#an articulate drabble

[gomzdrawfr]

content warning: blood

Loyal to a fault

bonus + other versions:

Bonus:

Alt:

the words on Ghost's body reads:

LOVE (level of violence)

it takes a monster to destroy a monster (poorly cropped i apologize)

Loyal Dog

Vēnor (Latin verb for hunt, chase)

this is something very different to what I usually do I hope yall don't mind....also this was me when I was sharing this with my friends...because priceghost/ghostprice dynamic really gets a grip on me

[kakushigotofanclub]

Currently thinking about Senjuro turning 21 and realizing he’s officially older than his big brother ever got to be.

[taurus-caeli]

This Novel...Isn't Doing Well (A SAGAU drabble)

“Why isn’t my latest series selling well? You’d think my audience would give it a chance after reading Onibudou…!”

You took a sip of rainbow aster. “It’s because it’s unfamiliar. The market sells what’s currently popular. Those that go off the beaten path will face more trials compared to the rest.”

“...I’m sorry Your Grace, but you lost me after ‘trials’.”

“My point is: It’ll be generally difficult to sell an original creation if the audience isn’t familiar with them. So you have to slowly introduce them first until the audience does!”

“After this, I’ll help you with that part.”

[good-beanswrites]

I think Fuuta should cry. It's good for the soul.

I love how getting asks from you is like

I don't quite know if this was good for his soul, but it certainly was for mine 😅 A bit of a hurt-no-comfort piece, sorry, but I enjoyed a character study of his thoughts immediately after his crime. He has a very particular mix of guilt and denial, and I tried to picture how that may play out in this moment...

Fuuta was sure his life was over the very same moment that he discovered hers was.

His heart seemed to stop entirely when he read her name on the dim little screen. His breathing became shallow and sporadic. His body went cold. Though under the blanket, his arms shivered uncontrollably. The rest of him was just as paralyzed. 

It was more than just the physical things. This life that he’d led to this point, it was over. He’d never be able to move on from this. Would he ever manage to sleep another night? All his friends knew; they wouldn’t be his friends any longer. He was surprised no one had messaged him yet. His father could forget any dreams of his son following in his footsteps. Any normal job was out of the question, now. The minute anyone found out, they’d treat him differently. They’d treat him like a – he could hardly even think the word “killer.”

A sob broke through his gritted teeth. 

That’s what he’d be classified as, wouldn’t he? That girl was dead because of him. 

She was dead. Because of him. 

Fuuta was still wrapping his mind around reality. A whole person, a whole life, a whole future, gone because of him. 

His breath came out wheezy, hiccups shaking his form. He curled himself as small as he could shrink, his hands tearing at his hair.

The girl’s face flashed in his mind. The only pictures he’d seen of her featured bright smiles. He used to find it infuriating – thinking it was all a part of her fake persona, her mockery of justice. Now, the thought of those happy pictures crushed him. She was just a kid. What kind of monster killed a kid?

Fuuta pressed his knuckles to his lips, smothering his cries. The dorms were loud enough tonight, but he couldn’t risk anyone hearing. A story like this could never get out. After all, what were the laws around this stuff? What if he went to prison? He was of age – which areas still used the death penalty? 

No.

He had to collect himself. He hadn’t done anything illegal. He was just overreacting, blubbering like an idiot. That was one thing his father was always right about, at least. Fuuta beat his fists against his head. There was no premeditation. No planning, no ill intent. He’d only just found out she died. That’s why none of his friends had messaged him yet. It wasn’t because of them. It was just some other crazy person online. 

His chest shuddered with an uneven breath. Even if there were no legal consequences, he’d need to get a grip and take some precautions. He ran his palms down his cheeks, wiping away the mess of tears. 

He’d clear out all traces of himself on the internet, delete all those posts that led back to him. He’d smash his phone, call it an accident. Change his number. He didn’t know what he’d do about his friends. He wanted to call them and tell them to delete everything as well. He wanted to scream viciously at them for convincing him to do all this. He wanted to beg them to say everything was going to be okay.

He shut off the phone, fumbling around with the touchscreen several times before he hit the right thing. He couldn’t call anyone. He was on his own now. And that was alright. Whatever happened to that girl, he… That girl…

He commanded himself to rise and begin. 

It proved unsuccessful. Fuuta remained frozen for another few minutes. The harder he willed himself to stop, the harder he cried. He pressed his palm over his mouth and nose, in an attempt to prevent any sound from escaping, and keep his emotions quiet for the first time in his life.

[mixolya]

ᓚᘏᗢ — sae itoshi: scene stealer !

synopsis: in which you called itoshi sae overrated in an interview, and he responded in the language he knew best.

sae itoshi x reader ⭑ drabble + likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

wc: 502

“so, y/n,” the interviewer leaned forward, voice slick like the studio lights overhead. “we have to ask. you’ve done period dramas, blockbusters, indie films- critics are calling you the actress of our generation.”

you smiled politely, legs crossed, fingers light against the armrest. you knew how this worked. press tours were just acting with more glitter.

“but let’s pivot for a second,” she continued, eyes gleaming. “if we look at the football world critics say that sae itoshi is the footballer of our generation. how would you call him?”

you blinked. the question wasn't on the pre-approved list. the name hung in the air between you. sharp, clean, handsome.

“what about him?” you asked, voice even.

she smiled like a shark. “what do you think of him?”

your team was probably watching this from a monitor backstage, already regretting not cutting this question during prep. your PR manager was going to have a migraine. your fans would call it iconic. his fans… probably not.

you could laugh it off. you probably should. but instead, you relaxed your legs, eyes fixed on the interviewer.

“honestly?” you said.

she nodded, breath held.

you looked into the camera.

“overrated.”

there was a pause. a small one.

“i mean, he’s obviously good,” you added. “i’m not blind. but the hype about him? like he’s untouchable? it’s… excessive.”

you didn’t blink. didn’t smile. you weren’t trying to be cute about it. you just told the truth.

the segment moved on. the rest of the interview went fine. you were charming, articulate, witty. you knew how to give the audience what they wanted.

but none of it mattered. by nightfall, the only clip anyone was posting was the one where you said his name and called him overrated like it was a fact, not a statement.

the backlash was loud.

sports journalists, fanboys, stan accounts, all dissecting your tone, your words, your expression.

some defended you. said you were just being honest. that he was too cold, too mechanical, too arrogant to be idolized.

others tore into you. called you bitter. attention-seeking. said you didn’t have the right to speak on someone like him.

you said nothing. posted nothing. didn’t clarify or apologize. because you meant it.

until the 82nd minute of his next match against bastard münchen.

you weren’t watching the game live. you told yourself you didn’t care. but someone sent you the clip. and then someone else. and then it was trending.

he’d scored.

a brilliant, brutal goal, so fast it barely looked real. two defenders bypassed like training cones, the keeper left guessing. textbook precision and trademark calm.

then he walked straight to the nearest camera.

he didn’t smile. didn’t shout. didn’t do anything flashy.

he just looked into the lens, mouthed the word, slowly, clearly.

“overrated?”

you watched it in silence.

watched it again.

and again.

until your phone buzzed with a message from your best friend:

“he’s coming for your throat"

you exhaled through your nose, tossing your phone aside.

“fine,” you muttered. “let him.”

part 2 here

© mixolya 2025. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works.

[spaceycat]

𝚕𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐/𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐;

♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: somebody told me by the killers // " a-breaking my back just to know your name, but heaven aint close in a place like this.. "

bob floyd - this man is just purely curious, trying to figure out what feels good for you and him - but you cant look at bob and tell me that he doesnt love to be between your thighs with his glasses on, fogging up. meow....

bob reynolds - he just wants to feel you, in anyway - but he prefers going down on you because it makes him feel good that he makes you feel good, he just watches your face the entire time making sure that his mouth good feels against your cunt. (bob, void + sentry drabble on the same topic.)

calvin evans - calvin doesnt really care if he's receiving or giving, he's just very articulated and calculating with his movements - if he's in between your thighs he'll make sure you're staring at him the entire time, eye contact is important to him. he likes to go soft and slow, being rough isnt exactly his entire thing.

owen taylor - owen typically likes receiving, pushing you down on your knees and practically fucking your mouth. it's unholy, the spit and the drool coming out of your mouth - but he wouldnt have it any other way. when in the unlikely event that he's giving, he makes sure you feel everything (100% spits on your pussy before diving in)

miles miller - he likes to give more than he recieves, when he puts his mouth on you his entire brain shuts off and he only has to do, not say and he likes to please you more than he likes to please himself. when he does recieve, he's a literal whimpering mess but doesn't know what to do because he doesnt want to hurt you in the slightest.

rhett abbott - sometimes getting his dick sucked his the best thing after a fucked up rodeo, as much as he loves you whining beneath him from his tongue he likes the feeling of your mouth on him as a stress reliever, and he has a lot of stress.

𝚞𝚙𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜:

bens mears - prefers to use his hands, because.. yes? but sometimes he gets stressed out and asks you to give him head and the way you so willingly care about him unwinding makes his brain short-circuit. but you CANNOT tell me that he doesn't love to be a munch sometimes, like maybe he's writing something looks over his shoulder and sees you sitting on the bed looking all delicious, he simply rises from his chair and crawls across the bed to be situated between your thighs (sorry girlies, ben mears stan over here)

jordan weaver - yeah i really don't think this man particularly thinks about going down on you as a thing, until you talk to him one day and like the feral puppy he is he just wants to try it now. but nothing beats you on your knees in front of him and doing all the work.

harrison knott - once again! this man doesn't really care about receiving or giving and prefers the actual sex part and feels more intimate. but if he was to choose he'd pick giving because this man YEARNS.

rocco - we all saw how dedicated he was to marina and how much of a family man he was, dude he's a munch. and i'll say it right here and now. like yeah yeah sure you can go down on him but he much rather likes to be between your thighs eating you out as you tug at his hair, makes him feel valued.

inspiration tag: @zottts

[alittlesongbirdchirps]

Clark is not the only kryptonian survivor.

Tim drake unknown to him was not only adopted but an alien as well.

But unlike Clark his powers didn’t kick in, most likely due to lack of sunlight or something.

That was all about to change, while looking for proof of Bruce being lost in time.

His powers activate whether due to having more heighten emotions or being out in the sun more.

They kick in as he was about to be stabbed in the spleen by league of spiders members.

But that’s not why they activated not to save his own skin.

He was watching his temporarily team mates being slaughtered, and that’s when red comes from his eyes and before he knew it, he was surrounded by bodies. By bodies he killed by lived he had taken.

He doesn’t have time to process this, he’s gotta save Bruce he will deal with this later.

And he doesn’t deal with that later even after saving Bruce, however the build up emotions the trauma and no one even discussing anything, the standard bat way, it all comes to light.

It starts with Bruce beginning to learn what Tim did to get him back.

Bruce being a concerned parent who can’t articulate shit properly, so when he states something in concern it comes across as the opposite more criticising.

“If I knew you were gonna join the league and become a criminal Tim I wouldn’t have left information behind for you to follow.”

Tim eyes widen, he felt anger he lost so much did so much just to get him back to only be told that.

He felt a familiar warmth come to his eyes, the same feeling he had right before he killed members of the league of spiders.

“No.”

He covers his eyes.

He doesn’t want to hurt them he doesn’t.

But Damien never misses an opportunity to attack.

“Pathetic your crying already and fathers has barely done anything, disgraceful.”

Cass is the only one who notices Tim shift in behaviour, he feels more dangerous then he should.

She’s about to make a comment when, suddenly red light comes from his hands through the small gaps, shooting out. Destroying one of the glass cases.

Everyone in the cave eyes widen, Bruce immediately gets up from the batcomputer chair, worried.

“Tim you need to calm down-“

He doesn’t get to say much more when Tim tries to shout to tell them to go away, when ice fog just comes out from his mouth.

Bruce eyebrows knitt together along with Damien, they’ve both seemed to realise something before everyone else.

“What’s happening to me?!”

Fear in his voice, Tim was panicking losing even more control then he had already, that’s when Bruce makes a split second decision and shouts.

“Clark!”

Just in time to, as red escapes Tim’a hand again about to hit Bruce but instead hits Clark’s chest.

Tim removes his hands, he knows he can’t hurt Clark. Clark will protect them from him. But as Tim stares up at Clark with fear, relief, regret and guilt.

He notices Clark stares back down at Tim with shock and hope.

And that’s my small shitty Drabble. (Grammar will be terrible lol.)

[altkys]

ANAXA SMUT HEAD CANNONS PLEASE PLEASE ANAXA SMUT HEAD CANNONS PLEASE PLEASE ANAXA SMUT HEAD CANNONS PLEASE PLEASE ANAXA SMUT HEAD CANNONS PLEASE PLEASE ANAXA SMUT HEAD CANNONS PLEASE PLEASE ANAXA SMUT HEAD CANNONS PLEASE PLEASE ANAXA SMUT HEAD CANNONS PLEASE PLEASE ANAXA SMUT HEAD CANNONS PLEASE PLEASE ANAXA SMUT HEAD CANNONS PLEASE PLEASE ANAXA SMUT HEAD CANNONS PLEASE PLEASE ANAXA SMUT HEAD CANNONS PLEASE PLEASE ANAXA SMUT HEAD CANNONS PLEASE PLEASE ANAXA SMUT HEAD CANNONS PLEASE PLEASE

ılıılıılıılıılı NOW PLAYING… Lights Down Low

RAHHHH this took so long I’m so sorry (⸝⸝o̴̶̷᷄‸o̴̶̷̥᷅⸝⸝) Mostly because halfway through researching him it was like… you’re an Al Haitham, and I fucking hate that guy. You also didn’t specify much so I made Anaxa a sub, since I personally lean more dominant, I’m open to redos if you’d like! I also threw in a short Drabble as compensation <3

Anyways, hope you enjoy, sorry for the wait!! (One helluva username btw)

❝ Take it slow, put it down on me I said jump on it, ride like a pony Lights down low, time to get naughty ❞

→ Anaxagoras may have power and mystery in public, but behind closed doors, he’s secretly thrilled when you take the reins. The moment you push him down by the shoulder or whisper what you want, that ever-calm expression falters — just slightly. It’s the only time his carefully maintained control crumbles, and he likes it.

→ You love to make him straddle you — his long silver hair messy around his face, breathing shallow, eye wide with anticipation. When you hold his wrists behind his back or have him ride you slow and steady, his soft gasps and clenched jaw are everything.

→ He’s articulate, but when it comes to asking for what he wants — being touched, being taken, being praised — he hesitates. You use it to your advantage, making him squirm with low demands:

“Tell me you want me to ride you again.” He’ll hesitate, throat dry, then obey — quietly, obediently. And when he finally does, it’s devastatingly pretty.

→ He’s usually the one talking in riddles and cool analysis — but once you start grinding down on him or whispering dirty praise, his mouth becomes a mess. Half sentences. Little groans. Quiet pleases he never thought he’d say. Bonus if you tug on his earrings or kiss just under his jaw.

→ He tries to stay composed—but when you start going faster, deeper, rougher, he loses the rhythm of his own voice. His words come out rushed and strangled:

“Y-Yes, just like that, wait— wait- don’t stop—” It’s music to your ears. He hates how quickly he comes when you’re in control, and you love pushing him past the edge.

→ When things get rough, he loves being grabbed by the back of his silvery hair and tugged into place. Biting his throat, leaving visible marks across his collarbone — it makes him shiver. He’s so pale that every bruise shows beautifully, and you delight in that.

→ He’s the definition of a pillow prince — he will lay back and let you ride, fuck, take your time, and won’t complain. But don’t mistake him for passive: his hands roam with purpose, his teeth graze where you know it counts, and that single intense eye contact from below? Devastating.

→ When he comes, it’s a full-body reaction. He arches, jaw slack, eye fluttering shut, and whimpers softly. You find it addictive to hold him there, trembling, overstimulated, and whispering sweet, filth-laced praise into his ear as he rides it out. He never knows if he’s being worshipped or wrecked — and that tension turns him on more.

→ After it all, he’s clingy in a low-key way: resting his head in your lap, letting you wipe him down, eyes half-lidded and dazed. Stroke his hair, whisper “good boy,” and he won’t even deny it — just hums quietly, face tucked into your skin like he belongs there.

→ Fitting for a philosopher, his safe word is “paradox.” It’s rare that he uses it, but it fits his aesthetic — and when it’s whispered, immediately pull him close, hold him until he's grounded again.

✦ "Lights Down Low" — Drabble; 1.3k

The first time you told him not to touch, he didn’t listen. Now? He wouldn’t dare.

You’re above him again tonight—just like that first time, only slower now, crueler in the way you savor him. The way you ride him without a rush, without mercy. He’s already on edge, his body betraying him with every twitch and whimper, but you haven’t even started to fuck him properly.

You're just… watching.

And he’s just… waiting.

Like a sword on display. All shine, all restraint. But underneath? He’s begging.

You lean in, lips near his ear, breath warm.

“Hands stay there,” you whisper, pressing his wrists back against the headboard.

And he nods. Because of course he does. Because your voice melts right through whatever icy pride he still thinks he has left.

“Good,” you murmur.

He doesn't even know what you did to him. Only that when you speak like that it folds him open in places even he didn’t know existed.

Your hips shift down and Aeons, he can’t help the sound that spills out of him, quiet and strangled, like shame wrapped in silk.

“Don’t make me hold you down,” you say, teasing. But there's a real warning in it.

“I- I’m not moving,” he breathes. And he means it. His arms ache to touch you, to pull you closer, to feel the curve of your spine under his palms. But you don’t want that tonight. You want him still — under you, for you, yours. And he gives it.

He always gives it.

Even if it kills him.

You start to move again — slow and deep. He can feel the slick slide of you around him, dragging over every hypersensitive inch of him, and it’s too much, already too much.

“Fuck,” he breathes, brows drawn tight. “Please…”

“Please what?” you ask, slow and cruel. “Tell me.”

He doesn’t answer at first. He can’t. He’s panting, barely able to breathe with the weight of how you’re rolling your hips — so steady, so controlled, it’s like you want him to fall apart in pieces. And maybe you do.

“Use your words,” you say. “Come on, Anax.”

A shiver runs down his spine. You only use his name like that when you mean to ruin him.

“…I- I want to come,” he admits, voice wrecked. “Please. Gods, just — let me…”

You tilt your head. Smile.

“Not yet.”

And it shatters something in him. Not because you denied him. But because he’ll obey.

You always make him obey.

You start to fuck him in earnest now — harder, deeper, riding him like you own every inch of him. And maybe you do. The way he reacts to you — throat tight, eyes glazed, hips trying so hard to stay still — it’s devotion. It’s surrender.

You reach down, hand splayed over his chest, pushing him into the mattress as you grind down.

“You look so pretty like this,” you say. “Falling apart underneath me.”

And he does. He knows he does. He can feel it in the heat flooding his cheeks, in the sheen of sweat on his body, in the way his cock twitches helplessly inside you, desperate for friction, desperate for permission.

Every sound he makes is for you. Every shudder, every breath, every whispered, broken plea.

You lean down and kiss him like you want to taste how far gone he is. He moans into your mouth and gasps when you pull away, eyes fluttering open.

“You wanna come, pretty boy?”

He nods frantically. “Please— please, I can’t—” He breaks off with a sob when your hips stutter just right.

“Then beg.”

And he does. Because pride is dust in the air when you're above him like this. He doesn't even know what he's saying — just your name, again and again, some mix of please and love and fuck and I need you so bad, I’ll die if you stop.

You must like the sound of it. Because you lean close again, nose brushing his cheek, lips at his ear.

“Come for me, Anaxa. I want to feel you fall apart.”

And when you say it like that, he doesn't stand a chance.

He comes with a sound you've never heard from him before—guttural, raw, like it's been torn out of him. His whole body arches up under yours, and he still doesn’t move his hands. He still follows your rules. He’s trembling, gasping, nearly sobbing from the intensity, from how hard you made him wait, from how good it felt to finally, finally be allowed to give in.

You don’t let up until he’s shaking. Until his legs won’t stop twitching and he’s gone soft inside you, ruined and sensitive and beautiful.

When you finally stop, you lower yourself gently over him. His arms drop—finally—and wrap around your waist. He buries his face in your throat, breath shallow, heart racing.

“I hate you,” he mutters weakly.

You smile into his hair. “No, you don’t.”

“…No,” he admits, barely a whisper. “I don’t.”

Thank you for the request!! Please reblog or comment feedback, love yous! ♥(⸝⸝⸝ᵒ̴̶̷̥́ ᵕ ก̀⸝⸝⸝)ෆ

[pellucid-constellations]

Line cook! Azriel x Reader (343 word drabble, part of my line cook modern au, found on my masterlist)

~~

“I love you,” Azriel said—almost mused. The chatter from the surrounding restaurant was too commonplace for the revelation he just let loose. 

“What?” Your response was far less articulate, a mouthful of the new dish Azriel was trying for the winter menu. 

“I said I love you. I thought you should know.” 

You blinked, and then painfully attempted to swallow. The actions were jittery and uncoordinated and you reached for your water when you felt the urge to cough. Azriel simply watched, his face in his palm as he sat across from you on the other booth as if your fight to breathe was breathtaking in itself.

“I—Azriel, what?” 

Azriel only smiled. He reached across the table to pry your hand away from your water cup and brought the tips of your fingers to his lips. “I love you, y/n. You don’t have to say it back. I know it’s still early, but I’m sure.” 

An incredulous breath left you, followed by a disbelieving laugh. “Me?” 

“Yes, you.” 

Incredulation gave way to giddiness, which fought for your composure. Your night class started in 20 minutes, and the man you had fallen hopelessly in love with in just a few short months was professing his love for you. 

“I love your cooking.” 

Azirel’s brows shot up, joy and confusion mingling on his face. He brought your hand down on the table and intertwined your fingers together. “I’m so happy to hear that.” 

“Wait,” you shot out. Your phone dinged with a reminder to start walking to the bus. “That is not what I meant to say. I meant to say that I love you, Az. That I love you too. This—Oh, god.” 

With your final words ending in a mortified moan, you tapped at your phone and squeezed your eyes shut. In truth, speaking around Azriel hadn’t gotten any easier since you began dating. He flustered you at every possible opportunity and this had to be the worst. 

But with your eyes closed, you missed the elated grin consuming Azriel’s face. “Even better.” 

[fungifaggot]

Short drabble about drunk and horny Viktor

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Viktor isn’t usually the one to initiate physical affection. He prefers to be on the receiving end of it, and in return, he expresses his love through heartfelt words and thoughtful gestures.

But on nights like these, after a long day’s work, when the two of you share sips of whiskey and wine, Viktor can’t seem to keep his hands to himself. Under the influence, he is no longer the composed and well articulated man you know. The more he drinks, the more he becomes flirtatious, touchy, and impatient.

When you speak to him, each word you say, he barely listens—his attention fixed entirely on the way you’re sitting so near. His hand, almost absentmindedly, trails along your thigh, as if he can’t help himself. Shamelessly he eyes where your cock bulges from your pants. Butterflies swirl around his stomach as he imagines the feeling of your length deep inside of him- his hole clenching repeatedly around nothing as he savors the burning feeling in his abdomen.

“Viktor, are you even listening?”

Hearing his name pulls him from his trance.

“No, not really…” He says voice coarse and slightly slurred.

You scoff, but before you can respond he’s already crawling his way into your lap. You grab ahold of his hips and help adjust him- allowing him to settle in comfortably.

“I want you to stop talking and fuck me already.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Note: I haven’t posted in fucking years, but i’m back to thirst over fictional men again. Hopefully this will reach some sort of audience.

[boobav]

Viktor this season has rlly inspired me. I hope you all enjoy the various drabbles :) I'll try write more here.

The first time you met Viktor, you recall, the sun was shining.

The meeting was perfectly ordinary. Not even a meeting, really, seeing as you learnt his name a week later.

With a cool breeze, you ate your lunch in silence, head held to the sun as though a flower in bloom. You closed your eyes, breathed deep. Meditative perfection.

And when you reopened them, he was there.

Half-frozen in the doorway, he gazed at you with what seemed like surprise, at the time. Later you'd learn that he was, from his own words, mesmerised.

"Professor." He'd said in polite greeting, looking away. You smiled, but he left the way he came before any conversation could commence.

The next meeting, he was the one sat outside, silently pondering something. You'd found his expression of concentration endearing beyond words. The furrow of his brows, the occasional, unconscious movement of his lips. The way his eyes lit up when they landed on you.

The weather that afternoon, when you'd strolled over to properly introduce yourself to the man, was similarly bright. A perfect blue running across the sky. A songbird somewhere unseen, and the breeze defined by its almost supernatural ability to alleviate.

You weren't superstitious, nor did you believe in signs, an elusive, irrational concept. But with his presence offering as much warmth as the sun, with the way his eyes ran nervously from yours only to return, bound by some societal principal of politeness, with the way he tested your name on his tongue that cloudless day, you thought maybe there really was something to the concept. Some sign leading you to him.

"How about we get lunch sometime?" You hadn't exactly thought the offer out. But his smile alone was quick to convince you of the idea.

"Of course," Viktor said, "are you... free now?"

"I think I had something planned, but I seem to have forgotten all about it..."

-

For a few months, then, you re-learnt what it meant to be alive.

To meet someone so perfectly in tune with your every move seemed fantastical, seemed like a sign. You spent free weekends not hunched over a desk, stressed beyond articulation, but with Viktor. You learnt of his work, learnt of the pure brilliance that bloomed at the mere touch of his hands.

And you learnt every contour of those hands. Pressed your lips into the palms, into every scar and cut. A fleeting remedy, but one he grew unable to live without. For he, too, had to re-learn what it meant to be alive.

He felt astoundingly undeserving of what you seemed so willing to provide. More than love, but adoration. Something almost approaching worship. He felt the weakness of his own body so acutely with yours pressed against it, so terribly perfect. Whatever scar or mark you seemed to mention in distaste, he loved. He thought, maybe, that you were some kind of sign. That things would get better. That the traitor he called a body would recover or, at least, stop wilting away.

But nothing changed. Not really.

Learning of his illness wasn't a shock, because it wasn't a secret. Jayce mentioned it to you often. The real shock came on slow. Like a spider taking it's time to crawl up your spine. As the months passed, the extent of its deteriorating effect showed itself. Viktor's heart, weak against your own. The bags under his eyes darkening further, his pale skin sinking pallid.

Happiness, by some twisted measure or other, seems to run from its owner more often than not.

You think you're living in a state of euphoria, a state of perfection for so long, the way we were supposed to exist. You feel as though nothing could break this film of joy over your life, that you're somehow exempt from reality.

But you're not.

Overtime, Viktor shut himself off. He spent more and more time in the lab. He had very little to say. When you broke down, the only consolation he could offer was a quiet apology, mumbled from across the room.

You dreamt of consolation. Every night, from then on. Endless fields of restorative ideas. Endless ways to make him feel better, to be there for him even if he found the idea ludicrous.

Because why would you waste your time with him? He knows you're better off somewhere else, stretched out in the warm weather without a burden as heavy as him on your back. The pillar you were in his life, crumbled by his own hand. He deemed it necessary. Convinced himself so.

But what could you do?

You could barely comprehend his struggle. How could you even begin to ease it?

This thought process kept you from physically seeking this dream of yours. A warning sign from your mind, a psychological guard rail which, in reality, only protected you from yourself. All these flowery ideas of reconciliation, bouquets of roses and trays of baked goods in your mind, and yet, you did nothing.

The attack on the council made sure that you'd never have the chance.

Jayce had been the one to tell you. Tell you that among the victims was the dream gifted to you every night, the man you viewed as an inseparable extension of yourself. And when you visited, stared up at whatever the hexcore was doing to Viktor, you felt an unparalleled hatred.

For yourself, for your failings and shortcomings. Every time a word came out wrong. Every time a day ended in silence.

Rising tensions, blood on the city streets. Soon, you had nothing left in Piltover besides a few shattered friends.

So you left.

-

Of course, you felt that you'd never see Viktor again.

Even if somehow he survived the critical condition he lay struggling in, you convinced yourself that he wouldn't want to speak to you. Perhaps out of self preservation. Perhaps out of genuine belief.

A knock at the door was already uncommon. And, certainly, a knock that specific. Gentle, apprehensive. You stumbled out of bed with an undeniable sense of neuroticism, convincing yourself of the knocks familiarity whilst simultaneously convincing yourself of your own delusion.

But, there he was.

Wrapped in a robe, which to you appeared regal, the blue sky beyond framing his pale face, was Viktor. A songbird carried the news, then another, but your words seemed inadequate compared to theirs.

He raises a hand to cup your face, the flesh replaced with something firm, something running with a strength he himself barely comprehends.

You place a kiss on his palm.

[gorgeys]

teach me ★ ani x fem!reader

ofc this was supposed to be a drabble but i couldn't stop myself

Warnings: SMUT - thigh riding

Word Count: 1300

pls one chance mikey

she instantly took a liking to you the second you walked through the swinging double doors to the backroom and jimmy introduced you as the club's newest girl.  it was the sight of your initial sweet smile that drew her in. it was untainted and hopeful and bright. it was clear to her that you were new to this industry.

so, ani kindly offered to help you out.

it started with you and her arriving early so she could teach you some moves, some of which she demonstrated on you.  she could tell you were flustered when she grinded on your lap, her arms slung lazily around your neck and her breath hot against it as she explained each move.

eventually, she found herself waiting all day for your little one-on-one sessions.  she was obsessed with toying with you.

she dragged her nails agonizingly slow against your thigh or allowed her knee to brush in between your legs just to watch your pretty doe eyes widen even more.  and the way you kept your hands glued to your sides, afraid to move, made her laugh.  she grabbed your hands and placed them on her body wherever she desired your touch.

your reactions were so different from every man who paid for her services.  maybe she was just obsessed with you.

"aren't you just the cutest little thing?" she whispered in your ear once as she danced atop you, her lips ghosting over your earlobe in a smile.

then it progressed to you applying your teachings.

she's sitting in one of the stalls now as you climb onto her, straddling her thighs.

"c'mon, baby, show me what i taught ya," she says with a satisfied smile, leaning back in the chair.

you give her a nervous smile before you begin to roll your hips in time with the sultry music.  her smile falters.

it's as if all the stiffness left your body and now you're as fluid as water as your back arches and your hands creep up her shoulders.  you pull her chest into yours and dig your teeth into your bottom lip like you've been doing this for years.  you're almost too good.

you look up into her eyes with a newfound confidence.  suddenly she understands how you felt all those times when she was on top of you.

"'m i doin' okay?" you mumble, breath fanning across the tip of her nose.  you must have already known the answer from the dumbfounded look on her face.

she's about to respond before you grab her wrists and guide her palms to your near bare ass.  you hold her hands there for a moment before letting go. her hands stay glued to your skin.

"fuck," she sighs, the word escaping her uncontrollably.  she has a better understanding of why men pay so much money for this. "you're doing so good," she practically groans, her eyes intently following each roll of your body.  her acrylics dig into the skin of your ass before her hands roam comfortably along your thighs, exploring new territory.

you smile proudly, looking up toward the ceiling and exposing the expanse of your neck.  you can tell she's enjoying this and she knows that you know she's enjoying this.  she feels so helpless and out of control, like you're suffocating her in the best way possible.  she never knew she could feel this way about a woman.

as much as she enjoys watching you bloom, she wants you under her thumb.  she craves that control and seniority over you.  she takes it back by grabbing your hips and pulling you against her thigh just as you roll your hips forward.

the strangled noise you release as your near bare pussy drags against her skin is enough to leave her smiling.  it's noise of surprise mixed with unfettered pleasure.  your head snaps back down to meet her eyes.  she loves those adorable wide eyes of yours.

"you like how that feels?" she asks, hands holding you firmly in place. 

"like" was an understatement.  you felt like you were on cloud fucking nine, but you couldn't articulate that in the moment.

"mmph, fuck," is all you can say.  your face is so close to hers you can practically taste her lip gloss.  her lips part like she's already imagining kissing you.

you suddenly feel your core start to throb and leak.  something that she feels too.

"i'll take that as a yes," she laughs, squeezing your sides.

your shame melts into desire as she guides your hips against her bare thigh again, making a habit out of it.  your eyebrows knit in pleasure as you release a whine. 

"fuck," she says as if she's the one getting off. "you're so pretty, baby," she says, forcing you down a little harder.

she brushes your hair back so she can whisper in your ear.

"y'know, i can feel your pussy soakin' through your panties and makin' a mess all over me," she whispers.

"ani," you moan at her words, which happens to coincide with your clit dragging nicely against her skin.  you wrap your arms around her neck to stabilize yourself as you work with her hands and rock your hips back and forth.

"i turned you into a real fuckin' slut, didn't i?" she laughs, enjoying the contortions of your once innocent face.  her brooklyn accent is intoxicating.

only thinking of your own pleasure, your hand creeps down to push your wet underwear to the side, allowing you to feel ani's bare skin on yours.  she moans when she finally feels you.

"god, y'gonna do this for all your customers now?  gonna ride 'em all like this?"  she grins as you shake your head no.

she slows down her hands, ensuring that each drag of your clit is slow and hard, leaving you moaning like a bitch in heat.

"jesus," she says to herself as she holds eye contact with you.  you look more beautiful than ever.  she wants to kiss you so badly and the feeling is mutual.

"ani!" a voice suddenly shouts over the music.  you instinctively jump and raise yourself onto your knees, one planted on each side of her thighs.  she giggles at how quickly your raw pleasure turns into fright, like she's not at all scared of being caught like this. "get in here!  customers are here!" jimmy yells, his voice growing closer.

she rolls her eyes and falls back in the chair, dejected.  she looks back up into your still frightened eyes, her fingers lingering on your thighs. the last thing she wants is to leave you.

"we'll finish this later, princess, yeah?" she says, tapping your thighs, signaling for you to get up.

once you do, she notices the wet spot on her legs and the hem of her dress.  she smiles to herself, knowing the smell of you will be stuck to her for the rest of the night.

"hey," she says, leaning forward and grabbing you by the thigh before you can scurry back to the dressing room.  you turn and look at her, still startled by the interruption and a little agitated that you didn't get your release.

she likes this messier version of you.  your hair's a little disheveled and the sweat on your forehead glistens in the club light.  not to mention your now ruined thong.  she hopes you have another one so your customers don't get the privilege of seeing you like this.

"you meet me right here after your shift, okay?"

she catches the little smile that creeps onto your face.  she finds herself smiling too.

"i promise i'll give you everything that you need, baby.  i'll be waitin' right here for ya," she says, patting your ass.  "now, go make mama proud."

[kitkatscabinet]

PROPOSAL

PAIRING: Dick Grayson x gn! reader

REQUESTED: by anon as part of dc drabbles

Dick had rehearsed it a hundred times.

In the mirror, in the shower, in the car. Hell, he’d whispered the speech under his breath during stakeouts, trying to memorise every word like it was a mission briefing. He even practised with Alfred, who’d nodded solemnly and said, "Try not to pass out, Master Richard."

He had a plan. One that included a private candle-lit dinner, fairy lights, flowers, the whole romantic shebang.

But now? Sitting beside you in your shared bed, watching you scroll through cat videos in one of his old shirts and one fuzzy sock halfway falling off your foot, Dick felt that plan completely dissolve.

His heart was hammering in his chest. His palms were sweaty, his knees were weak, and his arms felt heavy. He was about five seconds from either proposing or projectile vomiting.

Feeling his intense stare on the side of your face, you glanced over. "You okay?"

"Yes!" he replied, far too quickly to be casual. "Totally fine. Why do you ask?" His attempts to play it off only make him seem infinitely more suspicious.

Sure, Jan. "You’re staring at me like I’m about to explode." You deadpanned, finally putting your phone down and granting him your full attention.

"No! No, I just…" He smiles, his grin love-struck. "You’re so cute."

You squinted. "Did you eat something weird? Oh my god, are you sick?" You reach out, placing the back of your palm on his forehead, only to recoil in disgust at how sweaty he is, wiping your hand on his shirt.

All the words he’d practised vanished like smoke, and his perfectly planned romantic dinner was thrown out the window when he suddenly blurted it out inelegantly. "Will you marry me?"

The question came out like a verbal car crash. No buildup to soften the blow. No prep. Nothing. Just four damning words that he couldn't take back.

"What?" You squeak, mouth opening and closing like a stunned fish as you struggle to articulate a response.

Dick stared back, wide-eyed, like he couldn’t believe what he'd just said either. The two of you gaping at each other, stuttering and continuously motioning for the other to go first.

"I… I had a whole speech planned and a romantic dinner with candles and flowers and fairy lights and Alfred was going to help me cook all your favourite things!" he admitted, voice cracking just slightly. "But I’m nervous and you look so gorgeous and I panicked and I love you so much and I wanna marry you more than anything in the world and now it’s out there and—yeah". He verbally spews.

You blinked again, attempting to take it all in before you burst into a hysterical mixture of giggles and tears. "Oh my god," you exclaimed, "You are such a disaster."

"I know," he groaned, covering his face in mortification. "I wanted it to be perfect."

"It is perfect," you said softly, tugging his hands away to give him a gentle kiss. "It's perfect because it’s you. And yes," you took a calming breath, trying in vain to prevent the tears from sliding down your cheeks, "I’ll marry you."

"Wait... seriously?" His voice cracks.

"Seriously," you beamed, face stuck in a massive smile. "Even if you did propose to me like a malfunctioning robot."

He let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob and tackled you into a hug, laughing and holding you like he never wanted to let go.

"I’m never going to live this down, am I?"

"Not a chance." You paused, before joking. "Do I at least get a ring?"

"The ring!" He squawked, diving for the bedside table, only to get tangled between your legs and the blanket and face-plant on the floor.

"Dick!" You gasped.

"'m'okay." He groaned, blindly opening a drawer and thrusting the little black box up in the air. "Got it!"

"Get back up here you fucking dork."

"You're the one marrying the dork." He wiggles his brows.

"Don't make me take it back." You're given approximately three seconds before you're tackled by a whining mass of muscles.

"You wouldn't!"

"No, I wouldn't." You murmured, admiring your hand as Dick slipped the ring on, "You're stuck with me forever."

"Forever," he whispered back.

[good-beanswrites]

I wonder where Mahiru got the idea for "A Different Kind of Love". I'd say it's Amane because I'm biased. But more likely, Mahiru saw little acts of love from everyone, and she realized that romantic love isn't all there is to it.

Drabble request? *twiddles fingers* Or if not, headcanons work too.

Ough I was crying through that whole chapter, it was really beautiful ;--; (Haha, I'm biased and think it'd come from Fuuta! but) I ended up writing something with Amane and found a really sweet idea to run with. They both just want to teach one another...

“It’s not scary at all, because it’s love.” Amane gave a decisive nod, pleased with her explanation. She’d been at a loss for words lately, weighed down with exhaustion and pain, so it was nice to finally feel like she was articulating herself well. 

That is, until she got a look at the horror painted across Mahiru’s face.

“I… I’m not sure…” She shifted uncomfortably. “That doesn’t sound… quite like love.”

It was understandable that Mahiru wouldn’t understand. Amane had heard the way she talked. More importantly, Amane had heard how the others talked about her. Mahiru had a very rigid view of love. She wasn’t a narrow-minded person like some others here, but she certainly had some work to do in that area. 

Amane took a breath. She’d grown tired of trying to teach these sinful adults anything, but Mahiru was always a good listener. 

“Not all love is shown in the same way. A strong bond requires respect. Discipline.”

Mahiru still didn’t look convinced. Her smile seemed forced on her lips. She tugged absently on one of her colorful earrings. “I know love comes in all shapes and sizes. But… I don’t think it should be so… harsh.”

“Let us take Kajiyama for an example.” Amane folded her hands in her lap. It felt good to be speaking like this, as equals. “His behavior in the first trial was nothing but harsh. And yet, you’re the one who spoke up on his behalf, pointing out ways that he cared to the others.”

“That’s true. But Fuuta never hurt anyone.”

“Fuuta has hurt many people.”

“W–well yes, but I meant…” Her face twisted into the one and only expression Amane hated to see from her. A sad sort of smile. There was love in it – which is the reason Amane tolerated it at all – but so much pity, as well. 

As quick as it had come, it was replaced by one of her signature little smiles. “I’ll tell you what, will you play a little game with big sis Mahiru?”

Amane’s mouth was open to reject the idea until Mahiru hurriedly added, “I do love games. I don’t get to play as many, now that the warden didn’t forgive me…”

She huffed. Mahiru turned her round, brown eyes on her. Amane let out another noisy breath. “What is it…?” 

Mahiru clapped her hands together. “Yay~! It’ll be fun, I promise! Let’s pick out the ways that the prisoners show their love! We’ll keep track of it during the day, and keep score at night. You said it yourself, there are so many ways that people show it. Let’s try and notice them all!” She held a finger to her lips. “But we’ll keep it secret. And we’ll try to find something for everyone.”

Amane scoffed. “We’re not going to find one for everyone.” There were a few people who were not graced with the capacity for real love, she had found. 

“Well then, that’s what will make it an interesting game, yeah~?”

—

Mahiru bid Amane a good night. She kept the notebook open on her lap for a moment more. 

The two had busied themselves keeping a secret scoreboard throughout the past few weeks. Mahiru was worried the idea would fizzle out quickly, (as most of her spontaneous plans usually did,) but she hadn’t accounted for how committed Amane was when she put her mind to something. 

Each and every night, Amane would appear in Mahiru’s cell, picking up the notebook to add in the day’s entries. Mahiru would scramble to come up with a few of her own, as she’d forgotten to pay attention throughout the day.

Though she hadn’t actually noticed any decrease in game-playing, the warden’s verdict had hurt her in other ways. If Es rejected her love, what did she have left? If her love truly did hurt others, and Milgram thought she should be punished for it, wouldn’t it be better for her to never show it again? Now and then she’d be crushed under the weight of the verdict, the voices, the guilt. She considered withholding all the kindness within her – what if it got someone else killed? Hadn’t it already come close?

But this little exercise with Amane… 

Originally, the idea had come to her as a way to prove that not a single entry in their notebook featured any harm – no screamed words, no contradictory rules, and certainly no physical pain. It would be a way to keep Amane from staying in her cell all day. Mahiru wasn’t sure if the others necessarily appreciated the nonstop surveillance from Amane’s single, bright eye, but Mahiru knew what a blessing it really was. 

To her surprise, she’d felt swaying within her own heart, as well.

Mahiru ran her finger across the chart, lingering on various entries. Some were as big and grand as she had expected: “held Muu’s hand when she was nervous after a nightmare;” “complimented Mikoto’s appearance after he’d taken a long time to style his hair.” Physical touch, gifts, compliments, it all made sense to her.

Other lines had surprised her: “changed the subject when Kazui started looking uncomfortable;” “explained a joke to Haruka when he didn’t understand it at first;” “left Yuno alone when she seemed too tired to talk.” Amane brought much more variety when she wrote down the things she’d witnessed

Just as Mahiru was teaching Amane something about love, the girl was revealing something to her about it. The mere act of picking out others’ acts of kindness, recognizing when they were trying, even imperfectly, acknowledging when the others touched something deep inside of themselves – it all proved something new.

Her finger paused over a recent addition in Amane’s neat handwriting. “Spoke to me like an adult.” 

It was in a column filled otherwise with Mahiru’s pen strokes. Shidou’s.

“Huh…”

[bleachsmutfest]

🆆🅾🆁🅺🅿🅻🅰🅲🅴 🆂🅲🅰🅽🅳🅰🅻

If they had jobs in the world of the living. - part 1

Warning: SMUT, NO MINORS, MORDERN AU, short imagines/drabbles.

AIZEN, GRIMMJOW, JUSHIRO, KENPACHI, SHUHEI, SZAYELAPORRO

Aizen - University Professor

You had questions. You had many questions. And he always had an answer.

It was way past his office hours, yet he still stayed behind to answer your questions. You were a studious student and he intended to reward your diligence. 

You read out loud the poetic phrases you supposedly were struggling to interpret. 

However, you were now struggling to articulate. 

He had an interesting way to lecture you— bent over his sturdy old desk, his naked hips connected to yours and his movements flowed like poetry itself. Your words spilled out, interrupted with the occasional ‘ahhh’ and ‘mmmmph’.

Eventually, he increased his pace, the sound of skin slapping added to the rhythmic beat. At this point, there were no elegant words flowing out of your mouth and you had become nothing but a moaning mess. 

——————————————————

Grimmjow- Gym Trainer

You hated squats! You couldn't get the form right and it would hurt your knees. And you were growing frustrated.

Grimmjow, your hot personal trainer, had a perfect solution for your squatting problem. 

He stood behind you and guided your motions. “Hinge from the hips. Get that ass touching me”. 

Well, you got the hip hinge part pretty quickly. Your round, soft butt would stick back and out, brushing up against his hand. No wait. His hard abs? His leg? Wait. It was too pointy to be any of those body parts. 

You tried again, movement coming from your hip joints and you stuck out your ass, your stretchy yoga pants accentuating your movements. 

You slowly grind up against him again. You gasped. Did it just grow and twitch? 

“That’s it! Give me 10 of those”, he encouraged. 

The encouragement was enough to keep you going and not question anything. You gave him perfect 10 reps and with each rep, that thing you touched with your butt kept growing. At this point, you know what you were tapping. However, you chose to remain oblivious and innocent. 

After your last rep, you straightened yourself up and squeezed your butt muscles together. You felt the burn in all the right spots! Knees did not hurt. Guess he was a great trainer after all!

“Good job! Now you want to learn how to do some deep sumo squats?”, he asked.

You turned around and noticed the visible tent in his pants. 

“Sure”, you replied. Might as well entertain him and yourself. 

He guided you to the back of the gym and let’s just say you became a master at the sumo squats very quickly. You gave him 3 sets of 20, while he laid on the floor and you used his erect dick as the target for your pussy to sit into.  

“Fuck ya!!! Feel the burn baby! Ya feeling the burn?”

“Yes yes! I feel the burn ugh…i feel the burn!”

——————————————————

Jushiro - School Teacher 

“Mommy always says you're so beautiful”, the little girl said to her preschool teacher that morning. 

Your daughter and her innocent, unfiltered mouth got you into this mess. 

Mess as in— making out with her teacher— in the classroom after a parents teacher meeting. 

You couldn't avoid it. He approached you with what your daughter had said and you couldn't deny it. He was a gorgeous angel who fell from the heavens. And you wanted a taste of that celestial being. 

And a taste you got! His tongue was really dancing around in your mouth. His hips were grinding against yours, your body pinned against his desk.

You were ready to throw away your dignity and your clothes with it. You could feel his arousal growing-- his hard erection poking you between your legs and teasing your clit as it rubbed against your tight yoga pants. Yes, you were that one parent who wore yoga pants and a crop top to your child's 'parent's teacher meeting' just to have the divine teacher notice you.

Now that he noticed you, you wanted more. Your hand trailed down his chest and towards his pants but he grabbed your wrist to stop you from proceeding any further.

“I can't do this. Not here. The kids sit on those desks. And I have to come back to this place tomorrow". He paused for a second and glanced at the wall clock. "What about the parking lot?"

——————————————————

Kenpachi- Car Mechanic

He finished giving your car a good tune-up. Now it was your turn!

His greasy, unwashed hands leave stains all over your clothes and he has you spread out on the back seat of your car. He roughly slams his 10 inch cock into your pretty pussy, shaking the entire vehicle with each forceful thrust.

He pulled out his cock and admired how it glistened with your juices. “The oil is very dirty. Gonna replace it”. And he shamelessly stuck himself back inside you.

He doesn't hold back when he unleashes his load inside, unbothered by the fact he creampied you to the brink. He pulls his cock out with his dirty hands and slaps the sensitive tip against your swollen clit, making your flinch. 

“Gotta change the dirty oil often. Come back every week for a fresh refill”.

——————————————————

Shūhei- Newspaper Editor

Shuhei was beyond stressed. There wasn't much news to report on anymore. Which was a good thing, right? Not for Shuhei. 

Where was the scandal? The tea? The crime?

You, one of the reporters, walked into his office looking just as bored. You were wearing your revealing, low cut top and short skirt. It was always a good idea to look alluring enough to get people to talk— spill the beans— you called it. 

But Shuhei was about to spill his beans. The blush on his face was hard to conceal. What was even more obvious was the growing tent between his legs? 

You thought you were being cautious when you gave him a delicious blow job under the table. Little did you know the newspaper photographer was hiding in one of the supply closets.

The next day.

Headline with a photo: 

Recent scandal in the office: City's most beloved and hard working editor caught in action with a staff member. Eyewitnesses say it began with a simple taste test and quickly escalated into a full-course meal. The editor looked truly refreshed and recharged afterward. 

You wanted some tea. And here you were served a delicious fresh brew with extra rich cream.

——————————————————

Szayelaporro- Fertility Doctor

100% success rate on the first round. 

What was his secret? 

This was your first visit. The assistant did some blood work and took your vitals. And like any other doctor’s office, you waited….and waited. You almost drifted off while laying on the exam table. 

The doctor finally walked in with a needleless syringe—thicker and longer than usual—filled with his patented ‘magic solution’.

You were already striped and barely covered up by the short and tight hospital gown. 

He didn't say much. Nothing was explained. No risks were discussed. No consent was taken.

His pink hair disappeared between your thighs.  Your legs were already propped up on the stirrups, giving him a perfect view. He parted your soft lips with his hand, the latex fingers rubbing gently against your clit. Your response was unavoidable— a gentle moan had escaped you.

A small grin tugged on his lips but he remained professional and continued to separate your folds, making an opening for his syringe to penetrate through. 

Now he had to insert the entire 8 inch syringe deep inside you until the tip kissed your cervix. You shuddered beneath him, self-control slipping and your mind giving away to momentary pleasure. 

“You shameless creature”, you heard him whisper from below.

A blush grew across your cheeks but you did not stop him. He began to flick his wrist, plunging the syringe in and out of your hole, making a sloppy, slippery mess out of your pussy. 

“This is perfect! The extra fluids and the muscle contractions will help carry the liquid inside and deliver it to the precious egg”, he explained and closely observed your body go into spasm.

He injected the mysterious fluid inside, your body happily accepted it and not a single drop was wasted. 

You quickly changed and made your way out the door, gathering your shame with you. 

Yet you hesitated at the doorway, a burning question pressing on your mind.

“Do I need to have sex with my partner right away?

“Not necessary at all. In fact, you have already conceived”. 

100% success rate was no joke.

-

Forgot to give credit where credit was due. Thanks for the suggestions @whatshernameis @kryptoniteforsale

[muxshwriting]

voiceless - drabble(ish)

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader

summary: being the wife of Feyd mean you aren't afforded the freedoms you once had including your opinion || warnings: borderline abusive relationship, prejudice, sexism || word count: 350 || masterlist

House Harkonnen was known across the galaxy for their brutality. They are heirs of cruelty because they were taught that cruelty will keep them in power. And it was because of that power that your father had decided that you would be wed into their great house.

The youngest nephew of the Baron and his heir, Feyd-Rautha would be your betrothed, your husband. He was barely older than you, a fresh adult with a penchant for blood and suffering and everything his house stood for. It was as if you were to be married to the devil himself.

After your union, there were certain things you'd immediately noticed. Women were objects, slaves or servants to the Harkonnens, they were not equal people. You could tell yourself that your value came from your experience, you intellgience and your knowledge. But in truth, to the Harkonnen's, your value came from your name and your father's money. Perhaps the pretty face helped but the power you were privy to mattered more.

Feyd ignored you most days, only acknowledging your presence when he returned to your chambers. When he did acknowledge you then, it was only to request that you help him change and be ready for bed. You joined him one day, shadowing him but always staying a few steps behind.

“Why do you follow me, wife?”

You pause in your step as your husband turns to face you, a calculating look in his eyes. “Am I forbidden from spending time with you?”

“Our time shared is within our bedchambers.” Feyd said shortly. There was no room for other discussion as he walked further down the corridor and left you standing in silence.

And as it was, the silence returned to your life. Empty chambers where there was nothing to be done all day. You were judged if you went out without Feyd and yet Feyd refused to be seen with you.

He did not care what you did with your day as long as you were not with him. But because you weren’t with him, you could do nothing with your day.

I have been peer pressured. there is now a part two to this: articulate