#Inspection Slitting Machine

[angelx]

warnings: nsfw! pussy drunk bf! katsuki, timeskip au, i headcannon this like months ago but i finally dared to post it, pussy eating, cunnilingus, katsuki is pervert

pussy drunk katsuki who can't help to do a little inspection once in a while...

Like imagine this. He’s laid between your thighs like he’s clocked in at the lab, gloves off, safety goggles metaphorically on, and his tone is like he’s narrating for National Geographic:

“Look at it—fuckin’ glistenin’. You see that? She’s already drippin’and I ain’t even touched her yet.” (Yes. He refers to your pussy as her. With reverence.)

“So damn soft... fuckin’ pink as hell… tight, too. She clenching just from me breathin’ on her?”

He runs a thumb along your slit—slow, lazy, methodical—and watches like your body’s reacting to him like a machine he built himself. He spreads you open, just slightly, gaze dark and intense like he’s about to write a peer-reviewed paper.

“You see that?” he mutters like you’re not right there gasping, “Already suckin’ me in. Greedy lil’ thing. How the hell is this real?”

“Katsuki—”

“Nah, don’t talk. I’m inspectin’. This is serious business.”

And when he finally puts his mouth on you?

Oh, it’s over. It’s OVER.

Because he eats you out like he’s on a timer, like he’s proving a point, like he’s trying to become one with the pussy. Man’s got a technique and a personal vendetta. It's all growling, sucking, slurping, moaning, and not a single fuck given about being polite. He’s out here trying to break records.

And if you try to squirm away?

Nope. Denied. He grips your hips so hard, dragging you right back to his face like:

“Nah, sweetheart. You’re stayin’ right fuckin’ here until I’m done.”

(He’s never done.)

And the worst part? (Best part.) He remembers everything. How your pussy looks when you’re just a little turned on. How it flutters when you’re close. How it throbs when he growls against it. Man could draw your pussy from memory. He’d win a forensic sketch competition with just vibes.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

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[casstheasswrites]

NO SAINTS, NO SAVIOURS (9)

pairing: frank castle x reader (female)

summary: wrong place, wrong time. he saved her life, she patched him up. that should’ve been the end of it. some nights, you survive. others, you change.

trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. at times, you get soft!frank. at others, he takes no prisoners. we love the duality of man <3

chapter length: 7.6k

authors note: PREPARE FOR ANGST AND HELLA YEARNING. in case you want more of this story faster, i've got ELEVEN chapters posted on my AO3 (linked below). just going to start double posting here on tumblr too :) i hope you enjoy and pls pls send me a message with your feedback or thoughts, if you have any! thanks a million.

archive of our own / feedback appreciated!

Frank guided you down a flight of rusted metal stairs behind a maintenance gate you never would’ve noticed on your own— half-shielded by ivy and shadows, as if the city itself had tried to forget it existed. You ducked your head as he pulled open a reinforced metal door, the hinges shrieking their protest. He then led you down a series of long, concrete hallways, until finally his footsteps slowed. The floor inclined, just slightly, like you’d moved just barely underground. He led you to an old and rusted green door, with the words MGRS OFFICE affixed to the front in worn letters. There was a keypad lock keeping the door sealed shut, and he made quick work of twisting the numbers into combination and then pushed his way inside. You followed just a step behind.

Inside was nothing but darkness, the air thick and damp like an old tomb.

The moment you crossed the threshold, the scent of old concrete and machine oil wrapped around you like a worn blanket. Cold, metallic, just sharp enough to sting your nose. You winced, unable to stop yourself. It was the kind of smell that would linger on your clothes and in your hair. That told you this was not a place for comfort— this was a place for survival. As if Frank himself hadn’t already warned you.

A soft click sounded, and overhead, a string of bare bulbs buzzed to life. The light was dim and flickering, strung up across the ceiling by stripped copper wire. They cast long, uneven shadows against the concrete of the walls, of the floor, revealing just enough of the room to let your imagination fill in the rest.

It was… small. Not cramped, but close. Like the space itself had been carved out in secret and never meant to be found again.

You turned slowly in place, taking it all in. Utility shelves were piled with supplies, dozens of canned goods and other non-perishables. Upon closer inspection, you noticed several boxes of MREs— your brow furrowed at the sight, your heart clenching within your chest. If this had been how Frank had been living, it was no wonder he’d seemed to savour every bite of the breakfast you’d made that morning.

As you looked around, you somehow managed to keep your expression guarded, neutral. You could feel the weight of Frank’s eyes on you— just for a beat, just long enough for him to step around you, immediately crossing the room. Getting to work. Not a second to waste.

Two small windows sat high on the far wall— thin slits of glass fogged by time and purpose. The panes were clouded, blurred with privacy film or something like it, designed to let light in but keep the world out. You couldn’t see through them— just barely-there hints of shifting shapes, the vague suggestion of movement. Like shadows behind a curtain. If it weren’t night, you figured that sunlight would filter in soft and dull, casting a muted gray glow that would do little to brighten the space. The bunker— that’s what you likened it to— was just a floor below ground level.

Water stains crept like spiderwebs across the ceiling. A military cot sat pushed into one wall, a single gray blanket folded at the edge. There was a sad excuse for a pillow at one end, flat enough that it likely didn’t do much. Two battered metal desks were pushed together near the center of the room, their surfaces buried beneath weapons, maps, and stray boxes of ammunition— some open, others sealed tight. The far corner of the room, across from the door, held a folding chair draped with a flannel shirt, sleeves frayed at the edges, elbows worn straight through. Near it, a mini fridge kicked on with a groan, like even it was reluctant to keep going.

There were no photos. No books. No softness.

You could feel Frank in every inch of it. This was who he was, when you weren’t around.

You stepped closer to the desks, further into the room, careful not to make too much noise. The back wall of the room was completely covered in notes, maps, blurry black-and-white photographs with red circles drawn around faces. Some had Xs through them, others didn’t. You knew what that meant.

Most of the faces in the photos were strangers. A few… weren’t. The men from the subway that first night, weeks ago, were there. Already marked as dead. And the men from the hospital, too. Red marker connected both sets of men— and in the middle— a photo of you. It was a candid shot, taken from distance, just outside your apartment building. It was from before the hospital— so he’d been watching you before that, too. Around your photo there was no red circle, no messy printing with details or crimes, just your first name scrawled beneath. The ink ran a bit around the last letter of your name; like his hand had paused there for a beat too long.

Everyone else on the board had more information affixed to the space around their photo; news articles, print-offs from the web, crimes they’d been accused of. But not you. There was no deep dive, no history searched and shared. Just your name, handwritten in that sharp, slanted scrawl you were starting to recognize. It made something stir in your chest— something you didn’t have the name for. He hadn’t needed more information. He’d already made up his mind about you.

You swallowed the knot in your throat and stepped back again, gaze flicking to the ceiling.

You could hear the city moving just overhead— traffic rumbling, pipes groaning, someone’s muffled footsteps echoing through old infrastructure. On the way over, Frank had told you this place used to be a building manager’s office— tucked in the basement of some forgotten apartment complex on the far edge of Hell’s Kitchen. While people still lived in the many floors above, the basement hadn’t been used in decades and he’d been here for months. Knew every bolt, every blind corner. Every way in… and out. He told you that tomorrow, he would run you through each of them, just in case.

Just as you turned towards him, Frank shifted in your direction, one of his hands lifting towards your back. You paused, waiting to see what he was doing, before you realized— his hand slid over your shoulder and wrapped around the strap of your backpack, giving it a gentle tug until it began to slide backwards. He removed your bag and carried it towards the cot— the one cot— before he set it down at the edge.  

Then he turned to you, expression clear in the half-light, waiting. He looked exhausted— not just from the day, but from the weight he always seemed to carry. You knew it well. Still, there was something in the way he watched you. Like he was waiting for you to flinch, or settle, or leave. But you didn’t do any of those things.

“I’ve had worse,” you said, voice a little quieter than you meant it to be.

One corner of his mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. Just that unreadable expression he always wore when he didn’t want you to see how he really felt.

You weren’t sure what you wanted to see, anyway.

The bunker was cold. That much was obvious, but you imagined it was intentional, too. Frank couldn’t afford warmth. Not in his body, not in his bones, and definitely not in the places he chose to rest his head. Comfort made you soft, slow. And he didn’t survive by being either of those things.

You were grateful for the jacket you’d grabbed before you left. Grateful for the extra layers beneath it, even though the fabric was already starting to cling in the wrong places— damp from exertion, heavy with the day. Still, the chill found its way in. It crept under the hem of your sweater, licked at the delicate skin between your knuckles. Settled at the base of your neck and stayed there. A hint of what was to come.

Without realizing it, your feet had carried you toward the desks in the middle of the room. His base of operations.

You paused a few inches away from the edge of the nearest desk, your eyes drifting across the objects arranged there. Not messy, not cluttered— just deliberate in a language you didn’t speak. Clips. Ammunition. An oversized, cracked radio with the casing half-screwed off. The thing had dial upon dial on it, and you wondered if it might have been older than you were. You’d never seen anything like it before. Next to it, there was a notepad filled with numbers, scratched out and rewritten again. Frequencies, maybe. Paths he’d tried to explore and deemed unworthy.

You didn’t touch anything. You just looked, scanning over his world without stepping into it.

Frank wasn’t far. He’d dropped into the nearby folding chair, a half-turn away from you. One of his pistols lay disassembled in front of him on the other side of the desk, pieces laid out like organs on a metal table. He moved with that same precision of motion he always did— like he was saving every ounce of energy he had for something that might need killing later.

He reached for a small black bottle with no label and uncapped it. The sharp, chemical scent of it hit the air instantly, and your nose scrunched before you could help yourself. It was acrid and bitter, something that didn’t belong in lungs. But Frank didn’t flinch. Instead, he poured a bit onto an old rag, the cloth already dark from past use, and started to press it delicately against specific spots along the exposed barrel. He moved with surgical precision; a man who’d done this a time or two before.

It was like watching a ritual. Not worship, not quite. But familiar. His shoulders stayed low, steady, the way they always did when his mind was a thousand miles away but his hands remembered the route. Autopilot.

You leaned your hip against the edge of the desk, arms crossed loosely over your chest, and watched him for a while.

He looked up once, just for a split second. His gaze met yours, weighted and familiar, but he said nothing.

He just kept going.

When the weapon was finished— clean, reassembled, gleaming beneath the low light— he cleared his throat. He didn’t look at you this time, just tilted his head slightly toward your bag at the foot of the cot.

“Hand yours over,” he said, voice low, steady. “Gotta keep a weapon like that clean. Can’t afford to let it jam.”

You hadn’t even considered it, the idea of cleaning your gun. The idea that you’d need it more than once. But of course he had— of course Frank had already thought through every variable. His back-up plans had back-up plans.

You moved back toward your bag and unzipped the front pocket, fingers closing around the familiar shape of your weapon. When you returned, you didn’t set it down in front of him. You just stood there, waiting. Waiting for him to look up.

And when he did, you held his gaze, a sharp set to your jaw.

“Show me how,” you said. Quiet, but firm. Your voice was steady, even if your insides weren’t. They trembled beneath the weight of what you were asking for— the burden you were willingly taking on. You knew that if Frank taught you, he’d expect you to keep up with it. It would be a job that would be all yours. “I need to learn, don’t I?”

Frank’s eyes held yours for a long moment. He didn’t blink. You could see something working behind those coffee-coloured irises, the amber in them flickering in and out of sight. It was like he was trying to read you, figure out what it meant that you were asking this, and what it might cost. You or him, you weren’t entirely sure.

Finally, he exhaled.

“S’not a bad idea,” he muttered, dragging his hand across his jaw. “Just surprised, is all.”

You won’t always be around, you wanted to say. But you knew if you did, the words would come out laced with hostility— like you were bitter. And that wasn’t how you meant it; not really. It was more like you had grown… resigned… to that fact. That as much as the two of you had begun to accept this new dynamic, as partners, there was an inevitable expiration date. And each day brought you closer to it.

You knew that no matter when that time came, it would be too soon. Because now that you’d begun to know him, how could you go back to being only strangers?

You swallowed the emotion clawing at the back of your throat, doing what you could to push it down, shove the thoughts away. You could wallow in it all later; for now, you needed to focus.

The bunker around you was quiet, still. The air in here didn’t seem to move much, growing stagnant around you, pinning you down with the weight of it. One of the bulbs overhead flickered, just once, and your gaze briefly darted up towards it. It didn’t flicker again; you wondered, for a beat, if your mind was playing tricks on you. If it was an external representation of the turmoil happening inside.

You set the gun down on the desk before him, next to his own. Frank looked at it for a second, then shook his head. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he nudged it gently back toward you with one finger, eyes dipping between your face and the weapon.

“Nah,” he said. “Keep your hands on it. This is yours now.”

He reached across the desk, clearing space, shifting aside a rag and an open bottle of that same, bitter solvent. Then he leaned back, and nodded to the gun in front of you.

“Alright. Clip comes out first.”

Your fingers wrapped around the grip and you did as you were told. You heard the clip click free, felt the subtle shift in weight as the metal slipped from the grip. It startled you, for a beat, how easily handling the weapon had become. Your hands were steady, no hint of shakiness.

“Now pull back on the slide, there— yeah, like that. What do you see?”

You squinted, turning it onto its side, peering inside the open chamber. “Nothing… it’s empty.”

“Good. You gotta check that every time. Don’t skip it.”

You nodded, jaw set tight, even as your heartbeat pounded at the base of your throat.

“Now you need to pull the trigger.”

You hesitated, eyes flaring wide. You gaze jolted to Frank’s. “What?”

“There’s no round, no clip, no danger. It’ll click. You gotta hear that. Then rack it again.”

You obeyed, the sharp metallic click breaking the silence between you.

He walked you through the next steps— each motion careful, efficient. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t over-explain. Just simple, spare instructions, delivered in that gravel-worn tone of his. You were clumsy at first— your fingers slipped, fumbled, and you cursed once under your breath when the recoil spring jumped sideways.

Frank stood and leaned into your side, the warmth of his chest brushing across your back, your shoulder. His hand closed gently over yours atop the weapon— not stopping you, just redirecting. He adjusted the pressure you used on the weapon, loosening your grip with a nudge of his fingers over yours.

“Here,” he murmured, voice low enough that you felt it more than heard it. “You’re pressin’ too hard. Let it slide into place. Don’t force it.”

You didn’t dare move. Couldn’t. The heat from his palm bled into your skin, and suddenly everything else in the room blurred into background noise. The hum of the lightbulb above you. The low buzz of the fridge. All of it, gone.

All that remained was the way his fingers wrapped around yours, the steady rhythm of his breath against your temple. His scent settled around you, hints of salt and something warm, like a late-night campfire on the beach, waves rolling against the shore. For another moment he didn’t move, just stood there, hand on yours, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or press in closer.

When he finally pulled away, it wasn’t abrupt. More like the kind of retreat that takes effort— like the parting of hands that almost forget they don’t belong there. You watched him as he went, unable to tear your gaze away. His eyes lingered a second too long on your fingers before he reclaimed his seat, jaw tight like he’d given away more than intended.

“You’re getting it,” he said, voice rough again, but not unkind. He watched each of your movements carefully, like a teacher who knew you could do it on your own— but wanted to stay within arms reach, just in case. “Keep goin’.”

You did. You finished the disassembly, with his instructions, and lined up the pieces of the weapon in the same way he had. Next, he handed you the rag he’d used on his own weapon, and you turned your gaze to his, your eyes hesitant, questioning.

“How much do I use?” you asked, teeth digging into your bottom lip. He chuckled and nodded, unscrewing the cap from the solvent for you. Not overstepping, but helping.

“It’s not like WD-40,” he said. “It’s just for slippin’ between the parts. Keepin’ it smooth. A few drops is all you need.”

And so you did as he told you; you dabbed a few drops of the oil in the areas he pointed to with one of those long, thick fingers of his. It took you a beat too long to draw your eyes away from it. He then walked you through how to reassemble the weapon, only stepping in with instruction when you paused, eyes wandering to his, lost. You managed to work your way through a few of the steps on your own, and your eyes flickered to Frank’s when you finished— the warmth in his gaze made your heart soar within your chest.

You handed it back to him for a once-over and he didn’t hesitate. The way the weapon moved in his hands was much different to how it had in yours— to you, it was unfamiliar, a new object you weren’t sure you wanted to learn. But to Frank, it was like an extension of himself, something he knew like the back of his hand.

He checked it through once. Twice.

You waited with bated breath, nerves frayed, eyes locked on his face. And finally, his gaze lifted to yours, and his lips curved just slightly in one corner. You were startled by how much amber had leaked into his eyes— more than you’d ever seen before. The shade of his eyes nearly glowed in the dim light coming from above.

“Atta girl,” he said, the words coated in nothing but warmth. Pride. “Good work. Real good.”

The praise landed like a match to dry grass, a sudden flame that caught too fast. It travelled across your entire body, your cheeks flushing, crimson springing to your pale skin. Then it traced a trail down the center of your body, pooling at your core, burning you from the inside out. Your lips parted, breath catching on nothing, and for a moment, you couldn’t even remember how your hands worked. You were still. There was nothing within your mind, just the echo of those words— “Atta girl”— circling around and around, like a carousel you couldn’t climb off of.

You weren’t used to hearing praise like that. Not from someone like him. Not from anyone. It lodged somewhere deep, unfamiliar— dangerous, maybe, given how much you wanted to hear it again. Like there was a tank that needed to be filled, and he’d just given you the first few drops. You were an addict and he’d slipped you your first taste.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed— how long you’d allowed the room to lapse into silence. When your heart had finally stopped pounding against your ribs, your eyes refocused, and you found that he was still watching you. There was a hint of something on his face, like he was weighing his options again… trying to decide whether or go left or right. Just as your lips parted, about to ask him what he was thinking, he stood from the chair and began to nod his head. He’d made up his mind. Chosen his path.

“Now what do you say I teach you how to use this thing properly, yeah?”

You went still all over again; the gun in your grasp suddenly gaining weight. It shouldn’t have— you’d already fired it once, been prepared to use it a second time, if it hadn’t been Frank who’d appeared in your apartment the day before. But he was right. You didn’t have the first clue what you were doing when that cool metal was pressed into your palm. And if you wanted to keep going on this path, walking alongside him, you’d need to learn.

Who better to teach you than him?

Slowly, you began to nod, a nonverbal confirmation. You were buying in; whatever he wanted you to know, you’d do your best. He was the expert… and you hoped you could be a fast learner. You hoped he might give away some more of those warm words, the one that had you shift your weight again, your insides still overheated.

You wanted to believe that what you lacked in strength, you could make up for with speed and agility. Before the last few weeks, you had regularly been going to the gym, always focused on endurance training and gradually increasing your strength in the areas you needed it. But you’d been losing weight, too, and you had a feeling that a lot of what you’d lost had been muscle. It would take time to build that up again.

“Alright,” Frank said, pulling you from your thoughts. With a jerk of his head, he directed you to back up a few steps, spread further into the room where there were less obstacles. His gaze never left you, even as you moved. It was hard not to shrink beneath the weight of his eyes, because this time, he was looking for something in particular— he was critiquing. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Back foot slightly behind. Put your weight on the balls of your feet— knees soft, not locked.” He paused, waiting for you to do as he’d said.

You adjusted, shifting until you found something that felt like balance. It wasn’t comfortable, not even remotely, and didn’t feel natural. But it felt like you could move in any direction, quickly, if you needed to. That was probably the point.

He approached you, then, and began to move around you in a slow semi-circle. He was quiet, just watching. There was something about the way he moved— measured, assessing. Like he was watching not just your stance, but the way you held your fear. Like he was deciding what kind of fighter you might become.

“Now your grip,” he said and you lifted the gun in your hands, eyes following the movement as you stared at the way you held it in your grasp. “Two hands, dominant one high and tight on the backstrap. Other hand wraps the fingers— thumbs pointing forward, not crossed.” When your hands finally settled as he’d instructed, he hummed, the sound reverberating through his chest. He was somewhere behind you, peering over your shoulder.

He stepped in behind you to guide your hands, then, his palms brushing over the backs of yours. His fingers adjusted the placement of your thumbs, just slightly, his knuckle grazing the inside of your wrist. You committed the placement to memory, flexing the joints of your fingers, getting a sense for how it felt, too.

“You don’t wanna be fighting the recoil,” he murmured, close enough for the sound to settle behind your ear. His smell began to wrap around you again and you held your breath, trying to keep a hold of your composure. Your knees wobbled at his proximity and your eyes pressed shut for a beat, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “Let the gun do what it’s built to do, but keep control of it.”

“Arms out, extend,” he said. “Straight, but not rigid. Shoulders down and elbows unlocked. Your grip’s where the strength comes from, not your arms.”

You extended and he watched. Not just the posture— you. Though you still couldn’t see him, not even from your periphery, you felt the weight of his gaze on every inch of you. Trailing over every area he commented on, ensuring you had it right.

He stepped forward again, fingertips brushing your upper arm. “Relax here. You're gonna tire yourself out faster if you stay tense.”

You tried. Loosened your shoulders. Let the weight of the weapon settle in your hands instead of your muscles.

“Now look down the sights,” he said, voice a little softer now. “Front post sharp. Rear blurred. Focus here—” his finger tapped the top of the slide, just above the front sight, “—and breathe.”

You lined it up as best you could, eyes narrowing, tongue pressed to the roof of your mouth in concentration. When you’d fired at the man in the hospital, you hadn’t even looked— your eyes had been pinched shut, too afraid to watch whatever you had been about to do. You could still feel the pull of that trigger, the slam of the gun in your hand, how your shoulders immediately burned with the effort. You could still hear the echo of it, too, the ringing in your ears. That blind panic, the wet slap of blood against tile. You hadn’t aimed. You hadn’t known how. And it was only luck— Frank— that kept you breathing.

“You want the shot to break at the bottom of an exhale,” he continued, low and steady. “Squeeze. Don’t jerk. Don’t anticipate. Just... let it happen.”

Your breath came out slow. You clicked the trigger. Even with no bullet, the release of tension jolted through your wrist.

Frank gave a low hum of approval, his exhale blowing against the side of your head, jostling a few strands of your dark hair. As if he, too, had noticed it, he reached up with a hand and brushed them away, tucking them back behind your ear. You were frozen solid at his gesture— the tension you’d just managed to release returning ten-fold.

That wasn’t instruction. That wasn’t survival. It was something else entirely, something heavier, something deeper and unspoken. It was something you didn’t know what to do with. Didn’t know if he did, either.

He moved around your side, appearing in your periphery before he was in front of you, just slightly to your left. You relaxed your hold on the weapon, dropped your arms a bit.

Then, without warning, he reached for the gun. “Now let’s see what happens when someone tries to take it.”

Your stomach turned and you flinched back a step, eyes flaring wide. “Wait—”

“You need to know this,” he said, already moving towards you again. “Don’t matter if it’s loaded or not. If you hesitate, you lose.”

He grabbed the barrel, slow and deliberate, watching your reaction. Your fingers froze around the grip. You didn’t move, didn’t react. Just let him grab it.

“You don’t fight the pull,” he said, stepping in close, his hand still wrapped around the front of the weapon. “You turn with it. Pivot your body, break the angle. If you don’t, you’ll end up with this in their hand. Pointed at you.”

He showed you— gentle, controlled— how your grip could be turned against you. How easily he could grab the weapon, pull you in, disarm you. Never once did his fingers grace the trigger— they always remained pointed straight, resting along the side of the barrel. He showed you again, slower. Letting you feel where to move, how to drop your weight, how to own the fight. He gave pointers, telling you where to focus your hits, giving you ideas of how to rattle your attacker. You were fast, you needed to use it— a foot behind an ankle, a hard kick against the back of a knee.

“Try it,” he said, goading you, leaning forward on the balls of his feet.

You hesitated again, not sure how you were supposed to take it all so seriously when it was him coming towards you. The last person you’d ever want to point a weapon at.

He didn’t hesitate this time, or take it slow.

His hand came down again, faster this time, and instinct took over. You twisted your wrist inward, ducked under his arm, pulled your shoulder across the centerline the way he’d shown. You slammed your back into his chest— rougher than you meant to— and he released you just as you moved. You staggered, half from force, half from the sheer charge of it. Then you twisted out of his reach and jolted forward, giving yourself more distance, though you weren’t exactly moving on solid feet.

Once you’d regained your footing, you looked up.

Frank was watching you with something unreadable behind his eyes. Not pride. Not quite. Something with a bit more of an edge— something a bit wearier.

“Again.”

Before you could so much as nod, he came for the gun.

You pivoted but this time, he blocked. You tried again. He caught your wrist and spun you with him, showing you how easily control could slip through your fingers. Your stomach dipped at the sudden exchange of power, your pulse racing against your throat.

You fought it. Let the weapon drop to your off hand like he’d told you to. You sent your elbow back towards him, perhaps a bit more force than you’d intended, but his freehand caught your forearm mid-swing.

“Not bad,” he muttered. Impressed.

You didn’t answer— couldn’t, not with the way he moved you. He ripped the pistol from your grasp, tossed it across the room, the sudden sound of metal against concrete making you flinch.

He pivoted behind you, one arm slipping across your chest to trap your movement, the other snaking low around your waist. He kept you there for a beat, anchored tight against him.

You stilled, holding your breath. Your lungs burned in protest. 

Every inch of him pressed into you— his chest flush against your spine, his thigh braced between your legs, the heat of his breath grazing the shell of your ear. One of his hands had splayed across your sternum, palm flat, fingers curled ever so slightly where your heart beat wild beneath them. The other rested just above your hip, low and heavy, keeping you grounded or caged— you weren’t sure which.

Finally you had to breathe— a sharp, shallow gasp, your entire chest trembling against his touch with the effort.

“Here,” Frank murmured, voice low and rough, the vibration of it pulsing through your back. “You feel that?” His hand shifted against your chest, not pressing, just… present. “That’s control. You’ve got the power but only if you don’t panic. Move fast. Use their momentum. Stop second guessing yourself.”

You barely heard the words. Not with the blood rushing in your ears. Not with the way every nerve ending had started to scream beneath your skin. Your fingers were wrapped around each of his wrists, tight, beginning to go numb from the pressure. You could feel the outline of his thighs pressing against yours, the steady drumbeat of his pulse against your shoulder blade.

His chin dipped slightly, breath exhaling slow against your neck, and you swore— swore— he lingered. Until slowly, he let go.

Not all at once. Not clean. His hand dropped from your chest first, fingers dragging lightly across the fabric of your shirt as they slipped away. Then the weight at your waist vanished, leaving behind only warmth and pressure and something you couldn’t name.

When you turned to face him, his expression was a wall of stone— completely, utterly unreadable. There was only darkness in his eyes, no hint of the amber you often searched for. His chest heaved with a long, extended breath of air, and then he nodded.

You bent at the waist and retrieved your weapon, rolling out your shoulders before you resumed your stance. It felt more comfortable now, more familiar.

Then it was you who said, “Again.”

Frank didn’t nod, didn’t acknowledge what you said. He just moved. Fast. No longer taking it easy on you.

He reached for the barrel with that same deliberate confidence, trying to test you again. His other hand went for your other wrist. But this time, you didn’t hesitate. You pivoted into him, not away, using the motion of his own hand to bring your body closer before swinging beneath his reach.

Your foot slid, caught behind his ankle. You twisted with the full weight of your hips, dropped your shoulder, and used the angle to pull him off balance. The gun was already halfway behind your back, safe in your other hand.

His grip faltered. Just for a second. But it was enough. You didn’t have the time to peek at his face— knew it would just push you off center. Instead, you shoved forward, into him— not brutal, just enough to unseat him— and he stumbled. Not far. Not hard. But he let it happen. That much you could tell.

And still, somehow, you ended up in his space again— chests nearly brushing, your hand against his wrist, your body angled into his like instinct had made the decision for you.

For a beat, you both just stood there.

The air between you went thick. He stared down at you, lips parted just slightly, breath caught somewhere between restraint and something else. You could feel the warmth of his skin through your sleeves, the flex of his arm beneath your palm.

“Boom,” you murmured, the word barely audible as it brushed past your lips. You wiggled the pistol in your other hand, alerting him to the fact that you had it pointed straight at his stomach. “Your dead.”

His mouth twitched. Barely. Just the ghost of a smirk.

“Good,” he said, voice low, almost gruff. He was nodding as he stepped back, his eyes on the floor beneath your feet. “Real good.”

You stepped back, too, brushing your wrist with your fingers, half expecting to feel a bruise. You didn’t. Just the ghost of his grip, like a mark no one else would see.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded, breath catching. “Yeah.”

He glanced at your feet. “Good. Practice makes perfect.”

Your fingers flexed around the grip of the gun; not quite steady, not quite certain. But not as afraid, either.

* * * * *

Time passed, taking you further into the night. The quiet hum of the bunker was your steady companion in the silence. You could count on the dim buzzing of the lights overhead, of the groan the mini fridge let out every few minutes. The rattle against the windows as cars drove past, ignoring speed limits, was just about your only reminder that the outside world continued to exist.

Frank had you run through the drills a few more times, testing you, building up your endurance. He commented and corrected you as he needed to, and gradually, he stopped making it so easy for you to come away victorious. By the time he finally declared you’d done enough for one night, you were nearly panting, your hair clinging to the back of your neck with sweat. Your fingers ached from the unyielding grip you’d held on the gun. And he remained unshaken, not a hair out of place. You were nothing of a formidable opponent for him.

It didn’t give you much hope for how you’d do against anyone else his size. But at least you’d do better than before.

Frank showed you to the bathroom— if you could even call it that— and you got ready for bed slowly, taking your time. You showered, though there wasn’t much in the way of hot water— hell, it hadn’t even reached warm. You were frozen to the bone as soon as you stepped out. You rushed to dress, pulling on wool socks, heavy sweatpants, and a long-sleeved shirt beneath your sweatshirt. Still, your body trembled, seeking warmth that wouldn’t come.

The mirror above the free-standing sink was cracked, the jagged edges of broken glass spreading out across your face, distorting your view of yourself. It was probably for the best, anyways. There was no room for vanity here. You made quick work of brushing your teeth and braiding your damp hair back, away from your face. Then you traced your way back to the bunker, following the hallway Frank had led you down a while earlier.

As you pushed open the door to the bunker, you pulled the sleeves of your sweater low over your hands, clinging to them with your nearly numb fingers. Frank looked up when you stepped inside, but only briefly. He was on the other end of the room, now, crouched to unroll a sleeping bag across the concrete, moving slow and quiet like he’d done this a hundred times before. He’d already told you— in no uncertain terms— that you’d be taking the cot.

Even still, as you approached it, you hesitated. “You sure you don’t want it?” you asked, voice low.

He didn’t look at you this time, just shook his head once. “Nah. It’s yours.”

You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it again. You knew better.

“Alright,” you said, softer now. “Thanks.”

He hummed in response— a vague sound of acknowledgement, maybe approval. You couldn’t tell.

You put away your bathroom items and dirty clothes, shoving them into the backpack that had come to house all of your remaining belongings. All of the things that hadn’t been left behind, locked within the walls of your apartment. A place you weren’t sure you’d be returning to anytime soon.

You climbed into the cot and lay on your side, facing the wall, your back to Frank and the rest of the bunker. The blanket was thin, scratchy. You curled beneath it anyway, tucking your hands beneath your chin. Frank moved behind you somewhere, the sounds distant but distinct: the creak of leather as he kicked off his boots, the muted thud of something set down, the low exhale of breath that carried more fatigue than he’d admit.

Then silence.

For a moment, you thought that might be it. No goodnight, no reminder that he was here.

Then his throat cleared. And into the cool air that enveloped you both, he said, “Get some rest.”

You turned your head, just slightly, until you could see the outline of him in the dark. He’d settled on the floor a few feet away, facing you with his back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. His arms were crossed over his chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You too.”

Sleep came, but only in brief, sporadic bursts. The cold held you hostage, jostling you awake just when you’d thought you’d escaped it. It had seeped in past skin and muscle, lodged itself somewhere deep. The dampness in your hair didn’t help— you wouldn’t shower at night again. Not for a long time.

You shifted, subtly, trying to be quiet. You suspected Frank was the type to wake easily— especially here, especially now. You repositioned your body, curled in on yourself as tightly as you could, tugging your knees into your chest.

It didn’t help.

The shivering started in your fingers, traveled up your forearms. A low, bone-deep tremble that wouldn’t ease. You pressed your palms between your thighs, searching for any ounce of warmth you could find. You tried to breathe through it— mind over matter, right?— but even biting down on your tongue so hard you began to taste blood didn’t help.

Then came the teeth. You tried to hold your jaw still, you really did— but the chatter set in anyway, harsh and helpless and loud in the relative silence around you. Every so often you would press your palm over your mouth and hold your breath, listening for the sound of Frank’s breathing behind you— it remained slow, rhythmic. But you weren’t sure how long that would last.

A beat later, as if you’d asked for it, you heard him shift. You went still, palm still pressed over your mouth, though your teeth continued to grind against themselves involuntarily. His breathing hadn’t changed. Your mind flooded— then emptied. Had he ever been asleep at all?

His sleeping bag rustled and a soft creak sounded, his body rising from the floor. Your eyes pinched shut, your stomach twisting with shame. Your hand slowly lowered from your mouth, instead wrapping around the hem of the blanket, tugging it higher over you.

You tried to stay perfectly still, then, tried to pretend you were asleep. But it was no use.

Muffled, quiet footsteps sounded, him crossing the room towards you. You felt the weight of his gaze on your shadowed figure, but you didn’t turn towards him. Your eyes opened, stayed locked on the concrete wall in front of you.

The cot dipped behind you, the frame groaning under the sudden shift in weight. It startled you— not because you hadn’t expected it, but because you had. You’d felt it coming like a change in weather, like the static in the air before a storm. Your breath caught in your throat, sharp and immediate, your whole body stiffening with the tension of anticipation.

Frank didn’t speak. Not when he climbed in. Not when he tugged the blanket up higher, slow and careful, tucking it around you both like he’d done it before. Like this level of intimacy wasn’t brand new and terrifying for you both.

Then came his arm— slow at first, hesitant. It slid around your waist, that familiar weight settling low, the curve of his forearm bracing itself across your stomach, palm splayed wide just above your navel. As he moved, the hem of your sweatshirt rose, his fingertips brushing the exposed skin beneath. His hand was rough, calloused. Warm. You felt every ridge of it as it curved against you, fingers pressing lightly into the dip where your ribs met softness.

“Jesus,” he commented, voice low, the exhaled air warm against your neck. “You’re freezing.”

“Didn’t want to ask,” you whispered in a rush, the shame crawling up your throat. “Didn’t want to make it weird.”

Frank let out another slow, stifled breath. “Ain’t weird,” he said. “You’re cold. That’s all.”

But you didn’t believe him.

Not entirely.

His chest aligned with your back a moment later, and the contact there was overwhelming— startlingly solid. Like being braced against a wall. His body heat poured into yours at once, devastating in its relief. The contrast stole your breath. Warmth poured through you so fast it felt like pain— sharp and electric. A tremor rolled through your chest, this time from something deeper than cold. Your hips shifted, pressing back into him. Into his— was he—

Oh. He was.

Frank stilled behind you.

“Careful,” he warned, the hand against your stomach moving to your hip, pressing it forward an inch. You weren’t sure if he was trying to protect you, in the moment, or himself.

Your cheeks flamed and your eyes pinched shut. Horror washed over you like a tidal wave and you wished for a sudden, swift death.

“Sorry.”

You felt the slight lift of his chest as he inhaled, then the slow exhale that ghosted against the back of your neck again. Like he was trying to calm his own racing pulse. His hand returned to your stomach, then, fingertips flexing once against your abdomen. Not possessive. Not testing. Just a simple shift, like he was grounding you. Or maybe grounding himself.

Your own hand moved— slow, uncertain— until it hovered over his. You didn’t press down. Just let your fingers hover, shaking faintly from cold and tension and something else. A second passed. Then two.

Then you touched him.

Your fingers found the edge of his pinky first. Brushed the back of his hand. His thumb twitched in response, barely a movement, but it felt like a jolt straight to your sternum. You closed your hand over his gently, not intertwining, just holding. Just acknowledging. A silent thank you.

The cot was too small for both of you. His knees bumped the back of yours, the heat of his thighs bracketing yours completely. His other hand— where was it? Beneath the pillow? Tucked near his chest? You didn’t know. You couldn’t move enough to find out, terrified of pressing into that same, dangerous space you’d already discovered. The space between your shoulder blades and his collarbone shrank with every breath.

His nose brushed your hairline once. Not a kiss, not even intentional. Just the result of motion. But it burned like one.

You closed your eyes, willing your heart to calm down. Willed your breath to stay quiet. Willed your mind to stop cataloguing every inch of him— how warm his bicep was against your ribs, how his breath slowed against your skin, how the weight of his hand made you feel safe and exposed all at once.

You’d been freezing moments ago.

Now, you were burning alive.

But you didn’t move.

And neither did he.

[hawkheartt]

Can we explode them

“You know, I only really used these on Spider-Man, and he hated the things,” Olivia’s offhand remark is accompanied by the quiet snapping of an actuator, the claws just inches away from Lucielle’s face. She was sat like a queen on the dark steel chair that was usually reserved for much more unethical parts of her profession. Only a single tentacle was active, much of it was slung over Lucielle’s shoulders, and the open claw practically covered her face.

“Why wouldn’t he? He still can’t stand you,” Lucielle adds as she raises her hands to the base of the claw. Cool palms meet the colder metal bands, and she tugs the claw down to meet Olivia’s gaze just as the doctor rests her chin in her palm. The selkie gives a small smile before finally looking to her real point of interest, the machine. “How many times did you toss him around with these?”

Olivia hummed quietly, eyes narrowing as she thought, “Mmh… Maybe a dozen? I mean- At least,” Her added statement draws out into a low chuckle, one that makes Lucielle’s smile persist as she inspects the almost gear-like base of the connecting rings. After they finally established their relationship, Olivia was much more lenient with accepting Lucielle’s help. Beforehand, Olivia would say she had to the work herself to practice and pin down her mistakes; now, she’s more than happy to let Lucy pitch in with ideas- And in this case, to let her assist with tweaking the actuators.

“I don’t blame him too much, that must’ve hurt,” The mutant’s voice is just a touch quieter once she brings the tentacle closer. She brings her right hand back slightly, just so she can examine a small slit between layers. That’s what she was looking for, and Olivia can pinpoint the exact moment that sparkle appears in her eyes. The tips of her sharp nails slip in perfectly; the outermost gear-like layer disconnects with a small click, and she quickly grabs it with her other hand so it doesn’t slide down the tentacle.

The claw had malfunctioned that morning, it wouldn’t close fully, and thankfully Lucielle had a keen eye for anything her lover made. Olivia stays quiet for her, but she sits up in her seat, bringing her hand to fix her glasses as she watches intently.

There’s silence until Lucielle speaks up once more, “We must’ve messed up the assembly last time.” She slips the piece back in place, but not before adjusting her thumb to hold another ring of metal down. When they do fit, there’s a small click, and Olivia instinctively flexes the claw to test it out.

“Damn it…” The doctor mutters, resting her jaw back on her hand as she tugs the tentacle a bit more taut around Lucielle’s shoulder and twist the end of it like a wrist. “I must’ve done it too quickly, or focused too much on the other three,” She sounds like she’s talking to herself now, mulling over her mistakes like usual and causing Lucielle to raise a brow. “I probably just didn’t hear it when it didn’t click, and… You know.”

The doctor seems to deflate, taking a deep breath before rising from her seat and stretching her arms in front of herself. “I’m sorry, I really am.” With her position at Alchemax, she wasn’t really used to apologizing, or taking accountability, or even thanking people personally. But this was her girlfriend; she looks to the side, measuring the short distance between them before giving a small smile. Lucielle just listened to her spiel, still gently cradling a part of the tentacle and looking over it every now and then. When Olivia stops, though, she glances up with eyes like a doe.

Their eyes meet, and Olivia’s smile grows. The tentacle tugs closer, not wrenching itself out of Lucielle’s hands, but pulling her closer and causing her to trip slightly. “Do I really have to thank you? Don’t you technically work for me?” Olivia stretched her arm out and leaned to the side with her hand on the top of the chair. She points just above the hem of Lucielle’s shirt with her other hand, and her glasses slip a little when she leans her head down.

“Do I work for you? I thought this was just a favor!” The selkie teases, taking a moment to straighten herself as she talks. Even if all of her actions are accented with hints of nervousness, she’s more than happy to play along. Olivia just rolls her eyes and tightens the tentacle’s grip on the other woman’s shoulders. The claw darts out, brushing against her hands, and streamlining itself just to tap the tip of Lucielle’s nose. She sniffles quietly at the action, leaning back a touch as she tries to hold back her laughter.

“You’re in my office, and you did what I asked you too- And you’re getting something out of it!” Olivia shifts to stand at her full height again, gesturing widely at nothing in particular. “That should count as something,” The tentacle squeezes again at the end of her statement. “And I promise I’d never forget about payment.”

Olivia keeps the tentacle in its position, as it makes it far simpler for her to dip in for a few quick kisses, as well as finish off with one right on her lips.

[I’d love to write more but their days do consist of a lot of little things like this,, plus this has been sitting in drafts for a bit lol]

[maddie-dog-story-blog]

Sarah's Playground - 4

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

"You know, Sarah, you've changed enough of my dirty diapers this last few months that I know you must really love them," Lidia said as she continued to pin me to the couch by pressing her shitty diaper into my face. "You seem to love my dirty diapers so much that, maybe I should let you wear this one? I bet you'd like that, right little Sarah?"

I tried to protest, but I couldn't get words out given the smell enveloping my face. Everytime I opened my mouth, I couldn't do anything but gag.

"I wish that Sarah was wearing my messy diaper instead of me," Lidia wished.

Suddenly, I didn't feel the plastic cover of the diaper pressed against my face. Instead, I was suddenly nose deep in Lidia's admittedly beautifully round and toned ass. At the same time, I felt my legs spread apart and my backside lift up as something soft and bulky suddenly replaced the now too-large lingerie that was previously covering my ass. I could also distinctly feel the lumpy, sticky sensation of Lidia's shit pressed up against my ass cheeks and pussy. I couldn't believe I was actually wearing Lidia's messy diaper.

"Ah! That's much better, don't you think Sarah?" Lidia said, looking over her shoulder to inspect her handy work. She laughed at the sight. "Oh yes, you look like you are right back where you belong , little one. Sitting on the couch like a scared little toddler in a poopy diaper. Oh, don't pout, I know you love it," Lidia continued. "Actually, why don't you show me how much you love it. Why don't you lick your new Mommy's pussy to show her how much you LOVE sitting in her shitty pampers!" Lidia ordered.

I pulled back from Lidia's exposed ass and pussy in disgust as Lidia pushed it closer to me. In response to my movement, Lidia grabbed the pendant in her hand and showed it to me.

"Ah, ah, ah, baby girl. You do what Mommy says, or this can get worse for you. Do I need me to show you what I can do? I have some wonderful punishment ideas," Lidia said menacingly.

I swallowed nervously, looking at the pendant in my former captive's hand in fear. I knew precisely what she could do with that. I'd been doing it to her for months, after all.

"Please, don't! I'll be a good girl, I promise!" I said rapidly, not wanting to give Lidia any reason to believe I wasn't going to comply.

"That's what I thought, now show Mommy how much you appreciate her, my precious little poopy princess," Lidia commanded, leaning back further and shoving her clean shaven pussy into my face.

I shuddered at Lidia's new nickname for me, but knew what I had to do to survive this situation with as much dignity as possible. I opened my mouth and leaned forward on the couch, grimacing at the feeling of Lidia's shit moving around in my pants. I opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue, and began going to work on Lidia's vagina.

I began by slowly circling my tongue around Lidia's labia, feeling the folds of her soft pussy with my taste buds. Doing this, I felt her hard button of a clit, and redirected my attention, alternating between gently flicking it and pressing on it with my tongue. As I worked, I could here Lidia beginning to moan. Due to my machinations, she had been deprived orgasms other than those she could get while humping her messy diapers for months. I could tell she was enjoying this.

"Good baby, just like that!" Lidia told me as she sat back harder on my face, nearly suffocating me as I started alternating between licking her clit and darting my tongue in and out of her slit. Despite my tongue getting sore from my efforts, my difficulty breathing, and the disgusting mixture of Lidia's pussy juices and my saliva dripping down my chin down to my exposed breasts, I felt a growing feeling of arousal. As I continued to pleasure my lifelong bully, I couldn't help but start to rock back and forth in my seat, humping the messy diaper I was wearing, just like the naughty little diaper slut I turned Lidia into months ago.

As I continued to work my magic with my tongue, Lidia's pleasure reached it's peak. She suddenly shoved her groin into me with all of her might as she started to scream. My tongue, was inside of her, feeling her vagina clinch and unclinch as Lidia orgasmed over and over again.

I couldn't help myself. This was all too hot. Despite my embarrassment, I reached my hand to the front of the shit filled diaper strapped to my waist and started rubbing my own vagina over the padding. The stimulation felt good. I started to moan myself, the vibration of which sent more shivers of pleasure pulsing through Lidia's body, causing her to cum again.

I started to rub myself harder, desperately trying to bring myself to orgasm before this was over. However, just as I was about to finish, Lidia quickly pulled herself away from my face, turned around, and looked at me with a mischievous grin on her face.

"Well, what do we have here? A naughty little baby trying to cum in her babysitter's messy nappy? What a disgusting little pervert you are! What am I going to have to do about this?"

I temporarily stopped rubbing the front of my diaper, petrified as Lidia reached for my magical amulet again, smiling darkly.

NEXT CHAPTER

[seradae]

Virtue: Patients [FF] [bondage] [medical fetish]

"Now, darling, you need to know that any movements will throw off the tests," I instructed as I tightened the straps along your torso, then moved to your legs and ensured they were secure. "Are you comfortable? Anything you need me to adjust before we move on?"

"I'm good, mistress," you exclaimed, blushing at your eagerness and looking away.

"Oh, I know you are." I chuckled to myself as I took a stethoscope from the tray next to the bed and placed it against my chest. I moved it around to warm it up, then pressed the power button. I adjusted its position and pressed it in, my heartbeat suddenly coming from the speakers mounted around the room. Your eyes were like dinner plates when you realized what I had done and I grinned wide. I powered it back off and explained, "electronic stethoscopes have come a long way. Turns out, you can record them now! Or connect them to an amplifier."

I placed it gently on your chest and got it into position, turning it on and ensuring it was held fast by the strap. Your heart thumped from all around us and as I bent down to kiss you, we both heard it speed up drastically; I could feel the heat from your blush without even touching your cheek. I broke off the kiss and started attaching EKG leads, muttering under my breath, "smoke over fire, clouds over grass…"

I reached over and flipped on the machine, seeing your heart rhythm on the screen and monitoring it for longer than I needed to, my hand resting on your thigh and squeezing gently. I pushed the 'record' button and gave your thigh one final long squeeze. "Almost done with prep! Thanks for being patient, darling, I know you're ….. excited to get underway."

You squirmed a bit as I worked to turn on the cameras that were all around us -- can't have any data going to waste -- and I said softly, "remember, no moving. It's only going to get more difficult from here, so I need you to do your best." And with that ominous statement, everything was ready.

"Okay, now that everything is set up, let's start the inspection," I put on my gloves with a snap, moving between your legs. I ran two gloved fingers down your slit, slowly gathering moisture. I lifted a voice recorder and said clearly, "patient's baseline arousal levels at the beginning of the exam are significant." You let out a small whine and I could feel you twitch as the words registered in your mind.

I slid a gloved finger into you and you squirmed as a gasp left your lips. Your heartrate rose again, thundering throughout the room as I lifted the recorder again. "Strong response observed from penetration. Beginning manipulation," I noted as I began to stroke your g-spot. I looked to the EKG and said, "heart rate up 15 BPM over 5 seconds." You moaned loudly as I sped up, your heartbeat echoing in your mind.

I worked a second finger into you and began to slide in and out as I rubbed your g-spot. I watched your heart rate continue to increase, hearing your breathing quicken. "Patient is nearing her first orgasm of the session," I noted nonchalantly as I continued my 'manipulation'. I looked at you to see you blush again, my fingers being squeezed as you twitched around them.

As I sped up, I could feel you getting closer and closer. "I need you to cum for me now," I ordered as if I were asking you to hold your breath for an X-ray. With that, the orgasm moved through your body at the speed of sound. Your back arched as much as the straps would allow, you let out a scream, and you clenched so hard on my fingers it almost hurt. "You're being such a good patient," I praised as I continued to fuck you, the orgasm showing no signs of abating.

I watched the clock on the EKG screen, finally slowing my ministrations after 30 seconds. I let you recover without ever quite stopping. I watched -- and heard -- your heartrate lower to safe levels and just took in the sensations.

Leaning my head down, I spoke quickly into the voice recorder. "Beginning cunnilingus." You let out a low moan in response, then a higher one as my tongue ran up one lip, then the other, intentionally avoiding your clit. I started to speed up and noted the spike in heart rate when I kissed your clit, then another as I ran the length of my tongue along it. You whined as I teased you, quickly switching to a moan as I fucked you faster with my fingers and began to properly eat you out.

Even if I only had the sound of your heart to judge by, I would've known just as well that you were going to cum again and fast. Looking back at the data, it took only 90 seconds from the time my tongue touched you. You writhed as it came on, even more intense than the first. I lapped at your clit like I had finally found water after days in the desert, while my fingers fucked in and out of you harder and faster with each stroke. I couldn't help but moan into you as I heard your shaking legs vibrating the table. Slowly, the shaking began to disappate and I slowed, then stopped, my assault on your senses.

"Patient achieved second orgasm rapidly," I noted into my recorder, before looking into your watery eyes. "You did such a good job, darling. You truly are the model patient."

Then I grinned and lifted the voice recorder one more time. "Beginning third trial."

[viscerawizard]

So I swear this is my last mod. I want these put into my arms *shows 2 cylinders that each have four rectangular protrusions* so that they can rotate and there are little slits between some of my scales on the top and bottom of my arms so that the sword and the flashlight on each can extend out (they're in the protrusions). I also need them connected to my breath weapons because that's how they'll be powered. Speaking of breath weapons the dragon I just killed was an ancient white dragon. And I want its breath weapon put in because these cylinders can control my body temp and I want cooling. (Ooc: I don't actually know what the other 2 slots of each cylinder does but one cylinders center can absorb the soul of a being I just killed and the other cylinders center lets my control where my scales are around my body telepathically [they cannot leave my body])

Hm. So these thingies. They... [I inspect them and find that they do, in fact, do as you described - but I realize that I could do half of that stuff with flesh systems that wouldn't need machine-intensive repair.]

Hey, I can make your body do like half this stuff. Just gotta add a few extra tubes and neuron connections. You want that, or just these... cylinder thingies?

[twin-skelletons]

The first thing he always did when he got back was run the washing machine. Adrian learned a long time ago that once the blood dried, there was no saving his clothes.

He wouldn’t have bothered washing them before. It was much easier to have them torched and then buy a new set. But then his clothes budget started eating into his food budget. It was only then that Adrian decided to invest in hydrogen peroxide and bleach.

There was never anyone in the laundry room at three o’clock in the morning. Not that it mattered anyway. When Evelyn found out he’d been living in an apartment in at the edge of Alba City, she made a face.

“Be careful out there. You might get jumped…or worse.”

His partner and the rest of the city seemed to have a certain perception of the area, a certain perception that couldn’t be further from the truth. People were barely willing to make eye contact with each other, let alone attempt to jump anyone. If one of Adrian’s neighbors walked in on him scrubbing the bloodstains out of his clothes, they’d probably just apologize before turning around and pretending they didn’t see anything. That’s how much they wanted to mind their own business.

The washer beeped. He took out his collared shirt, inspecting it for stains. Once he saw that it was spotless, he moved the load into the dryer with a satisfied smile.

It’d been a particularly long day. They started the morning with a forty-mile drive out to an abandoned car on the side of the highway. It wasn’t until they opened the trunk that they understood why homicide had been called.

“What kind of monster does this?” Evelyn asked, taking in the sight of the victim splayed out across the blood-matted rug. It was clear he’d been dumped there without any considerations for respect or decency.

“Syndicate.”

“How do you know?”

The slit throat had tipped him off. It was sloppy, so it was probably some grunt that lacked experience, but it did the job. Adrian kept that part to himself. Instead, he pulled on his gloves and pointed at the subtle outline in the victim’s front pocket. It was a long, thin, cylindrical shape.

“Red Eye,” Evelyn said.

Sure enough, Adrian reached in and pulled out an empty vial. “Bag it. We’ll send it over for a chemical analysis once we get back.”

Evelyn grabbed an evidence bag and held it open for Adrian to drop the vial in. Once she sealed it, she brought it back to their cruiser.

Adrian caught a glimpse of something peeking out from underneath the rug. He pulled out a half-used matchbook. Even though it’d been crumpled and creased, Adrian recognized the logo: a tree with a snake wrapped around the trunk.

He glanced over his shoulder. Evelyn was still at the cruiser, securing the evidence in the trunk. The patrol officers who had taped off the surrounding area were chatting across the way. In one swift movement, Adrian tucked the matchbook into one of the inside pockets of his coat.

“Does he have anything else on him?” Evelyn asked when she came back. Adrian handed her the victim’s wallet. She flipped it open and pulled out his driver’s license. “Roy Marino. Lived in Alba City. Eighteen years old.” There was a pause as she examined the photo. He had a gentle smile and wide eyes. When she lowered the card, she saw those same wide eyes staring back at her, completely glazed over. “He was just a kid.”

The rest of the day followed protocol. They got the vial back to the lab before heading to the address on Roy’s ID. His mother answered the door with a smile. As soon as they introduced themselves, her smile faded. They never even made it into the living room. Adrian and Evelyn knelt beside her in the threshold of the door, taking turns offering their condolences as she sobbed into her hands.

“So Roy sneaks out sometime after midnight and dispatch gets the call about the car at six in the morning,” Evelyn recapped, cupping her coffee mug with both hands. “In between all that, he gets his hands on a vial of Red Eye. If we’re waiting on autopsy and lab results, then we should work on retracing his steps.”

They were at a diner halfway between the Marino’s residence and the office. It was supposed to be lunch, but one of the occupational hazards of being a detective was that you rarely had an appetite. Adrian sat across from his partner, taking a long drag from his cigarette. She subconsciously leaned away from him when he smoked, like the few-inch difference would somehow save her from the smell. That’d be great if the entire diner wasn’t filled with chain smokers and every piece of furniture hadn’t already been permeated with decades of smoke.

“What makes you think he ‘got his hands on’ Red Eye? For all we know, he could be a dealer. Syndicate, even.”

“He wasn’t.”

Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “Because…?”

“I just know. He was a good kid. No mother would cry like that if he wasn’t.”

One of Evelyn’s classic lines. ‘I just know’ this, ‘gut feeling’ that. Once she started sympathizing with someone, it was like she had on blinders. Adrian didn’t bother continuing his line of questioning. Agree to disagree. That’s how their partnership worked.

“What’s the plan?”

Evelyn waved her communicator. “The car just came back registered to a Darnell Sala. He reported it stolen a week ago. Seems like a decent place to start.”

At least it started out decent. Mr. Sala didn’t know anything beyond the fact that his car had been stolen from a gas station while he was inside using the bathroom. When they tried pulling security camera footage, they found that all the cameras were fake. The gas station owner claimed they ‘looked real enough’ to deter punks from trying anything. Apparently not.

The rest of the day was spent going up and down the street into local businesses to see if they could find any witnesses. When that didn’t surface anything useful, they started sifting through traffic camera footage. It wasn’t until Evelyn looked up from the screen to see the night sky out the window that they stopped.

“It’s already ten. I have to get my notes ready for court tomorrow,” she hissed as she scooped papers and files into her bag. “You’re going to be there, right?”

It was a rhetorical question. If Adrian had a choice, he’d be anywhere but there. Still, he nodded. “Yeah. Just gonna finish up here.”

With that, Evelyn excused herself. Adrian kept scrubbing through the footage in their empty office. Outside, the muffled footsteps of the night shift carried through the walls. The light from the hallway spilled in from the crack beneath the door. His eyes watched the screen for the black car. As the footage played at double speed, cars flew past, pedestrians moved at unnatural speeds, and the traffic lights flickered. Even while keeping track of all of that, Adrian’s mind was elsewhere. Specifically, it was on the matchbook inside his pocket.

He got up from his desk a little past one. It was about that time.

A neon sign of a snake wrapped around the trunk of a tree bathed the street below in reds and greens. It was a weekday, so it was a quieter night for The Garden. The club usually had a line wrapped around the corner and a team of valet drivers and bouncers crowded at the entrance. Tonight, it was empty.

Adrian took one more drag of his cigarette before tossing it and crossing the street. The single bouncer barely acknowledged his presence, giving him a slight side-eye before looking ahead again. The inside was tamer than what Adrian was used to. Usually, the music was so loud that it made the floor vibrate and poured out into the street. There was a live band tucked away into the corner playing something slow, romantic. The only couple in the place swayed on the dancefloor.

You didn’t need to be a detective to know exactly who Adrian was there for. One, there was probably a total of twelve people in there including the band and bartender. And two, the kid sitting in the worst-lit area of the club was practically swimming in sweat. Adrian could almost see the puddles collecting on the table as the kid splayed his hands against the marble. Keeping his back to the kid, Adrian took a seat at the bar and called the bartender over.

“I’ll take a Piña Colada.”

The bartender blinked, processing his order. “Excuse me?”

“No Piña Colada? I guess a Blue Hawaiian will do.”

“Uh, no, I can make you a Piña Colada.” The bartender looked him up and down, waiting for Adrian to spring the inevitable ‘just kidding’. When that didn’t happen, he bowed his head slightly. “I’ll be right back, sir.”

Adrian glanced at the kid from one of the mirrors that lined the back wall of the bar. When Adrian called him a kid, he meant it. He couldn’t be a day over twenty-one. More likely than not, he was sneaking around with a fake ID. Or he was a part of something bigger, something that couldn’t give two shits about the legal drinking age. Adrian didn’t have to wait long to get his answer.

At the same moment the bartender set his cocktail in front of him, three men came in through the door. Adrian didn’t have to turn around or glance at their reflection to know they were Syndicate. He knew from the way their presence sucked the air out of the room. He also knew it from how the other patrons looked away.

Turning a blind eye. That’s what this city did best.

The men didn’t waste any time with pleasantries. As soon as they got to the kid’s table, the shortest of the three spoke. “Did you take care of it?”

The kid nodded rapidly. Any faster and his head would’ve snapped right off his neck. “Of course! Of course!”

There was a long pause. Eventually, Adrian heard the sound of the booth creak as all three men took a seat. They scooted in, pinning the kid between them.

“Can I explain something to you?” The short guy again. His voice was raspy, like all he did was inhale cigarettes by the pack.

“Of cou–”

The short guy raised a hand, cutting him off. “Just listen. Here’s how it works: we give you Red Eye to deal to punkass kids who have nothing better to do with their lives, you collect their money, you give the money to us, and we let you keep a cut. Rinse and repeat. You follow me so far?”

Rapid nodding.

“Okay. Now, a question. Where, in that very simple process, does a kid stealing from your stash before you get a single woolong out of him fit in?”

“I’m sorry, Ace! I know I fucked up but I took care of it just like you showed me!”

Ace clicked his tongue. Motioning to one of his henchmen, there was a resounding bang as he slammed something on the table in front of the kid. Adrian could tell by the extended silence that the kid was taking whatever it was.

“Tell me what you’re looking at.”

“The outside of my apartment.”

“And?”

“Two kids running down the street.”

“Did you ‘take care’ of two kids?”

If the kid was half a second quicker, maybe he could’ve gotten away with it. That half a second made all the difference in the world. “Of cou–”

“Don’t you dare lie to me, Tommy!”

Adrian felt the rest of the patrons jump at the sudden roar. After a moment, they resumed whatever it was they were doing. Talking, swaying, playing music.

Quietly, Tommy spoke. “I’ll find the other one. It’ll never happen again, Ace. I promise.”

“I know it won’t.”

The henchmen to the right of Tommy grabbed his head, his two massive hands completely engulfing the kid’s skull. In an instant, he snapped his neck. This time, none of the patrons even flinched. The only response Adrian noticed was the way the bartender’s eyes slid shut as he took a breath. When he opened them again, all Adrian saw was exhaustion. He’d probably witnessed the same scene play out before him countless times. To him, it wasn’t a murder. Not even a crime. If anything, it was the same thing as locking your door before heading out or brushing your teeth before bed. Routine. 

Ace and his men continued their conversation, calling over to the bartender for a round of beers. Tommy’s body was slumped somewhere beneath the table already long forgotten. Once Adrian finished his drink, he stood up.

“Will that be all for tonight, sir?”

“Yeah.”

“Your total is a thousand woolongs.”

“You can put it on their tab.” He tilted his head in the direction of the Syndicate members. Again, the bartender waited for a ‘just kidding’. Again, it never came. “Tell them I’ll be waiting out back to thank them.”

A few expressions flashed across the bartender’s features. Unsurprisingly, the first was fear. Relaying the fact that Ace and his men had an extra charge on their bill was a guaranteed death sentence. And then he actually looked at them. Clinking their bottles together, shooting the breeze, laughing. Somewhere at their feet, a kid’s body lay in a crumpled pile. His gaze moved over to the other side of the club where the patrons remained in their own little worlds. Eventually, Adrian saw the expression he wanted to see.

“As you wish.”

There was still the chance that the bartender could chicken out. Adrian considered the possibility as he leaned against a brick wall a few alleys down from The Garden. It wouldn’t really change anything. The sun would rise, he’d present evidence in court, he and Evelyn would continue working Roy’s case until they were eventually led back to Tommy, and then it’d be over. Somewhere in there the sun would set, but that was one thing Adrian had a hard time keeping track of. Whether he took care of it tonight or not didn’t matter, and yet he found his palms itching.

“Ah, there you are.” Adrian turned toward the voice. Ace and his henchmen were standing near the entrance of the alleyway, still close enough to the streetlights to cast long shadows. “And where’s that ‘thank you’ I was promised?”

Adrian pushed himself off the wall. Their hands shot into their pockets in response to the sudden movement and only paused when Adrian showed that he was empty-handed.

“Thanks for treating. And sorry if I’m a little nervous. It’s not every day you meet Syndicate members in the flesh.”

Ace laughed at that. It was a strangled sound, like air leaking out of a balloon. “Why would you pull shit like that if you knew we were Syndicate?” They continued to close in on Adrian, backing him further down the alley. Even the streetlights couldn’t reach them now.

“Well, I can’t just ask for a vial of Red Eye in the middle of a club.”

A smirk stretched across Ace’s lips. “It’s bad manners to eavesdrop.”

So is snapping a kid’s neck in front of a bunch of strangers. Adrian had already pushed his luck enough tonight, so he held his tongue. Instead, he dug into one of his inside coat pockets and pulled out a stack of woolongs.

The sight of the money changed Ace’s tune in an instant. He cleared his throat before grabbing the stack. “I’ll overlook it just this once.” He thumbed through the bills until his fingers came to a sudden stop. “You’re short.”

Adrian’s hands shot up to his chest in surrender. “Nervous, remember? I’ve got it right here.” He reached back into his coat.

But he wasn’t reaching for money.

From his waistband, Adrian unsheathed one of his knives. He lunged forward, closing the distance between himself and the henchman in front of him. With one swing of his arm, Adrian plunged the knife into the side of the man’s neck.

It was always after the first kill that the world seemed to slow down. Adrian thought of it like dominos. One movement flowed seamlessly into the next. It was just a matter of aligning himself.

In his periphery, he saw Ace turn to run. The remaining henchman was reaching for his gun. Adrian inhaled as all the steps fell into place.

He yanked his knife free before pivoting, rushing directly at the other henchman. Fear glinted in the man’s wide eyes as he lifted his gun and tried to aim down his sights. But Adrian was faster. He snapped his right leg up, kicking the gun out of the man’s trembling fingers. Switching from a reverse grip to a forward, Adrian swung up, the blade piercing the bottom of the henchman’s jaw and up through his skull.

All that was left was Ace. He was still scrambling toward the street. Pulling his knife free, Adrian held it out in front of him, level with the center of Ace’s back. The weight was familiar. Comfortable. With the blade balanced on his fingers, he wound his arm back. And then he threw.

A satisfying thud followed as Ace fell to the ground.

Adrian took his time approaching. It was amusing to watch the man haul himself across the pavement. While he was small in comparison to his henchmen, he looked even smaller now. When Adrian got close, Ace froze.

“Please…” It came out more like a wheeze than a coherent word.

Adrian kneeled with one leg on either side of the man. He reached down to cover Ace’s mouth with one hand before yanking the knife out of his back with the other. The man’s screams were muffled by his leather gloves. Adrian squeezed as he pulled up on Ace’s jaw.

“This is what you showed Tommy, right?” Adrian leaned down, pressing the blade to Ace’s exposed throat. “I mean, of course you did. It’s classic Syndicate. I’m sure you teach all your recruits. It's just too bad most of them do a shitty job.”

Ace thrashed and kicked out his legs and pleaded. At least, Adrian assumed he was pleading.

“Let’s show them how it’s done.”

Navigation: ENTRY I

[metize]

His Piece de Résistence - Moebius D x GN!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con

Additional Tags: this is fucked up, the dove isn't dead but it's being kept alive by machines, Sadism, Blow Jobs, mentions of Necrophilia, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Choking, Reader-Insert, Ambiguous Gender, Face-Fucking, Obsessive Behavior, Decapitation, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Fear Play, D is a psycho, idk what to tell you, Kinktober

Summary:

Kinktober day 2: Choking

“Blackblaze Dirk,” the venom in your voice tasted delicious to him. “I’m guessing you have a good reason to be here disturbing my peace?”

He chuckled at that, his eyes, sharp and critical, roamed over every detail of the space you had specifically not invited him into. You resigned to his presence and closed the door to your room, giving you two privacy.

“I always have good reasons for my actions,” he mused, looking at the things you had on your shelves, grabbing a book and flipping through the pages. “Say, aren’t you curious?” He shot you an amused smirk, one you despised.

“About what?” You took the bait, against your better judgment.

“What I did to your body, once I got my hands on it?”

Notes:

Alternative titles: "Getting that D", "D gets head" and other terrible ideas. But hi, I have issues, but not as much as D has issues. I dedicate this dumpster fire to my loving partner who got me into Xenoblade 3. We can all blame them.

When he first saw you as a Moebius his lips immediately split into a shit-eating grin. You had once been his. He had considered you the most treasured piece in his collection, because of just how much trouble he went through to take your pretty head for himself. Back then you had met in the battlefield, he knew he wanted you, his gaze set on your neck and his mind flooding with images of slitting your throat.

But you had put up a damn good fight. He had spent terms and terms meeting you on the frontlines, each time he thirsted for your blood more and more. Hell, you were on your last term when he finally, finally, got his hands on you. You had a very special place in his collection, the very front, he could watch your face for hours on end.

To see you again, as a Moebius? It felt like a dream come true.

You, on the other hand, were nowhere near as happy to see him.

“Oh… it’s you,” you sighed when he came to visit your quarters.

“Don’t get too excited now,” he let himself in, ignoring the glare you gave him.

He inspected the room, deliberately trying to make you uncomfortable and creeped out. Invading your privacy like this gave him an indescribable power rush. Besides, fear looked so good on you.

“Blackblaze Dirk,” the venom in your voice tasted delicious to him. “I’m guessing you have a good reason to be here disturbing my peace?”

He chuckled at that, his eyes, sharp and critical, roamed over every detail of the space you had specifically not invited him into. You resigned to his presence and closed the door to your room, giving you two privacy.

“I always have good reasons for my actions,” he mused, looking at the things you had on your shelves, grabbing a book and flipping through the pages. “Say, aren’t you curious?” He shot you an amused smirk, one you despised.

“About what?” You took the bait, against your better judgment.

“What I did to your body, once I got my hands on it?”

His statement sent shivers down your spine, you leaned against the wall trying to not give him the satisfaction of seeing the uneasiness in your expression, pretending to be unbothered instead. You shrugged at him and looked away.

“We heard stories, in my colony,” you remembered the rumors about how Blackblaze Dirk kept trophies of his enemies, always believed them, having seen the darkness in his eyes before. “You… kept the heads,” the disgust was evident in your voice. “Gross…”

He relished in the way your body stiffened and took a deep breath, the uncomfortable expression in your face speaking volumes. You clearly had no interest in knowing more, but then again, he could see a spark of curiosity in your eyes.

He laughed at your reaction, but somehow even his laugh held a dark edge to it. Your honesty brought him amusement, but he was eager to tell you more.

“Yes… I did happen to do that. But you, oh, you were a special case,” he smirked and closed the book in his hands. His voice was low as he continued. “Do you want to know what else I did to you?”

“You’re such a sparking creep,” you glared at him. “... Just tell me.”

A cold, unsettling smile tugged at his mouth. He placed the book on top of your desk and slowly made his way towards you, his voice was low and raspy.

“You were special to me, love. I had spent nights thinking of how beautifully you would look, detached from your body, lifeless, completely at my mercy,” he mused and there was excitement in his voice, something almost akin to affection except dark and corrupted. “And so, of course, when I finally had you in my grasp… I had to have some fun.” He could see the gears turning in your head, he knew you didn’t want to accept where he was going with this, so he wanted to say it explicitly, so you couldn’t run away from the horror. “I took you to my colony and ravished your lifeless body.”

You clenched your hands into fists, your heart racing in your chest as you glared at him in disgust. “Shut up. You’re lying,” you shook your head. You knew he was sick, a sadistic and disturbing man, but you didn’t believe, couldn’t believe, he had the guts to do something like that.

“Oh, but I’m not,” he chuckled darkly, taking slow and deliberate steps towards you. “The rush of battle is quite the aphrodisiac, your body was still warm when I fucked you in my tent.” He reveled in the way your eyes widened at his words, the fear radiating from your body only fueled his arousal. “And when you were in my collection… oh, how often I’d visit you.” He laughed, his eyes were manic and his grin was disturbing. He was right in front of you, the space between you small enough that you could feel his uneven breathing against you. You turned your face away from him, your face heating up from the proximity and from his disgusting, filthy words. He was having none of that, pulling you by the chin and forcing you to look back up at him. “I was obsessed with how beautiful your face looked covered with my cum. If only separated by the glass…” He used his thumb to caress your lips, staring at them with a predatory look. “How about you show me how it looks without the barrier?”

“You’re sick, you’re disgusting and your actions are revolting…” You glared at him, trying to keep your voice steady, trying to look uninterested in his proposition.

“I’m not hearing a no,” he chuckled. “And I know why. I know you crave me, just as much as I crave you. You are attracted to me, not despite my actions but because of them,” he accused and brought his hand to your neck gripping it tightly, you instinctively reached for his wrists to push away but his arm wouldn’t budge. “You think my sadism is hot, you think my bloodthirst is attractive. There is darkness inside you, you wouldn’t have become Moebius otherwise. So say it.”

You felt acutely aware of D’s hold, his fingers closed around your throat, the pressure setting your senses on fire. His grip was firm, his gaze was intense. You could feel the pulse of your own racing heartbeat, an electric charge clouding the moment. His touch felt like a tantalizing dance on the edge of desire and danger. And spark, you wanted more.

“Can’t…” You denied. Hoping to get some mercy from the man in front of you, but all you got was the tightening of his grip.

“Yes, you can. Don’t deny yourself, give in,” he ordered with a malicious grin. “Say you want it.”

“I… w-want it…”

He let go of your neck and and you breathed in rapidly, catching your breath with relief as arousal pooled between your legs.

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” He asked with a mocking tone, before he barked another order. “Get on your knees.”

You swallowed and obeyed, dropping to the floor and looking up at him, the position bringing heat to your cheeks. The smirk he gave you was downright degrading, but with a glint of that obsessive and dark affection he held for you. He dissipated the crotch of his consul armor, the material glitching out of existence and freeing his cock. It was already hard, it was thick and throbbing, and he looked down at you with a smug expression as you stared at it.

He didn’t allow you too long before he gripped your hair and pressed your face against it. Your cheek was resting against his length and you could feel his warmth on your skin, throbbing, demanding attention.

“You know what to do,” his voice was dark, laced with lust.

You opened your mouth tentatively, letting his cock in. It felt heavy on your tongue and the taste of it was slightly bitter. The hand on your hair pushed you further down his length, and you did your best to suppress your gag reflex.

He watched your every move, his breathing getting heavier as he felt your mouth around his member. His infuriating, sadistic grin never left his face.

“How does it feel?" He asked. "To suck the dick of the person who took your life?"

You didn't respond, instead opting to keep his cock inside your mouth. You didn't want to admit to the fact that you were insanely aroused by your predicament. You pressed your legs together to try to alleviate the sheer need threatening to consume you.

And he thought you never looked prettier.

“If only I could have done this when you were still soldiers, I would have loved seeing you choke on my dick, feel your tears as you sucked me off. What a sight it would have been," he chuckled and forced your head closer, making you take him deeper. “What would your little friends in your colony think? Seeing you on your knees like a slut for the man who slayed so many of your comrades?”

He pulled on your hair, his hips pushing against you, fucking your mouth in earnest now. You were gagging, trying to breathe through your nose, tears were prickling the corner of your eyes as he kept a brutal pace, hitting the back of your throat and choking you. His grip was tight, his cock was heavy and big in your mouth, your jaw was sore and spit was dribbling down your chin.

“Spark… Come here,” he pulled your hair back, pulling you off his cock before he leaned down and kissed you. His mouth claimed yours with passion and intensity, enough to make you moan into the kiss before he pulled away and fucked his fist over your face. The look of lust and the sound of his breathy moans sent sparks of pleasure down your core. He stared into your eyes, watching the way they widened as his cum landed on your face. He groaned, breathing heavily, his grip on your hair was tight.

He came down from the high with a low chuckle, admiring the work of art before him. His cum was dripping down your cheek and the bridge of your nose, some drops had reached your lips. He wiped it away with his thumb, pushing it past your lips and forcing it into your mouth.

You really were the most prized possession in his collection.

[squadron-goals]

How Richthofen shot down his seventy fifths victory (by Leutnant Lampel)

“Please, have a seat,” the Rittmeister Freiherr von Richthofen said to me when I reported to him at the mess: “Ordonnanz (orderly), Lunch.” Suddenly I was sitting in the middle of the famous circle of Jagdstaffel 11, in the middle of the great aces, and I was quite intimidated. - The officer´s mess was a round corrugated iron barracks, in which one could barely stand upright, two small window slits gave the necessary light. These were the living quarters of the English airmen who have left the field in quite a hurry. The Richthofen fighter wing had just moved in. The Rittmeister sits at the top of the table. He has his yellow-brown leather trousers on, his leather waistcoat and a wool waistcoat over it unbuttoned and his neckerchief removed. Just returned from a patrol flight with the gentlemen of his old squadron. It is very busy in the air. When one squadron returns, the next one starts immediately. None of the pilots wears his high awards. They just sit there in their gray uniform; one quickly becomes familiar with their circle, all are modest and amiable, in spite of their great successes. The most modest of all is the Rittmeister himself. He still looks very young, not at all as harsh as I had imagined from the pictures, and when he speaks to you, something amiable glides over his features. He doesn't say anything for a while, then he just says, "I just shot down my seventy-fifth." Gosh - I allowed myself a very shy congratulations, and now the Rittmeister is telling the story. “…weird,” he said, “the last ten I shot down all burned. The one today did too. I saw it, at first it was a very small flame under the driver's seat; when the machine then overturned, I saw that the floor under the driver's seat had already burned away completely. It also continued to burn very gently as he turned down, and when it crashed there was a tremendous explosion below, the likes of which I have never seen before." It was a Bristol fighter, a two-seater, and he resisted tenaciously. “We were quite frightened," said Leutnant Gußmann, looking over at his commander a little reproachfully. "Herr Rittmeister approached it incredibly closely." "Yes," said Richthofen, "I had to get very close to him. The observer was a tough, very clever fellow. A brave man. I had to get within five meters until he fell, although he was already in the fire of my machine guns and had to have been hit. And even then he still shot at me. In fact, the very slightest deflection of the steering wheel was enough to prevent us from running into each other.” At that moment the adjutant steps through the door. "I congratulate you most obediently, Herr Rittmeister -" He held a telegram in his hand. We all held our breaths. "His Majesty the Emperor most graciously deigned to award Herr Rittmeister the Order of the Red Eagle, third class, with crown and swords. On the occasion of the seventieth aerial victory, Mr. Rittmeister." And now the seventy fifths had already fallen! Everyone jumped up, the Rittmeister shook our hands. He almost turned red, all humble. “Children,” he said, “I have yet to earn the Red Eagle forth class.” When he drove away immediately afterwards to inspect a new airfield just behind the front - after all, it's going forward - he turned around again and half looked through the door. "Well, children," he says, "when I'm standing there in front and you're flying" - he cups his hand in front of his eyes - "I´m going to see if you're brave." As the gentlemen start afterwards, they shoot down three more Tommies. Leutnant Weiss his fourteenth, Leutnant Wolff his fourth and thus the two hundred and fiftieth of Jagdstaffel 11. Another young squadron gets its hundredth down today. Both squadrons belong to Richthofen's fighter wing.

[kwimndia]

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If you're looking for top-quality brass coil manufacturers in India, KWM India should be at the top of your list. Their dedication to quality, innovation, and customer satisfaction has made them a preferred supplier not just in India, but also in international markets.

With KWM India, you get more than just a product — you get a partnership built on trust, quality, and performance.

Visit:- https://www.kmwindia.com/brass-coils.html

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How I Discovered the Best Slit Coils in Karnataka — A Journey with Hariom Pipes

The Search Begins

It all started with a challenge. As a procurement manager for a mid-sized manufacturing company in Karnataka, I was tasked with finding a reliable supplier for high-quality slit coils. Our production deadlines were tight, and the last batch we sourced had caused serious delays due to inconsistent sizing and poor finish.

I needed a supplier who offered precision, durability, and consistency and that’s when I stumbled upon a name I hadn’t paid much attention to before: Hariom Pipes.

Understanding the Need for Quality Slit Coils

For those unfamiliar, slit coils are wide metal coils slit into narrower widths, widely used in the automotive, construction, and fabrication industries. Poor-quality slit coils can result in material wastage, equipment wear, and even production shutdowns.

In Karnataka, especially with the growing infrastructure and industrial sectors, the demand for top-quality slit coils has skyrocketed. But quality matters more than ever.

The Discovery of Hariom Pipes

I first heard about Hariom Pipes during a vendor meeting in Bengaluru. A colleague mentioned how they had recently upgraded their supply chain by switching to Hariom. Curious, I decided to visit their manufacturing unit.

To my surprise, Hariom Pipes wasn’t just a pipe manufacturing company. Their setup for producing slit coils was impressive — modern machinery, strict quality control, and a dedicated team with decades of experience in metal processing.

Why Hariom Pipes Stands Out?

Here’s what stood out during my research and visit:

Precision Engineering: Their slit coils had clean, uniform edges with minimal burrs essential for our cutting and bending machines.

Custom Sizing: They offered flexible sizing based on our specific requirements, a feature many suppliers couldn’t match.

Consistency: Every batch was uniform no more surprises when opening a new coil.

Timely Delivery: With their strong logistics in Karnataka, deliveries arrived right on schedule.

Customer Support: A responsive team that actually understands the technical requirements of their clients.

Results That Spoke Volumes

After switching to Hariom Pipes, we noticed immediate improvements:

Reduction in wastage by 25%

Faster machine throughput

Zero rejections due to coil quality

Improved trust from our end clients

Over the next few months, Hariom Pipes became our go-to supplier not just for slit coils, but eventually for other metal components as well.

A Trusted Name in Karnataka

If you’re in the market for the best slit coils in Karnataka, don’t make the mistake of going with just any vendor. Do what I did visit, talk, and inspect the product yourself. I can confidently say that Hariom Pipes is a name you can trust.

Their commitment to quality, precision, and customer satisfaction makes them one of the leading slit coil suppliers in Karnataka today.

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How to Choose a Good Expanded Metal Mesh Machine Supplier: A Complete Guide for Your Business

Description: Looking for the best expanded metal mesh machine supplier? This guide covers everything you need to know, from evaluating quality and reliability to comparing prices and services. Learn how to make an informed decision and boost your business efficiency.How to Choose a Good Expanded Metal Mesh Machine Supplier

Subheadings:

What is an Expanded Metal Mesh Machine?

Why Choosing the Right Supplier Matters

Key Factors to Consider When Selecting a Supplier

How to Evaluate the Quality of Expanded Metal Mesh Machines

The Importance of After-Sales Support and Service

Comparing Prices: Finding the Best Value for Your Investment

Tips for Building a Long-Term Relationship with Your Supplier

Common Mistakes to Avoid When Choosing a Supplier

Conclusion: Making the Right Choice for Your Business

Content:

1. What is an Expanded Metal Mesh Machine?

An expanded metal mesh machine is a specialized piece of equipment used to manufacture expanded metal mesh, a versatile material widely used in construction, filtration, and industrial applications. The machine works by slitting and stretching metal sheets to create a mesh pattern, offering strength and durability.

2. Why Choosing the Right Supplier Matters

Selecting the right expanded metal mesh machine supplier is crucial for ensuring the quality of your products and the efficiency of your operations. A reliable supplier not only provides high-quality machines but also offers excellent customer support, timely delivery, and competitive pricing.

3. Key Factors to Consider When Selecting a Supplier

When choosing a supplier, consider the following factors:

Reputation and Experience: Look for suppliers with a proven track record and extensive experience in the industry.

Product Range: Ensure the supplier offers a variety of machines to meet your specific needs.

Certifications and Standards: Verify that the supplier adheres to international quality standards.

Customer Reviews: Check online reviews and testimonials to gauge customer satisfaction.

4. How to Evaluate the Quality of Expanded Metal Mesh Machines

Quality is paramount when investing in an expanded metal mesh machine. Here’s how to assess it:

Material and Build: Inspect the materials used in the machine’s construction. High-quality steel and durable components are essential.

Performance and Efficiency: Test the machine’s performance to ensure it meets your production requirements.

Precision and Consistency: Evaluate the machine’s ability to produce consistent and precise mesh patterns.

5. The Importance of After-Sales Support and Service

After-sales support is a critical aspect of choosing a supplier. A good expanded metal mesh machine supplier should offer:

Technical Support: Assistance with installation, operation, and troubleshooting.

Maintenance Services: Regular maintenance to keep the machine in optimal condition.

Warranty and Spare Parts: A comprehensive warranty and easy access to spare parts.

6. Comparing Prices: Finding the Best Value for Your Investment

While price is an important consideration, it should not be the sole deciding factor. Compare prices from different suppliers, but also consider the overall value, including quality, service, and support. A slightly higher upfront cost may save you money in the long run by reducing downtime and maintenance expenses.

7. Tips for Building a Long-Term Relationship with Your Supplier

Establishing a strong relationship with your expanded metal mesh machine supplier can lead to better deals, improved service, and a more reliable supply chain. Here are some tips:

Communicate Clearly: Maintain open and honest communication with your supplier.

Provide Feedback: Share your experiences and suggestions to help the supplier improve.

Negotiate Terms: Work together to negotiate favorable terms and conditions.

8. Common Mistakes to Avoid When Choosing a Supplier

Avoid these common pitfalls when selecting a supplier:

Ignoring Research: Failing to thoroughly research and compare suppliers.

Focusing Solely on Price: Overlooking quality and service for a lower price.

Neglecting After-Sales Support: Underestimating the importance of ongoing support and maintenance.

9. Conclusion: Making the Right Choice for Your Business

Choosing the right expanded metal mesh machine supplier is a critical decision that can significantly impact your business’s success. By considering factors such as quality, reputation, after-sales support, and price, you can make an informed choice that meets your needs and boosts your productivity. Take the time to research and evaluate potential suppliers, and don’t hesitate to ask for references or demonstrations. With the right supplier, you can ensure the long-term success and efficiency of your operations.

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Narrow Web Slitting Rewinding Machine – Precision & Efficiency by KEW ENGG. & MFG. PVT. LTD.

KEW ENGG. & MFG. PVT. LTD. has designed and developed a cutting-edge Narrow Web Slitting Rewinding Machine, engineered for slitting, salvage winding, and de-lamination of rolls. With precision engineering and superior technology, this machine guarantees accurate inspection and high-performance web slitting.

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Roofing Sheets A Comprehensive Guide by Hi-Tech Pipes

Roofing sheets, also known as corrugated metal sheets, are a versatile and durable roofing material used in various residential, commercial, and industrial buildings. They are available in a wide range of colors and profiles to suit different architectural styles and functional requirements.

Hi-Tech Pipes: A Leading Manufacturer of Roofing Sheets

Hi-Tech Pipes is a renowned manufacturer of roofing sheets in India. The company is known for its commitment to quality, innovation, and sustainability. Hi-Tech Pipes’ roofing sheets are manufactured using high-grade steel and undergo rigorous quality control checks to ensure they meet the highest standards.

Types of Roofing Sheets

There are two main types of roofing sheets:

Galvanized steel roofing sheets: These sheets are coated with a zinc layer to protect them from corrosion. Galvanized steel roofing sheets are the most common type of roofing sheet due to their affordability and durability.

Color coated roofing sheets: These sheets are galvanized steel sheets that have been painted with a layer of color coating. Color coated roofing sheets offer a wider range of aesthetic options and enhanced UV protection.

Manufacturing Process of Roofing Sheets

The manufacturing process of roofing sheets involves several steps:

Selection of raw materials: High-quality steel coils are selected as the base material for roofing sheets.

Coil slitting: The steel coils are slit into strips of the desired width.

Cold roll forming: The steel strips are cold-rolled into the desired profile using specialized forming machines.

Galvanizing: The roofing sheets are galvanized in a molten zinc bath to provide corrosion protection.

Color coating: For color coated roofing sheets, an additional step of applying a color coating is done using a paint application system.

Quality inspection: The roofing sheets undergo rigorous quality inspection to ensure they meet the required specifications, including thickness, coating uniformity, and surface finish.

Applications of Roofing Sheets

Roofing sheets are widely used in various applications, including:

Residential roofing: Roofing sheets are a popular choice for residential roofing due to their affordability, durability, and ease of installation.

Commercial roofing: Roofing sheets are also frequently used in commercial buildings, such as warehouses, factories, and shopping complexes.

Industrial roofing: Roofing sheets are a common choice for industrial roofing applications due to their ability to withstand harsh weather conditions and chemical exposure.

Benefits of Roofing Sheets

Roofing sheets offer several advantages over other roofing materials:

Durability: Roofing sheets can withstand harsh weather conditions, including wind, rain, and snow.

Corrosion resistance: Galvanized roofing sheets are highly resistant to corrosion, ensuring a long lifespan.

Low maintenance: Roofing sheets require minimal maintenance compared to other roofing materials.

Affordability: Roofing sheets are a relatively affordable roofing material.

Lightweight: Roofing sheets are lightweight and easy to install.

Versatility: Roofing sheets are available in a wide range of colors and profiles to suit different architectural styles.

Sustainability: Roofing sheets can be recycled, making them an environmentally friendly roofing option.

Hi-Tech Pipes: A Commitment to Quality and Sustainability

Hi-Tech Pipes is committed to providing high-quality roofing sheets that meet international standards. The company employs advanced manufacturing techniques and stringent quality control measures to ensure the consistency and reliability of its products.

Hi-Tech Pipes is also committed to sustainability practices. The company has implemented eco-friendly manufacturing processes and utilizes recycled materials whenever possible to minimize its environmental impact.

Conclusion

Roofing sheets are a versatile, durable, and affordable roofing material suitable for various applications. Hi-Tech Pipes, with its commitment to quality, innovation, and sustainability, stands as a leading manufacturer of roofing sheets, catering to the needs of diverse industries and projects across India.

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Top Quality Brass Coils Manufacturers in India

Top-Quality Brass Coil Manufacturers in India – Spotlight on KWM India

India has emerged as a global leader in the production of non-ferrous metals, especially brass. Among the most widely used brass products in the industrial and manufacturing sectors are brass coils manufacturers. These coils are valued for their strength, ductility, corrosion resistance, and excellent thermal and electrical conductivity. As demand grows across sectors such as electronics, construction, automotive, and plumbing, choosing a reliable and high-quality brass coil manufacturer becomes essential. One company that has consistently delivered on quality and innovation is KWM India.

Brass Coils: A Critical Industrial Material

Brass coils are produced by rolling brass sheets into a coiled form. These coils offer great flexibility in terms of dimensions and can be cut, stamped, or molded according to specific requirements. Depending on the copper-zinc ratio, brass coils can be tailored for various properties like malleability, strength, and resistance to corrosion.

Industries use brass coils in numerous applications such as:

Electrical connectors and terminals

Radiators and heat exchangers

Architectural trims and components

Plumbing fixtures and gas fittings

Decorative hardware and consumer goods

Given their widespread use, quality becomes a top priority for any business looking to source brass coils.

KWM India – A Leader in Brass Coil Manufacturing

KWM India, based in Jamnagar, Gujarat – also known as the “Brass City of India” – is one of the country’s leading manufacturers and exporters of high-quality brass coils. With years of experience and technical expertise, KWM India has built a strong reputation for delivering precision-engineered brass products that meet both Indian and international quality standards.

What makes KWM India stand out in a competitive industry is its commitment to using only the finest raw materials, combined with advanced manufacturing techniques and stringent quality control.

State-of-the-Art Infrastructure

KWM India operates modern production facilities equipped with high-capacity rolling mills, annealing furnaces, and slitting machines. These allow the company to produce brass coils in a variety of widths, thicknesses, and tempers to meet customer-specific requirements.

Whether you need soft, half-hard, or full-hard brass coils, KWM India can customize production to deliver exactly what your application demands. The company also ensures consistency in coil thickness, smooth edges, and superior surface finish — critical factors in industries where precision matters.

Uncompromising Quality Control

One of KWM India’s strongest differentiators is its dedication to quality assurance. Every batch of brass coils mnufacturers undergoes strict quality inspections, including:

Chemical composition testing

Tensile and yield strength analysis

Dimensional accuracy checks

Surface finish inspection

KWM India is also ISO-certified, reinforcing its commitment to global quality standards. Their experienced quality control team ensures that customers receive defect-free products, every time.

Focus on Sustainability and Innovation

Apart from quality, KWM India takes pride in maintaining environmentally friendly and sustainable manufacturing practices. The company implements recycling processes and energy-efficient methods, minimizing its carbon footprint while maintaining production efficiency.

KWM India is also actively investing in research and development to enhance product performance and develop new alloys that meet the evolving needs of the market.

Customer-Focused Approach

KWM India has built long-term partnerships with clients across India, the Middle East, Europe, and Southeast Asia. Their customer-centric model includes:

Competitive pricing

On-time delivery

Customized orders

Transparent communication and support

Their technical team works closely with clients to understand their exact needs and recommend the right brass coil grade and specifications for their applications.

Conclusion

With the rapid expansion of industrial sectors worldwide, the need for high-quality brass coils is on the rise. Among the top brass coil manufacturers in India, KWM India has positioned itself as a reliable, innovative, and quality-driven partner. Their combination of technical expertise, advanced infrastructure, and customer-first philosophy makes them a top choice for businesses seeking premium brass coil solutions.

Whether you are a small-scale manufacturer or a large industrial player, sourcing brass coils from KWM India ensures that you receive not just a product, but a commitment to quality, consistency, and long-term performance.

Visit:- https://www.kmwindia.com/brass-coils.html