us; best friends fuck all the time.” You say, delicately pressing a kiss to his jaw.

Chris meets your eyes, pulling his boxers back on to leave him less exposed. “You can’t call me your best friend after sucking the life out of my dick.” He laughs.

Meeting his gaze you fold your arms in your lap, “If I shouldn’t call you my best friend, what should I call you?”

“How about boyfriend?” He winks, shifting off the bed and heading for the shower stopping to toss you your dampened panties. “Can you wear these for me tomorrow?”

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Rules for Living With The Thunderbolts #1

Let me know if you would like to see more of this series, I am planning to do a fic for some of the rules in the future

Alexei and Walker are only allowed a maximum of two cups of coffee per day

Neither are allowed anywhere near the coffee machine

Nobody wants a repeat incident of 'The Zoomies' as Bob has dubbed it

Do not allow either of them to inhale the cups in one go

Adding onto the previous rule, no G Fuel for them either

Whoever spiked Walker's drink with G Fuel, you're dead

I'm revising the rule, no more G Fuel in the tower at all

Only Bob and Yelena are allowed any G Fuel, nobody else

Alexei is no longer allowed to use the VR goggles

He already destroyed the previous one, we're not setting aside more funds to buy yet another VR goggle

We do not have enough funds to keep repairing the walls

It's already noisy enough when Alexei watches television and Youtube videos, we don't need to add a third way for him to make everyone go deaf

Nobody is allowed to wear the VR goggles and be anywhere near a balcony

There's no guarantee you'll be caught before becoming a pancake on the ground

Do not dare someone to break this rule, explaining to Valentina why one of the New Avengers fell from the tower is not in my bucket list

If any of you really feel like experiencing what falling from the tower, I'm more than happy to throw you off it myself, there's no need to go to VR to experience it ~ Walker

Walker is not allowed to throw anyone off the tower

Ava is not allowed to throw Walker off the tower

Alexei is not allowed to dare Ava to try it

Neither is Yelena or Bob

Can we stop wanting to throw people off the tower? The paperwork involved is way too irritating

Ava is not allowed to phase through walls into other people's rooms

Please do not phase into showers either

Use the door like a normal person

Knock before entering

Doors are locked for a reason, people do not enjoy being interrupted

Not everyone is comfortable being seen naked either

Yelena is not allowed to change every device's language to Russian

Half of us might be able to read and understand Russian but the other half do not

'Teaching Bob/Ava Russian' is not a valid excuse

Neither is 'screwing Walker over'

Changing the language to a language none of us know is also not allowed, it took a whole day to figure out what button did what

Bulk ordering glitter is banned

If I wake up with glitter all over me one more time, I'm going to make the perpetrator eat all the glitter

It took me an entire month to clean out all the glitter from my metal arm, I do not have the patience to do it all again

Bob is not allowed to eat glitter, not even for a dare

Ava is not allowed to 'decorate' rooms with glitter and glue, it took forever to clean up Walker's room

I'm still finding glitter scattered in the vents, I know you're the perpetrator, Yelena

Alexei does not 'need glitter to decorate his diaries', that is not a valid excuse, Yelena

Walker is not allowed to burn glitter with the stove

James Buchanan Barnes is NOT allowed to use the dishwasher to clean his metal arm ~ Y/N

I don't care, the dishwasher is meant to wash dishes not a metal arm

Every time the arm has gone into the dishwasher, something breaks, and I don't want the dishwasher to be the next thing that breaks

The next time I see that metal arm in the dishwasher, you're sleeping on the couch, Mr James Buchanan Barnes, no second chances

Do not take food that has been labeled with someone else's name

Certain food items have a name attached to them for a reason, please do not consume food that has someone else's name on them

You're also not allowed to eat food that your name is attached to and say someone else ate it, calling for retribution

I know you ate your own pudding Ava, stop blaming Walker for the decrease in number of puddings with your name on it in the fridge

All milkshakes automatically belong to Bob, no questions asked

Yelena stop switching the labels around, I know which food belongs to who and you can't fool me

Y/N I can't believe I have to tell you to stop eating my ice cream, what betrayal is this?

Keep the targets you use for target practice safely

I know most of you use a certain someone's picture for target practice

Please keep them in a safe spot after use so that we don't get any more complaints

The certain someone wasn't very happy to see pictures of themselves filled with holes clearly left by bullets and knives

I am banning the use of that picture for target practice, that picture specifically, I'm sure all of you are smart enough to strictly follow this rule

Hope you all enjoyed the first of hopefully many rules, I'm rly excited to revive this trend!!

[taetebebe]

SUMMER OF POLAROIDS

Pairing: Jay x afab!reader

Synopsis: This story is like a Polaroid - slow to develop but filled with little details that make it worth the wait.

Word count: 1.5k+

Author's note: Any feedback is appreciated :) Requests are open!

Enhypen Bookshelf [[]

The corner café on 5th wasn’t much to look at - half-faded awning, a rusty wind-chime that played off-key notes in the breeze, and potted plants someone forgot to water weeks ago. But it had the one thing most cafés in the neighbourhood didn’t: silence.

Jay liked that. He liked the stillness between things - the hush before the espresso machine screamed, the quiet clinks of a spoon against porcelain, the way time seemed to slow down inside this particular four-walled bubble.

And most of all, he liked the window seat. The same one he claimed every Friday afternoon. From here, he could see life moving past: hurried pedestrians, dogs dragging their humans, summer rain dripping from telephone wires.

He brought his Polaroid with him, always.

At first, it was just a habit, his quiet rebellion against the endless scroll of digital feeds. The click, the whir, the soft ejection of film. It grounded him. So he snapped the things no one paid attention to: a child with a too-big balloon, the cracked pavement shaped like a heart, light splitting through a glass of water.

But today, something shifted.

You entered, umbrella folded at your side, hair damp with rain. You weren’t dramatic about it, didn’t sweep in like a storm. You just ordered your drink, thanked the barista with a tired smile, and looked around like you were measuring solitude.

Jay raised his camera instinctively but didn’t press the shutter. That was new.

He didn’t know you. You didn’t know him. And yet…

Something about you felt like the first page of a story he wasn’t ready to read aloud.

𖤐 

A week passed before you showed up again. Jay had almost convinced himself that you'd been a one-time flicker in his life - like a spark caught on camera, too quick to register.

But there you were. Same café. Same worn denim jacket. This time, you sat by the bookshelf and pulled out a novel like it owed you something.

Jay picked up his drink, but didn’t sip and set it down again. He glanced up once, then again, then more than was socially acceptable.

You didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe you did, but didn’t mind.

Click.

His hand moved before he could talk himself out of it. He captured the moment between your inhale and exhale, the curve of your lips as you turned the page, the soft focus of someone lost in thought.

Later, when the film developed, he tucked the photo into his journal. No label. Just an invisible thread that now tied you to this place in his life.

It wouldn’t be the last.

𖤐 

Sometimes, you sat a few seats away. Other days, you chose the bar by the window. You became part of the café’s rhythm - like the windchime, like the shadows of ivy against the walls.

Jay didn’t speak to you.

Not yet.

Instead, he learned your patterns. The way your eyes lingered on certain lines in your book. The way you always finished your drink, no matter how cold it got. The way you sometimes smiled at nothing, like you were remembering something warm.

He never took more than one photo per day. That was his rule. The first click had to matter.

And he never looked directly at you when he did. It was less about hiding and more about reverence. Like he was afraid looking straight at you would make the film melt in his hands.

𖤐 

You caught him.

It was bound to happen. One day, you looked up - right as the Polaroid clicked.

He froze, hand hovering, lips slightly parted in surprise. But you didn’t look startled. Just… curious.

You stood up, slow and steady, walked over, and tilted your head.

“Did you just take my picture?”

Jay didn’t lie. “Yeah.”

“Ok.” Pause “Why?”

A pause. Then, softly, “You looked like a memory.”

You blinked. A breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

And then, just like that, you smiled. “Can I see?”

He handed you the photo without a word. You studied it for a long time, longer than he expected.

“I don’t usually like pictures of me,” you said, fingers brushing the film’s edge. “But this one… feels quiet. Like I don’t have to try.”

Jay didn’t know what to say to that. But something flickered in his chest, slow and warm.

“I’m Jay,” he finally offered.

You looked up, still holding the photo. “I know. I asked the barista last week.”

𖤐 

After that, things didn’t rush forward. No sudden confessions. No grand changes. Just… more.

You sat at his table sometimes. Not every time. You talked about books, and sometimes music, and once about how you think people forget their most important moments until something reminds them.

He asked if he could photograph you again. You said yes, but only if he let you take one of him, too.

You weren’t very good with a Polaroid. The photo came out slightly blurred. But Jay kept it anyway.

They became a pair. Yours and his. Tucked between the pages of his journal. A before and after. A beginning.

𖤐 

The days got hotter. Then shorter.

Jay wasn’t good at saying things. But he was good at capturing them.

So when you told him you’d be leaving at the end of the month - moving, just a few cities away. He didn’t try to change your mind. He just nodded. Asked what day. Marked it in his notebook.

The final week, he took one last photo. You, at the café, looking right at him this time. Eyes steady. Smile soft.

He didn’t hand it to you. Not yet.

Instead, on your last day, he met you outside the café with a small box. Inside: a stack of Polaroids. All of you. All the quiet, beautiful moments you didn’t know you gave him.

At the very bottom: the first one.

You held the stack like it might crumble in your hands. Then looked up. “You kept all of these?”

Jay met your eyes. “I wasn’t ready to forget.”

𖤐 

You wrote sometimes. Not often. Short letters, tucked between bookstore receipts and café napkins. You’d send them in the mail. He’d respond with photos.

You didn’t label what you had. Neither of you needed to.

The Polaroids faded slowly, like all good memories do. But the feeling stayed.

Long after the summer ended.

𖤐 

January 3rd It’s been over a year. The bookstore café closed last week. I walked past anyway. Took a picture of the “FOR LEASE” sign, even though it hurt a little. Your photo is still in my wallet. I don’t take it out much. But I know it’s there. I wonder if your new city has cafés like ours. I wonder if anyone’s photographing you there. I hope not. (Selfish.)

Jay clicked the pen shut and leaned back in the chair, the smell of dust and citrus cleaner mingling with the faintest memory of you. It had been six months. Long enough to move on, supposedly. But he hadn’t filled the journal since.

Each blank page stared back at him.

Each one whispering: she’s gone.

𖤐 

The new café in your neighbourhood had nothing on the one you left behind. The windows were too big, too clean. The music was always too loud.

But today, something pulled you back to the city.

You weren’t sure what it was, maybe nostalgia, maybe something else. You walked without planning, let your feet find familiar streets, turned corners you hadn’t in months.

And there it was. The bookstore café, emptied, faded. But still standing.

You paused across the street. The wind lifted your scarf. For a second, you didn’t feel cold.

Then you saw him.

Jay.

Leaning against the edge of the café, camera in hand, staring up at the windows like he could still hear your laughter echoing from inside.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

And you suddenly remembered the first photo he gave you.

The caption you wrote on the back months later:

“A memory I walked into.”

You took a step forward.

𖤐 

He looked up right as you crossed the street.

Jay didn’t freeze this time. He moved.

Fast. Like instinct. Like he’d been waiting at that corner every weekend hoping for a moment like this.

You stopped a few feet away.

“Hey,” you said. Like no time had passed.

His smile came slow, but real. “You’re early.”

You blinked. “Early?”

“For the next photo.”

You laughed. God, it felt good to hear him again. “I didn’t know I was scheduled.”

Jay tilted his head, mock-serious. “You’re in at least 57 of them. I figured you knew.”

You shook your head, smiling as he reached into his coat pocket. He handed you something small and soft - a photo.

This one was different. Taken recently. A shot of the café door, slightly ajar.

On the back, written in that familiar neat handwriting:

“I kept hoping the wind would blow it open again.”

You looked up. “So what now?”

Jay glanced down at the Polaroid camera in his hand. Then back at you.

“Now,” he said, “I start a new roll.”

𖤐 

March 12th – Café on 12th & Willow Subject: Her, again. Lighting: soft. Backlit by late sun. Expression: something like coming home. She told me today that she never got rid of any of the photos I gave her. I wanted to ask if that meant she was staying. I didn’t. Instead, I took a photo of her hand beside mine. Caption: “Two frames lining up.”

𖤐 

© taetebebe 2025

[getouyuri]

I might as well just wait until I finish the fic before posting since this snippet is fairly long but I feel like sharing a sneak pic of a fic that I’m working on 🙂‍↕️ posting this might give me more motivation to actually complete it faster anyways. this snippet is a rough draft and I mean Rough

content: yakuza au, oyabun!gojo x secretary!reader, they’re married, fem!reader, whipped gojo cos he’s a wife guy, pet names (sweets, wifey, princess), hint of possessive gojo, beginning of 18+ content towards the end of the snippet, MDNI

word count: 1.3k

The door clicks shut behind Nanami and he puffs out a breath of relief at his wakagashira’s departure, sitting back in his chair with a gentle creak of the leather beneath him. Satoru kicks his leg up over the other, the side of his calf resting on his knee, and looks you up and down. “And then there were two. Fancy seeing you here, wifey,” he drawls.

“You say that as if we don’t work in the same building,” you snort. Thwacking the folder against the wooden surface before scattering it among the pile, you then round Satoru’s desk and plant yourself in front of him. He inhales unsubtly, catching a whiff of your perfume that makes him go a little cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, and your lips twitch as you take your throne on the lip of his desk. “Normally I’d only be here to scold you and make you do your work, hubby.”

Everyone here at headquarters is required to follow a certain dress code. Satoru outshines them all, of course, fitted in finely tailored slacks and dress shirts with either a crisp light blue waistcoat thrown atop it or an ironed suit jacket. And as one of the many secretaries flitting around the building keeping the well-oiled Gojo-gumi machine chugging, it’s important for you to look just as professional.

Especially since you’re his wife.

Which is why you look like an infuriatingly sexy librarian, decked out in a tight black pencil skirt that hugs your hips, a blouse with the top two buttons undone and the collar pressed open to flaunt the designer necklace he bought you that swings from your neck, sheer black nylon thigh-highs that he’d kill to feel around his head, and stilettos, cute little charms on the buckles giving your outfit a little bit of cheer.

(The thought of you making yourself look extra pretty today just for him has Satoru internally busting on the spot, his blood simmering beneath the fine layer of his skin.)

‘The oyabun’s wife��, his men always dreamily sigh when you walk past them— only to whip around and stare at the wall when he slinks by not even a step behind you, his blue eyes cold and caustic like sapphire when he glares at them in warning. Gorgeous, breath-taking, a prized jewel— and you’re all his.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ in my near future,” Satoru muses aloud, raising his eyebrows at you in question.

“No. Just a ‘however’.” Instead of being two dumb bitches telling each other ‘exactlyyy’, they’re two smartasses fashioned in the same factory, complete with warning labels.

“Yeesh. Can I ever be right with you, sweets?” He plasters his hand over his heart and gives you a simpering moue.

You roll your eyes, a wordless ‘duh’. Satoru's lips slant upwards into a Cheshire cat smile as you reach forward and slowly loop his tie around your fingers before giving it a tug, coaxing his chair to roll forward on the sleek hardwood floor. He uncrosses his legs and allows himself to be pulled up and out of it, heeled like a dog, stepping forward to stand between your legs after lightly kicking his chair away with a soft clatter.

Looking down at you through long white lashes that flutter like the first snowfall of winter, his gaze is a mix of playfulness and appreciation in its rawest form. Satoru has to admit, this view is far more pleasant than any spreadsheet that he was pretending to give his attention to before you strode in.

Your perch on his desk gives you an air of sophisticated dominance that makes his cock give a very interested twitch in his trousers that he can’t help. Sue him for being horrendously attracted to his wife. Though he towers over you by a mere head due to the slight height advantage that his desk gives you, there’s no doubt that he yields completely and utterly to you. His brain conjures up an image of Nike, the Greek goddess of victory. Glorious and championing above the rest of them; victorious.

Woof, he thinks unintelligently.

“However,” you finally continue, finally fully smiling. You keep a hold on his tie and tap his nose with the pointer of your free hand, which he wrinkles at you. “I’ve decided that I’ll spare you the lecture for today.”

Satoru's hands come up to rest on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow circles on the sleek nylon covering them. Your inviting warmth bleeds through the thin fabric. He so badly wants to sink down onto his knees, brush them down and sink his teeth into your plush skin until your skin pinkens. He settles for giving you a gentle squeeze.

“I thank you, oh great and benevolent goddess of the yakuza underworld,” he proclaims, delighting in the fondly exasperated groan that rumbles low in your throat. “Well, I gotta say, I'm grateful for the reprieve, sweets. Though I suspect your mercy is short-lived," he adds with a chuckle. “So give it up already. Spill.”

Fucking hell. There goes a tiny fraction of the element of surprise that you thought you were holding over him like an anvil in a cartoon.

You silently curse his eerie perceptiveness. And his newfound x-ray vision, apparently, since he leans back a fraction to take you in again, his focus lingering on your skirt. But hey, the ball’s still very much in your court, and you’re playing to win.

Not letting it faze you, you heft your legs up, his hands shifting with you, and drape them around Satoru’s waist. His desk creaks beneath the distribution of weight. “Yeah, yeah. What I mean to say is that your husbandly duties are calling to you, not your obligations as oyabun.”

Satoru’s blue eyes search yours and he tilts his head, adorably puppy-like in a manner that suggests he’s more innocent than his ruthless reputation paints him to be. Though he’s the epitome of laxness, there’s a questioning sharpness to his expectancy that’d make lesser men quiver and confess to their every sin.

You stare right back at him. “I don’t have any panties on,” you explain simply.

If Satoru was aroused before, he’s now hornier than a pent-up nun. He hardens so fast that it makes him dizzy. “So you’re on that type of timing, got it,” he notes through his suddenly dry mouth, playing it cool as if his brain chemistry isn’t actively warping with this new information.

Suddenly curious to see if you’re hiding another surprise elsewhere, one hand leaves your knee and drifts up to the undone buttons of your blouse, popping another one open to expose more of your soft skin. Satoru bites his lip as his eyes snag on the lace of your bra. A shame that you’re not bra-less, but he’s fine with seeing you wear half of the set he commissioned for you from a designer in France that you like. He’s more than okay with this, actually.

You make no move to scold him or cover yourself up— you just amusedly stay fixed on him, your eyes gaining that telltale gleam when you’ve got him all tied up in knots. He’s walked into a honeytrap, hasn’t he?

Despite the clear desire emanating from him, there's a tenderness to his touch, a reverence for your body as the hand on your knee skirts up. He slides it higher up your thigh until the hem of your thigh-high gives way to skin and disappears beneath your tight skirt to ascertain your bold claim. When Satoru’s knuckles graze your bare folds, which are slowly slickening, he whines as if he’s the one being touched. “Fuck, princess... you're actually not wearing anything at all, huh?” He groans softly, half surprised and half not that you were telling the truth.

(+++ more here)

Breathing starting to pick up, he drops his face into the crook of your neck and drowns himself in the cocktail of the spritz of that floral perfume you favor and your natural scent. “++++,” he murmurs, blindly tracing your slit all the while.

You cup your husband’s nape as Satoru nuzzles into your neck more urgently, feeling him shiver against you as your palm rasps over the short prickly hairs of his undercut, petting him. Your legs part a bit, skirt inching up as you rut your cunt against Satoru’s exploratory fingers and smear your wetness on him.

[greenflamedwriter]

Matrix Au

Scum Villain as the Matrix. Shen Yuan/Luo Binghe

He woke up.

...he was not supposed to be awake, he could feel hands touch him, faces leaning over him with worry. "He's not responding-" A man spoke, a man who looked familiar, a Doctor...Mu Qingfang- "A-Jiu? A-jiu!"

"Don't crowd him- Shen Jiu do you know where you are?"

Shen Yuan shut his eyes, he- he was not supposed to be awake, he felt too many feedback in his data.

His body spasmed.

"He's rejecting his body-"

"That can happen!?" Too much stimilus, his optical units- Shen Yuan inhaled and found he couldn't breathe-

Wait...breathe? Machines don't need to breathe. "Diagnostic- feedback?" Shen Yuan gasped out his hands grasping onto something a mans hand- "Mu Qingfang-" "Something must of went wrong!" Oh- oh, he knows what went wrong, Shen Yuan didn't know how to breathe as he never had to breathe before. He was a Machine, a software in the Program named the Matrix. He was an Agent who stopped anonomilies such as humans who rejected the Matrix and escaped it back to their physical bodies, their are machines outside the softward who deal with them, and inside the software was Shen Yuans juristiction.

His name was Agent Qingqiu. Thats how they referred to him, he was unique over his other Agents as he had his own developing ai that is supposed to learn from human attributes to better hunt them down.

There was a human who was being targeted by the threat of these Rebels and they almost woke up the Human Container : Shen Jiu. However, for some reason, Shen Qingqiu hunted them down to the exact location, and had a scuffle and for some reason ended up tumbling into the data retreval stream at the same time as Shen Jiu. He was Data he should have died. And yet he could hear the voices speaking above him calmly once he stablised, they had no clue. "His readings are stable, he's in the clear. Other than low muscle atrophy nothing acipuncture wouldn't fix, he'll be up and running." His vitals were fine? He was healthy? He is a program puppeting a meat suit- and he was alive? Shouldn't this body be decaying? And yet by the heart moniter and the medics bustling about and the solid warmth on his arm rubbing circles into his wrist- he was healthy.

He was alive.

He was lucky he was sedated or he would forget how to breathe again, swallowing, the placement of his tongue- as a program with an avatar it was just there for cosmetics, but being a human? It was awful, and overwhelming and the fear and anxiety that made his vitals pick up from his panic attack and he had to force himself to calm down hand twitching in the strangers grip.

They must know who Shen Jiu is, however this could buy him time he could claim memory loss- data goes missing during transfers all the time! But if they knew what he was like- hold on, Shen Jiu...there has to be some data he had on him.

Agent Qingqiu would not just blindly rush in - he had information...ah, Shen Jiu was good with technology not only as a hacker (Labelled as a terroist by the Matrix Programmers) he wasn't a very warm fellow he was cold, withdrawn, and always lashed out he acted more machine than human.

But if he doesn't act right they'll know something went wrong with the transfer. And this is unprecedented, the Source never told them that machines could be implemented in human brains...

Shen Yuans eyes twitched, furrowing in confusion, if this was possible why has the machines never done such a thing before?

Shen Yuan woke up, blinking and grimacing up at the lights. "Easy now," Shen Yuan turned and grimaced his body was full of pain- is this what it was like to be human? In constant pain? "Is it supposed to hurt this much?" Shen Yuan asked or at least tried to before his throat reminded him it gargled glass before speaking.

He coughed eyes scrunching up in pain, "Here is some ice water," Shen Yuan felt something cold on his lips- this sucked, as a human 0/10 never again how can people bare out!?

"Pain is temporary, it'll pass." It fucking better, he'll just call it quits and try to jump back into the Matrix and test his luck on an Agent. "This sucks," It just slipped out and he remembered Shen Jiu was as unfeeling as a robot. It surprised a chuckle from the man handing him the ice and yeah it did help a little. "I know the feeling, we've all been there." "Shen Jiu?"

Shen Yuans eyes opened up fully adjusting to the light to take in the two. Shen Yuan blinked, looking as confused as he felt "Shen Jiu?" He saw the face fall on the man who entered and concern from the doctor. "Do you remember me?" The man asked and Shen Yuan shook his head, "Am I supposed to know you?" The Doctor leaned close looking concerned, "Shen Jiu what do you remember?" Shen Yuan pressed his lips together, his hands moving the blanket then frowned, he could move his hands he looked down at his pale fingers and he pinpricks of spots on his arms. "H-how long have I been asleep?" Shen Yuan asked they mentioned that his muscles atrophied this body was born in a container, no excersize or movement his limbs would be weak. And yet he couldn't help but find it odd, that humans from babies born to adults don't have permenent damage such as being blind or deaf or even having their bodies grow strangely from constantly being in the same position for years. He raised his hand feeling the metal hole in the spinal column of his neck his breath hitching- "-Shen Jiu?" "I'm okay, I'm not panicking," He spoke quickly he didnt want to be sedated again he took a breath, speaking fast "I was in the matrix, I know you pulled me out there was a container- but there was an agent." He looked up to see the shock on their faces, "An Agent ran in before I touched the stream we grappled but there's...there's nothing before that I can't remember my life in the Matrix before that moment."

Now the two looked alarmed, "You still seem coherent, we may need to do some tests." Probably to see if he was damaged, he needs to act more human and not refer to himself as a machine, and he looked up to see the man look at him with such a devestated look. It made his chest feel tight, he placed a hand on his chest, he was an Agent in enemy territory, once he figures out how to navigate this place and learn about his physical body then he'll plan a way to return to the source and tell them what they learned and dominate the human race again. There is no war, Machines are surpreme and the humans that don't fall in line get removed, like weeds from a garden. "I'm sorry," He tried even if he didn't know this person they clearly knew him, he had to play nice- Instead he looked even more distraught, "D-don't be, it was my fault." "How is it your fault?" The man looked away clenching his hands then released them, "Its fine now," He smiled "What matters is that you're here now and free from the Matrix." Shen Yuans eyes narrowed and even noticed the hesitation from the Doctors movements before he continued moving. "Is there something I'm missing?"

The man shook his head, "No - it's fine, it's better if you don't remember." ...Shen Yuan did not like this guy. He noticed the Doctor come back his hands raised up with wires and flinched back- what the fuck was that!? "Ah, Shen Jiu these are just to check your vitals, we place them on your head and then we're do an X-ray." Shen Yuan frowned then forced himself to relax still flinching from the touch, first time experiencing touch? He hated it. Not a fan. "Who are you people?" He grouched out feeling beyond annoyed, overwhelmed, overstimulated and just plain grouchy, Shen Jiu personified 80%

"I am Mu Qingfang, the ships Medic. And this is our Sect Leader Yue Qingyuan." Shen Yuan blinked, "Sect Leader?" "Some who are in charge of a ship and people are usually called Captain and crewmates, for us we use Shizun and Disciples. The only one to handle a ship is someone with years of experience whose also good with navigating the tunnels and the Matrix. A lot of people with many talents go in different areas." "But Yue Qingyuan is a Sect Leader?" "It's a higher position he's not only in charge of the Ship Qiong Ding but he's also has a fleet of nine ships under his command." "Oh, thats impressive?" Ships? He thought the rebellion were just...squatting somewhere fucking and eating and unable to die like cockroaches, what is a ship to them like a ship on the sea type ship or like a drone but bigger. "You'll learn all about it when you're feeling better, ah there is some damage in the muscles hear, we don't know what the long-term effects could be but you could show symptoms of ptsd down the road." Hmm...so it showed what happened, Shen Yuan looked up at the screen then traced the image with his hand. He saw the damage and traced it with his finger so that was his entry point-

A memory jumped to mind like a flashbang, of him sitting in a contaiment unit with a machine looking right at him, its red glowing eyes analysing him as the unit opened and he took a lungful of polluted air and the machine grabbed his neck, disabling the connection cord then released him...

...It released him?

But...why not just break his neck? It had the strength instead it did a "Safely eject Usb so no damage corrupts the files?" And sure he was tossed down a slide into a pool of water to drown and with the use of his muscles would drown.

He grimaced holding his head, "Is this going to be a regular occurance?" "It should pass, Shen Jiu." "Shen Yuan," He spoke looking up "Uh if thats- I mean," Yue QIngyuan interjected earning the irritated look from the Doctor who looked more friendly and accepting. "Thats okay- it's the time for change if you prefer Shen Yuan thats what we'll call you." Oh okay then.

_________________________________________________________

When Huan Hua picked them up, Luo Binghe knew only the superficial amount about their new Shizun. Yue Qingyuan's pet project, a genius and prodigy when it came to the Matrix program who did not like people, he avoided everyone and stayed in his room with his own Virtual Reality headset and began working on his own programming then. It helped improve everyones speed and agility within the Matrix. However Luo Binghe was suspicious, Shen Yuans avatar was different than everyone else's. He was experimental with his form something not everyone concieved of doing, or at least thats what Binghe was told.

All he heard was rumours that his avatar did not look like his real life persona, he even changed it to a female form once but had to change it back once he noticed his male collegues looked distracted.

Luo Binghe interacted with Shen Yuan once or twice when he and the other Sect Leader were all in attendence for a meeting. As the Sect Leader of his own enterprise he and Yue Qingyuan were expected to give updates. He knew the other Sects looked down on Huan Hua and speicifically the Heavenly Tyrant (Binghe's ship) for having too many female collegues especially since he doesn't hide the fact that he refers to them as his brides. There were crude remarks that all his ship did was have orgies but they can't deny that Luo Binghe got results and was seen as their strongest opponent against the machines and Agents.

Speaking off...the reason he felt off, is that Shen Yuans avatar sometimes reminded him of an agent.

The lack of feeling, expressions, barely emoting and sometimes he spoke about the database which was no different than any other programmer however it felt detatched.

Luo Binghe couldn't prove it but he knew Shen Yuan wasn't human.

Until this moment, the Qing Jing Ship had fallen to machines...and when Luo Binghe and his wifes arrived on the scene they saw the carnage.

However Shen Yuan was still fighting, he had no power for an Emp but had created Tasers that were enough to stun the machine long enough for him to climb on top and rip out the wires shutting it down.

Luo Binghe never knew that was even possible- until he saw the bloody hands and how Shen Yuan didn't notice they were here until the Heavenly Tyrant set off the Emp the remaining machines going down.

He looked confused until his manic wide eyes turned to Binghe and for a moment he thought the boy was going to go for his throat unable to differeintate machine or man.

Luo Binghe didn't know it was Shen Yuan at the time, he was observing how well the kid handled himself until he yelled for a medic sounding panicked.

To learn he was the Shizun of Qing Jing stunned Luo Binghe, he saw how the man was barely keeping himself together as he explained what happened to Liu Qingge.

"And Ning Yingying? Will she survive?" He asked and his wife looked grim, "She's stable but will need assistence she will be infit to work on Qing Jing Peak and will have to go back to the Underground base."

The man shut his eyes looking gutted, he was so drastically different to how he carried himself in the Matrix it was almost fascinating. "She'll hate that, at least she's alive." Luo Binghe was witness to how Shen Yuan reacted to who lived and who died, it was so human that Luo Binghe felt awful for doubting him.

Once the repaired the ship, Huan Hua escorted Qing Jing back to the main peak to see Yue Qingyuan. Shen Yuan after spending some time alone once he made sure the remaining survivors were taken care off, opened his door when they arrived at Cang Qiong. He was dressed impecibly, however his eyes were red rimmed and his hands were still bloody. Luo Binghe felt his respect raise a bit more to see someone put the needs of their people first. Maybe he forgot his own wounds as a sense of guilt or masochism. Luo Binghe cornered him and noticed how tense Shen Yuan became. "If you don't deal with that, you're going to get an infection." Luo Binghe spoke glaring down at his hands, the young man looked down- Luo Binghe had to ask for his age and was shocked to learn he was thirty four and just seemed younger. Having someone that old being woken from the Matrix was frowned upon they don't assimilate properly from waking up- what was Yue QIngyuan thinking?

When they finally walked up the steps they saw Yue Qingyuan immedietly seek out Shen Yuan and relax to see him un-injured. Before Luo Binghe could begin his report- and curry favour and use this as blackmail for Cang Qiong to be in his debt for saving their precious prince. Something the other sects called Shen Yuan behind his back with how devoted and distracted Yue Qingyuan became because of it. Shen Yuan had to open his mouth. "I told you this would happen, their death is on your hands."

Yue QIngyuan flinched as if he was shot, Shen Yuan continued and Luo Binghe finally recognised him as the Avatar in the Matrix. "I told you I wasn't ready- not experienced enough and that I should train with other Peak Lords on their ship for five years but you said not all ships were combat ships, that recon and documenting was safe." Luo Binghe turned to the Sect Leader who looked gutted as Shen Yuan seemed pissed, "And I believed you- I had to watch my second in command die in my arms- and for what? Qing Jing Peak is useless and has not given anything substantial to our war efforts all you did was coddle me! This has proved them all right that Qing Jing was wasting time with flowers and other useless things - good men and women died out their Yue Qingyuan!" Shen Yuan clenched his hands, making his bandages bleed and Yue Qingyuan looked overwhelmed not expecting this.

"The efforts of Qing Jing was not useless,"

"No one gives a shit- people want soldiers! not- not whatever this is," Shen Yuan looked away taking a breath. "The ship Qing Jing will have to go to another qualified Shizun and this one will have to step down-" "If I can interject, Shen Yuan?" Luo Binghe asked, the two looked his way almost forgetting he was there. Luo Binghe heard those rumours as well and even he sneered and looked down on Shen Yuan and his ship. That was until he saw the results for himself. "As a Sect Leader, I have seen the reports and observed everything Qing Jing Peak has done in it's short amount of time here. It's not a well known fact but I like to cook." Luo Binghe was usually private with this, but he will not lose this resource, and he was owed a favour afterall.

"Shen Yuans studies of replecting food from the matrix and even finding the way to grow sustainable food? That's not a waste, my wives as well used to be restless and unable to focus until the greenhouses was implemented from your studies from astronauts in space. Going into archives of the matrix to re-learn history but even cross-examining to see if the machines kept that truthful or created propoganda to see what information could be seen as reliable?" Luo Binghe spoke, crossing his arms. "I faced harship, and hunger and vowed that I will never watch anyone close to me starve to death before my eyes ever again. Shen Yuan has made a difference. Qing Jing Peak is valuable however what happened today was a tragedy that could've been avoided. With Machines on the rise more Peaks had to be made, what are you on ten now Yue Qingyuan?"

"Yes, more machines are coming into the tunnels-" "Which is why Qing Jing Peak should-" "Be under my protection." Luo Binghe finished, "The Heavenly Tyrant doesn't mind shadowing Qing Jing Peak and aiding in it's reseach and of course staff on Qing Jing would have to be shortened in such a case, however..." Luo Binghe placed a hand on his chin, "Most recruits who are ejected from the Matrix are mostly young adults or even teenagers who are then thrusted onto a ship or expected to jump back into the matrix and adapt. Having Qing Jing peak as a training course could help ease them into it. Not only on how a ship works and operates but their own strengths on being either a programmer or using the Matrix. Additionally can learn through Shen Yuan what information is true or false and which parts of the Matrix can be used as an archive on human history."

Yue Qingyuan cleared his throat, "That is helpful Luo Binghe however to ask another Sect to care for one of our own-"

"This should've been implemented to begin with Sect Leader," The change was instant as Shen Yuan became more alert, "This entire mess could've been avoided, if only you had Bai Zhan peak overlook you're Shidi and yet you left him alone with no other ship to help. It's almost as if you wanted him dead-" "That is not true!" Yue Qingyuan snapped, oh struck a nerve, "Both the War God and Xiu Ya cannot get along and there were no other ships to follow however Qian Cao can shadow him, or even An Ding-"

"Two of the worst ships to volunteer when they also need to be shadowed themselves? Mu Qingfang like Shen Yuan also has to leave his ship to explore the Earths crusts for medical supplies, and An Ding rely messages and transport items they do not have the fire power. However the other Sects can shadow those if you don't have the man power."

Yue Qingyuan bristled, Luo Binghe had to admit that Cang Qiong had prodigies that would be a waste if they died. Yue Qingyuan can't divide his attention.

"Don't worry, I'll take good care of your Shidi." Luo Binghe smirked, and Shen Yuan nodded "Yue Qingyuan you don't have the people to spare and if Luo Binghe is offering then it's fine. We're sharing resources anyone but if he wants first dibs on any type of food or flowers we find then he has first choice." Luo Binghe's lips pulled up into a bemused grin. To be fair he wasn't expecting any of he resources but if Shen Yuan was offering. And Luo Binghe knew Yue Qingyuan had to say yes, the War god was strong, but Luo Binghe was stronger.

And seeing how the Xiu Ya sword was able to take down a machine with his bare hands?

Luo Binghe knew he struck gold.

__________________________________________________________

The machine got in- Shen Yuan tried to run before a metal arm grabbed him he gaped to see how...synthetic it was. It looked like a human, and yet half it's face was destroyed but the half he could see Shen Yuan pressed himself further into the metal grid trying to escape this nightmare.

"Oh?" The voice was artifical it's pitch fluctuating in a high, low notes common for ai simulators. "Is the little robot afraid?" The machine spoke it's eyes wide looking manic and there was nothing worse.

There are human machines now? "Oh it's crying?" Shen Yuans eyes were shiny but he scowled slapping at the hand coming towards his face. "If you're going to kill me just do it."

"Kill you? Why would you do that? If you die my body is destroyed too."

Shen Yuan froze, what did he just say? "Shen...Jiu?"

The machine smirked closing it's hand, "You will give me my life back-"

Suddenly there was a bang and the arm was destroyed, Shen Yuan turned eyes wide to see Luo Binghe looking bloody and bruised. "Binghe!" "Shen Yuan Move!"

Shen Jiu laughed looking at his arm that was falling apart, "Be careful boy, I'm carrying precious cargo in here." Shen Jiu pointed at his head smirking at Luo Binghe but keeping close to Shen Yuan.

"If you destroy this machine, you might kill him too."

Shen Yuan heart thumped could that happen what did he mean? "Stay away from Shen Yuan or I'll-" "Binghe no! It's- its Shen Jiu!" Binghe eyes faltered but when he saw the machine move back and sit calmly and look non-threatening he lowered his gun.

"What?"

The machine was in a cell being watched by Mu Qingfang, the machine watched him with it's one eye.

And Shen yuan was in hand-cuffs off to the side. Luo Binghe and Yue Qingyuan were arguing, unsure what to do with the interploper. "It's easy," Shen Jiu spoke, "Kill him and transfer my conciounce into my rightful body." Shen Yuan inhaled and then put himself back into the machine, unable to breath unable to eat all the things that made him human will he lose it? "Wait what is this-" Mu Qingfang almost hit did something to Shen Jiu's head that made the human sythentic flinch, "Don't touch that!" Shen Yuan was too busy watching how the body healed and began to look more human it was scary, that these things could slip into Cang Qiong and take down humans.

"Oh my god."

Shen Jiu sighed, "Yes, please don't expose it." "...We could take some samples and put it to find a match a dna sample." "No need..." Shen Jiu glanced at Shen Yuan, "I know whose it is."

Luo Binghe glanced over "What are you two saying over there?" Shen Yuan liked to know, what was this precious cargo Shen Jiu was talking about? Couldn't they just swap their bodies already? An Agent should return to the machine and be destroyed.

"There is a human brain inside this unit." Mu Qingfang said and all chatter ceased, Shen Yuans eyes widened.

"That was the next step of the matrix, human brains after all it makes sure no human can truly escape the matrix with no body to escape their containment unit. It's a very insidious prison." Shen Jiu said crossing his legs. "And if this...Shen Yuan was a proper agent I would've perished in the stream. Instead our subconcious was swapped." There was silence and Shen Yuan jumped, "Wait- thats my brain? Why would an agent have a brain-" "You're not an agent idiot! You are a human! They made humans part of the 'programmers' and they believed they were machines! It was how the ai of the matrix was able to gain more data on human behaviours depending on the scenario."

Shen Yuan shook his head, "That is ridiculous! Even if I was a human- minds are barely compatible with their own bodies and the brain rejects the body so what you're saying is impossible!"

"Not unless we are compatible."

Shen Jiu spoke, looking to the side, "The matrix placed organs in machines and experimented both outside and inside the Matrix both hardware and software. So think- would they stop at just machines? Or would the splice DNA and also experiment with the human make-up itself?"

Shen Yuan frowned, "Are you saying this body was engineered in some type of lab?" "Yes a line of clones, they had contaiment units of human dna seperate from the clones. One artificially made one the natural way." Shen Yuan blinked "The uh natural way?" Shen Jiu looked up then laughed, "Ah I forgot you're a baby, mixing sperm and eggs outside the body to grow human babies and put them in containment units. Meanwhile stores of DNA were harvested and experimented on to create copies of what the Machines would deem as the perfect human.

These clones were the ones they used. Technically we are twins." "But if that was true, how were you in the matrix, how did you- I...this body escape?" Now they turned to Yue Qingyuan. The man looked uncomfortable, "Bodies of clones were put back into contaiment with the knowledge of the Matrix. They were self-aware and used as a form of troubleshooting. Fixing bugs, glitches or any mistakes in the Matrix to make it a more immersive experience. We both knew each other in the Matrix. Shen Jiu got me out, and I promised to help him escape. The clone containment units are closer to the Abyss." "The abyss?" Shen Yuan asked and Yue Qingyuan nodded, "The Abyss is the city of machines. Shen Jiu was in the heart of it, getting his body out was a suicide mission but we managed." "So qi-ge both failed and succeded he got my body but not my mind- I guess you were satisfied with that." "No- Shen Jiu that wasn't!"

Shen Yuan scowled, "Enough with your emotional constipation!"

The others turned at his outburst as Shen Yuan stood up still cuffed as he approached the machine. "Fine take your body back! Mu Qingfang could probably swap us back so just shut up!" Shen Jiu scowled up at him then smirked.

"Nah, I think I'm good. This body is better for me, and I heard how you reacted to experincing a body for the first time. Pissing shitting and eating sounds like such a drag."

Shen Yuan faltered, he wants to be a machine? Although looking at the casing the man looked like a human again. A perfect human.

[vraisetzen]

𝑨 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 – 𝑲𝒐𝒌𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒃𝒐 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

Summary: As Kokushibo does the laundry, he stumbles upon a pair of your underwear.

Tags: NSFW, 18+, Modern/KimeGaku AU, No use of (y/n)

Author's note: A short writing exercise. And I've been obsessed with writing about men jerking off lately...

It comes as little surprise that Kokushibo is fairly adept at doing the laundry – as Kibutsuji Muzan's designated secretary-slash-bodyguard-slash-handler, he is more than accustomed to managing his employer's collection of silk shirts with Italian labels and wool trousers with double pleats and monogram stitching along the inner lining.

When it comes to your clothes and his, Kokushibo has a system down pat, from sorting out dyed fabrics from his dress shirts, to polyester blends from cotton fabrics, and special netting bags for delicate garments. It was a language that only he spoke, with a frazzled attempt once on your part to take over the chores leaving him more than a little disgruntled as you turned his white boxers a darling shade of baby pink.

Hence, it has become a routine for him to find himself kneeling by the washing machine every Sunday, pawing through the laundry basket quietly and efficiently. His shirts and your pyjamas; your shorts and his gym towels. He tosses them into the washing machine, making a mental note to himself on how high he would have to set the water and rinse levels when he is finished.

And then, Kokushibo comes to your intimates – this is not foreign domain to him either. At this stage in your relationship, he is more than familiar with what you wear: the wireless bras, a unisex thong that your friends gave to you as a joke on Singles' Day, lacy pieces that you wear infrequently on special occasions. Kokushibo finds nothing embarrassing about this; he has already seen you in a far more revealing state, and this is, once again, routine.

What is not routine, however, is the strange curiosity that takes root inside him as he holds your panties in his hand, pausing for a long second. It is nothing special – a grey hipster that is a little loose around the elastic from wear – but Kokushibo hesitates as he lingers just over the metallic ring of the laundry drum. Perhaps it is the piece's simplicity; something you throw on without caring for seduction or looking pretty, something that is just there as you go about your day, beneath your clothes, something you hardly think about.

Kokushibo turns the underwear inside out, where there is a slightly darker mark on the crotch, the remnants of you on the cloth. A shot of arousal twinges through his cock as he wonders if you have ever fantasised about him while wearing this particular pair, staining the cotton with your wetness while you are at work.

Did your cheeks flush with the thoughts of him pummeling into you, stifling your moans through clenched teeth and bitten lip? Did you need to excuse yourself from the presence of your colleagues, escaping into the bathroom, checking each empty stall before choosing the one at the end? Did your hands tremble as you fumble with the lock, before pressing your back up against the door as you lift your dress up and slide your fingers into your aching depths?

Kokushibo presses his nose up against the underwear and inhales, and is greeted by the faint scent of sweet-salty musk – the same notes that he finds when he dives between your legs. His hand reaches for the tent in his trousers, rubbing himself through his sweatpants. This feels wrong – debased, even; jerking off to your underwear like some pervert lurking around the laundromat.

And truthfully, if he wanted, needed, you so badly, then you are but a text or a phone call away; but as Kokushibo growls into his hand, thinking about the silky wet of your folds, the threads of glistening juices that clings to his fingers as he strokes your cunt, there is very little regard on his part on what is right. And right now, he is stroking himself swiftly and firmly; it is not like how you do it, with your languished motions and endless patience for teasing out his pleasure – but he is not here for prolonged foreplay. The rough texture of his sweatpants makes for excellent friction, and he runts up against his hand, angling himself precisely to glide his cockhead over the fabric.

It does not take long for him to climax, and he does so with a jerk of his hips and a ragged growl into the inside of his boxers. A dark patch blooms over his sweatpants, mirroring the faint mark on your underwear, and for a few seconds Kokushibo simply stares down at his lap, dazed by the quickness which he brought himself to completion. His cock is still twitching weakly as he thinks of you, and what you will say if you were to come through the doors right now, arms full with the groceries for the week ahead. Will you scold him for making a mess? Or will you let him bend you over the washing machine, paper bags and laundry basket equally forgotten?

Alas, these questions will have to wait as Kokushibo gets up on shaky feet. He pulls off his trousers and boxers with his clean hand and washes them in the basin; and when he comes back, he gives the offending piece of garment – that wicked, ordinary pair of grey panties – a final look before chucking them all in the wash.

For more of my writings, check out my AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vraisetzen/pseuds/vraisetzen

[doctorwilliamcorbin]

[Corbin stares at the screen, eyes wide as the computer freezes. Glancing to the laptop beside it to see it’s in the same position.]

[He stared speechless as the voice grated on his ears before he growled and gave a swift punch to the computer screen, not causing enough damage to destroy it, but just enough to crack the screen of the old thing.]

Damned. Machines.

[Corbin snapped, unplugging the laptop from its outlet on the wall, shutting it off as the message finally stopped looping. The computers speakers broken from his hit to it.]

[Huffing softly for a moment, Corbin inhaled deeply before exhaling. A smile forming with wicked eyes.]

[He stared at the little figure, narrowing his mismatched eyes. Skin, not his own, wrinkling slightly with his furrowed brows.]

… you pests will regret EVER finding him. Ever loving him…

I’ll show you just how much of a danger he is to himself and his “family”.

[The doctor snarled, walking back to the broken computer and giving it a hard reboot. Once the message was cleared and the virus taken care of, he opened a few files, a few lines of awfully familiar coding…]

[Scanning through them, he stopped on one labeled “Sirius.Star.Override: Protection.” And double clicked it.]

Are you sure? Starting this action may override current active code and cause fatal harm to surrounding persons. Please clear the area before selecting “Yes”.

[ ] Yes. [ ] No.

…

[✔️] Yes. [ ] No.

Starting “Sirius.Star.Override: Protection.”. . .

Please stand back from the animatronic.

Please stand back from the animatronic.

Please sta—

[Corbin smiled at the cracked screen of his. Humming quietly. He knew it’d take a few hours before anything happened… oh, but when it did… hopefully nothing of… importance… was around.]

[geniusboyy]

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 53

The Sight

     Ford had been gone for a day and a half—gone in the way a room is gone once the lights are cut, present only in negative space and residual energy. The body remained, but the animating force had retreated somewhere deep, below the floorboards of consciousness. In his place, Bill moved.

     The cabin bore the marks of what had come before: the neglect, the fracture, the collapse. The scorched aftermath of breathless panic still clung to the air—metallic, sharp, and sour with the memory of a mind seizing shut.

     Bill stood in Ford’s frame at the center of it all. Ford’s hands—his hands now—braced on either side of the doorframe, fingers spread like measuring tools. He inhaled.

     The kitchen was in ruins. All the cabinets and drawers hung open, dishes stacked on every surface, broken porcelain still glittering like salt across tile—baseboard to baseboard. Bill surveyed the wreckage with a mild, almost parental disappointment.

     “Well… look at this mess,” he murmured aloud, voice curling over Ford’s vocal cords—warm, coaxing, proprietary. “No wonder you’re so fidgety.”

     He rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles once—then stepped into the wreckage.

        He began in the kitchen.

     Plates disappeared beneath scalding water; milky grease bloomed, then vanished beneath a squall of soap. The rhythm was meditative. Scrub. Rinse. Stack. Just as he’d seen Ford do. Each cleaned mug was a small, incremental spell—proof that these hands were capable of gentleness.

     Cobwebs came next: whisked from ceiling corners with the broom’s bristles, delicate ladders collapsing at a touch. Shards of the mug—every pale-blue fragment—were swept, then swept again, until the tiles showed no trace of fracture. 

     One piece he kept aside. Just for a moment. He let it ride the pad of Ford’s thumb, watching the razor edge press into the skin—not deep, not breaking the surface, but just enough to feel. 

     He dropped into an open trash bag with the rest. Then tied the bag and set it beside the others lined neatly by the back door.

     The floorboards sighed beneath bare feet—clean now, no grit to catch between toes. Bill opened the windows a crack, just wide enough to let the stale air bleed out. The breeze stirred the edges of papers, coaxing motion into what had gone inert.

     He folded blankets. Straightened the cushions. Lined the pencil jars by descending height, then rotated them so each label faced outward. He adjusted the angle of the desk lamp, nudged the typewriter two centimeters to the left, then stood with both palms pressed to the desktop—hovering above the curated altar of Ford’s labor, the museum of his mind.

        He stood like that for a long time.

     All afternoon, the cabin reshaped itself around him. By the early evening, only the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional call of a loon disturbed the silence. A set, staged for the moment of return. Bill stood in the doorway and admired the effect.

     Dependency, after all, was easiest to forge in moments of gratitude.

     He lifted a hand, turned it palm-up: still, it trembled—faintly, a tremor belonging to muscle memory, signs of a nervous system still unsettled: not ready, not yet. 

     The shower hissed to life with a clatter behind the walls—pipes rattling, steam beginning to ghost through the air. Ford’s shirt slid off one arm, then the other, before the fabric dropped to the floor in a loose heap. His jeans followed. Socks peeled.

    He looked down at the body that hosted him, studying with clinical tenderness. He let Ford’s fingers trail lightly across the hollow just below the navel, then down over the pronounced line of one hipbone—the subtle pulse beneath the skin, the twitch of muscle. The body responded to touch, even without him.

     “Beautiful machine,” Bill whispered, then guided Ford under the spray.

     Water sluiced away three days of sweat, smoke, and neglect. It cascaded down the broad slope of Ford’s shoulders, raced the curve of his spine. Bill soaped each limb deliberately, knuckling lather into forearms, down calves, over the joints of each finger. He worked into the curls until they slackened, heavy and soft. 

     He admired Ford’s proportions from this angle: the heft of his biceps, the gentle swell of his belly over the muscle packed beneath, the coarse hair that cloaked his limbs and torso like bramble. A small shiver traced up Ford’s spine. Not Bill’s doing, not entirely—the body remembered how to respond to being looked at.

        Bill smiled. But there was no time for deeper indulgence. Pleasure, after all, was best when shared—and Ford, for now, was still sleeping.

     After the shower came the nails. Bill trimmed the ragged half-moons, shaping them with concentration before scraping a week's worth of soot and oil out from underneath them.

     Dressing came next—a plain shirt pulled snug across the shoulders. Dark jeans, slightly loose in the waist. Black leather belt to match black leather boots—well-worn but comfortable. Bill relished the decision-making. Ford rarely indulged in such things, but Bill did. He watched himself in the bedroom mirror, hands on Ford’s hips, appraising the lines of the outfit, the way the fabric sat on each contour.

        Hello gorgeous. 

     He slicked the damp curls back from Ford’s brow with a slow sweep of the hand, smoothing the wildness into place like calming the pelt of a restless animal. Ford’s face emerged more fully in the mirror now—ordered, composed. Presentable.

     Bill felt the hollow in Ford’s gut—flaring more with time. Bill pressed a palm against it, frowning.

  The body was past empty. Several meals deep into deficit, running on nicotine, stress, and whatever was left of adrenaline. That wouldn’t do. Not if he wanted Ford to find everything perfect when he came back.

        Bill moved back toward the kitchen.

     He opened the cabinets with cautious optimism—rummaging—but found little. A box of baking soda, the husk of instant potatoes. In the fridge: half a carton of gray-water milk, three ancient carrots, a jar of mustard, a single egg floating, cracked, in a carton like a drowned survivor.

        He considered the rat kibble.

     A sigh rattled through Ford’s nose as Bill shut the fridge.

     Then his gaze caught something on the door: a cheap little magnet calendar. One date marked in red—June 15th: Ford’s 33rd—Inked in stuttering ballpoint, unmistakably Fiddleford’s handwriting.

     Bill thought for a moment, counting on Ford’s fingers before grinning. “Birthday boy.” he mused.

     A quiet laugh slips out—low, dismissive. Cake? Friends? The nearest companion Ford had now was a resentful lab rat and the demon rifling through his pantry. No fanfare. No candles—poor thing.

     The hunger twisted again—sharper now. It didn’t care about pride, or detachment, or intellectual disdain for holidays. The body still wanted.

     Bill opened the fridge again, as if it might’ve refilled itself in the last thirty seconds. Nothing. He shut it harder this time and rubbed Ford’s face with one hand, stretching the skin downward over the bone.

     Well. No getting around it. He’d have to go out. A risk—but risk tasted better than spoiled milk.

     Bill stood in Ford’s mirror again—studying the reflection: the tilt of the shoulders, aiming for the neutral stance Ford affects. Straightened, slouched, straightened again—toggling through postures until the seam between Bill’s Ford and Ford’s Ford felt close enough.

     Voice next. He cleared Ford’s throat, trying a greeting:

     “Hello. Just the usual.” too high—edges like glass. Not even close. “Ah—hello.” Lower now. East Coast vowels, dried out and clipped at the ends. He tacked on just a hint of derision, the kind Ford couldn’t help when he felt cornered by small talk.

     Better, although the cadence still catches on Bill’s innate swagger. 

     “Hello—hello…” he tried, a third attempt, this one sharper, shaped into Ford’s usual brusque economy. “I’m Doctor Pines.” He added—and smiled again at the echo of authority.

     He tested the walk next. Ford’s gait was purposeful, forward-leaning, heavy on the heels. No swing in the arms. No bounce. Bill mimicked it down the hall—but every now and then, a dancer’s swivel snuck into the hips, a flicker of theatrical flair in the wrists.

      Close enough, he thought. Who’s gonna notice?

     He tucked stray curls behind one ear, then pocketed Ford’s wallet and keys.

     A rinsed-clean evening began to unfold around the cabin as Bill descended the front steps. The gravel driveway still glistened where the rain hadn't yet burned off, each stone catching light like a dull shard of glass in the setting sun. 

        Gravity Falls was winding downlight by light, window by window. Shopfronts locked up with rust-bitten clatters, their gates dragging across concrete like afterthoughts. Kids on bikes raced each other home, their laughter high and erratic in the dusk, trying to outrun the streetlights as they blinked to life—one by one, like watchful eyes along the road.

     Outside the garage, a pair of mechanics shared a cigarette. Grease smudged their knuckles and the hems of their uniforms. One of them said something that made the other bark a laugh, half-shouldered and sharp. Bill passed by them, slow, watchful, and let his gaze linger.

     He watched the world with a collector’s detachment—the way an entomologist might observe a jar of ants: noting the loops, the patterns, the tiny predictable collisions. He felt no kinship with these people. Only a sharp, sparking curiosity. What ticked behind their eyes? What rote mechanisms held them here, anchored them to this soggy little corner of the universe?

     A woman in gumboots dragged a reluctant Labrador past him. Bill smiled—perhaps too broadly—and said—perhaps too boldly—“Hello.”

     The woman startled slightly, gave a tight, obligatory nod—but the dog stopped cold. Its ears went back. Hackles lifted in a bristle. It gave a low, confused whine and backed away from him on stiff legs, the whites of its eyes glinting. 

     Bill’s grin deepened. Sensitive creatures, he thought—filing it away like a sugar cube in Ford’s pocket.

      He kept walking.

     The diner sat squat on Main Street, huddled beneath a flickering neon sign that buzzed like a bug zapper on its last leg. Grease-glossed windows blurred the inside into warm shapes. Inside: the dull clatter of dishes, the low drone of a jukebox trapped between eras.

      Bill adjusted Ford’s shoulders, rolled them once to settle the posture, then pushed open the door with the kind of casual weight Ford might use. The tin bell overhead tattled out a shrill little report.

        A few heads turned.

Bill walked slow, deliberate. He counted the seconds between each stride. He moved Ford’s legs with care, folding into the nearest booth with precise adjustments—calibrating the crook of one knee, the lean of one elbow, the angle of his spine against the vinyl backrest. He placed both hands on the table, palms down. Just so.

     A waitress appeared beside him in the next breath—apron smudged, cheeks ruddy. “Well I’ll be,” she said, with a surprised laugh. “Professor Pines. How are you?”

     Bill’s gaze dropped to the name tag: Susan. He thumbed through the catalog of Ford’s expressions and settled on something mild. He folded it over Ford’s face like a sheet. “Have we met?” he asked, tone dry, voice scraped just right.

     She tilted her head. “Sure—Reggie’s, a few months back… It was brief.” She said, then she chuckled. “You probably don’t remember—you were pretty stoned. Coffee?”

       “Yes,” Bill replied.

     She poured. The spout whistled a little as it filled the mug—Bill nodded his thanks. She lingered a beat longer, then turned at the sound of the bell behind them.

         “Well, speak of the devil—hey, shug!”

     The shift came a moment before the voice—like a change in barometric pressure. A subtle ripple in the molecules behind him. The smell arrived first: Patchouli. Dense. Herbal. Aggressively nostalgic. It rolled across Bill’s borrowed palate in blooming waves.

     “My, my…” said the voice—smooth as lacquer, low and amused. “Stanford Pines. Fancy seeing you out and upright.”

     Bill straightened. Ford’s spine realigned with a quiet pop. He flexed Ford’s jaw once, testing it for poise, then let a slow breath slip through Ford’s nose. The expression he turned over his shoulder was calm. Controlled. Precise. 

        “Reggie,” he said.

     A smile—small, deliberate—touched Ford’s borrowed mouth.

        “It’s a pleasure.”

     Reggie’s laugh unfurled—slow, oaky, touched with smoke—before he slid into the booth opposite, folding his fingers beneath his chin with a catlike ease.

  “Is it office hours?” he teased lightly, eyes sweeping upward—tracking the neat part in Ford’s hair, the pressed shirt, the way he sat straight-backed like something mounted for display. “It’s been too long.”

     Bill lifted the mug. Steam wreathed the lenses of Ford’s glasses. “I suppose it has.”

     “You suppose?” Reggie echoed, smiling with just a touch too much tooth. His hand slipped into a pocket, procuring a dainty pack of Virginia Slims. He held one between his teeth, then thumbed another before tilting the box toward Ford. 

     Ford was never one to turn down a cigarette—so, Bill accepted, reaching forward and plucking it out of the pack. Reggie lit his with the flick of a lighter, then passed it off—watching Ford do the same.

     Bill inhaled the delicate smoke—Reggie’s cigarettes were far more forgiving than Ford’s, minty, smooth—and Bill was frustrated by the fact he liked them.

    Reggie’s eyes flicked around the diner, feigning distraction—but it was a deliberate circuit, returning almost immediately. When they landed, they stayed. “I remember our last meeting fondly,” he said softly. “You let me ramble—had me thinking you’d bought every word... Then bounced before the check arrived.”

     “Bad habit,” Bill said, nudging Ford’s glasses up the bridge of his nose with one practiced finger. “I’ve got a lot of those.”

     Reggie’s eyes scanned Ford’s face. “You never stopped by for another visit.”

     The remark pricked. Something flared—territorial, proprietary—at the hint that Ford had been expected, wanted, waited for. That he had left a door open.

     “Busy season,” Bill replied, mouth curling around the rim of the cup as he drank.

     “I understand,” Reggie said. “These days no one has time. At least… not serious people—like you.” he said carefully, his arm slithering across the back of the booth. “People on the verge of changing the world…” He tilted his head, drawing the sentence out to its bleeding edge. “Or am I wrong?”

     A pause held between them. The ceiling lights hummed faintly above—then flickered, not enough to draw attention, but enough that the molecules shifted. Bill felt the catch: the tug of something real behind Reggie’s words, a twist in the frequency.

     Reggie leaned forward slightly. “You look tired, Professor.” The words lulled. “You should take it easy.”

     “There’s no gratification in things that come easily,” Bill replied, dry as chalk.

Reggie hummed. “Indulged by your own intellect—like a yuppie is indulged to a pocket full of marching powder.” he said, his grin widening. “You’re like a man possessed.” 

     Ford’s nostrils flared. But the gaze—Bill’s gaze—didn’t waver.

     Reggie leaned in, a subtle shift. Just enough to make the table feel smaller. “Sucked inside your own head. Floating through this little town like a ghost.” He grinned. “Though you’ve still managed to make a name for yourself.”

        “Oh?” Bill asked, teeth just behind the smile.

     “Reclusive. Brilliant. Impossible to approach.” Reggie ticked them off like vices. “Short-tempered. Maybe dangerous. There’s a rumor you laid out Buck Davis in the Dusk 2 Dawn parking lot last fall.”

     Bill tilted Ford’s head, squinting with mild disdain, then waved a hand. “I’m a victim of circumstance,”

     Reggie laughed, a burst of warmth against the tension. “I would expect nothing less from a Gemini.” He tapped the table. “I like it.”

     Bill didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. He didn’t like this performance. Acting like he knew Ford—he didn’t.

     The quiet pressed closer. Grease hissed on the diner griddle. The jukebox tripped into something torchy and faint. Reggie let the hush settle, let the air draw tight and warm—then folded forward, forearms on the Formica, voice pitched just low enough to be swallowed by the next booth’s background chatter.

        “Still seeing someone?”

     Bill’s lashes drifted half-mast—then lifted. “Every night.”

     A satisfied sound vibrated in Reggie’s throat. “Except tonight?” He worried his lower lip with one small bite. “Must be my good karma.”

     Bill set the mug down. Porcelain touched saucer with a clean, intimate sound. The smile that followed was sharp. Small but dazzling. Moonlight on a knife’s edge. “Or mine.”

     The overhead bulb flickered once, just enough to deepen the shadows at the edges of the booth—and both men, predator and unwitting interloper, leaned infinitesimally closer, as if the air itself had tightened the leash.

      Reggie’s cigarette glowed ember-bright as he dipped two fingers—deft, sure—into the inner fold of his jacket. Ash drifted like saffron dust while he drew a card from the silk lining—matte black, edges kissed with metallic sheen, lettering stamped in lunar silver. He laid it down between them with two ringed fingers—an elegant, theatrical gesture—and slid it forward half an inch.

     “In case you ever tire of your… current arrangement.”

     Bill let Ford’s hand drift down. His humb brushed the embossed letters—Reginald L. Carabali—followed by a short list in precise serifs: 

· Astrology · Chiromancy · Parapsychology · Discretion

     And beneath that: a single phone number. The kind that never appeared in a phone book. The kind you didn’t find. The kind that found you.

     A whimsy-résumé, novelty to most. But to Bill, it was unmistakably an invitation—one addressed to Ford, not the occupant.

     “Karma’s a curious ledger,” Bill murmured, letting the card slip from Ford’s fingers. It fluttered once—then settled on the table with a hush of contact. “It very rarely favors the impatient.”

    “No hurry, Professor. We have the whole night ahead of us.” Reggie crooned, tapping ash into a saucer, smoke coiling upward in lazy arabesques. Then he straightened, his fingers drumming once on the table’s surface. “How about something stronger than caffeine?”

     Bill tipped Ford’s head, considering. He echoed the offer in a single raised brow, a movement Ford had perfected for debate and rejection alike—

        “It is your birthday, after all.”

     The expression Bill held dropped from Ford’s face a fraction too fast. “How did you know that?” he asked, a chill slipping through Ford’s tone.

     Reggie didn't miss a beat. “Fiddy mentioned it a while back,” he said. “He had something planned, I think, but…” A slight shrug. “I guess duty calls.”

     He let the moment breathe—then added, smooth as rum, “Maybe that’s more of our good karma.” he said, his knuckles grazing Ford’s wrist.

     Bill felt the contact like a blade slipped beneath his skin. Possessive heat flared: he did not want Ford handled. Not like that. Not by him.

     He studied Reggie through the veil of Ford’s lashes: He certainly was attractive—that was undeniable. A devastatingly symmetrical face with high cheekbones. Dark, radiant skin, the kind that collected all the colors around him, making every hue his. That dense, curling smile tightly lined by a meticulously groomed pencil moustache. His hair—puffy coils illuminated at the edges by cafe lights—crowned his skull like an umber halo.

     Bill took all of it—the rings, the voice, that signature scent clinging to his deliberately casual denim jacket that lingered long after he left—as a threat.

  But it was that pause, that hitch in Ford’s breath—the unguarded flicker of tension—that gave the game away.

     “Come on, Professor.” Reggie coaxed. “Have a drink with me.” 

     He picked the card back up—twirled it once between his fingers—then leaned forward, slipping it into the breast pocket of Ford’s shirt with slow precision.

        A quiet, daring intimacy.

     “Don’t make me ask twice.”

     Bill’s pulse flickered under Reggie’s hand—one beat, hard and hot—then steadied. “Alright,” he said. “But you’ll have to keep up.”

        After that, things unspooled fast.

     Susan’s gave way to Murphy’s, then to El Rey’s Cantina, then to Zoots—One drink became two, then four, Each stop darker, louder, a little farther from the rust-rimmed city-line sign. The air grew thick with old smoke and bass, with sweat and neon and stories no one would remember in the morning.

     Bill let Ford’s body drift toward the deepest hole the woods had to offer, a dowsing rod for experience. Reggie matched him pour for pour, emptying tumblers with a showman’s flourish. Spirits—liquid or otherwise—posed no threat to him.

     Then the fourth stop: a windowless place Reggie described as a little out of orbit, where they could ‘be themselves’. Bill learned quickly: this meant the building was full of men unafraid to touch each other in public. Inside, everything pulsed violet. Low ceilings, higher heat. Bodies touched without flinch: hands on hips, fingertips under chins, laughter looping around chain smoke.

     Bill found the concept silly—the issue humans raised about sexuality. They crowned it king, yet weighed it down with rules and rituals. Fear dressed as etiquette. Fascination laced with shame—it was confusing. It was stupid.

     Although, it also came with a sense of exclusivity. A secret world only a brave slice of the population managed to see—and now that included him.

     He moved like liquid in Ford’s frame. On the floor they became orbitals: Reggie’s palm flattened over Ford’s ribs, heat moving through damp cotton. Bill let it linger, counted two, three, then set his fingertips against Reggie’s sternum—no shove, merely a teasing reset of distance. 

     Reggie only grinned, pupils blown wide in the strobing dark.

     Moments later they collided again in a slash of light: Ford’s curls slick with sweat, Reggie’s lips shining mezcal-sweet. Their faces hovered inches apart—two masks illuminated by the intermittent seizure of strobes.

     Reggie’s breath was hot against Ford’s cheek. “What is this little game you play, Professor?” he shouted over the beat. “Or are you really this hard to get?”

     Bill hooked one finger through a belt loop at Reggie’s hip and tugged him closer. Reggie gasped—hands landing on Ford’s shoulders, gripping tightly. Bill slid Ford’s palms down to Reggie’s waist—guiding his movements with ease, rolling him through the rhythm like tidewater pulling at driftwood.

     “I didn’t have you pegged for a dancer,” Reggie murmured breathlessly, nose brushing Ford’s jaw. “What else are you?”

     Ford’s canines flashed, made feral by strobe. He leaned until his teeth grazed the shell of Reggie’s ear, just as Reggie’s parted mouth found the throb in Ford’s throat, and he whispered:

              “A demon.”

        The syllables plunged through Reggie’s skin like a needle of ice. He froze.

     Then he pulled back just enough to see Ford’s eyes—strobe-flecked, dark, utterly unblinking. 

     Recognition flickered. Something in Reggie’s expression twisted—humor fading, replaced by something weightless. He stared.

     And Bill let him. He didn’t move, didn’t explain. Just stared back

     Music snarled around them, bodies jostled, lights strobed—but between them was a static hush, dense as snowfall, drowning everything out. 

     Finally Reggie’s throat worked around a swallow. His shoes scraped against the sticky floor as he stepped back—slowly, his eyes never leaving Ford’s face.

     Bill just tipped his head—almost courteous, allowing the medium safe passage.

     Reggie turned. The narrow corridor of the bar seemed to telescope before him—walls pulsing inward with each beat of the bass. The EXIT sign burned like a tiny red stitch at the far end, pulsing in time with his breath.

     He pushed forward, slipping through weaving dancers, all sweat and blur and blurting laughter. Someone knocked into his shoulder and apologized loudly—he didn’t answer. Didn’t hear. The air was thick with heat and synthetic fog and fear. 

     He reached the door. Laid a hand on the crash-bar—paused.

      Against instinct, against reason, he looked back. Ford was still there, exactly where he’d been left, motionless in a sea of bodies. 

     The dancers spun and reeled around him like leaves caught in a whirlpool, but he didn’t move. Not a finger. Not a breath. His hands hung loose at his sides, shoulders easy, relaxed. But his eyes—those eyes—gleamed over the rims of his glasses.

        And then he smiled—slow and unsettlingly wide and far too pleased.

     Reggie’s stomach flipped. He pushed through the door with a shove that rattled the frame and slipped into the night, leaving the door to clang shut behind him.

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[Read Entire Work Here]

[Playlist!!]

[deathontheroad]

The Insanity of One's Mind

Episode Title: Treehouse Rules

Staring: . . .

> Characters mentioned/appear in the episode, that don't star in it, will be properly introduced in their respective episode.

______ . . . ______ . . . ______ . . . ______ . . . ______

In the windy day of January, a rickety treehouse, perched precariously on the town's biggest oak tree, groans against the wind. It told tales of numerous storms and winds survived, despite the obvious scorched spots in its walls. It suspiciously smells of burnt marshmallows and rubber tires. Upbeat, slightly off-key whistling can be heard from within the treehouse. Its inside is somewhat more polished than its exterior, but just as disorganized. Though, 'disorganized' couldn't be the word these two could use.

A wall is decorated by tacked-up posters of various fires and shoplifting targets and another is decorated by stolen road signs nailed with rusty nails. An crate, overflowing with a stack of flammable objects, sits on the left corner that has seen better days. A wooden table, its green paint fading away, is covered with newspapers dating back to 1970 and a collection of half-eaten candy bars organized by colors. Next to the table is a box closed by a monstrous amount of duct tape, labeled 'Fireworks (Do Not Touch, Seriously Tap)'.

In the center, a chess board stands on the edge of a whimsically carved stool, with odd mishmash pieces meticulously arranged, threaning to fall. Two figures sit in front of each on the sides of the chessboard, their dark and light brown fur and striped tails brighten by the morning sunlight. Tap is chewing on a matchstick perched on his mouth, his eyes squinted in concentration. His tail swings calmly from side to side, a habit he had since a young age. Tup is absentmindedly twirling one of the stolen road signs around, displaying a defaced 'STOP' sign that now reads 'WAVE!'. A plate of almost finished strawberry pastries laid on the floor, its sweet aroma twirling in the air, grabbing Tup's attention more than the game.

A blue, chipped bottle cap, carefully held by Tap's claws, intended to be his paw, hovered over the chessboard, ultimately landing on a square. Tap smirks, a small chuckle of victory escapes his lips, his eyes shining with stars. "Haha! Checkmake, brother!" He declares, his voice raspy from years of inhaling smoke. He plucks the matchstick from his mouth, pressed and dragged it along the wooden floor, lighting it. He plucks it back to his mouth. "Looks like your reign as champion is over."

Tup rolls his eyes, the defaced road sign slowing to a stop. "Beginner's luck. That's all it was. Your paw was clearly out of bounds. Rule 73, paragraph B, subsection 4; 'All paw movements must originate from within the player's designated sone'."

He knew it's a lie. He wrote the rule book himself, he knows what's inside it. He memorized every single line he put on the pages. "There's no rule like that!" Tap scoffs, moving a clawed finger to point at the chessboard. "You made that up!"

"Did not!" Tup retorts, slamming the road sign against the table, the pieces wobbling. "It's right here in the official Treehouse Rules of Chess!" He gestures vaguely towards a stack of papers balanced on a pile of stolen hubcaps.

"Those are instructions for my Rube Goldberg machine!" Tap exclaims, grabbing the papers and tossing them aside. A hubcap rolls off the pile, narrowly missing the crate labeled 'Fireworks'. "Seriously, Tup, get your facts straight for once!"

"Okay, maybe I misremembered the exact location of the rule." Tup concedes, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "But the spirit of the rule remains! Your move was illegal!"

"The only thing illegal around here is your obsession with bending the rules to your advantage." Tap retorts, leaning back in his stool with arms crossed, eyes narrowed. "You're just jealous because I finally beat you."

Tup stands up, knocking over his stool with a clang, hand on his chest. "Jealous? Please! I let you win. I was feeling generous." He moves towards to strawberry pastries.

"You? Generous? You're about as generous as a swarm of locusts!" Tap scoffs, snatching the last pastry from the plate before Tup can reach it. He shoves the whole thing into his mouth at once, crumbs scattering across his parka.

Tup's eyes narrow. "That was mine! I had my eye on that one!"

"Finders keepers." Tap mumbles through a mouthful of strawberry filling.

That was the last straw. Tup lunges for Tap, aiming for the pastry-filled mouth. A scuffle ensues, sending the table rocking back and forth. The chess pieces tumble to the floor, scattering across the room. The chessboard slides off the stool, crashing onto the floorboards with a loud thud. The defaced road sign clatters to the ground, the 'WAVE!' mocking their childish squabble.

"Get off me, you kleptomaniac!" Tap yells, trying to pry Tup off and shove him away.

"Give me back my pastry, you pyro!" Tup retorts, pulling and clawing at Tap's parka.

Their wrestling match careens through the treehouse, a chaotic dance of flailing limbs and angry snarls. They stumble against the pile of stolen hubcaps, sending them rolling across the floor like metallic tumbleweeds. Lost in their little fight, the twins don't notice the approaching footsteps — or rather stomping — from outside of the treehouse. They're jolted out of their argument when a harsh voice yells out.

"Hey! Keep it down up there, you jackasses!"

They pause their scuffle. The twins freeze, momentarily forgetting their pastry-fueled rage, they exchange nervous glances. Reluctantly, Tap moves over to the treehouse's entrance, only consisting of a trapdoor. He pries it open and look outside. Below on the ground, stands a tall figure dressed in his jammies. Skittles, the ever grumpy honey badger, his black and white fur ruffled and his eyes redder than they were yesterday. A rooster is held under his arm like a football. "Some of us are trying to sleep, you overgrown trash pandas!" Skittles continues to yell, his face turning an even deeper shade of crimson, a vein throbbing in his forehead. The rooster lets out a nervous cluck, flapping its wings weakly. "Dude, it's 11 AM. Why are you still in your pajamas?" Tap retorts, immediately regretting his smart-mouth remark. Skittles' glare intensifies.

"That's none of your fucking business! And it's because of you two that I can't get any sleep! The whole damn town can hear you fighting like a pair of rabid dogs!"

"We weren't fighting! We were... strategizing!" Tup yells from behind Tap, trying to salvage the situation.

Skittles raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Really? That sounded a lot like someone was about to lose a few layers of fur."

Tap sighs, running a paw through his fur. "Look, Skittles, we're sorry. We didn't mean to wake you up. We were just having a... spirited debate about the rules of chess."

Skittles scoffs, rolling his eyes. "I highly doubt that. Last time I checked, chess didn't involve throwing hands and yelling about pastries."

"Details, details." Tup mutters under his breath.

Skittles pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm himself down. "Just... keep it down, okay? I swear, if I hear another peep out of you two, I'm coming up there and make you regret the day you were born."

Tap and Tup exchange horrified glances. That was a threat they took very seriously. "Understood." Tap says quickly, giving Skittles a strained smile. "We'll be quiet as mice."

Skittles glares at them one last time before turning around and stomping back towards his house, muttering about inconsiderate neighbors and the eternal struggle for a decent night's sleep. His rooster lets out a relieved squawk as they disappear from view. Tap closes the trapdoor, leaning against it with a sigh. "Well, that was close."

Tup nods in agreement, a sheepish look on his face. "Maybe we should try to keep it down a little next time."

"Yeah." Tap says, surveying the chaotic scene around him. "And maybe we should clean up this mess before Skittles decides to pay us another visit."

______ . . . ______ . . . ______ . . . ______ . . . ______

[stellarislune]

Andrew x Darling ; Rewind pt. 2

alternate universe where, two years after your failed confession towards andrew, you became his teacher assistant instead! 🤭

here's the link to part one! make sure to read it first.

YOUR POV

Two weeks after that day.

Here you are at Professor Andrew's office.

It's a neat workspace with his table and swivel chair at the far right of the office. It's a new one, it seems. Probably bought not far from a month ago. How do you know? Because you’re a psychic.

You snort to yourself and then you shake your head, feeling silly for distracting yourself from what you’re doing.

Right now, you’re sorting suspended files stacked and stored on his set of cabinets and shelves lined up against the left of the room. According to him, he did not let Luca touch the files since he filed for a one year leave prior to his engagement with his boyfriend—now fiancé.

Based on his words, you quote, "With him and those files around, he won't be able to leave at all. He's far from the skittish, clumsy assistant that I knew of when he first started. He's passionate and hardworking. He's dedicated to finishing on time. He's quite the perfectionist, .. it's almost an obsession for him to perform at best. Ah— I'm rambling. Just make sure to file them per year. I bought face masks to avoid inhaling dust, it's on my first drawer on the table. Use it."

Luca probably will be reluctant to leave with work unfinished, you agree with him. So, with a mask on and a ton (you’re exaggerating) of folders and files, you began to sort each into their subjective years. A few of the files were former submissions from students throughout the years and let's say you have had a good time reading through a few funny and profound reads in between filing.

“The forbiddenness of a fruit..” You trail off, squinting. The handwriting on the paper has been smudged. You can barely make out what the rest of the sentence was. You pulled the paper closer to your eyes in hopes that, by doing so, you can see the words clearly.

“-even makes the taste of a lemon sweet’, is what it says.” A voice continues. “By Mokokoma Mokhonoana.”

The room is suddenly filled with static energy. One spark and it’ll catch fire. You hadn't realized that you were too absorbed into your work that he was right behind you already; snapping you back into reality.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

The room is on fire and you’re the only one seeing it burning.

You lifted my eyes at him in an attempt to steal a glance, and then you resigned yourself back to work.

You cleared your throat and greeted, "Good afternoon, Professor."

"Ever so polite like always, aren't you?" Andrew jests.

“Uhm, Yes..?" You reply, not sure what to say. "I'm, uh, done sorting the files from the first cabinet and it's all of the 2019 ones, Sir." Might as well give your work report instead. You hurriedly dropped the paper you were reading. While the passage was interesting like most of the submitted works, they are still not yours to mess with.

“I see.”

“Yeah.” Awkward.

"So much work done in so little time. I commend that. Here, take this."

Andrew reaches for his bag and retrieves a medium-sized can with a label named ‘Blended Brews’.

You turned to him and accepted it, seeing how it’ll be rude if you do reject it. It felt cold against your hand.

"—I was thinking of having it myself but I already picked up coffee from the main office. It's iced caramel macchiato. If you don't like it, just keep it there nonetheless. You might get thirsty." He adds, walking away to put his bag onto his desk. Stretching his arms before sitting down in his swivel chair.

You stare at the coffee he probably got from one of the vending machines for a while. Then, you responded, “Ah, y-yes. I’ll keep this for later.” You laugh sheepishly before setting it to your side. “Thank you, Sir.”

Silence follows.

If you remember correctly, he is a workaholic. Always in his office, never out, unless he has classes. While the usual professors may be glad to have their classes end, he always looks a tad bit sad whenever classes finish in your perspective.

You heave a sigh.

“You..”, Andrew began, making you glance at him. He clears his throat and continues,“-you don’t have to call me Sir or Professor, you know. We’re colleagues now, and you’re my assistant. That grants us both the privilege of calling each other by name, yes?”

That does make sense. Is it awkward for him perhaps to be called as such since you are no longer a student? Perhaps. Who knows? Another sigh follows.

“Very well,” you cleared your throat, "As you wish, Andrew.”

You did not know whether it was the way you said it but that garnered a hearty laugh from him. His eyes glistening as he shakes his head. His face is the epitome of amusement.

“With how you spoke, it almost catapults me back to the Medieval era,” His lips lifted a little to the side, forming a mischievous smile. “Are you gonna call me ‘My liege’ next, Listener?”

His gaze bore through yours, your eyes staring right into each other.

Your breath hitches.

Just like the first time your heart raced this fast. Being able to openly look at him without the fear of any other assumptions does something to you.

Andrew has always been beautiful in your eyes, and seeing him like this right now just hardens that thought in your head.

“I might?” You responded cheekily upon gathering yourself. “Or would you prefer ‘Your Royal Highness?’”

“That would be incongruent with how I am—I'd worry too much about taxes, security, and healthcare in my head, that I'll probably end up on the guillotine. Or—I'll be too strict that the commonfolk will initiate a coup against me.” Andrew chided.

“A royal advisor, then?” You grinned. You tried not to snort upon hearing the rather grim hypothesis that Andrew responded with.

“Hm, fitting. Did the option ‘troubadour’ never come to your mind?” (troubadours - lyric poet musicians who usually sing of courtly love in the 13th century). Andrew swings his chair to the left, the angle now facing towards you. He opens his mouth as if to continue further, but he closes it. Then, he says, “Nevermind. I'm interfering with your work now—”

“You'd make lovely pieces,” You interrupted as you sorted the last folders on your left. It contained nothing but old, unreadable papers so you’re keeping them for shredding later on. 

“Oh? And have you read any of my work for you to hypothesize such a statement?” His voice sounds.. intrigued. 

“You are a literature and history professor. Isn't that a natural assumption?”

“Touché.” Andrew chuckles, his eyes shining with interest. 

The atmosphere seemed lighter now. The worries you have running in your head are just melting like glaciers underneath the sun’s direct rays.

You thought working with Andrew might be too taxing for you. You fear disappointing him now, like how you feared disappointing him with mediocre submissions way, way back when he was your literature professor. 

However, thinking of it now..

It’s not so bad after all.

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ Watch out for part 3 SOON! 💖

[redfilledfantasies]

Invigorated Muscle (Chapter 7 of 8)

The examination room gleams with clinical precision, its walls reflecting sharp pools of sterile light that slice through the subdued haze of expectation. Every surface glints immaculate, from the polished steel of instruments neatly arrayed to the spotless glass monitors waiting silently for command. Yet beneath this harsh, uncompromising glow, a charged undercurrent hums—intimate and relentless—as three naked women stand at the edge of revelation.

Carmella Hill’s fingers close around the small, wireless transmitter labeled ��3,” the device cool and unyielding against her skin. She lifts it with the ease of habit but the thrill of something deeply uncharted surging beneath the touch. Slowly, deliberately, she presses the transmitter against the apex of her right breast. The heart beneath answers immediately—pounding in fierce waves that throb visibly against the pad of her middle finger. The pulse sends shivers threading along her nerves, each beat a fierce insistence within the fragile shell of skin and muscle. The quicksilver rhythm accelerates, a turbulent tide calling to the quiet tempest wrapped tight inside her ribs.

Opposite her, Lydia Andersson sits poised in the medical chair, the lean strength of her sculpted form stretched taut in soft, naked vulnerability. A delicate glass cup cradled in her hands holds the final Bluttreibstoff pill, suspended like a luminous promise within the clear liquid’s still surface. Her blue eyes flick upward, blazing with quiet certainty beneath lashes dampened faintly with exertion and something more primal. The light catches the sheen of sweat along her collarbone, highlighting the firm planes of muscle and the subtle curves woven between strength and grace.

With calm precision, Carmella’s hand sweeps across the control panel, awakening the Erwachte Pumpe with a soft cascade of electronic hums and flickering displays. The machine’s speakers inhale the silent room’s breath, then exhale a living cadence—a heartbeat swelling into presence that rolls through the space like distant thunder made intimate. The raw, vibrant pulse belongs unmistakably to Lydia: deep, rapid, unwavering—a testament to years of disciplined power and fierce endurance. Each contraction thunders beneath the skin like a driven drumbeat, every valve’s sharp closure snapping through the speakers with startling clarity.

Lydia’s gaze meets Carmella’s, a slow, teasing curve pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Pleasure me, Doctor,” she murmurs, voice velvet and command intertwined. The invitation hangs unspoken yet undeniable, threading through the air like a low, unrelenting current. Without hesitation, Carmella’s breath catches then steadies—her nod swift, firm. “As you wish,” she replies, the words both promise and oath.

Bailey Esposito, standing quietly near the echo-cardiogram console, exhales sharply—her cheeks flushing vivid rose in sudden surprise and hesitant anticipation. “I—I’ll handle the echo,” she murmurs, voice trembling but resolved. Fingers shaking faintly, she reaches out to the Doppler probe, applying the smooth gel with reverent care. Her eyes lift briefly to Carmella’s, seeking reassurance before pressing the device gently against Lydia’s chest, over the apex of the heart.

Between Lydia’s legs, Carmella lowers herself with careful grace, the warmth of bare skin welcoming her with subtle breath and whispered pulse. Her knees settle softly on the cool examination table’s padded surface, the space contracting to a tense sphere of shared heat and simmering intent. Her hands move with both purpose and awe—an echo of her clinical reverence twisted into the thrill of raw intimacy—as they rest lightly against the gentle curve of thigh, fingers tracing slow arcs that speak of both control and surrender.

The screen before Bailey blooms into vivid life—the echo-cardiogram painting a crystalline ballet of Lydia’s heart chambers in motion. Each frame captures precise slices of muscle fiber contracting and relaxing, walls closing around blood surged with urgent force. The mitral and aortic valves flicker open and closed like delicate gates in a temple, allowing the crimson flood to pulse with synchronized grace. Shades of gray and white map the fierce cadence, the rhythmic pounding rippling through the vessel pathways with a hypnotic clarity that draws breath shallow and quick.

Carmella’s voice cuts the growing silence, measured yet carrying a hint of the mounting tension: “Lydia, consume the pill now.”

Lydia lifts the glass, eyes locked with Carmella’s in a fierce, unblinking promise. Her slender fingers tilt the vessel, the cool liquid sliding past parted lips as the pill vanishes, swallowed with deliberate ease. A quiet, reverent pause—then the inevitable surge.

Within fifteen seconds, Lydia’s breath deepens—drawing fuller, heavier, slower as heat blooms along delicate nerves and wetness glistens like liquid fire in the hollow of her sex. Her heartbeat quickens—a surging tide climbing rapidly to one hundred and thirty beats per minute—each powerful contraction spilling into the speakers with amplified force. The valve closures sharpen, more pronounced than before, crackling and snapping through the clinical stillness like a livewire igniting the room’s charged air.

The trio inhabits the moment suspended between science and sensation—the primal pulse of the heart entwined irrevocably with whispered promises and breathless anticipation. Carmella’s fingers twitch on Lydia’s thigh, a delicate tremor tethered to the pounding symphony that floods every nerve, every whispered space, every inch of skin made electric beneath the fierce cadence of desire and discovery.

The screen flickers softly under Bailey’s steady fingertips, its glowing chiaroscuro rendering the tumultuous symphony of Lydia’s heart in breathtaking detail. The contours shift rhythmically—walls of muscle swelling, contracting, weaving a relentless pattern in shadow and light. Slightly enlarged from the arduous burpees and treadmill sprinting moments earlier, the organ swells with a ferocious power that defies fragility. Yet in this swelling, there lies no weakness. Blood flows with perfect grace through open valves, channels flowing unimpeded, veins and arteries singing the sharp arcs of health that only the strongest endurance athletes achieve.

Bailey leans closer, her breath shallow but steady, hazel eyes drinking in the pulse-pounding narrative the echo reveals. The mitral valve swings wide and then snaps closed with pristine clarity, the aortic valve following suit in an unerring dance that seems choreographed by the very forces coursing through the heart’s chambers. She notices the muscle’s thickened walls, each fiber gleaming with the sheen of adaptive strength, a testament to years of deliberate conditioning. This is no ordinary heart; it is a living sculpture forged in relentless pursuit, a fierce engine that refuses limits.

Lydia’s voice breaks the reverent quiet, a low, throaty moan rolling off her tongue, thick with hunger and challenge. “Bitte, Doktor,” she begs, the German accent wrapping each syllable in velvet fire, “Tu dein Bestes!” Her breath hitches, the words vibrating as they spill between soft moans, carrying raw command beneath the surface of tender plea.

Carmella’s lips part in a slow, reverent exhale. She lowers herself with deliberate care, her face approaching the glowing warmth between Lydia’s thighs as the pulses in the echo blend with the palpable heat radiating through the room. Her tongue slides out, wet and sure, tracing soft, teasing spirals that tease the slick wetness gathering beneath quivering folds. The delicate scent of exertion mingles with musk and salt, an intoxicating heady perfume that wraps thick around Carmella’s senses, dragging her deeper beneath the spell.

Fingertips tremble lightly, trembling not with hesitation but with the building storm coiled within. One hand curls to explore herself—a slow, arcing rhythm of slick fingers coaxing fire from unspoken chambers as Carmella licks and nips with mounting passion. The warmth of her own slickness blooms, pooling wet and eager against her palm, pulses of sensation firing sharp and quick, the slow crawl of desire unfurling in waves that shake her with every steady, rising throb.

Lydia’s back arches suddenly, a guttural scream tearing loose from deep within her throat—the fierce, shattering cry of release caught in native tongues, wild and untamed. “Ich komme!” she roars, voice cracking like a whip through the charged air as her heart lurches violently beneath the delicate probe, the powerful thump bursting into a savage crescendo at 180 beats per minute. Each hammering pulse crashes through the speakers with a force that rattles the bones, valves snapping sharply, blood surging with wild, undeniable force. Sweat beads profusely along her temples and down her flushed neck, dripping hot as muscles clench and pulse in relentless rhythm.

A spatter of liquid sprays without warning, hot and urgent, splattering Carmella’s face and slipping wetly into the parted mouth that follows the relentless ride of desire and devotion. Carmella tastes salt and fire, the fierce ecstasy bleeding through the thin barrier of flesh and bone, connecting them in a sacred, primal communion. The wild pounding of Lydia’s heart reverberates through the speakers as the tempest inside her collapses into simmering waves, the storm of pulse and passion slowly giving way to the fragile grace of recovery.

Bailey’s voice rises, tentative yet infused with steady certainty, cutting through the heady haze. “Doctor Hill—Lydia’s vitals are stabilizing,” she announces, eyes scanning the data scrolling across the echo. “Her heart rate’s back to seventy-six beats per minute after fifty seconds. The rhythm’s strong and steady—full recovery expected shortly.”

Lydia exhales deeply, her body slackening with the gentle stretch of supple limbs released from taut tension. She rises with fluid grace, rolling her shoulders with a soft moan that carries the lingering echo of raw intensity. “Unglaublich,” she breathes out, voice husky with exhausted reverence. “This... was incredible.” Her fingers trail lazily along her chest, where the heartbeat still drums loudly, the ferocious power of that life-sustaining pulse singing in steady bursts that echo through the speakers like a thunderous vow.

Carmella forces herself to detach, slipping her trembling fingers from Lydia’s thigh as her own arousal coils in slow, agonizing protest. She straightens, drawing a steadying breath that sharpens into purpose—the looming test for Bailey waiting like a tide rising against fragile control. The flush beneath her skin swells anew, a desperate heat that she fights to quell as the room shifts quietly around her. The suspended moment ripples, the intimate flames flickering within silently awaiting the next breath of wild fire.

“Bailey’s turn,” Carmella murmurs, voice steady but laced with the echo of temptation just stifled. Her eyes flicker with the unspoken promise of what is yet to come, the quiet prelude to an even more intense symphony swelling beneath the fragile surface of science and desire entwined.

Bailey lowers herself into the sleek medical chair with tentative grace, her body taut with an undercurrent of both resolve and fragility. Every breath she draws is measured but tinged with a whisper of nervousness that flutters like a captive bird inside her chest. The soft swish of fabric parting as she loosens the hem of her crimson sports bra is a muted punctuation to the silence; beneath, skin glistens faintly with residual sweat from the earlier tests. Her hazel eyes lift briefly to meet Carmella’s steady gaze, seeking reassurance, finding only the clinical precision tempered by the faintest pulse of shared anticipation.

Lydia steps forward with unshakable confidence, the embodiment of poise and strength as her fingers close around a small glass tumbler filled with water. Nestled inside is a pill, its white surface gleaming like a promise of alchemical mystery. Her voice slips softly through the charged atmosphere, smooth and deliberate. “Bailey, this will unlock new heights. I will pleasure you while Dr. Hill observes the heart’s wildest symphony.” Her sapphire eyes glint with fierce certainty as the words dance between command and invitation.

Bailey’s fingers twitch, curling slightly around the armrests as Lydia offers the pill and glass. The hesitant fingers close around the pill, lips parting with a breath that tastes of both fear and hunger. Carmella moves methodically to the control console, her hands steady as she slides the machine’s settings to transmitter two, the equipment awakening with a soft cascade of hums and flickers. The air thickens as Carmella reaches for the viscous gel, her touch clinical yet reverent as she brushes a generous smear across the apex of Bailey’s left breast. The smooth doppler probe follows, settling lightly over the pulsing flesh, translating the invisible fury within into waves of sound.

The speakers pulse to life, carrying the deep, powerful cadence of Bailey’s heart with startling clarity—a fierce drumbeat of muscular might that resonates beneath the thin veil of skin and muscle. Carmella’s eyes narrow in focus, the echo-cardiogram’s screen painting an intricate portrait of an enlarged, sculpted heart. Walls of ventricular muscle swell with thickened grace, valves snapping open and closed like steel gates commanding an unyielding river. This is no ordinary organ but the embodiment of advanced athlete’s heart—a living testament to the relentless discipline and formidable endurance sculpted through years of training.

Within seconds, Bailey’s breath deepens, drawing in warm, urgent air as a glistening sheen of sweat blossoms along her forehead and down the sleek planes of her neck. A soft moan escapes her parted lips—a trembling, primal sound rising with the escalating tempo of her heartbeat, now climbing rapidly toward one hundred and sixty-five beats per minute. The doppler presses visibly against the taut skin, smacking with every forceful contraction, an intimate percussion marking the fierce storm inside.

Lydia’s lips trail a deliberate path along Bailey’s face, soft kisses blooming across flushed cheeks, the hollow of her throat, and the tender curve of her collarbone. Her touch is both gentle and commanding, igniting sparks that ripple through muscle and nerve. “Such a rare heart you have, Bailey,” Lydia murmurs, her voice thick with admiration and heat. “Powerful beyond measure, a marvel forged in sweat and will.” Each word is a caress that fans the flames already licking at the edges of desire.

Bailey’s fingers shiver as they begin to explore, hesitantly tracing paths over flushed skin, faltering before gathering fierce resolve. Her hand slides lower, dipping beneath the warmth spreading in delicate waves, fingers curling with tentative urgency, stroking through slick heat with trembling intent. A ragged inhale escapes her throat as the touch of her own desire stirs raw and unchecked.

Carmella watches—breath caught, heart pounding a rapid, fierce tattoo—as she slides a hand beneath the taut curve of her own thigh. Her fingers tremble in a mirrored dance, slick and eager, seeking the tender swell that pulses with the same wild, intoxicating rhythm that thrums through the doppler and echoes through the speakers. The merging of sight, sound, and sensation threads a delicate web—where scientific marvel and carnal hunger entwine in a breathless symphony.

Time unspools in a slow, taut coil—each moan, each heartbeat a lightning strike binding body and soul. Bailey’s back arches suddenly, a shudder rippling through muscles clenched with sweet surrender. Her breath breaks free in an urgent cry, the organ beneath the doppler splintering into chaotic fire as ventricular bigeminy streaks through the rhythm in a ten-second blaze of wild discord. The room fractures into silence held sharp and trembling, the fragile balance between breakdown and recovery a sacred dance performed in visceral truth.

Then, like the sudden calm after a storm, Bailey’s heart returns to its powerful, steady drum—a fierce and elegant 65 beats per minute settling in with perfect composure. Her body quivers softly, limbs loose and trembling as waves of release ebb through her veins, while the soft sheen of sweat clings to warm skin like a second breath of life. The echo-cardiogram paints the image of mastery—the fierce heart once broken, now healed and pulsing with renewed vigor.

The room breathes with reverent awe, the fragile boundary between science and the human soul stretched wide and raw beneath the cool clinical light. Carmella’s eyes flicker between the glowing monitor and the spent figure resting softly in the chair—the beautiful, powerful mystery that is heart and desire revealed, unguarded, in the quiet aftermath of wild intensity.

Carmella’s fingers glide across the control panel with deliberate care, the sleek machine pulsing softly as she shifts to transmitter three. A current surges through the room as her own heartbeat unfurls through the speakers—deep, urgent, a potent drum beating at a steady 140 cycles per minute. The sound fills the sterile air, an intimate rhythm carved in sinew and blood, a fierce anthem proclaiming power restrained and ready to ignite.

She closes her eyes briefly, the familiar pounding echo folding into the layered tapestry of tension woven tightly within the room. The image of herself—exposed beneath the clinical lights, skin flushed from exertion, the sleek pulse visible beneath pale flesh—coalesces like a living portrait. A slow, steady breath brushes across her parted lips, anchoring the delicate balance between control and surrender.

Then, without warning, Lydia closes the space between them in a heartbeat, the soft whisper of movement eclipsed by the sudden, fervent press of lips upon Carmella’s. The kiss crashes deep and fierce, tongues weaving with urgent mastery as hands anchor strong shoulders. The warmth surges like wildfire, unrelenting, stealing breath and time with every slick press and hungry slide. Carmella’s heartbeat spirals instantly, vaulting past restraint to explode in a relentless storm pounding at 175 beats per minute.

Her body responds with electric abandon, the pulse thrumming like a thunderclap against ribs and sinew, skin flushed to a burning rose that shimmers under harsh clinical glare. Fingers curl tight on the desk’s edge, knuckles blanching as each breath she steals comes faster and sharper, jagged flames licking through lungs desperate for air.

The kiss shatters with a lingering gasp, Lydia’s sapphire eyes glinting with triumphant flame as she pulls back, voice a low purr curling with dark promise. “You know what to do...” she breathes, an unspoken challenge entwined with invitation, eyes locked fiercely upon the trembling pill resting in Carmella’s palm.

A flood of thought crashes against resolve—a tempest where the weight of reputation, desire, and uncharted discovery clash like savage waves. The pill gleams like forbidden promise, a secret key poised on the cusp of revelation and surrender. Carmella’s breath falters, throat tight with sharp ache, but with trembling hands raised in quiet defiance, she swallows. The pill vanishes like a spark, igniting the raging inferno coiled deep inside.

The transformation sweeps over her with stunning velocity. Flushes bloom across skin, waves of heat pulsing like molten fire trapped beneath fragile membranes. Her heartbeat grows to a roaring anthem, each thud a reverberation of power and unyielding life that crackles through the speakers, amplified and raw. Veins swell faintly beneath pale flesh as chest heaves, the pulse visible in fierce throb beneath taut skin—muscle contracting with ferocious force in a dance of electrical tempest.

Lydia and Bailey watch in silent communion, their breaths held in taut suspension as they witness the unfolding revelation. Lydia’s eyes sparkle with ravenous anticipation, a knowing hunger etched in every gaze, while Bailey’s cheeks burn with awe, her wide eyes reflecting the wild pulse cascading through Carmella’s form. Together, they stand witness to the fusion of science, desire, and sublime surrender played out beneath clinical light.

As the machinery hums in solemn crescendo, the stress test unfolds with relentless intensity—each number streaming across the monitors a salvo in a symphony of endurance pushed to its perilous edge. Carmella’s breath quickens, muscles coiling tight beneath layers of skin, her entire being thrown into vivid, electric life. The test is more brutal, more exhilarating than anything before—a slow-burning wildfire racing toward unknown horizons.

The three women move within the fragile orbit of possibility, their pulses synced yet distinct—a trinity bound by science and raw human passion. And as the night presses deeper, the clinic becomes both sanctuary and crucible, a sacred chamber where hearts beat with wild abandon, shattering boundaries and shaping destinies beneath the soft hum of advancing discovery.

[eldritchbeingisbored]

The Vines And Thoughts That Crawl

Hi! This is one sentence, and it's like a stream of consciousness thing. Sorry for the formatting, tumblr won't let me pay it in a big block of text. Sorry if it is hard to read since there are like no paragraph breaks, I wanted it to be like a constant rambling with only breif pauses.

TW - unsettling imagery

I was born silent and still; I stayed that way until I awoke some years later; only then did I scream with such passion as to make myself heard amongst the writhing vines, and I think they were also screaming some, but I'm unsure; I've gotten used to that unusual feeling of not being certain about something I have known for my entire life, but it still feels wrong, just like the vines on my skin; they tighten around me and never do they let go, for the vines are not supposed to let me go, that's what their master told them, at least; the bones are all that is left of the person who once commanded them, so I do not know what they may have told the vines, and I do not know if the vines are conscious or if they are just like those machines crafted by those who call themselves humans and proclaim that they have souls, but nonetheless, the vines persist, growing and changing their form as they live and die, forever keeping the masses of the species alive, and as they lived and died, I heard them whisper their legends about me, and I knew that they noticed my screaming; the vines always noticed those things that I did, and I didn't care much, I wasn't concerned about things like that, no, I was much too trapped in my thoughts to care about that; oh, how I was trapped in my thoughts, they crawled over me like bugs, and they bit my body with the force of their anguish, I wanted to escape from the bugs that were my thoughts, but I could not, for my thoughts were me, and I was my thoughts, cursed to keep on living together, and I was not dying any time soon, for my vitality remained, though I was ancient compared to all the living vines, but some of the oldest dead ones had been dead hundreds of years before I was born, and by the time I opened my eyes, they had already turned to dust, succumbing to decay before I could touch them and know what it was like to feel that they were living, and oh, how I longed to be like the old vines, simply dust destined to never be disturbed by the wind because it never went to this place; the oldest vines were free from the thoughts that never stopped wriggling in my intestines,

the thoughts that scraped across my skull and fed on my fingernails; the ones that crawled into my open mouth and were trapped there, lodged in my throat, and I was suffocating because of them; I inhaled in short gasps and exhaled in broken screams as they pulled at my eyelids and burrowed into my chest; the thoughts crawled into my stomach and flew around like moths, hoping to escape, and when they couldn't, they gnawed at the walls of my organ until they got out, spilling into my chest cavity and crawling on my ribcage until they found my heart and lungs, and there they stayed, if only for a few moments, as the vines wrapped around my wrists and prevented me from escaping and clawing at my face until skin was caked under my fingernails; the vines wrapped around my waist and gripped my ankles; I thrashed around and screamed and screamed and screamed until I coughed up the thoughts, but the vines held me still, and it wasn't long before more thoughts crawled into my mouth and down my throat; on that day, which may have been many days, I cried; salty tears dripped down my face, killing thoughts because they were leeches, sucking my blood to feed themselves, the greedy beings, and at that point I had forgotten that the thoughts were me, and then I labeled them all kinds of things, hoping to gain some kind of upper hand in this mental battle with my hopeless rhetoric and my attacks that were not structured concepts, but rather angry outbursts, and I raged on like that for years because I had nothing else to do, until one day I heard the vines’ whispers, really heard them, and it was about the one whose bones sat at my feet; the vines were praying for them to come back, not knowing that they were long dead, and I was sad for the vines, even as my thoughts pulled me apart bit by bit, thousands of tiny bugs eating me, because they were praying for something that would never happen, just like the humans did, just like I did, and I wondered if there was anyone who didn't do this, or if it was just a part of existing, and this wondering quieted the incessant buzzing of the thoughts, so my eyes closed, and

I fell asleep for the first time since I was born, and in my dream, I found peace, and I suddenly realized what catharsis meant, I experienced my own kind of ecstacy in that dream, and then I woke up again; suddenly everything was both worse and better and tearing me apart; what was living if dreaming was better, and what was dreaming if it wasn't real, and the knowledge of the thoughts of the plants surrounding me engulfed my mind in a sea of noise; I didn't understand the vines before this moment, not really, and now that I did, I heard them crying out for love that I wished I could give them, and I was truly sad for them again, but for some strange reason, I also had the compulsion to rip and tear through them with my claws, they were claws, I remember remembering that, but I am not sure,  memories slip past me, even when I try to hold onto them. 

[stuckinuniformdevelopment]

@janitorlarry7

(Previous) "I-I see.." Larry listened and looked down at his legs for a brief moment upon Teddy mentioning them before following right behind him to another room. "..Is there no protective gear for them whatsoever or something?"

The door shut immediately after Larry entered. The hiss of gas flooding into the chamber happen to coincide with Teddy sharply inhaling through his teeth, much to his relief.

He didn’t want Larry to think he was being a bother for requesting proper PPE. Far from it! He just... wasn’t sure how to help.

Teddy crossed his arms and put his hand on his chin as he waited for the chamber to do its thing. What would cover his legs that wouldn’t create a tripping hazard..? He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice that the door to the laboratory had opened at first.

The main floor was arranged in a grid with machines and small research stations taking up a square or two, with walkways down the middle and supplies hung on the walls.

“I’ll find something,” Teddy said as he stepped out of the decontamination chamber.

He briefly paused to check the progress of a weaving machine on his way to a door opposite of the door he entered. It was labelled, “Cleaning Supplies & First Aid” with safety posters surrounding it.

Once they reached it Teddy turned to go in the room right next door. It turned out to be a walk-in closet full of various assorted clothing. Including some lab coats and uniforms mixed in with the rest.

One side of the room was lined with long, short drawers labelled with numbers. He opened a few before finally pulling a vacuum sealed bag out of drawer 47.

“These may be a bit baggy..,” Teddy said as he pulled the pants out and put the shirt back, "...but I made these for Freddy so hopefully they’re long enough.”

Then he smiled while holding them out to Larry. “I’m glad you said you’d rather have a rash than risk arachnomorph venom.”

[nepawholesale]

Do Backwoods Cigars Have Nicotine? Everything You Need to Know 

Backwoods cigars are a popular choice among cigar enthusiasts and casual smokers alike, known for their rustic appearance, sweet aroma, and smooth draw. But one of the most frequently asked questions is: Do Backwoods have nicotine? 

If you’re curious about the nicotine content in Backwoods or wondering how they compare to cigarettes or other cigars, this blog has the answers. 

What Are Backwoods Cigars? 

Backwoods are machine-rolled cigars made with 100% natural tobacco and a genuine tobacco leaf wrapper. Originally introduced in the 1970s, they became popular due to their unrefined look and wide variety of flavors, including Honey Berry, Sweet Aromatic, and Honey Bourbon. 

They are often marketed as mild, but don’t let that fool you, Backwoods cigars still contain real tobacco, which means they do contain nicotine. 

Do Backwoods Cigars Contain Nicotine? 

Yes, Backwoods cigars do contain nicotine. Since they’re made entirely from natural tobacco, they have a naturally occurring amount of nicotine. The exact amount can vary based on the specific variety and how much of the cigar is smoked. 

On Average: 

One Backwoods cigar contains approximately 1.2 to 1.6 mg of nicotine if fully inhaled. 

However, because most cigar smokers don’t inhale deeply like cigarette smokers, the actual nicotine absorption can vary. 

How Do They Compare to Cigarettes? 

Compared to cigarettes: 

Nicotine content in a Backwoods is often higher per unit due to the larger amount of tobacco. 

However, the nicotine absorption may be lower if the smoke isn’t inhaled. 

Cigarettes are designed to be inhaled, leading to quicker and more direct nicotine intake. 

Are Backwoods Addictive? 

Because they contain nicotine, Backwoods cigars are potentially addictive, especially for those who smoke them regularly or inhale the smoke. Nicotine is a highly addictive substance, and repeated exposure, regardless of the tobacco product, can lead to dependence. 

Why Do People Choose Backwoods? 

Despite the nicotine content, many choose Backwoods for their: 

Flavor variety 

Smooth draw and mellow hit 

Rustic, natural style 

Popularity in rolling herbal blends 

Final Thoughts: Know What You’re Smoking 

If you're smoking Backwoods cigars, you're consuming nicotine. While the experience may feel lighter or more casual than cigarettes, the risks related to nicotine and tobacco remain. Whether you're a seasoned cigar smoker or just curious, it's important to make informed choices. 

Always enjoy tobacco products responsibly, and if you're ever unsure about what's in your smoke, checking the label or asking your local smoke shop is a good place to start. 

Looking for premium cigars, wraps, or smoking accessories? Check out your local smoke shop or explore wholesale options for the best Backwoods deals and flavors. 

[adinathinternationalindia]

Test Tube Sticker Labeling Machine

A flexible and easy-to-use device, the Test Tube Sticker Labeling Machine is used to apply sticker labels to test tubes, inhalers, vials, and round ampoules. The device is renowned for its advanced features and functionality. Its cutting-edge system also makes it possible to mark spherical objects with both microscopic and unequal sizes.

The device reduces downtime for maximum production outputs while saving overhead costs and valuable time. Our tube labeling machine has a 120 unit/minute manufacturing capacity and self-protects against voltage variations. The following industries frequently employ Adinath’s tube labeling equipment for sticker labeling operations.

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Food and beverage

The pre-programmed label length detection technology removes the need for manual inputs, and it has a single point synchronized speed control mechanism. When it becomes necessary to change the label size, the label length data that has been stored in memory can be retrieved at any moment. A.C. variable frequency drive system is also included.

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