#Slip-Forming Technique

[a-grim-thin-hope]

if anybody wanted to know how my lawmane fic is going (incredibly well), look at my opening line!! im so PROUD of it it's the best I've ever done

Cameras were usually so kind to Misa Amane, perfectly capturing the beauty that was so eagerly pasted across thousands of magazines in Japan. In the dim haze of the headquarters at night, though, L's feed did her no favours.

this is for all 22 of y'all 🗣️ I love you fellow lawmane truthers

[tonycries]

Hot To Go!

Synopsis. Getting hit by a séx technique? No problem! Of course, you’re there to help.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, séx cursed technique (he’s affected), mating press, they’re REALLY needy, fúck or díe, oraI (fem receiving), jealousy (Nanami’s), bréeding, marathon séx, teary Gojo, creampíe, spítting, cúmplay, thígh ríding, fíngering, VERY pússydrunk boys, true form! Sukuna, dp, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.5k (woah)

A/N. I needed this outta my mind so bad y’all omg. Have a lovely day babygirls <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Just sit on it, woman!

“Please…” Toji drawls, slow and syrupy around your puffy clit. “Who do you think you are, doll? Just sit.”

Now, the problem wasn’t that strange, low-level curse from Toji’s latest job. No, don’t make him laugh - he barely felt whatever that weak cursed technique was. The problem was the way he’d trudged back home, not even thinking of reaching for that door handle before it hits him. 

Suddenly too-sensitive nose getting a whiff of your shampoo - all the way from inside the bedroom. 

All the way to that dangerous, ugly little part of himself that says that if he doesn’t get a taste of you right now then neither of you are making out of this alive. 

And it’s all you can do to gasp, “T-Toji what happened?”

“You. You happened. N’ I don’t care if I hafta oh-” he cuts himself off, hot lips surging forwards - addicted - to place another slow, wet peck on the sweet sweet juices beading at your cunt. “-if I hafta fuckin’ suffocate, m’gonna die if you don’t just sit, goddammit.”

“Fuck!” you keen when two, calloused hands of Toji’s loop around your shaky thighs. Pulling, dragging you down to press your entire weight down onto his slutty mouth. “You’re being so…”

He barely even hears you - too caught up on the way your pretty cunt was drooling down his waiting tongue. 

Prominent Adam’s apple bobbing, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he tips his face up, up, up to let your heady juices slide down his throat. “What? Filthy? Needy? Like a bitch in heat?”

Each hissed out little word has you jolting on top of him - and Toji only tightening his bruising grip with a pained grunt to stop you from disconnecting with his ruthless lips.

“Ohhh fuck stay still, woman. S’the stuff of heaven. You’re so lucky you weren’t anywhere near me after that fight.” he spits at the feeling of you clenching around him, mouth moving a mile a minute even when he slips it past your swollen folds, dragging the muscles along all your hidden sweet spots. “So lucky. So sweet- so perfect thought I was gonna die without a lil’ taste-” 

A shiver runs down your spine - all the way down to where Toji was messily making out with your ravaged pussy. Stretching you out, milking himself on your sloppy entrance. Animalistically, even.

You squeal, “Think I’m gonna die.”

“Shit- and you think I care? Just want- ngh-” And that sinful little scar rubs up against your sensitive folds when Toji grins knowingly, so deep now that his nose was pressing against your pelvis, jaw grinding against you. Big arms orchestrating each mean, long drag of your sloppy pussy up and down his pretty face. Up and down up and down up and- “What did I say? This is all because of y-you, y’know?”

And Toji’s tone is so low, strangled - that the answer almost comes out as a whine. It makes you snap your glassy eyes down to look - to gape at how utterly wrecked he already was. 

Dark hair curtaining those pussydrunk, half-lidded eyes, your slick glossing prettily over his plump lips - all the way down to his cheeks, his sharp jawline. And only getting sloppier with each movement,

“Me?” you blink tearily - fuck, when did it get so good you started crying? And why was Toji much the same? Dark eyes wet and miles away. 

“Mhm.”

“S’your fault for being so- so-” As if the words were failing him, Toji’s only moves to suck harsher on your throbbing clit. Obscene little smacks of his lips following your barely-lucid ah! ah! ah! “-like this.”

Even through the haze of it all, you manage out a huff of laughter, “Like this?”

For this, you get a sharp smack! on the fat of your ass. Thick fingers soothing over the sting almost immediately so that you’re not bowing your body away from Toji’s persistent mouth, “S’it so bad if I wanna taste my sweet girl?.” He moans, sounding so genuinely pained, “But I need you- need to taste this fuuuck pretty cunt so bad. Gonna die if I don’t- if I-” 

“Hngh- yes- fuck fuck fuck, Toji-” your fingers threat their way into his soft hair. Tugging and pulling with each harsh lap at your cunt. Your body arching like a slut as if on command when he speeds up, “-feels too good. M’so close fuck-”

“Be messy, be loud- I don’t fucking care.” he hisses, brows furrowing in concentration. And whatever’s left of that practical little part of your hazy mind wonders whether it doesn’t hurt - whether his tongue wasn’t cramping up, mouth aching. “Jus- jus wan’ you to cum on m’tongue. You’ll let me taste you, right, doll? Want it want it want it so fuckin’ bad-”

You didn’t know who wanted you to cum more - you, or your dear boyfriend.

But when you do - you have you answer. 

“F-fuck, Toji.” your gummy walls clench around where he was bullying his tongue inside. “M’cumming- M’cumming m’cumming m’- ah!” 

“Give it t’me. Give it allll to me that’s it.” Because Toji’s lapping at each and every syrupy drop of your juices, moaning into your cunt as you ride him through your high. Addicted. The vibrations having your hips stuttering and unstable on top of him. 

He lets his thumb draw lazy, tight circles on your sensitive clit. Unstopping - even when you’re blinking back your spotty vision, tears crinkling at the corner of your eyes at the overstimulation. 

Even when you try to pull away from his ruthless mouth - little, messy strings of spit and slick snapping in the nonexistent distance. 

Even when he still darts his tongue out hastily to taste you sloppily, “One more - didn’t get enough of m’fill.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Can’t- won’t wait!

Everyone knows that your husband Nanami was protective - rightfully so. Everyone knows that just a toe out of line could have the stoic man snapping - showing off exactly why he was the one that put that pretty lil’ ring on your finger. 

But never like this. 

Never so…crazed.

And it’d only taken one too many flirty comments from some new intern in the time it’d taken Nanami to rush over there from his latest jujutsu mission. Just for your husband to drag you away from the party, barely paying attention to anything else.

Though, when you caught a glimpse of his eyes you didn’t think he could - gaze strangely hazy, breath a bit shorter, skin flushed a delicate pink. 

“Can’t believe it.” he groans, pressing you up against the wall of the nearest empty room he could find. Fat cock just nudging past that feeble ring of resistance of yours. “Can’t fuckin’ believe it. Fuck-”

You’re jumping slightly with each little profanity spat into your open mouth, bleary eyes blinking up at your Nanami. Managing out, “Is everything hah- alright, Ken?”

“Can’t fucking believe it.”

There it was again. 

That low, accusing little mantra - this time panted out into the side of your racing pulse. Breaking ever-so-slightly at the end when Nanami’s bullying his swollen cock deeper past your plushy walls, the curve of his girth having you arch like such a slut against the wall. 

Nanami growls, “Can’t fucking believe-” he slides two hands under your weakening thighs easily, picking you up like some little ragdoll to be split apart on his cock. Murmuring against your mouth, “Can’t believe you won’t let me jus’ fuck you right then and there, my love.”

You don’t know what shocks you more - Nanami’s words or the way he’s immediately letting gravity do all the work, sliding your dripping cunt so easily down his cock. Inch by fucking inch. 

All up until your pelvis was flush against those neat tufts of blond at his base. God, you don’t think you’ve ever seen Nanami so impatient. 

“Thought I was gonna die without your sweet cunt.” He was barely even breathing. Eyes glassy - crazed. Voice so deep and ragged when he whispers into your ear. “Should’ve jus’ let me fuck you out there, right in the middle of the ball. Made a scene n’ showed them all please- we could go back-”

And it takes you a few seconds to realize that this is Nanami. Your Nanami.

Seriously, what the fuck happened on that mission?

“But- what?” you squeal, gummy walls swallowing him up so readily despite your confusion. “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”

And this little comment makes Nanami physically stop, dark eyes glinting with something so dark - dangerous. Brows furrowing as he utters, “Nothing. Did you forget that I’m your husband, darling?” Having you scrambling to hang onto his broad shoulders as he walks over to splay you out so prettily on a nearby desk. “Or do I jus’ hafta remind you?”

It’s all it takes for Nanami to thrust up into your heavenly cunt. One hand holding you still on the cool desk, while the other just ravages your throbbing clit in time with his needy cock. 

“F-fuck, Ken— oh- yes yes yes-”

Fat tip pressing up against your g-spot like he had a point to prove, spearing you at each harsh, bullying thrust that has you pushed further and further up the desk. Over and over. 

The desk shifts ever-so-slightly with every smack of Nanami’s heavy balls against your ass. Creaking - but not loud enough over your obscene moans. 

“Stop-” he chokes out at the feeling of your pussy being inched away from him. You weren’t running from him that easily. Which is exactly the thought ringing through his mind when Nanami circles his large hands underneath your thighs, dragging you right across to meet his sculpted front. “Stop fuckin’ running away.” Nevermind the fact that you weren’t - voluntarily at least. “Please- need it so badly, s’like m’burning without ya. You’re gonna take my cock like a hah- g-good lil’ wife, okay?”

And Nanami knows maybe he should slow down - maybe ease you into it, first. But either it was that stupid fucking cursed technique talking or maybe the sight of some loser being all starry-eyed at you, he’s fucking you into the desk so mean. 

“Should’ve- would’ve.” he’s grunting, and you already know what he’s talking about. “Saw you in this pretty lil’ dress and fuck darling you don’t know how h-hard it was to ngh keep m’self in check.” Teeth nipping and leaving little bite marks down your neck, and shit if you were in any better state of mind you’d have had the rationality to be worried about them - about how people would talk if they saw those. “N’ I would’ve loved to. Don’ know how much I fuck- w-worship this pussy, my love. How much I was dreaming about it all day long.”

The creaking grows louder.

Your head is spinning right now, “All day long?”

“Mhm…” Nanami slurs, a loose little smile playing on his lips. “Always do. But today- fuck, today. Needed to feel you or I thought I was gonna ngh- die. Or worse.” 

“Or worse.”

Bang! 

In a split-second, you’re back bunched up in Nanami’s arms - his cock still buried deep within you. Moving. Merciless. Even though his eyes flicker downwards at the pile of wood that used to be a desk. “Lose you that promotion.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Use?

“Use me.” 

“What?”

“Use me, goddammit.”

Geto sounded almost hysterical now - words ragged, a pitch higher than normal. Staring at you with that drunk, wide-eyed gaze while you perched right on his muscular thigh. Looking as bewildered as you felt at that moment when he lets out a humorless little laugh, “That curse- fuck I should’ve known before ingesting- shit.” 

Fingers frantic - almost tearing through the fabric of his boxers as he removes them feverishly. 

And his cock didn’t just look rock-hard no- it looked so so angry. So painful. Flushed a pretty red at his weepy tip, leaking down, down, down straight to where you’d unconsciously wrapped your hand around him.

“O-oh.” he gasps in relief when you’re dragging your fist up his cock. Head throwing back to show off that long, beautiful neck - dusted with a blush going all the way down. “Could cum from just this fuuuck.”

And this was nothing like the Geto Suguru you were used to - the sweet talker who’d have you falling apart with just a few words. The one that treated sex like a game - where you were always his pretty lil’ loser.

“Care to elaborate, Sugu?” you flash him a smug smirk - one that makes his swollen cock twitch traitorously in your hand. “Shit, you’re so needy right now you could cum untouched.”

“You little bitch.” he spits out, greedy gaze stuck on the way you were beginning to drag your sloppy cunt up and down his toned thigh. In a way that makes it impossible for Geto to tear his eyes away from the way you were intentionally catching your throbbing clit on each and every dip of muscle, spreading your puffy folds. “You know what I mean.”

You’re batting your lashes so deceivingly innocently, grinding your hips down harder. “I don’t.”

As if to prove your point, you squeeze around his aching dick even harder, pumping your fist all the way from his soaked base up to his sensitive slit. 

Immediately, he bucks his hips up wildly, precum smearing a glossy sheen all over your wrist. “F-fuck you.” he spits. “You little-” And oh you should’ve known that Geto was Geto despite whatever he’d been cursed with. That it’d only take him a split second to reach a hand over to smear the mess of sweet sweet juices you were trailing over his thigh. Bullying his dripping wet fingers between your lips, “You talk too fuckin’ much, gorgeous.”

Oh.

Oh, you were fucked.

“You really think I’d let you g-get away with hah that much?” Geto drawls against your ear, fingers dancing down to control your movements riding his thigh. “N’ after ngh- I was so nice.” He was pulling - dragging you at a mean little pace now. “Should’ve just shut up n’ taken it. Should’ve just used me when I asked.”

It’s like he’d forgotten all about his lust-drunk little state. 

You’re mewling, muffled around his thick fingers. Something that only makes his lips curl up into a syrupy, smug grin, “Who’s cumming untouched now? Got somethin’ to fuck- say?”

You do - and you’re thumbing teasingly under Geto’s neat slit, reveling in the way that makes his harsh little rant die in his throat. Moving your hand up and down to first his cock needily in hasty, long movements like you were trying to fuck something delicious out. 

“You little minx hah-” he’s pressing his fingers right at the back of your tongue, hot mouth kissing away the salty tears welling up behind your eyes. “S-so dirty.”

And it was dirty - your hands coated in Geto’s sheen of precum, his thigh glossy with your slick. But neither of you could bring yourselves to be disgusted - not one bit. 

Not when Geto was forcing down your hips harder, bouncing his knee to match your slutty little tempo. Faster. More desperate. Letting you concentrate on driving him fucking insane with your soft hands - palming and running only on the need to making him cum. To have him spill so hotly all over your hands. 

“Yeah, oh God that’s right- Use me use me use me-” Geto’s mouth slacks open, eyes heady and cracked only to eye the way you’re clenching and quivering around nothing. Your hips only stuttering - getting sloppier and sloppier with each weighty, hard slide down his thigh. He groans, “Fuck fuck fuck m’close-”

“M-me too-” you whine, voice breaking so pathetically at the end. “So much for coming untouched.”

Close - too close.

Close enough that you’re barely even noticing the way Geto’s stiffening up underneath you. Breath hitching in his throat before-

Slam!

“Wha-” Your back hits the plush mattress - so fast that you almost have half the mind to wonder whether this was some figment of your imagination. But, no, Geto’s hot tip nudging at your puffy folds was real. Dangerous. Waiting for just the right moment to rip you apart. His bated breath against your ear was real - very, very real. 

“You didn’t really think I’d let you off that easy, did you, gorgeous?”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - “S-sex?”

Oh, Choso sounded so fucked out just from uttering that.

And you feel the way your cunt clenches at that broken, almost-whiny little plea coming from your best friend’s mouth. Big, dark eyes blinking up at you dazedly in a way that makes you tighten your legs around his waist, pinned to the floor of- fuck, which curse site was this again?

“Mhm, Cho.” you hum, drinking in the shallow pants he lets out into your mouth when you slide his leaky, angry tip between your swollen folds. Barely teasing him between your slit, “S’the only way to get rid of this technique, right?”

Clothes are torn off, breaths coming out in pants. You don’t know if Choso registers your words - shit, you don’t know if he even hears you right now. 

Barely even breathing as he slides two shaky hands of his to rest up at your hips. Giving you a reassuring squeeze once. Twice. Before pulling you down in a split second. 

“Yes!” the word bursts out from his lips. Choso drags your body up, up, up his throbbing length like some ragdoll - until his pretty pink tip was just circling around your sloppy hole - only to bring you all the way back down again. Barely even halfway in yet, but the stretch - fuck, the stretch had you arching for more. “Yes yes yes yes yes fuck yes if you feel just like- like heaven-”

You never thought your sweet Choso would be so needy. Would buck his hips so ferally into your syrupy sweet cunt until you were second-guessing why it ever took so long to do something like this.

Until today’s fateful little mishap with another curse, that is - and oh, you’ve never been more grateful for that stray cursed technique. 

“Hngh-” you screw your eyes shut when the curve of his dick brushed against your sweet spots - unforgivingly. Spreading the fat of your ass in two big hands, trying to squeeze himself inside deeper. Again. And again and again and- “S-slow down, Cho–”

‘Slow down?” Choso breathes from below you - sounding so genuinely bewildered. Still thrusting up in stubborn, long grinds. “Y-you want me to slow down? After- after this?” He’s giving a mean thrust into your gummy pussy, eyes widening down at the heavenly view of your puffy lips sucking him up. Spread needily, bulging around his girth in a way he’d have felt sorry for if he was in any better state of mind. “Slow down- Yeah, gotta- gotta slow down.”

But he only fucks up into you harder. Stronger. Like it killed him to do anything but take you right now and right there on the floor. Messy - no rhythm or rhyme of his hips, just running on pure need and the feeling of you milking his poor cock.

And the idea of that - of your best friend being drunk on the feeling of you wrapped around his aching cock - has you a little more breathless than you’d like. Plushy walls clamping down tight. 

Almost immediately, Choso’s throwing his head back, gasping out a stuttering, “O-oh so ngh- that’s what it feels like. Always- always imagined if…” You don’t get to hear the rest of his sentence because two long fingers of his are latching on shyly to your sensitive clit, rolling softly. 

And if he were any less of a man, Choso would be cumming on the spot - fuck, he’d be passing out. 

“Fuuuuck tighter than I’d dreamt of.” he whimpers, cock twitching wildly inside your dripping cunt. Deft fingers find a lewd little rhythm to toy with your ravaged clit. “Have to slow down- have to- can’t.”

He was out of control now. Sloppy. Teary praises leaving those pretty pink lips with each bullying piston of his hips. 

“Ch-Choso!” you whine, dragging your hips down to meet his sloppy cadence.

Choso’s eyes flutter to the back of his head, grunting “Yes, yes that’s it, my baby. Say my name.” Using his inhuman strength to put pressure on your hips. “Take it- take it please. Wan’ see you full of m’cock.” All the way until the heady bedroom echoes with a loud smack! his fat head kissing your cervix, heavy balls imprinting against your ass. 

And then it’s like something snapped. 

Choso’s sanity - his restraint. Possibly you by the end of this. 

Because in all of two seconds, he’s flipping the two of you over. Your back pressed against the cool floor, legs thrown over his shoulders until your knees were folded all the way up into your tits, Choso groans into your ear at the all new angle. 

Not wasting a second longer before fucking you in this mean little mating press, abs rippling with each heavy, calculated movement. 

“Baby…” Choso drags his lips up your neck, sharp canines biting down on your earlobe. Gentle - the complete opposite of his rock-hard cock. “Think if I cum inside s’gonna solve the curse?”

Oh.

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - True kinda love

You thought you’d seen everything there is about the king of curses. Anything from those smug kisses he’d give you after taking care of “scum curses” for fun to the times he’d begrudgingly watch sappy movies with you - only to fuck away your tears at the end. 

You thought.

But oh you’d never seen him like this - yukata torn apart, no longer fitting how much bigger was, how much stronger his form was. His true form. 

Muscles just bulging on all four arms, eyes half-lidded, dark nails leaving neat little indents where he held your squirming hips sat prettily on two matching, painfully hard cocks. 

Well, “sat prettily” was an understatement - right now you felt so full you could’ve just died.

“Heh, better not die on me just yet because I feel like m’gonna kill fucking everyone..” Sukuna’s large pecs rumble with laughter- shit, had you said that out loud? “Everything.” Long tongue coming up to lick a hot trail up the big fat tears streaming down your cheeks. Whispering raggedly, “God- fuck! How’d you want it? Like I’m me or like hah- this?”

It’s all you can do to crane your head up deliriously, batting your teary lashes in a way that makes Sukuna twitch so wildly. 

His veins thump! thump! thumping into your gummy walls, fat heads nudging right at your bruised cervix - your lungs it felt like. Hips grinding up into yours when he’s shoving himself impossibly deeper, “Answer me.”

“Fuck!” you’re gasping, stupidly. Glassy gaze flitting down to the two angry cocks bullied inside your poor pussy. And still going. “N-no, your true ngh- form- fuck-” 

“Oh yeah?”

Your words are coming out a garbled mess, making such a sly, dangerous leer spread across Sukuna’s lips. Fucking up faster. Sloppier. 

Oh, the feeling had him lightheaded. Had him thankful he lost control of his powers to maintain that pathetic human image of his. Had him ramming past those rings of muscle again. And again. And again and again- oh he was fucked.

“Fuuuck, feel like m’burning. M’so lucky.” Sukuna slurs out, a free hand of his busying itself toying with your throbbing clit. Pulling, rolling in a way he knows will have you whining so prettily. “Sooo fuckin’ lucky I didn’t kill that fuckin’ trash curse.” Glossing his wrists with your sweet sweet juices, lips kissing at your heated ears. “Because now I get to see how much of a slut my girl is f’me, hm?”

The only answer he’s getting is a wet string of profanities that even Ryomen Sukuna himself is proud of. 

Because suddenly Sukuna’s crashing his achy tips against your g-spot, throwing his head back at how fucking sinful it felt to be rubbing up against himself. 

“Shit- yer only getting tighter.” he spits, strained. Sculpted thighs rippling underneath you where he was fucking up into you in jagged, methodical half-thrusts to mold your sweet cunt to him. “Ngh- fuuuck gonna be the death of me, pretty girl.”

“Please-” you’re clawing at the sheets, the headboard, Sukuna’s shoulders - anything and everything to keep your sanity. Begging for- what? Mercy? More? “Please please- m’so close. Kuna ngh-”

He cranes his head down to kiss at your slack lips, breaths feverish. “Damn. Open that m-mouth now, brat. Jus’ a bit- jus’ a bit more.” 

Your mouth is sagging open, tongue lolling out before you know it - positioned perfectly for the bigger man to purse his lips and spit. Once. Twice. 

And Sukuna knew he had perfect aim, he knew he could’ve made this easy for you - but, no, the steady stream of saliva is splattering against the side of your mouth. A large thumb of his coming up to swipe the mess across your wobbly lower lips. 

“My girl deserves to be treated like the slut she is, right?”

His true form has those inhumanly large fingers moving so unfairly fast on your clit, rolling and pinching in an obscene little blur. 

“Oh- oh my god-” you sob, ass stinging where his heavy balls were smacking you - sure to leave a few embarrassing marks. And fuck he’s not even all the way in yet. “Y-you’re so deep- so much. Close Hngh-”

Sukuna’s grinning, two hands helping just drag you down his sloppy length, until your sopping folds were kissing at his toned pelvis. Another dancing up to knead and grope your sloppy hole open wider, “Say it. Say who you’re acting like such a slut for.”

“It’s- fuck!”

“Say it properly, my cockdrunk girl. Say it if you wanna cum.”

“You!” your words fail you pathetically, and the only think you’re moaning next is Sukuna’s name - like a prayer. “S’you Kuna oh-”

And then you’re cumming - white-hot pleasure behind your eyes, and Sukuna’s name in your mouth. Arching into his body. His tongue slipping past your puffy lips to muffle his own moans because God this was the hardest he’d cum in his life and he wasn’t about to drown out any of your pretty moans with it. 

“Oh-” Sukuna shudders, fucking you over and over through your high. Two hands carrying your weight and- shit, when did he stand up? “Yeahh, milk me like that, just it mm knew you were so good f’me-”

You’re realizing with a jolt that he’d gotten up, using gravity to his advantage and sliding you up and down his swollen cocks like some glorified sextoy. So easily. So sinfully while he filled your poor overfilled over and over. 

Thick, hot globs of cum that drool down your messy cunt, so fucking much from both his throbbing cocks. Like he couldn’t - wouldn’t stop. 

Enough to form a pool at Sukuna’s feet. One he doesn’t even give a second glance before muttering, “Ya better hope you’re on the pill because the curse and I are far from over, brat.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - STRONGEST

You thought it would bate by his second orgasm. 

And when it didn’t, well, surely the third time was the charm…

Or, well on the slight chance that that didn’t work - the fourth would be the last, right? Right?

“Sweetheart…” Gojo mutters, teary, red-rimmed eyes peering so unfairly into your hazy ones. Folding your trembling, limp legs back into such a tight mating press. “Jus’ one more time. Please? I promise this fifth time’s gonna be the last.” 

Wrong. And here you were, folded up in half underneath the great Gojo Satoru - the strongest, the same sorcerer that can take down a special grade and let himself be hit by its cursed technique (“out of curiosity!”) in the same breath. 

“A-another?” you mutter, but it comes out much more breathless than you intended. Thighs tightening involuntarily where they were thrown over Gojo’s broad shoulders. “Toru, are you sure-”

Your dear boyfriend’s only giving you a slow, lazy nod. A dopey smile spreading over his face when he spots the trail of gooey white dribbling down your poor, overfilled pussy, gushing out of you with each languid thrust. Oh- shit, when had he started moving again? You bet even he didn’t know that answer.

And before you can react, Gojo’s taking the time to pool the sinful mess on two of his fingers - promptly bullying them back into your already stuffed cunt.

Fuck, you’re not making it out of this alive.

“Shit, taking me so e-easily, huh?” Gojo’s raw, pink lips fall open when your sloppy hole stretches just enough to accommodate his long fingers. “Y-yeah tha’s it. Take it like m’good girl.” Tears of sensitivity pricking behind his eyes when you clench around him so fucking tight, your plushy walls just milking his ravaged cock. “F-fuck s’too sensitive. Too much!”

And despite his own little whines at the back of his throat, Gojo makes no move to stop. 

Did he say he’d stop? Ah, his fried brain couldn’t remember anymore.

None at all, instead, he’s raising his glossy finger pads right up to his mouth. Blue eyes falling shut when he presses them inside momentarily, sucking, savoring the taste of you and him and you-

“You’re t-too much, Toru.” you squeal in embarrassment. 

And that’s all it takes the strongest to let out a barely-lucid hum of agreement - pulling out his fingers with a lewd pop! 

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” he leans down to hum, breath hot against your face. “But what can I- ngh- do-” Each word was punctuated by a harsh, sloppy smack of his hips against your own. Not even bothering pulling all the way out - Gojo doesn’t have to, because he’s nudging all your sweet spots so expertly anyway. Grunting out over those absolutely lewd squelches, “I just want- need you so bad. S’like m’burning from the inside hah- o-out if I don’t ngh fuck this pretty pussy.” He’s babbling deliriously, bent so far down now that your forehead is pressed up against his, thighs burning at the stretch. “-need it so bad. Need it - my one weakness, sweetheart. S’gonna kill me- gonna be the death of me oh-”

“Please!” you think you could almost feel Gojo’s cum sloshing around your walls right now. Fucking you into the mattress so hard - so deep - that you wonder by what miracle the neither of you haven’t broken anything yet. 

It wasn’t a miracle - it was his reverse cursed technique, which the both of you discover only much, much later. 

But for now you’re only clinging desperately to Gojo’s muscled shoulders, bones popping in protest. Fucked-out whimpers spiling from his pretty mouth each time he was slamming his poor, overused cock inside you. Teary eyes screwing shut because shit it hurt so good. Too good. 

“F-Fuck!” you’re gasping when he dances his fingers straight down to draw hasty, feverish little circles on your poor clit. Fingers clawing at his persistent wrist, “Oh my god-”

Gojo hums into your mouth, “J-just ‘Toru’ is fine.”

You let his cocky little comment slide - if only because your boyfriend was smashing into your g-spot repeatedly now. Over and over.

Voice about an octave higher when he’s groaning, “Y-yeah, that good? Ngh- ah!” His hips were stuttering forwards - messy, so so needy like he was drunk on those cute lil’ whines tearing from you with each drag of his cock. “Yeah fuck fuck f-fuck yer killin’ me - pussy too good, feels like m’gonna die.”

God, he really did feel like he could die. Fuck. 

“M-me too ngh, Toru.” you wrench your eyes open when something so wet splashes onto your cheeks. Boring into Gojo’s glassy, pussydrunk eyes. Crying now. “M’so close-”

“O-oh yeah?”

And then he’s speeding up - if that was even possible. Flushed skin smacking against yours harder. Just a bit more calculated. Like he couldn’t stop. Uncontrollable. 

Enough for Gojo to blink away the slight haze in his eyes and actually look at you. Look at the way your lips wobble with each glide of his fat tip against your sensitive spots, the way you milk him harder when he’s smearing his mess of cum all over your clit. At those delirious little heart-eyes you give him when he only lets his jaw sag open, such fucking embarrassing whimpers of your name being drawn all the way from his overworked cock. 

“Cum f’me, sweetheart.” he manages to grit out. “Cum f’me cum f’me, please. Please.”

And how could you not when the strongest asks you so prettily?

You don’t know who cums first - just that your own orgasm is a wave of tingles that shoot all the way from your toes right into your stupidly fucked-out brain. Again and again and Gojo-

Oh, Gojo can’t do anything but bury his head into the crook of your neck. Sharp teeth biting down hard at the point of your pulse as he cums over and over and over. Shooting thick, hot spurts of seed right into your silky cunt. A sinful little white that drools out of your sloppy slit - too much. 

“Sweetheart…” Oh, you knew that tone - too well. “Y’know how I h-have the ah- six eyes n’ this was only our fifth round and six is really a nice num-”

“M’gonna kill you, Toru.”

“S’that dirty talk for our sixth round?”

A/N. TEARY GOJO TEARY GOJO TEARY GOJO

Plagiarism not authorized.

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru is absolutely the type to impulsively fuck you on the porch swing.

not in a creepy neighbor-watching kind of way—he’d blindfold the whole damn street if he had to—but in a he can’t stand being more than a foot away from you for longer than five minutes kind of way.

and it’s way worse when you’re out here like this: sunk into the old swing in that thin, slinky sundress that makes him want to misbehave, bare legs stretched out and catching the late afternoon light, your damp hair clinging to your neck because you just stepped out of the shower, all soft skin and slow blinking eyes and a hum stuck in your throat like you don’t know you’re slowly killing him.

you’re sunshine and heat and temptation in its purest form, and the only thing in the world he ever wants to look at again. he’s fucked in the head for you, and it only gets worse the longer he stares.

it starts with a glance. always does. then he’s sitting beside you, thigh pressed to yours, a hand draped lazily over the back of the swing like he’s not already burning with the need to touch you. he’s close, too close, but not nearly close enough for his liking.

and when you stretch, when the hem of that little dress rides up just a bit too high and he catches the barest flash of your inner thigh—he’s gone. cooked. fried. already turning toward you, eyes heavy, smirk lazy. his fingers slide along your skin like they’re remembering it from every lifetime before this one.

he’s a menace but he’s your menace, all long limbs and too-blue eyes and a grin that means trouble and good times and absolutely no self-control.

“you know,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear, warm breath making you shiver, “i do have a technique for opening those legs.”

you smack his chest with a gasp that’s more amused than offended, trying to glare at him but failing because he’s already pulling you into his lap, coaxing your thighs to part as you straddle him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like this is where you both belong.

the swing creaks under the shift, wood groaning in protest, but he doesn’t care. not even a little. all he sees is the way your breath hitches when his fingers trail up under your dress, how your lashes flutter when he mouths at your neck, tongue hot and greedy and reverent, like he’s praying with every kiss.

his hands are all over you, palms rough on your waist, thumbs brushing beneath the swell of your breasts like he’s worshipping. like you’re the altar and he’s the faithful, here to kneel. your skin, warm from the sun, tastes like salt and summer and something that belongs to him. he bites down lightly on your shoulder just to feel you jolt. just to feel you cling, your fingers curling in his hair with a gasp.

“satoru, someone could—”

“then let ’em learn something,” he breathes, one hand slipping under your panties, two fingers finding your slick like he’s been waiting for this all day. (he has. he always is.)

he draws soft circles, teasing, slow, watching your face tilt up toward the sky as your hips grind down instinctively. he knows every twitch, every gasp, every soft moan you try to swallow down. god, you make the prettiest sounds when you think no one’s listening. like sighs pulled from somewhere deep in your soul.

he’s hard, throbbing through his boxers, desperate for friction. when you rock against him, he groans into your shoulder, practically whining. he always gets like this with you—like he’s starved. like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. you moan his name, and he swears it’s the closest thing to religion he’s ever felt. holy. grounding. addicting.

he fucks you like he’s obsessed because he is, not fast but deep, slow and grounding, like he needs to carve the shape of you into his memory again and again. like this is the only way to exist. your thighs tremble around him, and he kisses you stupid through the whole thing, open-mouthed and messy, tongue licking into your mouth like he’s drinking you in. hands gripping your ass to keep you flush against him as the swing creaks with every thrust. every movement heavy with heat and want and all the ways he needs you. worships you.

and after everything he’s panting into your shoulder, still inside you, arms locked around your waist like he can’t stand the idea of letting you go. like letting go means the world might end. he sways the swing with one foot, kisses your temple, murmurs, “you’re the best thing i’ve ever come home to.”

as if he didn’t just absolutely ruin the porch furniture. as if you didn’t let him. wanted him to.

as if he’s not already thinking about round two. or dragging you back inside. or building a porch fence tomorrow. or hell, just buying a new swing entirely—reinforced this time. just so he can do it again. safer. slower. longer. louder. with snacks after. because you know he’s bringing fruit and water like a menace.

[tokoyamisstuff]

Random thought how good do you think each invincible variant would be at eating 😺 is there any of them who would be an actual munch

18+ explicit content

Sis, don't- it's not worth it...

Other variants under the cut!

Omnivincible is more skilled than most of them. I just feel like he's got a mature approach and wouldn't just mindlessly delve in like some horny teenager.

He'd take his sweet time, enjoying himself without necessarily wanting something in return. In general he takes great pride in causing you pleasure. Is also pretty creative. After all his strenght allows him to eat you out in positions you didn't even know were possible.

Thought you can only come once at a time? He'll prove you otherwise.

Movincihawk constantly brags about his 'superior technique' but at the bottom line he's not all that good at it, sorry.

It's not like he isn't skilled, but he's pretty selfish and impatient. Any kind of foreplay is not a priority for him in general, he likes to go straight to the point.

Fucks pretty well to make up for it though.

Sinister Mark acts like he's doing you a favor, but with how eager he buries himself between your legs it's evident to say he enjoys this as much - if not even more than - you.

This man pins your thighs apart and eats you out like a man starving. Your taste drives him fucking crazy, so yes it could happen that he bites down harder than he intended to.

Likes to eat you out on your period. No I will not elaborate.

Striped/Target Invincible is super vocal during the whole thing. His grunts and groans vibrate against your folds, he doesn't even notice the effect you have on him.

Hope you're ready for the whole range of dirty talk, mostly degrading but occasionally throwing in words of acknowledgement. Tells you how this is your place - beneath him, completely at his mercy.

Uses his fingers better than his tongue, but is fairly good at both. The combination will send you straight to heaven.

No Goggles Invincible is probably the biggest tease on the entire planet.

This man will push you to your absolute limits, reducing you to a whining, moaning, begging puddle of lust. But he's got no mercy, prolonging your sweet torture for as long as he can - you're only allowed to cum if he says you're done.

With him the thin line between pain and pleasure is blurred into a mixture of pure overstimulation, but goddamn it's worth it.

Viltrumite Mark isn't familiar with earth's customs of intimacy. In their culture, canonically, they solely have sex for procreation. Though we never saw Debbie complaining about Nolan either, so I'm confident he can learn.

Gets the hang of it pretty fast, and quickly grows insateable with this new form of closeness he never got to experience before. He's an absolute mess, almost breaking the bedframe as he pathetically humps the mattress, wanting more more more of you.

Needs lots of cuddles and to be told he did a good job afterwards, pretty please.

Prisoner Mark was in solitary confinement for over a year - prepare to be destroyed. R.I.P.

He'll dive in between your legs and won't leave this place until he's got his fill of you, which could take him a while so get cozy.

Not an inch of your body is left untouched, as if he intents to memorize every detail, just in case you'd slip from his grasp once again.

Be prepared to cum until your body gives up. Man's got to make up for the time he spent away from you.

Unmasked Mark is very gentle, almost cautious in his efforts as if you were a fragile flower one needed to properly care for or it'd wither. He still can't fully believe you're here with him, so he's extra anxious about doing something wrong.

You'll slowly and sensually be guided towards your orgasm, his eyes never leaving yours as he reverently observes your every reaction.

Expect some premium aftercare!

Fully Masked Invincible knows you inside and out, has memorized all the weak spots that make you sing for him. He is completely and utterly devoted to your pleasure, maybe even a little too eager in his efforts since he tends to forget himself in the process.

To him your body is a temple meant for worship, so you'd relentlessly get showered in praise and compliments while he explores your body.

Will initiate at every given opportunity, but never pushes it. He just wants to make you happy, really!

[solxamber]

Vice Housewardens + Kalim trying a period simulator

part 1 with overblot gang + adeuce + rollo

I love putting them through this

Trey Clover:

Trey had always been the reliable, grounded guy. Need a cake baked? Trey. Need a shoulder to cry on? Trey. So when you approached him with the suggestion of trying a period pain simulator for "educational purposes," he just adjusted his glasses and said, “Sure, why not?” with his usual level-headedness.

You’d attached the electrodes to his abdomen, and he watched, almost too calmly, as you adjusted the settings. “This isn’t going to be so bad,” he mused. “I mean, how bad could it rea—”

Level 3 hit.

Trey’s entire body stiffened like a poorly baked souffle. His hands gripped the edge of the counter, and his polite smile faltered into something...less composed.

“Okay. Alright. Th-That’s something,” he said, voice tight. His glasses started slipping down the bridge of his nose, and for the first time ever, Trey Clover—the epitome of calmness—looked mildly panicked. “W-Wait, are you sure this is—AH, WHY IS IT IN MY SPINE?”

You snorted as he shot you a look, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

By level 6, Trey was gripping the counter like it was holding him back from the gates of hell. “This is not natural. I’m convinced this is just dark magic. I think the dough is rising inside me.”

When it reached level 9, Trey—calm, responsible Trey—finally broke. “Okay, okay, STOP. I take it back. You are all warriors. I’ll bake you whatever you want for the rest of the week, just please stop.”

With a press of the button, you ended his suffering, and Trey fell back in his chair, gasping for air like he’d just run a marathon. He gave you a weak thumbs-up. “Good... good lesson. I have so much respect for you now. Never again.”

Ruggie Bucchi:

Ruggie thought he could handle anything. Growing up in the slums, you learn to survive, right? So when you casually mentioned a period pain simulator, he scoffed. “Psh, it can’t be worse than a day of running around for Leona. Hit me with it.”

Oh, sweet Ruggie. He didn’t know.

You strapped him up, and as the simulator started, he just chuckled. “This is nothin’. I’ve had stomach cramps before. Ain’t gonna—”

Level 4.

Ruggie doubled over, hands on his knees, eyes wide. “H-Hey, what the—ow, ow, OW! Is this what you deal with?!” His voice cracked as his body spasmed.

By level 6, he was on the floor, clutching his stomach. “I’m sorry for everything. For stealing your snacks, for—oh seven, is this my punishment for that time I ate all your donuts?!” He was gasping, rolling on his back, legs kicking in the air like he was trying to outrun the pain.

“Ruggie, I’m only at level 7,” you said, laughing.

Level 9 hit, and that’s when it got wild. “PLEASE! PLEASE! I’LL DO ANYTHING! I’LL WASH ALL OF YOUR LAUNDRY. I’LL DO GRIM’S CHORES. JUST TURN IT OFF.”

You finally turned it off, and Ruggie lay there, twitching, face pale. “...I’ll never complain about anything again. Ever.”

Jade Leech:

Jade approached the period pain simulator like he did everything else—with unnerving curiosity. “Fascinating. I’ve heard about this phenomenon, but I’ve never had the chance to experience it firsthand.” He grinned that unsettling grin of his as you set it up.

“I’m sure it won’t be that bad,” he added with eerie confidence, as if he were about to observe himself in an experiment.

Level 2 was fine. At level 4, he twitched slightly. “Interesting sensation. It feels as though something is constricting. Very curious.”

At level 5, his smile wavered, just a bit. His breathing hitched, and his hand twitched. “Ah. I see. A dull, persistent ache.”

By level 7, Jade was gripping the edge of his chair, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. “This... is more intense than I anticipated. Quite...quite challenging.”

Level 9, and his grin was gone. For once, Jade looked almost human—panicked and wide-eyed. His fingers dug into the table as he gasped, “What is this? Is this...some sort of torture technique?”

You had to fight back laughter as he gave you a rare, pleading look. “Turn it off...please.”

When it finally stopped, Jade blinked rapidly, straightening himself with as much dignity as he could muster. “I’ll admit, I underestimated that. Quite... informative.”

Kalim Al-Asim:

Kalim thought this was going to be fun. Like a game. “Sure! I’ll try it!” he chirped, flashing his bright smile. “This’ll be interesting!”

At level 2, Kalim was still smiling. “It kinda tickles!”

By level 4, his eyes widened. “O-Oh. That’s...that’s a bit tight, huh?”

Level 6 hit, and Kalim’s smile faltered completely. He was gripping the couch cushions, eyes wide with panic. “Wait, wait, wait! It’s like someone’s punching me from the inside!”

Level 8 arrived, and Kalim let out a full-on yelp. “Okay! O-Okay! I-I take it back! This isn’t fun at all!”

You were wheezing with laughter as Kalim squirmed, trying to adjust himself in the chair, like it would somehow lessen the pain. “It feels like my insides are doing a dance but... but not in a good way! Jamil! Help!”

When you finally turned it off, Kalim lay there, panting like he’d just escaped a wild party gone wrong. “Wow. Just... wow. I didn’t know! How do you survive this?”

Rook Hunt:

Of course, Rook approached this experience like everything else in life—with an excessive amount of enthusiasm. “Ah, mon trésor, you wish to grant me the experience of such a unique sensation? Marvelous! I am prepared for anything!”

You hooked him up, and he was practically vibrating with excitement.

At level 2, Rook was still poetic. “Ah, it begins. A subtle whisper of discomfort, like the winds of autumn brushing against one’s skin.”

Level 4. “Ah! A deeper ache, much like the pull of unrequited love! So sharp, so vivid! I feel it in my very core!”

Level 6 hit, and Rook...started sweating. “Oh...oh my, it is as though my very soul is twisting! A veritable storm within me!”

At level 8, Rook clutched his chest dramatically. “Mon dieu! The anguish! How does one continue to live with such torment on a monthly basis? I am in awe of your strength!”

You were practically crying with laughter as Rook, finally humbled, gasped, “Turn it off, s’il vous plaît! My poetic heart cannot take any more of this agony!”

Lilia Vanrouge:

Lilia had lived for centuries. He had fought in wars, seen empires rise and fall, so surely this would be nothing, right? “Ah, this? A pain simulator? How quaint,” he said with a smirk as you set it up.

At level 3, he was still smiling, though you noticed a twitch in his left eye. “Hmph. I’ve had worse.”

Level 5 hit, and Lilia stiffened, his smirk turning into a grimace. “Oh...that’s rather unpleasant.”

Level 7 arrived, and Lilia’s face contorted. He gripped the arms of the chair, his tiny frame shuddering. “This is worse than I thought” he muttered.

At level 9, Lilia—a warrior who had seen millennia—let out a tiny, high-pitched yelp. “STOP! TURN IT OFF! THIS ISN’T RIGHT!”

You immediately turned it off, watching in amusement as Lilia leaned back in his chair, panting. “Well...I didn’t expect that to be my undoing.” He gave you a weary smile. “You are far stronger than I ever gave you credit for.”

Masterlist

[sunderwight]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It would probably work, is the thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[dark-l-angel]

hi pookie <3 just wondering if you could write for Jason and dick (separately) with a fem!spidersona who's a little on the thicker side (not dumb, like thick thighs.) Luv ur stuff!!

Batfam x thick fem!spidersona reader :

Jason Todd

Jason is feral for your body, point blank.

He especially loves your strength.. the way your thighs lock around enemies (or him…), and he feels it. Will tell you shamelessly:

“Could crush a man with these thighs. Lucky it’s me, huh?”

When you’re web-swinging, he watches like it’s the best show on Earth. Says it’s to “study your technique,” but we all know.

Loves pulling you into his lap, big hands sliding over your hips, saying in that rough voice: “C’mere, lemme feel you.”

After missions, if you’ve got a tear in your suit, he’s inspecting every inch, fingers brushing your skin longer than necessary.

Definitely a thigh guy. Loves having his head between them or just resting his hand there when you’re relaxing together.

If someone else stares too long? Jason’s arm is around you immediately, staring them down with a look that promises violence.

Dick Grayson

Dick is the definition of an ass man and a thigh man. He’s absolutely shameless about admiring you.

He’ll watch you move in the suit with open appreciation: "You’re gonna distract me, babe. And I mean, I’m not complaining…"

Constantly offers "training assistance" (especially flexibility exercises) just an excuse to have his hands all over you.

Praises your body like it’s poetry.

"You’re a masterpiece, you know that?"

"Perfect curves in all the right places."

After patrol, he’ll pull you close, run his hands over your hips, and murmur: "We need a cool-down, don’t you think?"

Loves to tease with feather-light touches over your skin, especially if you're sensitive, watching you shiver under his hands.

He’ll take any excuse to cuddle you, all tangled limbs, his hands smoothing over your curves like you’re something precious.

Tim Drake

Tim is flustered but obsessed.

He tries to play it cool, he really does, but you catch him staring all the time.. especially at your thighs when you perch on rooftops.

He has a weakness for seeing you in your suit after a mission, sweaty, breathing hard, curves on full display.

Cue Tim.exe has stopped working.

Loves laying his head on your thighs while working on his laptop. You’re his favorite pillow, bar none.

He gets adorably awkward when you catch him staring, mumbling: "You just… you look really good, okay?"

If you tease him about it, he turns red but leans into it eventually. Gets bolder with time, hands lingering longer.

Surprise kisses when you least expect it, pulling you into his lap to feel the weight of you against him.

Damian Wayne

Damian acts unaffected at first.. but inside? Absolutely not.

He adores your strength and body. He respects power, and you radiate it.

Will absolutely admire your form during combat and not hide it.

"Your physique serves you well in battle. It is… impressive."

Always ends training sessions with subtle compliments: "Your power is admirable. Continue honing it." (Translation: I can’t stop thinking about you.)

If anyone dares disrespect or objectify you, he’s ready to draw a blade.

Loves quiet, intimate moments where you’re both tending to injuries, his fingers brushing your skin gently but lingering over your curves.

If you sit beside him, he subtly pulls you closer, almost like he needs to feel you next to him.

Bruce Wayne

Bruce is quietly obsessed.

He’s a man of control, but you.. especially in that suit, especially with those curves.. make his restraint fray at the edges.

Watches you with a sharp, dark gaze, cataloging every movement.

He adores your strength. You handle yourself so well in fights, and he watches with a glimmer of pride… and something far more heated.

When you’re alone, he lets the mask slip:

"You’re… extraordinary. Every inch of you."

Big, warm hands exploring your curves, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing you.

Very much about subtle possession.. a hand on your lower back, guiding you, keeping you close in public.

In private? Deep kisses, his hands gripping your hips like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

A/N : hey honey, I can also give u extras if u want:

- How they react seeing u in new suits (tight ones… ahem.)

- bedroom headcanons or even mini scenes

- Jealous moments (if someone flirts with u or touches u accidentally…)

- First time intimacy with each of them.

- How they’d mark u… ya know. With kisses or more.

[mariasont]

moose and meese

spencer discovers plural nouns aren't nearly as complicated as your choice in swimwear

pairing: spencer reid x translator!reader warnings: fem!reader, post prison spencer, hot tubbing, probably some shitty translations bc i am not a translator like reader and i used google, spencer staring at readers boobies prompt: here wc: 0.9k

Spencer considers himself relatively immune to manipulation, persuasion, coercion — any of those techniques really, especially when wielded by attractive, intellectually formidable women. But somehow, you slip right past his carefully constructed defenses like they’re made of tissue paper instead of reinforced steel. 

He briefly entertains the notion of filing some sort of official complaint regarding your swimwear, which, frankly, seems less like actual clothing and more like strategic warfare targeting his respiratory and cardiovascular functions.

As if the torment of sharing a room with you wasn’t already sufficient punishment — being forced to listen as you disappeared behind the bathroom door, imagination betraying him with merciless clarity at the sound of the shower and clothes hitting tile — now he had to contend with a hot tub.

A hot tub conveniently wedged between your room and Morgan’s room, effectively annihilating any chance at privacy.

Not that Spencer actively craves privacy with you.

He absolutely doesn’t.

At least, that’s his official story.

“Hey Spencer,” you murmur, adjusting your bikini strap in a movement that’s entirely unnecessary, “I know my face isn’t that boring, so unless there’s a math equation on my chest, your eyes might wanna wander north.”

Spencer meets your gaze with a flat, unimpressed expression, internally kicking himself because, really, when did he become that guy?

He genuinely hadn’t meant to stare — it was just that your chest was conveniently located directly in his line of sight. Prominently. Unavoidably. 

Now he’s officially a douche, at least according to the voice in his head, which sounds disturbingly like Morgan.

“Oh, I wasn’t —” Spencer falters briefly, warmth prickling at his ears. He clears his throat. “But to be fair, what you’re wearing isn’t exactly designed to promote eye contact.”

You laugh softly, sinking deeper into the bubbles. 

“Cheeky observation, Dr. Reid.” You laugh softly, sinking deeper into the bubbles. “But by all means, stare all you want, I promise not to hold it against you,” you shrug, flicking a little water his way. “Just, you know, remember to blink occasionally. Especially when I’m attempting one of my very meaningful heart-to-hearts.”

Now Spencer feels like an even bigger ass.

Had you actually been talking? 

He winces slightly, offering you an earnestly apologetic glance. “Sorry. You have my full attention now, I promise. Please, continue.”

“Right so, why exactly is the plural of goose geese, but the plural of moose isn’t meese?”

Spencer snorts quietly, eyes rolling toward the hypothetical ceiling.

“Wouldn’t you know the answer to that already?” he muses dryly, raising a brow. “I was under the distinct impression that obscure linguistic inconsistencies were your specialty.”

“I mean, of course I know the technical reason,” you scoff, circling your finger aimlessly through the streaming water. “Vowel gradation, archaic linguistic forms, irregular noun patterns — whatever.” Your expression turns mildly serious, lips pursed in contemplation. “But seriously, Spencer, no amount of theory can justify how wrong it feels to say moose instead of meese.”

“I guess English has never been particularly consistent or accommodating to logic,” he murmurs lightly, gaze flickering downward momentarily, just long enough to confirm that permission was indeed granted. “Makes you wonder if other languages handle pluralization with the same arbitrary cruelty.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” you nod enthusiastically, completely unaware you’ve fallen right into his carefully laid linguistic trap. “Take German, for instance. Sometimes the plural barely changes, like der Vogel to die Vögel, but then you’ve got something as simple as Haus becoming Häuser, which just feels intentionally deceptive. And in Russian,” you continue, “the rules practically change depending on the day of the week. Moose, by the way, is лось, and it somehow manages to be even more frustrating.”

Spencer is fully aware that he’s being intellectually dishonest right now, nodding thoughtfully at your explanations even though he could probably recite them verbatim in his sleep. 

But feigning ignorance grants him the subtle pleasure of hearing your smooth pronunciation as you demonstrate.

“You’re incredibly persuasive when you start throwing around languages. I’m not sure if I should be impressed or intimidated.”

You grin slyly, tilting your head. “I’d aim for impressed, personally. Intimidation feels a little harsh, don’t you think?” Your voice dips. “Unless that’s what you’re into, of course.”

Spencer regards you evenly, but can’t entirely suppress the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth when you scoot closer.

“Careful,” he says. “Keep pushing your luck, and someone might start misinterpreting your intentions.”

You tilt your head coyly, leaning in just enough to draw his attention downward again. "And who exactly would be getting the wrong idea?"

He’s helplessly drawn toward the distracting lines of your bikini — he mentally scolds himself, but the reprimand lacks its usual sting. There’s a curious tightness in his chest, suspiciously similar to anticipation, though he’s trying very hard to ignore that particular analysis.

"Pretty sure that would be me," Morgan announces cheerfully, stepping out from his room and regarding the two of you with blatant amusement. "But go ahead — pretend I’m not here."

Spencer shoots Morgan a look that clearly communicates imminent bodily harm, but Morgan simply grins wider, wholly undeterred.

"You two carry on," he says casually, turning toward his door but pausing briefly to wag a finger playfully. "And Reid — just a friendly reminder, these walls aren't exactly soundproof.

Spencer watches him disappear, vaguely considering whether throwing himself under the bubbles would save him from further humiliation or just prolong it.

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[bullet-prooflove]

Love Language: Jack Abbott x Reader (NSFW)

Tagged: @kmc1989 @dizzybee03 @noxytopy @flyinglama @yousigned-upforthis

Companion piece to:

The Asshole King - Jack discovers you have an unusual technique for dealing with patients.

Bob Dylan - You help Jack to relax after an incident at the hospital leaves him temporarily blind.

Because Of You - Jack realises he's starting to heal in more ways than one after you spend the day taking care of him.

Masochist - You and Jack have an indepth understanding of one another.

Seven Shades of Fucked Up (NSFW) - You know exactly how to get Jack off.

Part of the Job - Violence has always been part of the job, but this time it hits a little too close to home for Jack.

Pittfest - Jack's day turns into a nightmare when he recieves a notification from the hospital regarding a mass casuality event.

Snapband - Jack's worst fear comes true during a mass casuality event.

Jack has two love languages Acts of Service and giving head, you could argue they’re one in the same. Tongue fucking you is an act of love in it’s purest form, one that Jack enjoys immensely which is why he’s fisting his cock right now while you sit on the kitchen table, your head tipped back as you cry his name out to the heavens.

It’s the second time tonight he’s made you come and he’s not done yet. You try to close your legs but his palm fastens on your thigh gripping it, holding it open as he dives in again.

Your breath hitches again as he licks into you, your hand threading through his burnished silver curls tugging. He moans at the sensation, tongue thrusting deep, his palm grabbing his dick in a stranglehold because he wants to come with you this time, he wants to feel that moment. He raises to his feet notching his cock at your entrance, breeching you so that just the tip is inside. He’s got you so worked up you’re already clenching around him as he works the shaft, jerking it.

You bite down as you hurtle over the precipice, your teeth sinking into his shoulder and it’s like an IED goes off in the core of his being. The ecstasy tears through his nerve endings like an explosion, the force of it sending hot white spurts careening into your pussy. He looks down to see his release seeping out of you as he withdraws his dick, using the tip to smear his come over that pretty cunt, marking it as his own.

You lie back on the table, your skin painted with an apricot flush as you try to catch your breath. You look stunning like this, fucked out with his spent spilling out of you but it’s still not enough because Jack needs you to know just how dedicated he is to you, to the pursuit of your happiness, your pleasure.

His fingers swirl through the mess he’s made, slipping inside of you, pushing it back in. Your hips arch off the table as he finds that sweet spot, falling into a slow relentless rhythm as he drapes himself over you, claiming your mouth.

“I’m better than him aren’t I?” He whispers against your lips as he looks into your eyes. He met your ex-husband today, an arrogant prick who spoke down to you, who thought he was entitled to touch you the way that Jack touches you. He almost ripped his arm off and beat him to death with it right there in the middle of The Pitt. “He's never made you come like this, he’s never loved you the way that I love you.”

“No.” You whisper as Jack sets your entire form ablaze for the fourth time tonight. “He didn’t love me, not at all.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[ckret2]

Chapter 89 of human Bill Cipher and his uneasy ceasefire with the Mystery Shack: Bill and Ford go to the museum to plant false clues that will fool Agent Powers into thinking Never mind all that, we're getting gay y'all

A turning point has been reached and none of them know it yet.

Also: Ford learns more about the Blind Eye than he's comfortable with, and Bill and Mabel have as much of a heart-to-heart as they can manage at like four in the morning.

####

The plan was simple. Break into the museum; watch a couple of videos, so that Ford could get a sense for how they sounded; record one of their own; strategically place it amongst the rest, along with the map that Mabel had made.

There was only one complication: the videos they'd be watching were the memories stolen by the Society of the Blind Eye.

Ford had been dying to know about them for thirty years. Back in the 80s, for a few days, the mysterious red-robed stalkers had probably done more to terrify Ford out of his sleep-deprived, paranoid mind than even Bill had. He'd realized they were the work of Fiddleford and his memory gun, but all the way up until last summer he'd never been sure whether they were Fiddleford's way of trying to forget Bill, or if Bill had infiltrated his mind and influenced him to ravage the town's minds.

Now? Ford still didn't know much more about them—just their founder, and the fact that they'd wielded Fiddleford's memory gun. He doubted even Fiddleford recalled what had inspired him to escalate from erasing his own trauma to forming a cult that literally brainwashed people; but, Ford had never asked.

There were things Ford and Fiddleford had tacitly agreed never to bring up. They didn't talk about the things they'd said to each other after the portal test. They didn't talk about the "demon" Ford had let haunt the halls the entire time Fiddleford had stayed in his house—at least, they didn't talk about the demon until he came back a few weeks ago. They didn't talk about their respective rapid mental breakdowns. They certainly didn't talk about Fiddleford's cult.

Under any other circumstances, Ford would have suspected Bill of deliberately choosing a plan that forced Ford to see Fiddleford's worst side again—except that Bill was so obviously miffed that Ford had been the only one qualified for this role. All the same, it felt like a betrayal to sneak behind Fiddleford's back and dig through his thirty-year-old dirty laundry. To go through all the things Fiddleford didn't want Ford to know and might not even remember himself.

He weighed up his desire to find out more about the cult against his loyalty to Fiddleford. As usual, Ford's curiosity won out over everything else. "Why are we using the Blind Eye?" Ford asked. "Were they one of your cults?"

Bill laughed shortly. It wasn't loud, but in the dark, silent car, it sounded like hammers on fine china. "You think the All-Seeing Eye ran the Blind Eye? Puh-leez. Your paranoia's slipped off its ball gag, Stanford." He pantomimed a pair of scissors with his hand. "If I wanted to erase anyone's memories, I'd snip 'em myself."

Ford didn't know whether or not that was a relief. Was it better to know Fiddleford had never been one of Bill's puppets, or would it have been better if Fiddleford hadn't been responsible for the Blind Eye? "Technically, you haven't said they weren't one of your—"

"No," Bill snapped. "They weren't."

Ford waited for Bill to elaborate—maybe explain why the Blind Eye had to be part of the plan? Boast about the cults he did have in the area? Insult Fiddleford's choice of mind-meddling techniques? But Bill just resumed the post he'd maintained since getting in the car: leaning against the passenger door as if trying to get as far away from Ford as possible, staring out the window at the passing night, and saying nothing. Bill had been a foul mood since leaving the house, and he was expressing it by ignoring Ford. It irked him, and he didn't know why he cared.

"All right," Ford said tiredly, "What in the world did I do to offend you today."

Bill didn't deign to reply.

"Tell me it's not because I used dollar coins."

"It's nothing you need to worry about," Bill said coldly. "Mabel just said I'm not allowed to be nice to you, that's all."

"Whatever she said, I'm sure it wasn't that," Ford said. "So you're giving me the silent treatment because you're mad at Mabel?"

"I'm not mad at Mabel and I'm not giving you the silent treatment. I don't have anything worth saying to you."

"You don't expect me to believe that. You could talk for a million years straight without pause."

"None of which you'd appreciate. Talking to you isn't worth the water vapor I'd exhale in the process."

"That's never stopped you before—"

"There's no winning," Bill snapped. "When I talk to you, you complain. When I don't, you complain. Either make up your mind or stop griping at me for existing!"

Ford shut his mouth. Yeah. All right. Fair enough.

He could only tolerate the silence for a few more seconds. "Here I thought you were the one who wanted to be friends again."

That was what made Bill explode. "Oh, that's what everyone thinks, isn't it! That I'm crawling on my hands and kneesbegging you to give me the time of day! Newsflash, Stanford: I'm over you. Ya blew it."

"Really." He would have assumed it was just another of Bill's attempts at manipulation—if Bill hadn't spent the last few days shooting down all of Ford's attempts to ask him basic questions. Now... it felt uncomfortably true.

 So, that was it? At last, Bill had given up on Ford? He should have been relieved. Instead, a part of him was disappointed.

He hadn't realized just how satisfying it was to repeatedly shoot Bill down. Satisfying to know that Bill still thought he was worth the pursuit. Ford had been so proud of himself for keeping Bill at arm's length—but did he actually want Bill any farther away than that? (After all this time, was he still just chasing Bill's approval?)

"What finally convinced you I'll never be one of your loyal little followers again?" Ford asked. "Was it the mac and cheese?"

"It didn't help," Bill said. "But no. It has a little bit more to do with the fact that you still want me dead."

Ford hit the breaks a little too soon at a stop sign so he could stare at Bill. "What in the world are you talking about? As Irecall, the last time we discussed the topic, I'd just spared your life!"

"Exactly!" Bill laughed bitterly. "Spared me because something I did gave you—" In the faint indirect glow of the streetlights, Ford could see Bill make sarcastic finger quotes, "'hope."

"Wh—That's it?! You're mad at me because I had the gall to have a little hope for you?!"

"Hope for me to what, Stanford Pines?" Bill had put on a sickeningly sweet sing-song voice, thick with venomous sarcasm. "Come on! We both know what you're hoping for, but I wanna hear you say it out loud!"

What? Ford's eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. "Hope for you to change for the better?" Had Bill assumed he meant something else?

"Exactly," Bill hissed. "What you have is hope against me. You didn't spare me—you spared an imaginary person you invented! You think I'm worth letting live because I might turn into someone else you like more—well what does that say about me?"

The quiet click of a seat belt buckle was the only warning Ford got before Bill was in his face, a finger jabbing in his chest, a sharp knee digging into his thigh. "That I'm not worth it! You're just keeping me around as a human sacrifice to the Bill Cipher you wish existed! You still wanna watch me die, you just want it without the violence! You're trying to kill me in your mind right now!"

"Bill, get off—" Ford's foot slipped off the brake pedal.

The car only jerked forward a few inches before Bill shoved the gear stick into park, all without breaking eye contact. He went on, relentless: "I'm supposed to be so grateful that I'll let you just—erase everything that makes me me and magically reincarnate as some good person—"

"You're already a good person!" Ford snarled.

It took him a moment to register that Bill was no longer trying to out-shout him. He took the opportunity to shove Bill back to his own side of the car; and then silence fell over them.

Ford stared at the seat between them. He felt like, if he looked up, Bill's eyes would be glowing in the dark. "That—didn't come out the way I meant it."

"Oh, phew, here I was trying to remember when I'd switched your definitions for 'good' and 'depraved.'"

"You are depraved. But—there's—" it was so much harder to say a second time, "—a good person in you somewhere."

"Well sure, with all the souls I've swallowed, one or two of them were bound to be—"

"Can it, I'm being serious!" Ford sucked in a sharp shaky breath. "I've seen that side of you! You've saved little girls from certain death! You saved Dipper and me! You've driven more than one hostile supernatural entity out of the house. You've said the household's under your protection. You taught Mabel and her friends to summon demons—"

"—hold on, that's a point for me?"

"It was a very informative lesson with a large emphasis on proper warding techniques," Ford said angrily. "And it wasn't the only time! You've also taught Mabel about—about alien genetics and non-Euclidean geometry and who knows what else! And maybe this is all just another one of your schemes, maybe you've made a fool of me yet again for convincing me you'd ever do anything without an ulterior motive, but—" His voice caught in his throat. He cleared it roughly. "You were—so patient with her. You were kind." The way he'd seemed kind when he'd taught Ford. "I... want to believe it's more than just a trick."

And that was the problem, wasn't it. He wanted to. Maybe Bill wasn't even suckering Ford this time; maybe Ford had suckered himself.

Bill finally muttered, "Of course I had an ulterior motive."

Ford's heart and shoulders sank. "Of course you did," he said, hollow. "What was it."

"The kid thought I thought she's stupid. When you compare her against every brat in her school that shares her last name and her birthday and her mitochondria, her GPA's at the rock bottom of the list, and that's what she's used to snotty know-it-alls judging her by—and I just so happen to know it all." Bill shrugged expansively. (That shrug he did with his hands instead of his shoulders.) "And she doesn't trust anything I say that she doesn't already believe—so if I want to convince her I know she's got plenty of neurons sloshing around under her cranium, hey, what about tricking her into cramming a college semester's worth of interdimensional science and extraterrestrial history into one afternoon!"

Ford stared at him, waiting for the rest of it. "That was your—? What kind of ulterior motive is that, that's not selfish."

"What are you talking about? Of course it is," Bill said. "Do you think I did all that for her sake? No! I did it for mine! I only hang out with her for that thousand-watt personality she's got, I'm not about to put up with her moping around like a thirty-watt busted bulb. Plus it tricked her into listening to everything I said for the rest of the day!"

"You felt bad because she felt bad," Ford said, "so you spent the rest of your day making her feel better."

"Yes," Bill sighed, "now you're getting i—" He stopped. He squinted at Ford. "You think this is some kind of empathy thing?" He sounded mildly disgusted by the suggestion.

Ford laughed, and he wasn't quite sure if it was in amazement, hysteria, or fury. "Listen to yourself! There's a good person in you—a wonderful person—and it's buried underneath the worst person I will ever have the displeasure of meeting—but it's in you." The words came out like a damning accusation. He shoved his hand deep in a coat pocket, felt around for a piece of folded paper—he didn't even need to look at it to know what it was; he'd carried it in his pockets for a week, felt it so many times that he could recognize its creases by touch alone—and he flung it into Bill's lap.

He could hear Bill unfolding the paper. Ford wasn't able to see it in the dark, but he was sure Bill could: 

A drawing of Bill, in his natural triangular form, floating in the sky with blue flames in his upraised hands, over Mabel's handwriting: "I BELIEVE IN YOU. YOU CAN CHANGE!"

"I don't believe you've changed one bit since the start of summer," Ford said. "And that means, this has always been a part of you! Just as much as the lying and the backstabbing! Any time you want, you could choose to be the muse you've always pretended to be! You already are that muse! So why don't you do it? When you could be like that every single day of your life—why are you like this?"

He heard a quick, quiet inhale from Bill. But he didn't reply.

Ford didn't even know whether he'd meant the question to be rhetorical. Part of him desperately wanted an answer.

"That's why I let you live," he said. "You're a piece of scum, Cipher. But, the chance that you might... might change, yes, but not into somebody new, just another version of who you already are... I think that—makes it worth it."

The dark almost swallowed Bill's voice: "Worth risking the universe for?"

Ford suddenly felt very vulnerable.

Bill's voice was oddly flat. Too self-controlled. "You know, coming from a guy that hates my guts, that means more to me than I can say."

"Just—shut up." Why had he ever imagined anything he said might get through to Bill.

They'd been parked at the stop sign for several minutes. Ford put the car in drive and pulled out. He heard Bill click his seat belt in place and shift to lean against the door again; and then an awkward silence fell over the car once more.

Why wasn't Bill saying anything? Privately gloating? Thinking about how he could turn this to his advantage? Congratulating himself on successfully using Mabel as a pawn to fool Ford into thinking he had a secret charitable side?

The silence was too much for Ford to bear.

Just as he was about to turn on the radio, Bill's hand shot out and snapped it on first.

A 90's R&B singer cooed, "Ohh baby, I'll give you one last try-iy-iy. Just promise, you won't break my hear-ar-art—"

Bill snapped off the radio.

They rode the rest of the way to the museum in silence.

####

Ford quietly sighed as they pulled up to the museum. Under any other circumstances, going to the museum, investigating a mind-wiping secret society, and roleplaying as a spy movie villain sounded like a great way to spend a night. He wantedto be able to enjoy it.

"Look, Bill. Neither of us wants to be here with each other, but we don't have to make each other miserable. Can we at least act..." He groped for a word.

"Friendly?"

Ford was sure he detected a hint of sarcasm. "I was thinking of something more like 'civil.'"

"Oh, of course! Let's not get unreasonable."

"Can you manage civility."

"Can you?"

"I can if you can."

"Ha! I could out-civil you in my sleep."

"Then fine."

"Fine."

"Fine." Off to a terrific start.

Ford got out and circled the car to open Bill's side.

As Bill got out, carrying the camcorder, he said, "You know, it was nice running around with that agent today! He held doors for me like he respected me. Instead of like a guard escorting a convict out of the prison bus."

Ford shut the door behind Bill. "You are a prisoner."

"Obviously!" He held up a wrist, showing off the bracelet chaining them together. "But do you think I like feeling like one?"

I don't care what you like, Ford nearly said—by reflex more than anything—then stopped himself. He wasn't about to be the first one not to be civil.

"You know, it would be really nice if I could open doors on my own—then I wouldn't have anything at all to complain about..."

"I won't compromise on the doors, but I'm willing to drop the bracelets."

That got Bill to look at him. "What?"

"You've had an opportunity to drown me, you escaped us for the weekend, and you spent an entire day seducing a government agent who would probably be thrilled to arrest everyone in the Mystery Shack if you told them you'd been kidnapped," Ford said. "If you were planning to run off, it wouldn't be here and now."

Bill's face was unreadable. But he slid off his bracelet and held it out dangling from one finger. Something in the atmosphere imperceptibly lightened as Ford took it.

Bill said, "Or maybe my grand plan is to go pound on his door at three in the morning, claim I just escaped a kidnapping, and have him catch the lot of you in the middle of drugging his agents and breaking into the police department."

"That would be just like you." Ford eyed the museum's double glass doors critically, then fished around in his pocket for his wallet. "Clever of you to admit your dastardly plan after I uncuff you."

"See, this is what makes me a real mastermind," Bill said. "I don't gloat about my brilliant plans until after it's too late for my enemies to stop 'em."

"Right, right." Ford pulled his miniature lockpicking kit from his wallet, selected a long stick with a hook on the end, and slid it into the gap between the two doors "Like when you only gloated about using me after I'd built your portal."

"Ye—"

"But before I let you through it."

Bill shot Ford an exasperated look. Ford smirked.  Bill rolled his eye. "And it was too late for you to stop me, because in the end, I got through! Checkmate."

Ford muttered, "You couldn't checkmate me if you tried."

Bill jabbed his arm with a finger. "Hey! Hey! Play me when I'm running on more than thirty minutes of nightmares and forty calories of mystery meat puree, we'll see who can checkmate who."

Ford nearly said he'd take him up that, before remembering who he was talking to. "That didn't feel like a very civil poke."

"You must be unfamiliar with poking etiquette!"

Bill was back up to his usual gregariousness. More than usual; Ford hadn't heard him this chatty in weeks. Not with him, anyway.

Just because of the bracelets? He couldn't imagine what else it might be.

He caught the hook around a hidden bar inside the door's lock, tugged it free, and unlocked the door. "Ha!" He swung the door open, beaming proudly—at Bill, who didn't look as though he'd registered that Ford had done anything interesting at all. "Oh. Right."

"'Oh right' what?" Bill walked past Ford into the museum.

"Nothing. It was just—an impressive bit of lock picking, that's all."

"Oh, I bet it was," Bill said sarcastically.

"It was!"

"And I'm supposed to just take your word for it because I can't prove you wrong? Sure."

"Why would I lie about that?!"

"To impress me!"

"I do not want to impress you!"

"That little smirk you did when you opened the door said otherwise!"

"That wasn't...!" Wait.

"So old even your body hair is gray, and you're still just a schoolboy so eager to impress your teacher that you're willing to lie!"

"I am not trying to impress you, I don't lie to teachers, and I am not lying now!"

Bill examined his nails casually. "Well if you want to convince me there's only one way! You have to give me the ability to understand what you just did!"

"Fine!" Ford reached for Bill—caught himself, and pulled his hand back. "Ah hah! Ahaha." He wagged a finger at Bill. "Nice try."

Bill grinned. He looked far too pleased with himself. "You almost fell for it."

"Not even close," Ford lied.

It was a relief to have Bill trying to get under his skin again.

While Ford dug in his pockets for a flashlight ("Didn't bring that useless Civil War lantern this time?" "I'm not lighting a kerosene lantern in a museum!"), Bill took the lead, wandering ahead into the dark. He informed Ford that they'd have to wait to visit the museum's subterranean ritual chamber until after they'd swung by the Hall of the Forgotten. This was the first Ford had ever heard of any subterranean ritual chamber beneath the museum. He would have been dying to see it first, if whatever "the Hall of the Forgotten" was didn't sound so cool.

And so, he followed Bill through the dark.

####

The Hall of the Forgotten had changed quite a bit since Bill had last seen it—mainly in terms of the quantity of memories cluttering it up.

Granted, he'd last seen it nearly twenty years ago—which was when they'd chiseled an X over the eye on the chest of the statue that watched over the room. Bill may have had billions of eyes upon Earth, but the Blind Eye had been rigorous about keeping them out of this room.

Not on purpose, he was sure—in spite of the fact that they'd taken over what had once been an Anti-Cipherite clubhouse, he was sure those idiots hadn't known a thing about him or how to counter him personally. It was simply a lingering relic of Specs's paranoia. But X-ing out any image of an eye they saw also meant X-ing out any eyes that just so happened to be intended to serve as one of his faces, and nobody was exactly flashing dollar bills around the room. He'd been frustratingly unable to keep up with the Blind Eye's movements for nigh on two decades now.

With, as it turned out, significant personal consequences.

The rebirthmark stretched across his chest itched.

As they entered the Hall and Bill didn't immediately see what he needed, he tried to peer above the third dimension to get a view past all those memory canisters piling up—and pain lanced his eye socket. He hissed, flipping up his eyepatch to press a hand over his eye. He'd more than overused his eyes today; he couldn't bend his eyes anymore until he'd gotten some rest. He'd have to look around like a normal person.

"Somewhere there should be a filing cabinet," Bill said. "Three drawers and painted a color so boring that looking at it makes you yawn. And a stock of unused canisters. Tell me if you find either of them." He started circling the room, peering around the piles, looking in the crates in hopes that he'd find one not full of old memories but fresh canisters. 

"What are all these?" Ford picked up a random canister. Bill glanced over at it; there was a label stuck to it with "ARNY WINN (TOURIST)" written on it in marker. Nobody important.

"Memories," Bill said.

Ford froze. He scanned the room, slowly making sense of what he saw—the mountains of canisters, some almost as tall as him. Bill fought back a smile, wishing that he could see the room through Ford's point of view: all these memories, people's memories, thrown in careless piles like they were nothing. There were more canisters than there were residents in Gravity Falls. It was a treasure trove of occult knowledge that Ford's precious college pal has robbed the town of—oh, that had to sting, didn't it. 

Horrified, Ford asked, "Every one of these is a memory?"

"Unfortunately, it looks like it," Bill grumbled. "Where the heck do they store the spare canisters!" He'd circled most of the room and dug at least a little into each of the crates, and hadn't found any blanks. He kicked the leg of one of a couple of heavy worktables in the room in frustration, then grunted in pain. He kicked the leg again a little harder. Oh, that was a nice. He'd do it again if he weren't worried about being able to walk without a limp the next few days. Had to be careful about doing permanent damage to this thing. He made a mental note about the work table for the next time he had the pleasure of driving a loaner body.

Ford asked, "Can we even use the canisters without the memory gun? I'd expected there to be a spare gun here."

"There'd better not be," Bill muttered, rubbing his chest. "But we don't need one! The packaging on these things is unusual to make 'em compatible with the gun—buuut at their core, they use the same tape you find in a standard video camera! If Specs was a little smarter maybe he would've designed his gun to work with the cassettes you already had in the house—but with a little jury-rigging," he lifted the camera they'd brought, "we can hook up one of the canisters to run through this baby, no prob."

Ah, there was the filing cabinet he'd been looking for: chest-high and beige, exactly where it had sat for twenty-five years, but now it was completely buried in canisters. Must not have been used for a while. Bill shoved an armful of memories off the filing cabinet, tapped twice on the top, and lifted it straight into the air as lightly as a balloon to free it from the memories burying it on every side. The pile slid in on itself and collapsed in the cabinet's wake.

Ford winced. "Careful with those! Don't break them."

"These tubes are made of plastic as thick as your incisor, they won't break." He settled it to the ground near the statue, tapped it once more to return its proper gravity, and started rummaging through its files. The Blind Eye used to keep meticulous records of all the victims they'd "helped"—name, time, date, circumstances under which they'd been brought in to have their memories erased, what they'd witnessed, who else might have witnessed it, the number of their unique memory canister—but it looked like they'd fallen behind some fifteen years ago. Probably as their memories of even their own secret society and its procedures became muddled and patchy. Bill might not have been able to watch their little club rooms from afar, but he'd certainly been able to check in on their dreams, and ohoho, were their minds a mess.

He found a well-worn folder with the memory gun's blueprints and their notes on its upkeep, and another folder with the society's membership list. He flipped through the memory gun file until he found Fiddleford's initial blueprints, and inserted Mabel's map with it, its corner peeking out of the folder like a tempting bookmark; then he emptied the top drawer's contents, plopped in the blueprint folder and the membership folder, and slammed the drawer shut.

"Is this what you're looking for?" Ford was examining the memory playback station. He had opened a drawer on one side of the console, revealing a couple dozen canisters neatly lined up.

"There they are! Finally!" Bill pulled out an empty canister. "All right, you get to researching—" He grabbed another canister off the shelf behind the robed statue, where the most important memories were stored, and plopped it down in front of Ford, "—while I set up the rest of the scene."

Ford glanced warily at the canister Bill had left for him—the one with Preston Northwest's name. "What exactly am I supposed to be researching?"

"Your character! You want to get his voice right, don't you?" Bill dug into another pile of memories, scanning the names. "Ah, this oughta be a good one." He set another in front of Ford.

"You expect me to watch these?"

Bill had already dug back into the memories, but he paused to glance at Ford. "You were planning not to?"

"I—of course I wasn't going to watch! These are records of—of people's psychic violations!"

Bill gave Ford what he hoped was an incredibly disbelieving stare.

"I mean..." Ford gestured helplessly at the memory canisters, "Sure, this is a treasure trove of Gravity Falls' lost and forgotten paranormal secrets. Of course I want to know what they contain. But finding out like this would be incrediblyunethical, since these are people's memories—and stolen memories at that—and none of them agreed for their memories to be taken, much less for me to watch them. No matter how much I'd like to—"

"Stanford Pines," Bill said. "If you'd stumbled on this room all by yourself, and if I weren't in the room inspiring you to second-guess the morality of everything you do—would you have stopped for a second before devouring these recordings as fast as you could?"

Ford thought that over. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched sheepishly. "Well."

He really was just like Bill in all the ways that mattered. He had the same appetites. If he weren't so stubbornly determined to reject everything Bill had ever taught him, by now he'd be regularly swimming in other humans' dreams just to comb through their memories—never mind watching stored memories at the museum. It was a pity for him he'd rejected all those gifts. Pity for them both.

"There's no one here for you to impress!" Bill gestured around the room, bereft of any human presence but Ford's. "But if you want to skip this part and risk getting the guy's accent a little wrong and tipping off the agents, fine! You're only risking your entire family's arrest—"

"I hate you." Ford reached for the canister with Preston's memory, then stopped and forced himself to take the other instead.

Bill turned away before the screen lit up. A woman's voice filled the room: "Where am I?! What do you think you're doing?! If you don't let me go, I swear I'll strangle you with your own stupid red bathrobes—"

Blind Ivan replied, "Be calm. Cooperate and this will all be over soon."

"Like hell am I cooperating! Let me go! HEEELP—"

"All we want is for you to tell us one thing: what is it that you have seen?"

Bill set another canister on the console. "You don't have to watch this one, Toot-Toot's not in it."

Ford had stood five feet back from the console to pretend he could literally distance himself from the violation he was participating in; but his eyes were already glued to the screen in fascination. He reluctantly dragged his gaze from the stolen memory. "If I don't need to watch it, then why are you adding it?"

"These aren't for you! I figure Agent Bermuda could use a little primer on the Blind Eye. These will show him everythinghe needs to know."

"None of them—implicate Fiddleford, do they?"

Oh, who cared if they did. Bill bit back several snide retorts. They were being civil. "No. They're all from the last five years."

Ford eyed the newest canister distrustfully.

Bill sighed heavily. "Fine! Don't take my word for it." He gestured at the playback station. "Watch it yourself, if you think we can afford to waste time!" He sat on the worktable, crossed his legs to cradle the camera in his lap, and pried it apart to get at the wires.

After the first memory ended, Ford grabbed the one Bill said he didn't need to watch. Bill had found another memory he wanted Powers to watch; but this one, he absolutely could not let Ford see. He took off his hoodie—he needed to be in his dress shirt for his part in their recording—and slipped the canister beneath it.

In between memory playbacks, Ford asked, "Does anything else in here implicate Fiddleford?"

Bill fought back another sigh. "Not directly. He took his own memory canister home when the kids brought him here." Bill would kill to find out what had happened in the museum that night. He'd been forced to stare in frustration at the hallways while agitated cultists and an entire half of Bill's zodiac ran back and forth between the Blind Eye's eye-free chambers. Spectacles recovering his full memories just days before Stanley was scheduled to reactivate the portal could have spelled disaster. "There might be a few memories in here that he recorded personally before Toot-Toot took over—but he was involved in the Blind Eye for under two years before he scrambled his own brains, anything he recorded is probably buried somewhere at the bottom of these mountains. Even I wouldn't know where they are."

Ford hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. "Fine."

Why in the world did he want to protect that hick so much anyway? When Ford found out one friend was up to secret shady things, he swore a thirty-year revenge mission against him; when he found out the other one was, his biggest worry was making sure he didn't get arrested for it! Bill had done far more for Ford than that walking waste of potential ever had or ever could—and of the two of them, Bill might have invaded Ford's brain, but he never erased part of it. Not without putting almost all of it back later, anyway! Oh, no no no—when Ford confronted Bill about what he'd been doing behind Ford's back, he didn't destroy the mnemonic evidence and deny everything, he owned up to it! It was admirable, really! But who did Ford consider "trustworthy"? Why didn't Bill warrant that kind of loyalty?

It was unfair. It made Bill feel... sick. That was probably the emotion he was feeling. Sick, that Ford wanted so badly to patch things up with that cowardly, backstabbing, underachieving loser, while he'd written Bill off completely.

(Not completely, Bill reminded himself. And then he buried that thought as deep into his subconscious as he could.)

Ford watched a few more random memories while Bill attached the empty canister to the camera with electrical tape; Bill heard him mutter, "'What is it that you have seen?'" under his breath, trying to match Ivan's inflection. Eh, Ford wouldn't win anything at the Academy, but it was good enough for community theater.

When Bill glanced over, one of Ford's hands was twitching toward his coat pocket the way it did when he wanted to grab his pen and start taking notes. He gradually moved closer to the console with each playback; by the time he turned the screen off, he was leaning on the console with both hands. "I think I've got the hang of my role."

"Great. Stick that first memory you watched back in, I want Powers to see it first." Bill hopped off the table, holding up the camera. "Ready for your acting debut?"

####

Half an hour later, as they walked back from the Blind Eye's ritual chamber to the Hall of the Forgotten, Bill said, "That wasn't so bad, was it!" He was spinning the canister with their false memory on one finger. (He'd almost dropped it three times.)

"No," Ford admitted grudgingly. "It was... a bit like Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons."

"Ugh."

"Except more immersive than pen-and-paper roleplay," Ford mused. "Maybe I was overly hasty when I dismissed Soos's invitation to FCLORP."

"Ugh. You're already nerdy enough, stay away from that slippery slope," Bill said. "Marker-and-cardboard isn't the step up from pen-and-paper you think it is. You wanna know why this is more immersive? Because you believe in the game you're playing now. Sure, you're only pretending to be the Blind Eye's boss—but you're actually part of a conspiracy to bamboozle a federal investigation."

Bill politely (smugly) pretended not to notice the gleam in Ford's eye—mainly because, if he dared point it out, Ford would immediately try to convince them both he wasn't enjoying this. "I suppose that's true," Ford said. "Fantasy can't measure up to reality. Pretending to battle undead sorcerers to plunder their dungeons has never been as thrilling as actually battling undead sorcerers to plunder their dungeons."

"Exac—hey, when did you ever battle undead sorcerers?"

"I needed a thousand-carat blessed antiprism to focus the beam of the Quantum Destabilizer, so I went to Dimension 777.7—"

Bill laughed in delighted surprise. "Hold on, you found the lost treasure of the Undying Sentinels of the Sacred Mines? Aww, you shouldn't have," he cooed. "I prefer gold, but I'm flattered you went so far just to get such an expensive diamond for me!"

Ford pretended not to hear him. "DD&MD still has its advantages, though," Ford said. "In real life, I don't get to do as much math in the middle of combat."

"And there he goes, tripping down the slope into the Gorge of Geekery."

Back in the Hall of the Forgotten, Bill wrote "GOLDIE LOCKE (VISITOR)" on their false memory's label and planted it prominently on the memory playback station with the other memory canisters he'd chosen for Powers. "Ta-da! Trap set." He added a date in 2009 to one of the canisters, and loaded it into the station so Powers would watch it first; then scooped up his hoodie. "Wanna watch another couple before we go?"

Ford looked longingly around at the room full of free information; then shook his head. "No! No. I watched what I had to for this plan of yours work, and that's it. You won't make a voyeur out of me."

"I don't have to! You're already a voyeur—and you've got the gnome mating ball photos to prove it!"

"That was for scientific research and the answer is still no."

Bill tucked his hoodie under one arm so he could pick up a memory canister, casually switch it out with the one currently loaded in the memory playback station, and click it down into place. "Oops!"

"Nope! Nope!" Ford marched determinedly toward the door, hands covering his ears. "I am not watching any more! I'm an ethical scientific researcher!"

"No you aren't!"

"Let me pretend!" Ford veered around a pile of memory canisters.

And he locked his eyes onto one canister, immediately did a U-turn back to the pile, picked it up, marched right back to the memory playback station, removed the one Bill had started, plugged the new one in, and crossed his arms.

The recording opened up on a shot of Mayor Befufftlefumpter, sitting in his wheelchair looking around placidly.

"What is it that you have seen?" "Speak!"

"Well, uh..." The major tapped his chin. "My vision isn't quite what it used to be..."

"Just describe it as best you can," Ivan said.

"Alrighty. Welp! I was visiting my office in Town Hall for the first time in ten years, looking for some coupons I think I left at my desk, when this bear walked through the wall—"

Ford smacked the console. "I knew he knew something about the ghost bears!"

He didn't look at Bill. "Stop smiling like that."

When the former mayor had finished recounting his tale of ursine phantoms, Ford stomped toward the door, red in the face, without looking at Bill.

Before Bill followed, he switched out the canisters again for the one he wanted Powers to see first—and took out the canister hidden in his hoodie to balance it carefully on the right corner of the console.

####

Bill diverged from their path into the museum to pluck an out-of-date calendar for the museum's May events from a corkboard, and around the corner a new addition to the museum caught Bill's eye: a heavy black curtain had been hung over one wing, and it was surrounded by signs reading "NO PHOTOGRAPHY" "NO CAMERAS" "🚫📷" That was intriguing. He'd just love to find out what was behind that curtain.

But Ford wouldn't slow down just to go sightseeing; and as badly as Bill's eyes were throbbing, he shouldn't try to peer through the curtain that way.

That was fine. He could wait to see what was in that wing. If everything worked out, he'd be back here tomorrow.

####

As they approached the exit, Ford mumbled in nobody's particular direction, "I'm sorry."

Bill gave him a suspicious look. "What?"

"For the mac and cheese," he told the floor. He stuffed his hands self-consciously in his pockets and felt like an idiot. "And giving you burnt eggs instead. It was... petty."

Bill didn't answer. When he stopped walking, it took Ford a moment to remember that he had to get the door. He pushed it open. 

Bill walked past Ford without looking at him. He said lightly, "Were they burned? I didn't notice. I didn't eat them."

Apology not accepted, apparently. "Well. I'm sorry anyway."

Bill scoffed. "I'd kill to be able to take a peek under your skull." (Ford suspected that wasn't a hyperbole.) "One day you're laughing in my face for thinking you worshiped me, a week later you're saving my life. All your multiverse-hopping must've scrambled your brain. Tragic, since that's the only thing you had going for you."

Ford re-locked the museum's doors behind them. "You don't think there are any options in between worshiping you or wanting you dead?"

"I'm not the kind of person who inspires indifference."

"That's true."

Bill stretched as they walked to the car—fingers laced together, palms turned out, arms lifted over his head. It was a muggy night, and Ford could feel the layers of his sweater and trench coat cling damply to his back; but when Bill's baggie hoodie sleeves fell down to his shoulders, he lowered his hands, shook out the sleeves, and hooked his thumbs in the cuffs so the sleeves wouldn't fall again when he repeated the stretch. "Just get me back to the tomb. This body needs a little sleep before Romeo comes looking for me tomorrow."

"'Romeo'? Are you planning to trick him into drinking poison?"

Bill flashed him a wicked grin. Sometimes Ford was still hit by how incorrect Bill's human face looked—a mouth too low, teeth shaped like tombstones instead of arrowheads—and it was usually at moments like this, when the gleeful curve of his eyes was so familiar. "Hmm, now that's a thought! Not yet; but you should know better than to give me fun ideas."

####

"How was it?" Mabel asked anxiously, the moment the back door unlatched.

She was answered with a piece of paper shoved over her face. "The good news is I got something for your last project," Bill said. "The bad news is Ford's considering taking up FCLORP. Talk him out of it."

"I'll make all his cardboard armor."

"When I get access to my gang's group chat again, I'm inviting you just so I can ban you."

"It was fine," Ford told Mabel. "We had no trouble getting in and out and I think our recording was convincing."

"Did you... get along?"

Ford paused. "We were—civil."

"Ha!" Bill crowed. "And you thought I couldn't do it!"

"I did not. I thought you wouldn't do it."

Mabel inspected the calendar page Bill had given her. Aww, the last weekend in May they'd decorated straw hats with live bird nests and she'd missed it.

Bill trudged into the living room, flopped into Abuelita's chair, and said, "Wake me up if anyone needs orders." He pulled his hood down over his face and retracted his arms from his sleeves. 

"Is there anything else I have to do?" Ford asked.

"Uhhh..." It took Bill a long moment to summon up an answer. "No. Go sleep. Up here, in case I change my mind."

"Fine," Ford said, sighing in relief.

Mabel waited until he'd headed upstairs to get ready for bed; then crept into the living room. "Hey, Bill?"

"Hmm?" He tilted his head just enough for one tired eye to peer out from the shadows beneath his hood. "Aren't you supposed to be writing a threatening anonymous letter?"

"It's fine, Grunkle Stan isn't back yet." She sat in Stan's chair by Bill. "So..." She sheepishly tried to dodge around having to apologize. "Are... we cool?"

"I dunno. Are you cool?" Bill asked. "You're not going to turn lame on me, are you?"

"What! Why would I turn lame? I'm literally the coolest."

"Well, I thought you were cool," Bill said. "But if you were only being cool until you thought we were close enough you could start nagging me about everything—"

"No! No. It was just a one-time thing, promise. Because you and Grunkle Ford have a history, and I had to make sure he's safe—"

"Safe from all that flirting I've never done with him?"

"I got worried, okay!"

Bill crossed his arms under his hoodie. "Find another way to worry. Maybe one that doesn't involve scolding me for something I never did," he said. "If I had been trying to sweep your uncle off his unexpectedly five-toed feet, that'd be one thing—"

"(I didn't need to know how many toes he has.)"

"—but when I wasn't and you keep treating me like I'm already guilty—" He stopped, and said suddenly, as if he were changing topics, with a slight sharp tilt to his head like an old-fashioned TV dial being turned to another station, "Didja know it's way less annoying to be called a liar when you are lying? If you weren't lying but no one believes you, it kinda makes you wonder—why are you wasting your breath telling the truth in the first place!" How much Bill had just offered her about himself?

She sank back in her chair, trying to figure out how to reply. I'm sorry didn't seem to cut it. She suspected Bill really had offered her something; she wanted Bill to know she got it. "One of my teachers thought I copied Dipper on a book report. Because she thought mine was too good."

Bill considered that. "Fifth grade?"

"You already knew about it."

"Not this time," Bill said. "Buuut I know that's the year you started skipping the assigned reading. And I don't blame ya! If you're gonna get a worse grade for working harder, you can save a lot of precious time by phoning it in."

"Yeah." Unexpected relief flooded over Mabel. "Yeah, that's—that's it." She'd never been able to put it into words. Her parents had been worried, Dipper had been exasperated with her. Bill had hit the nail on the head in one sentence.

"Been there. I had a teacher who thought I was using my eye to cheat," Bill said. "So you know what? I did!" He laughed, absolutely no shame.

Being called a cheater had been the most humiliating thing to ever happen in Mabel's seemingly never-ending academic career; Bill's apathy was almost enviable. "Okay. So. There's no emotional stuff going on with you and Grunkle Ford." Just to clear the air. They could agree on it and move on.

But even though Bill had denied it immediately the first time, now, his eyes flickered uncertainly before he said, "Right. None."

That had been less definitive than she'd hoped. "None?"

"No romantic emotional stuff," Bill said. "I think we've cycled through just about every other emotional cocktail that human neurotransmitters can mix up, but desire isn't one of them."

Mabel decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Then what are you thinking about?"

"Nothing," Bill said. "My brain's empty. Four pounds of inert meat with no neurons firing."

"Oh, come on." She jabbed a finger into his cheek. "I can see it on your face! What's bothering you?"

He scrunched a shoulder to guard his cheek. "Nothing bothers me."

Mabel hissed, "Yes it doesssss." She leaned across the gap between their seats to jab Bill's shoulder with both hands. "I can sssmell it."

"Retune your sniffer, Miss Nose-y!" He flipped one of his empty sleeves to wave away her hands like a couple of mosquitos; but something in his eyes had shifted, something in the tilt of his pupils. He was caving. "I was just thinking about what you'd said about the—the goofy little 'be yourself' moral the critters are so fond of."

She had to think back to their conversation yesterday: where she'd tried (and failed) to explain that be yourself didn't mean be a jerk, even if you were really good at being a jerk. "You were?" Even now, Mabel was surprised whenever she found out that Bill had been actually thinking about Color Critters when they weren't watching it. It was good that he was thinking about it—she was trying to use the cartoon to teach him morals, after all—but she kept assuming that Bill treated Color Critters the way she treated pre-algebra. "You'd better not try to use it as an excuse to be a jerk again..."

"No, not that. I—figured out what you meant," he said. "It's 'be yourself,' but—not sink down to your worst self. Rise up to meet your best potential. Be the..." he made a vague gesture ceilingward. "The best version of yourself."

"I... Yeah. I guess so. Yeah." Where the heck had that come from?

"This is supposed to be a cartoon for kindergarteners," Bill said wryly. "Their target audience can't even read yet, and they're expecting these kids to read between the lines?"

"Aww, was the kindergarten show's moral too complicated for you?"

"Shut your face. I figured out what it meant, didn't I?" Bill's eyes turned toward the doorway a moment before Mabel heard Ford's bootsteps coming downstairs. He pushed his arms back into his hoodie sleeves properly and timed his exit of the room so he was swooping onto the stairs the moment Ford stepped off. "I can't catch a nap down here," he griped. "Somebody thinks she's more important than this tyrannical body's need for R&REM."

"Sorryyy!"

"You are more important," Bill called down the stairs. "But that's the thing about tyrants! You can't reason with them."

Mabel should be getting to work on her next art assignment, anyway. But before she did, she followed Ford to his room and grabbed his sleeve. "Grunkle Ford, what'd you say to Bill while you guys were gone?"

"What?" He gave her a puzzled look. "Say to him about what?"

"I dunno! But you must've said something to him. He's been thinking thoughts."

Bewildered, Ford shrugged. "Whatever I said, it was the wrong thing. He gave me the silent treatment most of the way to the museum. I suspect he's even more irritated with me now."

Somehow, Mabel didn't think he was. She hugged Ford. "Well, whatever you said? Thank you."

####

Bill dug out his burner phone and plugged it into the extension cord Soos had strung into the room. He considered sneaking out his stolen journal to slide Mabel's crayon portrait in it, then elected to just hide it beneath the couch cushions. So that it would be within arm's reach, in case he ever needed it. For some reason.

And then Bill slept.

Or—tried to.

This stupid body needed it; he'd been up almost 22 hours, burning the psychological oil as he tried to pull together this scheme—and he'd had an hour or two of very vigorous exercise in the midst of all the scheming. By all rights, he should be out like a rock that vividly hallucinated 3-5 times a night.

But instead, he kept thrashing in his thin sheet, twisting and trying to get comfortable. He couldn't quiet his mind. Too restless. The thoughts he'd tried to drown in his subconscious had bobbed back to the surface. Hearing over and over in his head, there's a good person in you. A wonderful person. A wonderful person. A person worth risking a universe for.

Him.

Any time you want, you could choose to be the muse you've always pretended to be.

You already are that muse.

Dr. Stanford "Six-Fingers" Filbrick Pines had said that about him. The one and only Bill Mischief Cipher. Ford knew exactly who and what Bill was—and he'd said that about him.

He couldn't sleep. He could feel his heart fluttering in its cage. He could feel his lungs struggling to grasp at the thin air. He felt dizzy. His brain burned.

By the time Bill's mind finally quieted, he'd squirmed and clawed his way halfway across the orange couch. As his consciousness blinked out, he dully registered the scent in the cushion: the comforting scent of the Nightmare Realm. The smell of burning hair.

######

(Post-TBOB changes! Inserted one or two sentences saying the Anti-Cipherites originally used the Blind Eye's meeting places—I'd already decided the Blind Eye got the place due to a connection with the Northwests (and had already written a scene expanding on that), and Abigale Northwest née Blackwing is the only person with both the motivation and resources to build weird culty ritual chambers beneath the museum, so thanks TBOB.

Added some subtle Theraprism allusions to the wording of Bill's "you don't wanna save me, you wanna save some person you've imagined me to be" speech; he's always been indignant & defensive in this fic at the idea of people trying to "benevolently" "fix" him, TBOB just backs that up. Added a couple mentions of Bill's death scar. Since we were already talking about Bill & Mabel's slipshod school careers, I slipped in a light allusion to Bill's disdain for assigned reading.

Everything else is the same. One of the most common post-TBOB questions I've been asked is "are you gonna make it gay[er] in the wake of TBOB?" and my answer is always: no, I'm going to make it exactly as gay as I'd planned to since 2023, on the same schedule I've always had planned. This chapter very much included.)

[harunovella]

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ love language (verse ii); s.g.

synopsis: when gojo satoru first interacted with you content: teen gojo era, fem!reader, hopeless!romantic gojo, 1k+ words of gojo and reader saving a kitten (a moment straight out of a romcom for sure), not beta read (sorry for any errors!) note: truly didn't think the first part to this anthology series would gain such attention! thank u for that! again, these can be read as a standalone (or connected to this one, but you don't have to read it); enjoy and lmk if u want more!

It was this specific cherry blossom tree Satoru always found you under. The one Kento mentioned the first time he ever asked him about you. If you weren't busy with training or missions, or enjoying life outside the jujutsu world, he found you there. Although there was an array of trees, there was one specific one you seemed to gravitate towards. 

He wasn't sure if it was the specific spot that had good lighting for when you wanted to read or sketch in your little book, or maybe it was the way the roots formed a perfect spot to sit in between... whatever it was, he knew it to be your tree. Even when you weren't around. There was something... welcoming about it. Whenever he walked by with Suguru and Shoko nearby, or whenever he was aimlessly wandering around, he always found himself peeking in its direction, hoping you were sitting underneath it. 

For a confident young man, it took Gojo some time to make his way to you. Claiming to love you when he hadn't even uttered a word in your direction was bold, even going as far as believing you were his soulmate was quite the exaggeration. So why was it hard for him to simply say hello? 

Maybe it was because he wasn't a simple person. Nothing about Gojo Satoru screamed simple. He was anything but that. Yet, a task as easy as that—which came naturally to any other girl around him—was a hassle. Each time he thought he found the courage to step up, he let his racing heart deter him. 

That was until you made the first move. 

It caught him completely off guard, the way you gently tapped his arm from behind, peeking up at him with that sweet smile of yours. His heart did somersaults, his eyes widened behind his round frames, so big that his shades couldn't even hide them. He had been on one of his little walks, new treat in hand that Shoko bribed him with in order to practice her reverse curse technique on him. He was bored, completing his missions and not having much to train on when he already excelled at everything. 

At everything except talking to the girl of his dreams. 

"Hi," you kindly greeted, smile reaching your eyes. Oh, god, you were an angel. A being descended from up above. How could you exist so easily in such a cruel world? He needed to protect you, right? Even if he could see your cursed energy oozing out so brightly. You must've been powerful, something he never considered, always looking at you like you were some little bunny to keep in his pocket... not one who could possibly kick the shit out of him (if he'd let you and he definitely would). "Can you help me out?"

"Pretty..." the words slipped his mouth before he could even process them. Quickly sealing his lips and clearing his throat as you tilted your head, Satoru straightened his back. "What is it?"

Dismissing the sudden word vomit, assuming he was in his own world, you pointed to the left of you. "I sit under those trees, but I keep hearing soft meows coming from one of them. I'm too short to reach... do you think—"

"Yes," the white haired young man instantly nodded as you blinked. Without a second word, he turned on his heel and stalked towards the tree that you claimed your own. 

You, a bit baffled, were unsure as to how exactly he knew which tree you had been pointing at when it was a general direction. Yet, there he was, approaching the tree you were referring to. "It's quite high up, but you're very tall!" You called out before following after him, lightly jogging to catch up before stopping behind him as he eyed the tree. 

In reality, Gojo didn't think any of it through. He just wanted to say yes to be around you, to hear you speak more. Not... to climb up a tree to save a stray kitten. But, whatever made him look better in his eyes, he didn't mind. 

"Be careful!" You exclaimed as you watched him make his way up the tree, no hesitations. You were a bit surprised that someone so easily wanted to help you save a cat. Maybe he liked animals, too?

Or maybe he was a fool madly in love with you—you wouldn't know this yet. 

"Oh, there! You've got 'em!" You clapped as you watched the uniformed young man gently reach for and latch onto the small, white kitten. 

"Ah, don't worry, I'm only here to help you," Gojo said, carefully pulling the kitten towards himself. "I've got you, you're safe now. I just gotta figure out—"

"Watch out!" You shrieked.

"Shit!" Satoru yelped as he lost his balance, clutching the kitten close as he slipped from the branch. Landing with a loud thud, followed by several groans of pain (and pure embarrassment... when did he ever make himself look like a complete fool?!), Gojo rolled around with his eyes closed. 

"Are you alright?!" You panicked, rushing over and kneeling at his side, gently lifting his head with one hand as your other pressed carefully against his shoulder, eyeing his body for any wounds. 

"Agh... dammit..." he grunted, eyes fluttering open and adjusting to the brightness of the sun. Blinking a few times, blurred vision focusing, his heart skipped a beat at the sight of you. Your hair that was usually held back by its ribbon, cascaded around your face as a few strands slipped out from the ponytail. With eyebrows narrowed and a look of worry on his face, Satoru's embarrassment turned into that of timidness. You were engulfed by the sunlight, glowing like the angel you were. "Gosh, you're so pretty..."

"Are you okay?" You asked in a panic, his mumbled words coming off too slurred to understand. "Did you hit your head too hard?"

Shaking his head as he forced himself to sit up, Gojo rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. "No, 'm fine..." he sighed before looking down at his hands to the kitten. "So is this little guy."

Turning your attention from the white haired young man, to the matching kitten, you gasped, "what a hero!"

Grinning and feeling the heat rise to his cheeks, Gojo shrugged, "eh, ''twas nothing..."

"You almost broke a few bones, though..." you frowned, looking back at him. 

"I'm tough," he brushed off before turning to face you. Now eye to eye, the sudden confidence instantly sizzled away as he gazed at you from up close. A sudden silence weaved between the two of you as your eyes locked, nothing but the sounds of nature and the kittens purring filled the air. "I..."

"Um..."

"You should keep it," Satoru suddenly said, handing you the kitten. "Deserves a nice home."

"Oh, me?" You asked as you took the kitten in your hands, caressing its soft, white fur. 

"Yeah, I wouldn't be a good dad," he chuckled as he rubbed the back of his neck. "You... You'd be a great mom to it, I'm sure."

Eyeing the kitten, then looking back up at him, you smiled, "we can coparent."

At your offer, Gojo gulped. "Co... parent?"

"Yeah, like, help me out with..." lifting the kitten up, you squinted your eyes, "her."

"I... I don't know much about taking care of animals but I can try and help as much as I can," he offered, scratching his head nervously. 

Smiling, you brought the kitten close to your chest, "you saved her from a tree, I'm sure she will remember that."

"Yeah, maybe," Satoru blushed.

Looking down at the kitten as you pet her, listening to her gentle purring, you happily sighed, "what's your name?"

Quickly pointing at himself, the blue eyed boy asked, "mine?"

"Mhm," you nodded. 

"Gojo. Gojo Satoru. You can call me Satoru, though," he nearly blurted out as you chuckled before giving him yours. 

"Well, Satoru," you beamed as he melted at the sound of his name slipping off your tongue, "I think I'll name her after you."

"Wha— Satoru? But... she's a girl?" He tilted his head with furrowed eyebrows. 

"I was thinking of a nickname," you said before looking down at the kitten. "I'll name her Toru. It's cute, right?"

Nodding slowly, then faster, Gojo agreed. "Yeah, Toru is cute."

Lifting your gaze to meet his, you gave him a toothy smile. "Toru it is."

[leighsartworks216]

Puppy

Sylus x gn!Reader

Inspired by the quality time work/study animation when he looks up from cleaning his gun and he just looks so soft and sweet 🥺 And also from the in-game phone call "Crow"

Warnings: swearing, pet names, biting, teasing, fluff

Word Count: 1,142

Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

“Where’s Sylus?”

The temperamental crow looked at you with one glowing red eye, beak turned away coyly. You have to wonder what kind of programming went into making him have so much attitude. It’d probably go right over your head, anyway.

“Wanna make a deal?” You keep an eye on Mephisto as you reach into your pocket, rooting around until cold metal touches your fingers. You lift the shiny metal nut like a prize. “Hm? A nice shiny trinket for you if you show me where Sylus is? What d’ya say?”

His metal wings fluttered at his side, feet stepping unsurely on his perch. But all crows are alike, mechanical or otherwise. He swoops down and snatches the metal from your fingers. You feel the brush of talons, barely escaping having your hand sliced up by an overeager metal chicken.

His caw sounds like a laugh as he leads you down the many halls of the mansion. When he stops to wait for you to catch up, he croons at his shiny new knickknack, pecking at it and staring at it from every angle with his red eyes. He glides through the open crack of a door.

You peek in first. It’s a study, with shelves lined with old paper books and vinyls. There’s a desk with guns neatly laid out on top. Mephisto perches on the accompanying chair. And on the couch, head tilted back and eyes closed, is Sylus.

You wonder if he’s really asleep this time. He’s tricked you before, but as you listen closely you hear the soft snores giving him away.

How cute, you think. A little midnight nap.

The door doesn’t make a sound as you push it open enough to slip inside. You don’t close it back all the way, and Mephisto’s wings nearly clip your head as he flies back outside of the room. That damn bird will always have it out for you, you’re sure of it.

You creep along the elegant carpet to your target, slowly lowering yourself to sit on the other end of the couch. As much as you love messing with Sylus, you didn’t actually want to wake him up now. So, being very careful, you lay down and rest your head in his lap.

“If you want to cuddle, you don’t need to sneak around for it.”

You smack his chest. “You’re such an asshole!” Your heart was racing from the scare, but you don’t get up from your new position. Sylus rewards you by beginning to comb his fingers through your hair. “Were you actually sleeping?”

He hums. There’s a gravel to his voice you didn’t notice before. “Yes, I was.” He finally lifts his head from the back of the couch to look down at you. “Until someone gave Mephisto a shiny new item for his collection.”

You chuckle despite the unimpressed look on his face. “He told on me again?”

“You’re all he seems to talk about these days,” he sighs. He brushes some hair away from your forehead. “At least it’s positive, this time.

“Did you need something from me?”

“Not really. I was just… lonely.”

He smiles slightly. “Well, I’m always happy to keep you company, sweetie.”

It’s easy to doze while he plays with your hair. He seems to know all the right spots, all the right techniques to ease your troubles away. In his care, your hair doesn’t tangle or get caught. It’s heaven.

-

When you wake up, you’re exactly where you were. Sylus’s lap was warm under you, and you wondered if his legs fell asleep at any point during your nap. If they did, he’d suffered through it for your sake.

His hand was nearly still in your hair now. It didn’t move in those perfect ministrations as before. Instead, it was almost completely still, moving at a snail’s pace along the crown of your head. You blink your eyes open to figure out why, maybe even pout and whine about it just to annoy him, but you can’t stop from just staring.

If he notices you’re awake or watching him, he doesn’t say anything. His thumb scrolls through his phone, probably looking at the latest underground news on shady deals or skimming over messages from desperate people wanting to deal with him. Something that drew his attention away from you, at least.

So you take your time drinking him in.

He’s pretty, there’s no arguments there, but it’s his own kind of pretty. It’s sharp and multifaceted, like a crystal. His eyes are intense, lashes so dark and thick it looks like he’s wearing makeup. You wonder if he does. He’d look even more gorgeous with dark red eyeshadow and sharp cat eyeliner. His lips are pressed into a thin line, soft pink drawing your eyes to them. You quickly turn your attention to the slope of his nose before he catches you.

With a sigh, Sylus closes his phone and sets it aside. His hand in your hair goes back to a normal speed, his fingers scratching at the nape of your neck as he finally looks down at you, And just like that, all that sharp beauty is replaced.

Instead of his usual intense gaze, his eyes are soft around the edges, just a little bit wider, relaxed. His lips quirk up slightly at the sight of you, softening his cheekbones. He tilts his head playfully, eyebrows raising as though asking if you’re enjoying the view.

“Puppy.”

He blinks, and it’s gone. His brow furrows, his lips dropping into a frown, eyes sharpened with suspicion. “What?”

You smirk. It’s rare to feel like you have the upper hand. You reach up and touch his cheek. He leans into it, though his expression remains.

“Sometimes you get this look on your face,” you tell him. Your thumb runs under his eye. “It makes you look soft, like a little puppy.”

He scoffs, but his lips quirk up again. “Just how long have you been waiting to use that on me?”

You hum, running your fingers down his cheekbone to his jaw. “Since I asked you to join me while I study a few days ago.” You traced the sharp cut of his jawline, tracking the movement with your eyes. “I looked up for a minute, and you were looking at me like I’d just promised to scratch you behind the ears.” To emphasize your point, you reach to do just that.

He catches your hand before you can, thumb pressed to your palm to keep your hand open. He brings your fingers to his lips, eyes watching you intently as he bites down on them, one at a time, nipping at the tips and knuckles with a smirk. “Careful, kitten,” he warns. He bites at the soft skin on the back of your hand. “This puppy bites.”

[arabella0001]

More than just a genius

Pairing: Shikamaru Nara x Reader Anime: Naruto

Synopsis: what was supposed to be a simpe training session with Shikamaru quickly turns into something much more intense

new to smut, pls be gentle (eng not my first language)

Warnings: praise kink, teasing, rough sex, all characters are of age/aged up, dirty talk, breeding

shikamaru leaned against the wall, arms hanging loosely at his sides as his half-lidded gaze drifted over the village. The weight of boredom settled in his features, tugging his expression downward. "what a drag..." he muttered under his breath.

there was something about the way he carried himself—lazy, uninterested, yet somehow impossible to ignore. even now, you caught yourself watching him a little too long, wondering if he ever noticed.

“what’s bothering you, shikamaru?” you asked, amusement lacing your voice.

you’d seen this look a dozen times before, but it didn’t stop you from lingering near him. maybe it was habit, or maybe it was the fact that standing next to him didn’t feel like wasting time.

his eyes flicked to you, the edge of his irritation dulling just enough to let curiosity slip through.

his gaze lingered for a second longer than it needed to, drifting over your face in that quiet, thoughtful way of his—as if he was piecing something together.

"nothing much, just bored out of my mind here."

he sighed, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “a mission. training. hell, even paperwork would be better than standing around like this”

you tilted your head, lips curving into a sly smile.

"well i’m pretty bored too, want to spar with me?" your tone dipped, just enough to catch his attention, the shift was subtle, but intentional so if he caught on, he didn’t say anything. typical.

his brow arched, eyes narrowing faintly.“spar with you? what exactly are you thinking?” he asked, skepticism in his voice. still, the glimmer of curiosity was unmistakable. “and don’t think for a second i’m going to take it easy just because you’re asking nicely.”

your smile deepened. “oh, but i didn’t say you should be easy, i like it rough.”

his eyes flickered—just for a second—before he smoothed his expression, masking whatever had crossed his mind. still, that glimmer lingered, before he shifted his weight, like he was trying to brush off something he hadn’t quite placed yet.

“rough, huh?” shikamaru shifted, pushing off the wall and rolling his shoulders as he stretched his neck. “alright then. let’s see what you’re made of.”

he stepped closer, his stance easy but attentive, watching you carefully. “so, what's the first move in this 'rough' training session of yours?”

the way his gaze dipped lower, trailing briefly along your figure, didn’t go unnoticed. he caught himself quickly, but the flicker of interest remained, no matter how fast he tried to bury it.

you held his gaze, mischief dancing in your eyes. “let's start with a little taijutsu spar, shall we?” without waiting for a response, your hands began forming seals, and you lunged, aiming a swift kick at his midsection.

“whoa, slow down" shikamaru sidestepped at the last moment, his voice carrying the faintest trace of a chuckle. his sharp eyes tracked your movements, already dissecting your technique

“you don’t mess around, do you?” he mused, circling you with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times over. then, without warning, he lunged, fist arcing toward your jaw.

you ducked, spinning to slip behind him and drove an elbow toward his shoulder blades.

“hey, watch it! that hurt more than it needed to,” he grunted, jerking slightly from the impact.

“relax, it’s just sparring,” you teased, breathless but grinning.

shikamaru exhaled sharply through his nose. “alright, alright, I get it. you want to play dirty. fine by me.” in a fluid motion, he grabbed your wrist mid-strike, twisting it just enough to throw you off balance and put your hand behind your back.

“see how you handle this,” he said, his voice dropping slightly as his grip tightened playfully.

you gasped, stumbling. “alright, alright, i give! ow! enough!” laughing, you raised your other hand in surrender.

shikamaru loosen his grip, the ghost of a smug smile tugging at his lips. “come on, that wasn’t so bad. you’re tougher than that, you can take it” he teased, but there was an edge to his voice, something lingering beneath the surface.

he leaned in just slightly, his voice dipping into something more deliberate. “but since you’re clearly not winning this fight, i guess i could cut you some slack...” his eyes lingered on yours, the weight of his gaze unmistakable.

there was something different now—more focused. his usual lazy gaze had sharpened, like he was finally seeing you in a way he hadn’t before.

you held that gaze, tilting your head. “sparring’s not the only way to pass the time… but if you need that spelled out, maybe I misjudged you." you pause for a second "i wasn’t exactly talking about sparring when i said i like it rough”

his eyebrows shot up. silence stretched for a beat, and then a slow, knowing expression spread across his face. “oh.”

his fingers brushed your wrist, the contact brief but enough to send a ripple through the space between you after he released it, he watched the spot where his hand had been, as if surprised by his own reaction. he glanced away quickly, the air shifted between you, tension thickening into something else entirely.

“guess i shouldn’t have assumed you meant sparring,” he tilts his head, studying you with renewed interest. "so, care to elaborate on what exactly you had in mind? because I have to admit, i'm rather curious now."

you let your gaze flicker over him, from his face to his lips, lingering just long enough for the message to sink in.

“you’re smart guy, shikamaru. you know what i mean.”

he watched you closely, the smirk tugging at your lips more distracting than he cared to admit. this was getting troublesome—and not in the way he minded. you caught the faint flush at the tips of his ears.

“ah, i see,” he murmurs "well, when you put it that way…" Shikamaru takes another step closer, closing the distance,he reaches out, gently cupping your chin with his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "i think I can help you with that," he whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

the way you smiled, sharp and knowing, felt like playing shogi with an opponent too eager to win. dangerous. but he wasn’t planning to lose anytime soon.

your lips hovered mere inches apart, the anticipation thick as neither of you moved for a breathless moment. and then, slowly, he closed the distance, his mouth brushing against yours in low, intense kiss.

you moan in his mouth "fuck you taste so good" and he groans, his tongue slipping past your lips to tangle with yours as he deepens the kiss.

 "you’re not so bad yourself," he mumbles against your mouth, his free hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

breaking the kiss momentarily, Shikamaru gazes into your eyes, a burning intensity reflected in his own. "I need more," he confesses mutters his lips seeking you again, the space between you dissolves, and he deepens the kiss with a quiet kind of urgency, as if savoring every second rather than rushing through it.

you take his hands and put them on your ass "then take what you need" your voice soft yet laced with intent. his breath catches—barely audible—as you gently guide his hands to your ass, his fingers digging into the firm flesh instinctively.

"you really don’t make this easy," he mutters, his voice low and edged with quiet amusement as his hips press forward, the subtle movement deliberate but restrained.

shikamaru lifts you effortlessly, settling you onto a nearby table with a smooth ease, his hands firm yet unhurried. he steps between your thighs, his lips finding yours in a kiss that’s deep but measured—like he’s savoring the moment rather than rushing through it. his hands trail over you with quiet confidence, fingertips grazing over sensitive spots as if mapping every reaction, his touch precise and lingering.

breaking the kiss, he trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down the your throat, nipping and sucking at you sensitive skin. "I need you right now," he pants against your neck, his arousal straining against his pants. "do you?”

kissing him rough and grinding on him "yes, please" you kissed him roughly while grinding on him, his hands roaming eagerly over your body as he undresses you with haste. you two can't wait anymore.

 "as you wish," he rasps, his own clothes falling away to reveal his toned physique. claiming your lips once more, shikamaru lifts your legs around his waist, positioning himself at your entrance. with a powerful thrust, he sheathes himself inside you, a guttural moan escaping him as your tight pussy envelops his throbbing length.

he sets a relentless pace, driving into you with primal urgency, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling the air. "damn… you're unreal," shikamaru exhales sharply, his forehead resting against yours as his grip tightens around you, grounding himself in the overwhelming pull between you. his breath is uneven, each inhale laced with the quiet groan he can't suppress.

you wrap your legs tighter around him and moans loudly as he fills you completely"yes, yes, just like that! don't stop! " hearing your desperate plea, his hips snapping forward sinking deeper into the intoxicating pull between you.

"feels like you were made for this," he gasps, his breath ragged against your ear. reaching between the bodies, shikamaru finds your clit, circling the sensitive nub with his thumb as he continues to rut into you with reckless passion. the increased sensation causing your inner walls to clench around him harder.

"come on… don’t hold back.," he urges, his voice strained with impending release. "let it happen for me"

"fuck you are so hot…fuck fuck fuck i’m cumming" he feels your pussy spasming around him as you hits your climax, the rhythmic contractions pushing him closer to the edge."that's it, shit..where.... "he groans, his own orgasm building rapidly.

"in me...please....pleasse" he groans and with a few more powerful thrusts, Shikamaru buries himself nside you, his member pulsing as he erupts, flooding you with his hot seed. he collapses against you, both of you panting heavily as the aftershocks of your intense sex wash over tyou.

after a moment, shikamaru lifts his head, his dark eyes locking with yours—calm but glinting with satisfaction. a lazy smile tugs at his lips.

"damn, that was hot," he murmurs, still buried deep within your warmth. "guess we make a good team, huh?"

your chest rises and falls, still catching your breath as you chuckle softly. "yeah… wanted to do that for too long. but you didn’t take the hints. such an innocent boy."

his brows lift, and he scoffs lightly, though the faint flush creeping up his neck doesn’t escape your notice. "hey, i’m not that dense… you just caught me off guard, that's all." the corner of his mouth twitches as he leans in, fingers splayed lazily, makes it clear he's in no rush to move.

pulling back slightly, shikamaru tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering to trail along your cheek. his gaze softens but never loses that familiar, calculating sharpness.

"but now that i've got you figured out," he muses, thumb grazing over your jawline, "now that i’ve got you figured out… maybe you’ll teach me a few more tricks"

you laugh, light and teasing. "oh, i feel honored to have caught you off guard—the smartest guy i know."

his expression warms at that, but there's a flicker of something softer in his eyes that he masks with his usual smirk. "well, i suppose even geniuses have their blind spots," he quips, pressing his lips to yours again, this time slower—like he's savoring every second. his arms snake around you, pulling you close until there's barely space between your bodies.

as the kiss fades, he rests his forehead against yours, exhaling quietly as if anchoring himself in the moment.

"but i'm glad you found a way to pierce through mine."

shikamaru's voice drops to that low, familiar drawl, the words laced with rare honesty. his nose brushes against yours, and he hums in quiet contentment, fingers tracing idle circles along your spine.

"what do you say we head back to my place? no rush… but i doubt you’re tired yet?" he suggests, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze, a playful glint returning to his eyes. "i've got a feeling we're just getting started..."

his lips barely graze yours before he lowers your legs carefully to the ground, his hands lingering at your waist to steady you. you grin at his quiet attentiveness—always observant, even when his mind should be clouded.

as you both gather your clothing, the weight of his gaze is subtle but heavy with anticipation. the air hums between you, unspoken but understood.

shikamaru doesn’t rush as he buttons his shirt, but the way his eyes flick to yours now and then says enough.

yeah, you think, we're definitely just getting started.

Wattpad link

[edenspoem]

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. ♡

summary: ellie simply cannot dance the odette variation perfectly without you spotting her. she calls you in, and swans begin to sing.

content: ballerina!ellie, smut, mdni, dom!reader, white swan and black swan dynamic, fingering(e!rec), slight choking, slight degradation, semi-public sex, presence of risk, drabble length, had to get something of this au out before i went psycho. think of this as series teaser, almost. barely, somewhat proofread. wc: 1.7k

Ellie works against her body, and time works against her.

“Dammit—I can't get it right.”

It is February: the unfurling of the year, and she is Odette this season. The white swan had incarnated, plucking only the most graceful, most sedulous ballerina from the flock. She begins to believe herself after all the blood, sweat, and tears produced in anticipation, and training. Nothing is graceful about this loathing season, though, and save for the culmination of when she was cast her sorrowful-swan, ivory feathers, this is a tribulation that eats her down to the sore ligaments of herself. Perfection is eroding.

She tries and she fumbles. “Fuck!”

Usually, this is no issue. Ellie is inherently so given to pirouettes; the group instructor is unapologetic about that praise. But their momentum overwhelms their beauty—her instructor also claims. She must find a balance, within, and without thinking too hard.

So she ends up calling you in to think for her.

The black swan.

Tutoring, of a sort. “You have the wings of a vulture,” you broach, pacing forth and from the space behind. You only brace the front when you spot an incorrection. “Loosen up.”

She is nervous to have her heartbeat in your ears. You have this touch nobody else can give, and yet it is for a reason she wishes not; correction, not love. However, she just might love it regardless. Touchings of the arms that mean nothing to you, and many things to her. You tap her shoulder, and the muscles noticeably stiffen. With a gulp, the chafing organ inside her is a solitary song she hopes you cannot sense the thrumming of.

Tired hands fall to her thighs in a slap. You watch her lips form a question in the mirror. “Can't you just show me?” She is adamant with it. Adamant with everything, if you recall each sentence you overheard from her private sessions. Somethings of malediction, most a pained curse.

Those bruises and bumps reflect that.

“Your grace should come from within, Swan Queen.” Although an aphorism most would groan at and nullify, it is almost vital to every professional dancer. Even you nourish yourself with the saying, and you are at the top. “Just as Pavlovich would say, right?” Ellie has technique. In fact, she has a grasp on it so violent—so obsessive, not a single other picture-perfect girl in that room on the day of Swan Lake casting could bear it.

Except you.

She puffs her cheeks into apples, “Fuck,” and mumbles under her breath. This day would leave a sprain.

Nuturing her inelegance. You think of it like this, and you treat it as such. When your palms introduce two gentle pressures upon her ribcage from behind, she fears you can hear it. Her heart; its rage. She overthinks the gesture and places her hands over yours on accident.

You hear air snag in her throat. Feel her fill.

“Feel my hands?” You motion with your thumbs, rubbing them back and forth under hers.

Ellie drops her head, and a strand of auburn slips. “Yeah.” Her voice is a feather. It writhes into the abditory of her chest.

She hates catching your eyes in the mirror. Especially right now.

Because she so graciously has her hands on yours, you turn your palms and basket the tense, fidgeting things in them. Raising them heavenward as a halo. “You have to let go up here. Don't overthink it.” Your fingers downpour all around her, until they return to her palpating ribcage. “Focus on your core.”

Fuck, what has she done? She invited you in here with the strict notion that you could implement her perfection. Nothing more, nothing less. Pavlovich would replace you as her tutor if the sun shone with the littlest deviation; you don't have to be here. But you are here, and she is borderline bleeding from her precious lips trying to distract herself from the warmth crawling out below. The visceral image of her leotard stained with a wet patch.

She feels like a loser.

She does anything but let go. “Like this?” It is so achingly obvious, the sleek of her juices making it uncomfortable to lift her leg.

“No,” you huff in a heavy increment, drawing away. Ellie's impliable arms were all over the place—and not in the graceful, poised manner of a swan. The poise she despairingly needs. “You can't be this nervous on stage. Someone psych you out or something?”

She descends from pointe. This girl is a rose-red silhouette of confusion, and crackling. “Um, not really.” But she is fucking easy to read.

All she needed was your hands again.

Handling her waist, her hips. “Did you lock the door?” Eating her mouth which gushes with the same, quiet concerns. You close it with yours.

“Mhm.” Ellie is feeding on your hums: fitting her lips in the cleft of yours, opening and closing, nodding and accepting, eager to pick from your fruit again. Docile creature in caging limbs. She is sat softly in your lap, doing all this like she cannot get enough of you, regardless if you are endless.

Her skin is peeking quietly from her neckline. Shining, shifting over her collarbones.

Post-practice glow.

She tries to relieve the throes of wanting immediately. This is not the same Ellie you tutored minutes ago; someone else crawled inside of her, made a corruptive influence. “Fuckin' soaked down there,” she hints with pacing breath, flexing her pelvis up. “Gonna buy me new ones?” She mentions about her tights. Those tights that always make her toned legs look woodland-born; spry as deer, long boughs laden with white bloomage.

You chuckle. “Oh, cause it's my fault?” But your hands push for that hot gap beneath, peel her leotard aside, and she goes white-eyed. Nudging to find the same kisses.

Opening her mouth opens her heart to you.

Then, her legs.

Full-walled mirrors reflect before her. Ellie goes insane watching the muscles of your fingers work her in numbing circles over the wet patch of her tights, and sometimes, insane from the stare you give while doing it. The friction is like molasses, but it is all she needs. God, she is pulsing on you. Whining on you. Does she come to rehearsals horny?

It certainly coheres.

Warming up next to each other on the barre, beholding one another during auditions, her cascading stares when you stretch, creeping softly up your legs. Wearing sheer skirts so wispy, so mini: you get it. Those sculpting shorts she wears—you're not even going to lie—prove the pleasure is visual. It creates a vertigo of pounding, indecent thoughts.

You folded them so delicately down her lovely hips. Now they lay stranded somewhere in the room, but fuck—does your skin raise thinking about her ass flexing in them before. Picture-perfect, palmful of an ass.

Has she touched herself to you?

She still avoids your eyes when you pick up your speed. “Fuckin' slut, aren't you?” Watching what was being done to her was all the more invigorating, hoping she would ruin her panties enough and swallow up your motions. Take you in closer.

She tells you she does like it. Well, whimpers, at least, and humps your river-paced fingers.

Then, she plucks at the band of her tights with her thumb, stretching it over the knuckle. You see where your finger pins it down.

Shadows brush against the frosted door. Soothing yourselves too comfortably into primal abandon and taking every tight piece of clothing off would maturate a scandal. Risks are high; you lead her wrist back.

Dopey giggles form her smile. “Why not?”

You affirm. “You know why.”

But no secretion of articulation was coming from her lips, only confirming sounds and thigh contractions when you grope and grab her thumping crotch. It was as though she was pent-up. Panting often out of her mouth, and glancing into the hoods of her eyes with a short leaning motion—you think she is. Pent-up, religiously for you. Little ligaments in her shiver with every little tug, barely moving anything under the layers, but she loves it.

She spent deadlight mornings dreaming that her bed beheld hers and your legs interlocked, cunts rubbing each other into humiliating moans and reeking of sex days afterward in the studio. It aches that she cannot see her bare pussy, and you, inside her. She thinks she might be fucking glistening under there. How exciting: what would it feel like if you ripped the fabric and stuffed her, displayed and degraded her? Your glare already does, Odile.

She needs to take you home. She needs the veiling between you and her so eroded, it rewrites the all-encompassing, eternal-age ballet right there on the grand stage. Makes the audience mull in their sleep. “Put your hands around my neck,” she beckons, inviting more hands on her.

“Yeah?”

She gulps. “Uh-huh.”

They fill the pale emptiness. After that, she finds herself trying to fuck herself more desperately on your fingers: she rides the length of them, using what is softened of her panties to slide up her folds. The pressure indescribable. She almost forgets that you are her competition; rivals shouldn't make her come this hard.

But, it's you. You lull the filthiness out of her.

When your fingers dig in the right spot, she pierces through her lower lip. “Yes, baby—fuck!” She jolts with a whimper. The sides of your fingers are scratched by the synthetic material of her thighs, her legs impulsing, eyes pinching, and her neck stringing up in your grasp. It is a chasm full of splutters. “That's it—right there, right there. Fuck, don't stop, please don't fuckin' stop.”

You palm her through it, fingers pouring out through the heart of her thighs in the mirror. And something else. Something that sticks her to her shame: orgasm-sopping panties she may replace, and replace twice. There is subtle moisture on your fingertips.

No way she goes home and sleeps soundlessly without flicking her pussy for you. In devotion of what you could not. She feens to be properly played with.

Ellie lies breathless in your lap, her skin sweating into yours. The scene is a silent basking until she breaks it:

“Should we continue this tomorrow?”

[nightplvmes]

you again (fluff)

zayne one shot (love and deepspace) — probably part 1 an arranged marriage was never in your plans. you'd always imagined yourself marrying your best friend zayne, until he left…⋆｡° | pairing : prince!zayne x princess!reader ⋆｡° | word count : 2.4k (2,400) ⋆｡° | fluff with slightly angst, happy ending, teenagers au likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :) ★ masterlist here

you sighed, your gaze fixed on the way your dog squirmed in your lap. a small smile formed on your lips as you watched him try to take off the ugly sweater that Alisa had forced him to wear.

"hey, hey, hey!" Alisa walked quickly towards them and forced the dog away from you. "what did I tell you about letting him dirty your dress?" she said in that usual annoyed tone.

"he can poop on my dress if he wants." Alisa rolled her eyes. you were impossible to talk to, always making her angry or refusing to follow orders. how hard was it to follow a simple order?

"let's get back to the plan." Alisa turned to point to the whiteboard where she had written a small list of what you needed to do. "you're going to talk to each of them for at least fifteen minutes. they'll talk to you about themselves or about the benefits of uniting the two kingdoms. you have to listen to everything they say and memorize it."

you narrowed your eyes in confusion. you have to memorize things that princes say, things that don't even interest you. you don't even memorize the things that really interest you.

at some point your mind began to wander, and you stopped listening to Alisa. you hated sitting there, you hated that your fate was sealed and that you were going to get married but not for love. your mother had been lucky to have truly fallen in love, but that was not the case with you. and for a second you thought that this wouldn't be happening if…

"you're going to fall!" Zayne spoke loudly and in that tone he used when he wanted to scold you. you giggled, stretching your hand out further, if you didn't have that silly dress on you would be more mobile. "you already have one, you don't need another!" Zayne spoke again but you didn't seem to hear him.

"no! this one's for you," you repeated and reached out your hand again but your fingers barely touched the apple.

your foot slipped from the trunk and you let out a scream as you felt part of your weight slide off. you were holding on to the tree trunk but was close to falling.

"get down from there!" Zayne motioned for you to come back to his side. he just hated the thought of putting yourself in danger for something as silly as an apple.

you sighed and finally obeyed him. feeling defeated, you stood under the tree, landing next to Zayne seconds later. sometimes you got the feeling that Zayne's mother hate you for getting him into trouble. Zayne was a pretty calm boy compared to you, he never got into trouble but he always followed you and when you got into trouble he was by your side. he had never left you alone, he accepted the blame for both of them even if he had done nothing.

"I'm sorry. I only got one apple." you grimaced and held out the fruit to him, you had told him that apple was for him anyway. you didn't even care that you didn't have one.

"It's okay, we can share it," he said, shrugged and took your arm to take a seat under their favorite tree.

they both sat under the tree, you straightened your dress while you searched for something in the small bags you had sewn yourself on your dress. the seams were bad and looked like pieces of fabric glued together, but you had done it yourself and that made you feel proud. your mother hadn't said anything when you found out and she promised to put little pockets in all your dresses.

"can you do that thing you do with apples?" you asked. Zayne had a knack for peeling apples, sometimes he got it wrong but he had learned to improve his technique.

"I don't have a knife," his words hung in the air as you pulled out one of the small knives the cooks used. "where did you get it?"

"I stole it from the kitchen." you smiled excitedly as Zayne took the knife.

you looked at him intently without saying a word, you didn't want to interrupt him but you loved watching anything Zayne did, it was… mesmerizing.

"my sister is getting ready for her wedding. I heard her talking to mom today," you finally broke the silence. Zayne kept his gaze fixed on the apple but you knew he was listening. you didn't need confirmation from him, Zayne always listened to you.

"if we were to get married, what dress would you wear?" he asked. he wasn't looking at you but you could almost swear he was smiling.

"I always wanted to wear one of those fluffy dresses like the princesses" you replied without hesitation. you would never inherit the throne, that was your sister's job, you didn't need to find a husband… but if you had to marry someone you had always wanted it to be Zayne, he was your best friend and he could be a candidate like your mother had said.

"I would wear a blue suit," Zayne replied. you smiled, thinking it was his attempt to be different from the boring suits they always saw on the princes in the palace.

of course you didn't understand how those things worked, for you, in your little world it was just making a deal with your best friend. you knew your sister would have to marry a stranger and you didn't want that.

now you and Zayne had this little joke where they talked about their imaginary wedding. even if you never had to take the throne, you could marry whoever you wanted! and Zayne would be there because he was your best friend.

"and what flowers would we have at our wedding?" you asked as you took the piece of apple Zayne had given you.

"Jasmines" he answered without hesitation.

“are you listening?” coming back to reality had felt like the biggest shock of all. you had to blink repeatedly as Alisa was practically screaming in your face.

"Alisa I…" you fought back the lump in your throat. "I need air, I'm sorry."

you left the room as quickly as you could. you hated thinking about Zayne because you always ended up crying, you hated thinking about one of the last times together.

Zayne had disappeared from your life shortly after you turned 12, almost at the same time your mother and sister had died in an accident. it was a strange feeling all of that had left in your chest. you felt guilty that what happened to Zayne had affected you more. you'd had time to heal, had had time to process that your mother and sister had died in an accident. an accident that wasn't anyone's fault. you'd had help and support from other people, but Zayne…

Zayne had vanished like the steam that came out of their mouths when they played in the snow. you didn't know what had happened to him; your dad never gave you an answer, and eventually you grew tired of asking. your father told you you had more important things to attend to now that your sister wasn't around to assume the throne.

you had tried to sneak into the palace to Zayne's room, hoping to find clues about what had happened, but you were always caught. he hadn't called or even sent letters. it was really silly because letters weren't even a method of communication anymore, but for some reason, you always expected it.

there were people all over the place, walking back and forth, and it made you feel overwhelmed. you tried to walk quickly to one of the gardens without being seen, but you felt like you were attracting too much attention. your lungs filled with air as the cold hit your face. winter had finally begun, and you hated it. snow used to make you homesick, but right now, you were so lost in your own world that you didn't even care when your arms started to freeze.

you kept your eyes fixed on the way your feet left imprints in the thin layer of snow on the ground. if Zayne were there, would everything be different? maybe the death of your mother and sister would have been easier for you. you'd had her father's support, but it wasn't the same. you wanted Zayne.

would they get married? that was the question that was on your mind the most. when you were a child, you didn't understand the importance of marriage, even if it was forced. for you and Zayne, getting married was nothing more than a kind of agreement between best friends, but after so many years, you couldn't help but wonder what would have happened.

sometimes you thought Zayne would have encouraged you to find a partner, someone who would even remotely spark your interest enough to keep you from having a miserable marriage for the rest of your life. another part of you thought Zayne would have agreed to marry you to save you from a bad marriage and would have done everything possible to keep you calm when you assumed the throne.

"you're going to catch a cold." you frowned when a stranger interrupted your thoughts. you really liked getting lost in your imagination lately.

you looked up, ready to fight whoever had interrupted you, probably one of the princes who had been wandering the halls lately, claiming to need to talk to your father but actually trying to make progress with you. however, it wasn't even close to what you had imagined.

it wasn't one of the servants, not Alisa, not your father, not even one of the princes. well, it was certainly a prince, not the one you'd expected.

you felt like she was seeing a ghost, felt like you were seeing things wrong because of the snowflakes now practically covering your hair. you started to shiver, but not because of the cold; it was as if you couldn't move or even speak because it was practically impossible for Zayne to be in front of you.

he had obviously changed too much. it had been almost ten years since you'd last seen him. his sharp jaw and how broad his shoulders had become, but he still had that calm gaze you remembered. you were dreaming, you had to be dreaming.

Zayne knew it hadn't been the best idea to appear out of nowhere when he noticed you weren't going to move. you was too frozen to say anything, and he felt somewhat guilty for causing that reaction in you. he had a plan in mind: he had gone to the palace in search of Alisa. from what he had discovered, she was the girl who helped you with everything related to maintaining a good image. he hadn't thought he would find you right there, of all the places in the palace where you could be.

finally, he approached you to put his jacket over your shoulders to ward off the cold. you knew you weren't dreaming, or if you were, it was the most realistic dream you'd ever had.

"you…"

"I know," he interrupted you. he felt guilty for leaving, and he felt guilty for abandoning you right after your mother and sister died. "I'm sorry."

you felt tears blur your vision. it had been so long that you were almost sure something had happened to Zayne, almost sure he was gone and you'd never see him again.

you wanted to be angry, you wanted to yell at him for leaving like that, but for some reason you felt you didn't have the right. you wanted to walk away from him and take off his jacket, telling him you didn't need anything from him, but you couldn't. you couldn't do it when you'd missed him so much.

Zayne was taken by surprise when you leaned in to hug him and held on so tightly that he almost felt his breath hitch. you wanted to sob, you wanted to ask him where he'd been all this time, but no more words came out of your mouth; it was like if you mind was blocked.

words weren't necessary for several minutes. Zayne didn't move and simply held you against his chest, letting you cling to him as tightly as you wanted.

"where were you?" was the first thing that came out of your lips when you lifted your face to look at him. your fingers ran over his cheeks, caressing his cold skin to make sure he was real.

"problems…" he admitted softly. how was he going to explain what had really happened?

you nodded, not wanting to ask for explanations he clearly wasn't going to give. not right now, at least. you remained silent; there were too many things on your mind, and the worst of them came flooding back when you heard Alisa's voice. the reminder that you had to choose a new husband had hit you in the worst possible way; it was like a bucket of cold water.

you cleared her throat and took a step back, suddenly feeling ashamed. Zayne forced himself to let you go. you were nervous; he could tell by the way your entire expression had changed, and it didn't take long for him to figure out that her nerves weren't because of him.

"I…" he interrupted you.

"it's okay, you can go. I'll still be here when you get back." you narrowed your eyes, searching for any hint that what he was saying was a lie.

you nodded before turning around and walking in Alisa's direction. you needed to have a serious talk with her about stopping interrupting you. she was the organizer, she also helped you when you were a little lost, but lately Alisa was taking the liberty of controlling your life.

you still felt like you were floating in some kind of bubble. Zayne was there; he had hugged you, and you had felt his cold hands on the small of your back. it hadn't been a dream like the ones you'd had so many times in the past. however, your life went on. you still had to choose a husband, you still had to prepare for the dance where you would meet the prospects.

did Zayne still remember the promise they had made? maybe the dance wasn't necessary after all.

[risuola]

ENTRY #8 ♡ F. READER X GOJO SATORU // You said you love me, I heard it between the lines.

contents: arranged marriage!au, it gets a little steamy, reader discretion is advised — wc. 2556

a/n: longer part, little steam, some more confused fools in love, what else can we want ♡ i kinda enjoy writing the story a little more from satoru's pov, i hope you don't mind! also, the wedding picture that my friend draw for me is here for anyone interested!

series masterlist

You love him.

Well, technically, you didn’t say you love him. You were tidying just next to him, wiping the dust off the shelves and he was on the couch, doing paperwork that might’ve been — and most likely were — partially responsible for his poor mood. He hated paperwork and ironically, Yaga loved giving him a fair share of it — it was fair, he knew that. His missions, his forms to fill but couldn’t Ijichi take care of it–

“We should retake that picture one day,” he heard you muse and he didn’t need to look up to know what picture you had in mind. You had, after all, just one picture together and it was taken forcefully as a proof of your marriage, right after the ceremony. He was in a suit, black and crisp, looking good as always with his glasses — that he didn’t bother taking off for the photo — resting on the bridge of his nose, low enough to show a little bit of his eyes and high enough to hide the lack of amusement he felt that day. You were in front of him, partially exposing your bare back to the camera and holding a bouquet of flowers that someone got you — not him, that’s for sure. As he thought of it, you were looking stunning. Breathtaking, to say the least, in the long white dress, not too plain but definitely not overly embellished. You didn’t need to be dressed in layers of princess-worthy fabrics to look like one. The picture though — it lacked emotion. You were there with him and he was there with you, but you weren’t together on it. You were just both in the frame.

“Why would we?” He asked dryly, growing more and more irritated by the bureaucracy at hand. He was stuck on one of the points, the one he disliked the most because it required him to elaborate on something that didn’t need to be elaborated on. Why would he describe the curses he saw, evaluate their strengths and consider their techniques, when he turned them to dust before they even realized he was there?

“It would be nice to have a wedding picture with some actual love in it, not just a dry, forced pose and stone faces,” you reasoned and your voice was light, it was innocent almost as if you were speaking of something so obviously natural. As if you were not considering exchanging the picture-proof of your arranged marriage into one of real marriage.

“We’re not married for love, do I need to remind you?” Satoru scoffed. He was annoyed. At you, because you were able to make his heart beat in ways he never knew are possible and at himself — for letting that happen. Or for saying what he just said because of course you knew the marriage wasn’t based on love and it didn’t change the fact you just allowed your mouth to slip away words that shouldn’t be slipped. He was annoyed because you shouldn’t feel that way, because he wasn’t ready to hear it, because he’s a coward.

But, instead of getting annoyed, he heard you chuckling. It was an odd point in your marriage. You were closer, the closest you’ve been until now, but the feelings that were undeniably blooming underneath the surface had to force their way through the layer of sarcasm he and you spread out thickly over the course of past weeks. You were still foreign to affection but curiously exploring the topic with each other and Satoru was suffering severe heart palpitations because of it. You seemed to enjoy it though — your smiles and very purposeful touches were enough of a proof of it.

Satoru sometimes wished he could fluster you just as you fluster him and he would give the world to see your face tinted with deep, red blush because of him. He will see you like this one day, but for now, you were still learning to express civil behaviors in the confines of your shared house. You called it a success that fights were much rarer now than at the beginning; perhaps you grew accustomed to the amount of snarkiness and irony or maybe it mellowed down. Maybe the fact that you were spending more and more time together, now working at school side by side, had something to do with the much warmer relation shyly building itself up between you, or maybe it’s because of the long, late night talks you share every night when he’s laying in bed with you.

“Oh, you really should shut up sometimes,” you said and he felt you approaching.

“I should, huh?” He rolled his eyes and smirked, eager to put down the papers and pay his attention to you. His eyes, that first landed on your legs, moved up following the shape of your body until he met your gaze. “And who are you to order me such things?”

“Your wife, Satoru, we’re married, as you probably noticed,” you snapped back, but something in the tone of your voice told him, you’re not as bothered as the bite of your words suggested.

“Married,” he said, humming. His smirk faltered just slightly and for a second, he was silenced by your presence. He couldn’t bring himself to fight against it. “And hating every second of it.” But he’d still reached forward to take your hand.

This time, it's you who rolled eyes but you allowed your fingers to intertwine with his. You sat down next to him, dropping your weight onto the soft, bouncy cushions and positioning yourself in a way to be able to face him. The top of your knee met the side of his thigh and Gojo put the pile of formalities to the side. “You are annoying, you know that, right?”

“I’ve been told,” Satoru said, his mouth twitching into a small smile. “Several times. By you, actually.” He chuckled and shifted a little on the couch. His free arm was rested along the backrest and he leaned his head back, giving you a sideways look. “But I know I am,” he teased with a smirk now fully bloomed on his features. “I’m glad you’re at least acknowledging it.”

“Kinda hard to miss when it’s written all over your face,” you teased him back and he laughed, running his thumb along the side of your hand. Then, he was rubbing small circles onto your skin, grazing over the delicate spots of your wrist.

“Oh? You’ve been paying more attention to me than I thought.”

“You really need to shut up,” you sighed, exhaling slowly in feigned annoyance, but you were clearly amused by his antics and he was growing amused too. Gojo was testing you, seeing how far you were willing to push him. He had every intention of testing your boundaries, pushing your buttons. He was curious, excited even, to see where it could go. You were incredible, Satoru thought, because weeks before he was sure he was going to break you, get you to back off, but you just kept coming at him. He wasn’t complaining.

“But I don’t want to,” he said, his tone teasing as he leaned towards you, bringing his face inches from yours. Your eyes met and the air got a little thicker, a little more warm. “What are you gonna do about it?” His voice was quiet, murmur-like, challenging. He didn’t let go of your wrist or stop the soft circles of his thumb.

“Easy,” you scoffed, but a smile tugged on the corners of your mouth when you leaned in as well. Your head tilted and then, your lips were just breath away from his own. “I’ll shut you myself,” you whispered, right against his face.

Satoru nearly lost it when he felt your breath on his lips. His heart seemed to skip a beat, this wasn’t how he thought this conversation would go, but he wasn’t exactly complaining. He wasn’t supposed to get jealous, to want you, to need you, but now that you were this close, there was no way he was going to let it end here.

He leaned a little closer as well, closing the distance just a bit more. He was practically asking for your lips to meet and the way your voice teased him when you whispered– oh, the man was getting weak. For the first time, he was speechless. His eyes drifted shut, the feel of your lips so close being enough to set him on fire. The silence hung in the air for only a moment before he pulled you to him, his mouth crashing into yours. He wanted to feel you against him as much as he could. One of his hands went to the back of your head and he began to pull you even tighter.

And you purred. Climbing on top of him, straddling his lap and the moment your legs gripped onto his, every thought was lost, every desire was awakened. One of his arms naturally shifted to pull you against his body and the other was in your hair, tangled within the strands. He felt the heat of you on his chest, he felt you on top of him and in his mind, there was no place he wanted you more. Satoru couldn't get enough of you, of being close.

His back was against the couch, he was kissing you roughly, almost desperately as if there was no air on the planet anymore and you were the only saving grace. He had waited so long to do this, wished for it. Every morning he spent looking at your calm, sleeping face he wondered what would you do if he made a move, if he kissed you softly, if he woke you up with his touch.

And now that it was happening.

He didn’t want to waste a single second. Your hands run over his shoulders and brushed through his hair, pulling and tugging them ever so slightly and he shivered from how close to the edge it brought him. Your touch was electric, sending tendrils of pleasure right through his system, filling his veins with something warm and unknown, making him lose himself into the feeling.

Your tongues met, exploring each other and he was focused on the taste of your lips, the sharpness of your teeth closing teasingly on his lower lip from time to time, the sound of your breathing and how soft and smooth your skin was against his own. Your nose was brushing against his every time you shifted your head and each movement made him want more. He felt like he could spend the rest of his life kissing you.

Satoru’s hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer and he leaned forward, pressing himself against you. He had a good bit more muscle than you and he wasn’t afraid to use it if it meant pulling you even closer, leaving no space between. Your body fit with his, the two of you like puzzle pieces fitting together in the perfect spot.

His hands were moving, following the shapes of you, learning them as his fingers were brushing your sides, his thumb sliding along your back. He gripped your waist a little harder and then, his mouth fell to your neck. You whimpered and a small groan escaped his lips as he kissed you there, his lips and tongue making their way to the soft, delicate skin behind your ear and you gasped on air when his teeth grazed the shell of your lobe.

Your fingers tightened on the muscles of his shoulders, searching for a way to ground yourself and you struggled to stay present, when he made it so easy to get lost.

A smile tugged on Gojo’s lips, he felt how hot your cheek was against the side of his head when he peppered tender kisses along the side of your neck. Then, he pulled away from you for a moment, breathing heavily. His eyes flickered over your face, taking in the sight of you before they dropped to your mouth once more. You were so pretty like this, panting and with your lips parted and swollen, red and glistening with saliva. You were so gorgeous with blush spilled over your complexion, with your half-lidded eyes and your arms around him.

His hands were still on your waist, and his lips found yours again — just as hungry and desperate as it was before.

“God,” he breathed, between one kiss and another. His voice was rough and gruff, carried by the heavy breaths and want. “I can’t believe I’m married to you,” he said, his tone full of awe. “Positive.”

He felt your lips curve upwards and your body squirm against him, and that was enough to make him almost lose control over himself. His hand moved from your waist to the hem of your shirt, moving it just enough to get access to the skin beneath it. He kept kissing you and his fingers were shifting from the hem back to your waist, then back again. You were so soft, and his entire body was filled with the urge to explore it. To taste it. To learn it.

He leaned back just slightly, breaking the kiss and you let out a soft sigh. Your cheek was now pressed against his shoulder, your face exposed. He rested his head against yours, his eyes fluttered shut and all he could hear was a mixture of breaths and his own heart.

“We should stop,” he whispered, sighing and you hummed, nuzzling your nose into his neck, kissing him there.

And like that, Satoru melted.

His body relaxed against yours once more. The breath he took was long and shaky, the sensation of your lips on his neck making his brain short circuit. Any thought he’d had of actually stopping threatened to fell to the wayside.

“We should really stop,” he repeated, louder this time, but he wasn’t making any attempts to move you off his lap. His hands gripped you a little more instead. “You’re gonna make me lose control.”

“Isn’t that a tempting thought,” you teased, the softest mischief lining your tone and you gave the side of his neck a little kitten-lick. Satoru groaned when your tongue touched his neck. His hold tightened on you, his fingers digging into your waist.

“Oh god, don’t do that,” he whispered, sounding desperate. His arm came up to brush your hair out of your face and he leaned his head to the side, giving you better access to his neck, despite all of his instincts telling him to not do that.

“Don’t do what?” Your voice rumbled against his flesh, the sensitive area leading from his ear to his shoulder vulnerable and exposed to your whims.

"That."

"That?"

Gojo jolted the moment your teeth sunk into his skin, just barely hard enough to leave a mark and it made him lose it. With a deep groan, his head shot upwards. The hand that had been running through your hair now gripped your hip, and in an instant, he had you flipped so you were flat on your back, him on top and the papers he’s got from Yaga long forgotten and spread all over the floor.

He’ll worry about them later.

Now: you.

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