#and how one group is protecting the world from these threats

[quantummindclassicalheart]

Some thoughts on what makes this genre compelling: one simple framework for thinking of rules (and their more muscular cousins, laws) is as a set of guidelines for action determined by an individual or institution with the power to enforce the rules.

Implicit in this is the idea that disobeying the rules may lead to you coming to harm (either becuase the rulemaker cannot protect you from external harm, or because the rulemaker will cause the harm itself), but also the converse promise of safety if you do follow the rules.

In short: "if you follow the rules you will be safe."

Rules horror turns this on its head by asking questions like the following:

What are the rules keeping us safe from?

What if the rules contradict each other, so there is no way to consistently follow all the rules?

Who or what came up with the rules? How were they determined, and why were they made?

What if the rules were made by a force that is either malevolent or largely apathetic to your wellbeing?

What if the rules were never meant to keep you safe to begin with?

These questions are relevant in our real-world systems too-- laws and regulations, of course, but also codes of conduct, classroom policies, organizational bylaws, social media moderation policies, and so on. (One could also extend this to religious laws, but that's a whole can of worms.)

And there are different ways to answer the questions to promote trust. Community-generated agreements, for instance, ask for every member of a group to contribute to and approve the agreements of how they want to be in relationship with one another.

More broadly, in the systems of power we live under, what agreements are made between those who wield more power and those who wield less? How are those agreements negotiated, and by whom, and how are they enforced? Can those agreements promise safety? Can they promote flourishing?

Depending on how we answer these questions, this might lead us to contractualism and social contract theory or to anarchism or any other number of political and philosophical destinations.

In any case, rules horror (in the form presented above) invites us to consider what we give up when we follow the rules, whether the promise of safety through obedience is worth it (and even achievable at all!), and which consequence of disobedience is scarier: the wrath of a known authority or the threat of an unknowable danger.

...might've discovered a new genre to lose my mind about, hold please

[redemptive-truth]

A Time to Pretend | Bucky Barnes x Reader (Part 2)

Summary: Four years ago, she survived the impossible—going toe-to-toe with the Winter Soldier and living to tell the tale. Now, Bucky Barnes is on her balcony, broken and bleeding. And her? She’s always had a soft spot for lost causes with blood on their hands.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post-CATWS

Parts: Part 1, Part 2

AO3 Link

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 5.2K

Author's Note: Thank you for all the positive feedback on the first part! I pay attention to all the likes, reblogs...it is so awesome to see people like my writing. I am beyond grateful.

This chapter takes place directly after the events of CATWS, four years after the first part. We'll get more of Bucky in this one, and every part from here on out.

New parts will be posted every Monday.

______________________________________________________________

Part 2: April 2014, Washington D.C.

She had never planned on joining S.H.I.E.L.D. After her father’s death, her life had a singular trajectory—follow in his footsteps. She aced high school, dominated a few sports, and went straight to West Point. One tour in Afghanistan later, with a Medal of Valor pinned to her chest for single-handedly extracting a group of hostages from a compromised safe house (her left shoulder still aches every damn day where she took a bullet) she realized the war she was fighting no longer felt worth dying for. She wanted to protect her country, but she wanted to do it a different way.

Maria was the first to bring up S.H.I.E.L.D., though she didn’t pull strings to get her in. She had turned her down the first time she offered—too little was known about the organization, and she wasn’t fully convinced of its intentions, especially after the mess in New Mexico that had been plastered in the news for weeks.

What finally made her cave wasn’t some flashy recruitment pitch or secret clearance offer—it was a funeral.

A friend from her unit. Honorable discharge. Bronze Star. He’d come home and tried to make a real difference, running for Congress on a platform of veteran support and foreign policy reform. He’d been outspoken, too outspoken. Three weeks into his campaign, he was gunned down in broad daylight outside a community center in Virginia. The news called it a random act of violence. She didn’t believe in random after her father’s death — not anymore.

She stood at the back of the funeral, sunglasses on, fists clenched in her pockets. Another folded flag. Another family gutted. And for what? For trying to fix things the right way?

That’s when it hit her — that she wasn’t doing enough. Not really. The fight wasn’t just overseas. It was here, hidden, festering in shadows.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had secrets. She still didn’t trust half of them. But it was boots on the ground, eyes in the dark, cutting off threats before they spilled out into the world. It wasn’t just about stopping wars to them. It was about stopping every threat in all shapes and sizes.

She called Maria that night and within a month, she was off the books, in black – learning how to disappear.

And then, four years into her time at S.H.I.E.L.D., Captain America blew the lid off everything.

HYDRA had been rotting the agency from the inside out. Fury “died,” the Triskelion fell, and S.H.I.E.L.D. collapsed almost overnight.

It was a shock—of course it was. But the real blow came when national broadcasts showed Captain America fighting the same Winter Soldier she remembered from Inessa. She had frozen in her apartment, mouth half open, heart clenching as the masked figure moved with clinical precision on every screen in the country.

It was him. There was no doubt in her mind.

And yet…

What haunted her most wasn’t the experience itself. It was the fact that he had chosen to let her live.

No one ever understood it. When S.H.I.E.L.D. agents tracked her distress beacon and found her unconscious in a dark alley near the Inessa hotel, her body broken and battered, the Soldier was gone. There were no bodies left behind. No witnesses. Just her, injured but alive.

She should’ve been dead. Everyone knew it. The Winter Soldier had left her alive, when he was known for his murderous efficiency. Fury had grilled her about it for weeks, but she had no answers to give him. She had no idea why herself, and no way of knowing. She had no ties to the Soldier, no idea who he even was. Why he left her alive was a mystery.

But what could they do? Especially now, with S.H.I.E.L.D. gone? The only path left was forward. Rebuilding, however fragmented. Hill took a job with Tony Stark—much to her irritation (he was still a narcissistic playboy, after all). Fury disappeared underground, waging a silent war against the remnants of HYDRA. The Avengers stayed loud, in the spotlight, fighting gods and monsters in broad daylight.

And her?

She was left behind. A West Point graduate with a Medal of Valor hanging on the wall because it’s what her father would’ve wanted. On a Friday night, she found herself applying for jobs online with a half-drunk Corona to her right and cold takeout to her left—wondering how a decorated soldier and trained operative ended up questioning how some of these jobs even existed.

She shook her head begrudgingly, squinting at the bright screen in front of her with the neck of her beer in hand. “I should’ve listened to Maria and gone to work for Stark,” she muttered, taking another swig.

She’d met Stark once—at some glitzy gala the city threw after the Avengers saved New York. She’d met all of them, technically. She’d worked a few ops with Romanoff and Barton—didn’t know either very well, but they had her respect. Banner was awkward but polite. Thor had kissed her hand like she was some noblewoman in a medieval court. And Rogers? Exactly what she expected: gentlemanly, a bit uptight, but kind through and through.

Stark, on the other hand, wasted no time flipping between complimenting her looks and questioning whether it was her “pretty face and famous last name” that had fast-tracked her through S.H.I.E.L.D.’s ranks. She’d smiled—tight and polite for the cameras—let out a practiced fake laugh, and then elbowed him squarely in the ribs as discreetly as she could on her way past.

When Maria had called, She had respectfully, but sternly proclaimed that no, she would not work for that egotistical asshole, regardless of how much money he could offer her. And he did offer a lot – apparently, according to Maria, her little stunt at the gala was right up his alley. Which left her applying for desk-jobs in the DHS with a resume she had literally just crafted up two weeks ago.

Another long swig of the Corona. Another deep sigh of self-loathing.

The news flickered across the TV screen, volume muted. She liked to stay informed—but she couldn’t stand to hear it. The same loop played again: Natasha Romanoff sitting before the Senate, speaking calmly about the Triskelion and the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. Not that she needed to justify much—Steve Rogers had already won the court of public opinion. He could do no wrong in their eyes. And even she had to admit, if anyone was built for the moral high ground, it was Captain America.

Maria had filled her in on the details that didn’t make it to the public, how Rogers and his team had stopped Project Insight just before launch. The most shocking part hadn’t been the corruption or the surveillance state nearly unleashed, it was the Winter Soldier. Or rather, who he used to be.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. KIA during World War II. A Howling Commando. Steve Rogers’s best friend.

Apparently, HYDRA had captured him after his fall, injected him with a version of the same serum Steve had, and then spent decades turning him into a ghost story—an assassin they could freeze and unfreeze like a weapon on ice. The reports said he had no memory of his past. But then he’d pulled Steve out of the river, saving his life, and vanished without a trace.

She had only seen him once, back in Inessa. The whole interaction lasted maybe a few minutes, max. But he hadn’t killed her. He’d said something to her—remembered something, maybe. That had to mean something.

Or maybe she was just hopelessly optimistic for no damn reason.

She hummed low in her throat, draining the last of the bottle before pushing herself off the couch. No way she was getting through this miserable experience on a Friday night sober. She made her way toward the fridge, already reaching for the next beer.

And then froze when a sudden crash rang out from her balcony. The back door rattled violently in its frame, blinds shivering with the force.

Her heart stopped, then dropped to her feet.

Instinct overrode everything else. She pivoted on the spot, yanked open the nearest kitchen drawer, and pulled out one of her handguns. Safety off instantly, her grip firm on the weapon.

It was too dark to see anything beyond the drawn curtains. But she could hear it—soft, uncoordinated shuffling on the other side of the glass.

She crept closer to the balcony door — her bare feet quiet on her hardwood floor — gun raised and steady. Every step pressed her heartbeat higher into her throat.

She stopped just short of the door, breath caught, gun trained on the center pane of glass. Another beat passed. Nothing.

Silence. Just the faint thrum of D.C. traffic outside and the sharp rhythm of her own breathing.

Then - movement.

A shadow staggered into view. Not creeping. Not poised to strike. Just… collapsing.

Her instincts screamed trap, but in her gut, something deeper, said no. She had seen men collapse like that in the field before. You could tell when it was genuine after you had seen it dozens of times.

With one sharp exhale, gun ready, she reached out and unlocked the door. It slid open with a low groan, the brisk evening air rushing in, carrying with it the iron-sharp scent of blood.

And then she saw him.

The Winter Soldier.

Except… not.

He was slumped against the balcony railing, swaying like a man trying not to pass out. He looked more ghost than man - his clothes carrying dark stains of blood, his face drawn and pale. Dark, long hair was soaked in sweat, clinging to his forehead and cheeks. His jacket was torn open, revealing deep wounds, some clotted over already, some still fresh.

But it was him. The same man who had nearly killed her in a freezing back alley in Inessa. The one she’d locked eyes with for one breathless minute before he’d vanished into the snow.

Now, he was looking at her again—but this time there was true recognition. His eyes were still the same bright blue, but…they were clear. No haze, no lack of emotion. Just desperation and pain.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came. He swayed uneasily, his knees buckling.

She cursed under her breath, moving on instinct, catching as much of his weight as she could. Still, the bulk of him made her stumble backwards awkwardly. “Goddammit—what the hell?”

She eased him to the floor, heart hammering. Up close, he was worse than she’d realized—ashen skin soaked in sweat, wounds everywhere. Knife slashes. What looked like a bullet hole low on his left side. He clutched at it with his metal hand like something was broken underneath. Probably a rib. Maybe more.

“I don’t know why you’re here,” she muttered, hoping the utter panic wasn’t leaking out into her voice too openly. The last thing she needed was to look weak. “But if you die on my balcony, I’m gonna be so pissed.”

He blinked once, lips moving, but she couldn’t make out the words. Something in Russian?

Then he slumped forward, unconscious.

And there she was, standing over the infamous Winter Soldier, sprawled on her balcony. Bleeding, no weapons in sight. Vulnearable

Her gun felt like it was burning in her hand.

She froze.

One shot. That’s all it would take. He’d never even feel it. End of his story. She could finally do what no one else had. No grand fight, just a well-placed bullet. No one to tell her she was wrong.

How many people had he killed? How many lives ended under that metal hand?

But…under HYDRA’s command.

She inhaled sharply, screwed her eyes shut. “Fuck,” she hissed to herself, raking a trembling hand through her hair.

This was what she was supposed to do. What she should have done back in Inessa, before the op went sideways and he disappeared like a ghost. She’d lived with that regret for years.

So why was she hesitating?

She raised the gun. Lined it up with his temple. Finger hovered on the trigger.

Silence…except for the faint hum of cars below. The TV still flickered in the background, the wind pushing through the half-open door.

Her hand shook.

Slowly, she lowered the weapon with a soft curse.

And, because she was apparently the world’s biggest idiot, she holstered the gun, got a better grip under his arms, and dragged one of the most dangerous assassins into her living room.

She dragged him in with more effort than she would have liked to admit, the soles of his boots leaving dirty streaks on her floor. Once inside, she eased him down onto the couch with a grunt, wincing as his head lolled to the side. Still out cold.

She stood over him for a beat, panting, trying to process what the hell had just happened. She should call someone. Maria, maybe. Captain America? No, not them. Not yet. Not until she figured out what the hell was going on.

Instead, she moved on autopilot, darting to the kitchen for the first aid kit, her hands still shaking as she popped the lid open and gathered everything she needed: gauze, antiseptic, bandages, scissors. She’d bandaged up enough wounds in warzones – she could manage well enough here.

Back at the couch, she knelt beside him and hesitated, really looking at him for the first time. The last time she’d seen him was through the haze of the night in Inessa. He’d been a weapon in black, fast and merciless, eyes like frostbite. Now, he was barely breathing. Pale, battered. Utterly human.

She set the supplies beside her and reached for the hem of his black tactical shirt after she removed his jacket, soaked through with blood.

“Sorry about this,” she muttered, mostly to herself, and carefully peeled it upward.

The fabric clung to the bloody wound on his side. She winced as it finally came free, revealing angry bruising, deep lacerations, and the bullet wound—a clean entry, but bleeding sluggishly. The damage spread across his ribs, one of which was visibly swelling. She’d seen worse in the field, but not often.

And then there was the arm.

She’d seen glimpses of it before, back in that chaos, but now it was inches from her face. Stark, silver steel, fluid and brutal in design—jagged plates and seamless joints that hummed with cold power even when at rest. The red star on the shoulder was scratched up, faded. She noted the red, raised flesh where his flesh met the metal, and old scratch marks - now white, raised scars. Almost like claw marks.

It was strangely beautiful, in a terrifying kind of way.

She ran a hand down her face and got to work. First, she cleaned the cuts—quick but careful. Then came careful dabs of the antiseptic, which he didn’t flinch at, confirming he was still fully out. The smell hit her immediately—sharp, biting. She began to clean the area of the bullet wound, doing her best to slow the bleeding.

Her hands paused at his ribs. No way to splint them properly without dragging him to a hospital. She muttered a quiet apology and taped a compression band around his chest anyway, just to minimize movement.

The whole time, she kept her thoughts at bay. Kept things clinical. He’s not a person, not yet, she told herself. He’s an asset on her couch, and she’s doing triage. That’s all this is. But when she was done, when she finally leaned back on her heels and looked at him—bare chest rising shallowly, blood wiped clean, arm catching the low light with an eerie gleam—she felt something sour stir in her gut.

Because he didn’t look like a monster anymore. He looked like a man.

And she had no goddamn clue what she was going to do when he woke up. What he would do. Did she just bandage him up before he was sent to kill her?

“God, this is such a bad fucking idea…” she muttered, eyeing the bandages she’d just finished wrapping. Her hands hovered above his chest, unsure whether to keep going or walk away entirely.

He was a super soldier, right? That’s what the S.H.I.E.L.D. reports she’d skimmed last week said. If he was anything like Rogers, he’d heal fast—maybe not instantly, but fast enough to survive without her playing field medic.

Her gaze dropped to the bullet wound, flesh torn, blood still seeping sluggishly around the edges. It wasn’t clean by any means. And the bullet was still in there.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, muttering. “What am I supposed to do? Just leave it and let you dig it out with your fingers when you wake up?”

He didn’t respond, of course, he was still unconscious. And she was the only one here to deal with the situation at hand.

She took a breath, steadying her hands as she twisted the cap off the antiseptic bottle again. She glanced once more at his face. Still seemingly out cold. Brow furrowed, jaw slack, lips slightly parted as he breathed slowly. If he didn’t wake up for this, she wasn’t sure if it meant he was just that strong or circling the drain.

“Sorry in advance,” she muttered.

She poured the disinfectant over the bullet wound.

The reaction was immediate.

His eyes flew open, and his body jerked violently beneath her hands. A sharp, strangled noise tore from his throat as his left arm—his metal arm—shot out in reflex, grabbing her wrist with a strength that stopped her cold.

“Shit—hey! Easy!” she gasped, yanking back instinctively. There was no escaping that grip, though. She barely moved. His eyes were wild, unfocused, chest heaving. His gaze darted around frantically, like a trapped animal in a cage.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” she said quickly, her voice low but steady. “It’s just you and me here, nobody else. Look at me.”

For a moment, he didn’t. His grip stayed firm, the cold metal biting into her skin. She suppressed a flinch, holding herself still.

Then his eyes met hers. Recognition sparked—faint, fleeting. A flicker of something quieter. His grip slacked, hand dropping.

She stepped back half a pace, her heart pounding. “You with me?”

He swallowed, voice rough. “Where…?”

“D.C. My apartment. You showed up bleeding out on my balcony,” she studied his face uneasily. “Ring any bells?”

Barnes grunted and turned his head, jaw tight. She waited—just one word, a thread of explanation—but none came. His silence was louder than anything he could have said, his face closed off, eyes fixed hard on the floor. Every line of his body screamed shutdown.

Still, he hadn’t killed her. And wasn’t actively trying to right now. That counted for something. She’d only seen him once before but even now he seemed different. Not softer, exactly, but… more human. There was emotion in his posture, tension in his face. And his eyes—clear, alert. Not the void she remembered. He was still wound tight, but he didn’t look like a machine anymore.

He had saved Steve’s life though, after the helicarriers collapsed. The Winter Soldier wouldn’t do that.

She leaned in slowly, pausing just long enough to gauge his reaction in case the closeness set him off. Aside from a twitch in his flesh fingers, he didn’t move. She held back a sigh of relief.

“I’ve done what I can so far,” she said softly. “But there’s still a bullet I need to remove. Will you let me do that?”

His blue eyes snapped up, surprise flickering across his face, like he couldn’t believe she was asking. Like the idea of being given a choice was foreign. She supposed it was. He glanced down at the wound, then at her hands, and gave a small, quick nod before ducking his head again, hiding behind his hair.

She nodded once, keeping her movements slow as she reached for the supplies she’d set out beside him. Nothing too sudden. Nothing that might set him off, especially given how wired he seemed—like a cornered animal waiting for the next blow. Basic medical gear. Probably not nearly enough for anyone else, but he wasn’t exactly a normal human.

“I’ve got ketamine,” she said quietly, holding up the small vial and syringe with care. “Not much, but it’ll dull the worst of it. Help you get through this.”

His whole body stiffened.

“No,” he said instantly, voice low and clipped. “No needles.”

She hesitated. “You’ve been shot – “

“No,” he repeated, shaking his head, eyes hard. “No injections. Not again.”

The air in the room shifted, he didn’t have to explain. She understood indirectly – a fear from his past with HYDRA, no doubt. Her throat tightened with guilt, but she gave a soft nod and lowered the syringe, setting it aside without protest.

“Okay,” she murmured. “No needles.”

He exhaled sharply, his shoulders still coiled with tension, but he relaxed just a fraction.

“I’ll do my best to be quick,” she added, picking up the tweezers. She glanced at him. “But this is going to hurt.”

“I’ve had worse,” he rasped.

She didn’t doubt it.

Working quickly but with care, she began to extract the bullet. His breathing stayed steady, but she could feel the tension radiating off of him, like he was just barely holding himself in place. She kept her voice low, talking steadily to try to distract him. And maybe get some answers.

“Why are you here, Barnes? How did you even know where I live?”

His jaw clenched again, but he didn’t answer right away. She caught the way his left hand gripped the edge of the couch, metal fingers digging into the cushion.

A beat passed.

“Didn’t know where else to go. Found your address in an old HYDRA file.” he said finally, voice almost too quiet to hear.

She glanced up at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. The fact that HYDRA knew where she lived definitely gave her a twinge of internal panic, but it wasn’t like that wasn’t public information someone could just find online if they looked hard enough. “So you came here?” “I…I remembered you,” he muttered, like it was the only explanation he owed her. He looked nervous, blinking a little faster and refusing to make eye contact. “From…before. Seemed…right.”

She assumed he meant Inessa. Odd choice—but maybe his instincts had been right, considering she was elbow-deep in his blood right now. She snorted as she pulled the bullet free from his flesh, letting it drop onto a paper plate. “Lucky me. I must’ve really screamed ‘natural-born healer’ while you were beating the hell out of me.”

He didn’t respond.

She pressed a clean cloth to the wound and reached for an antiseptic. “Well,” she murmured, as she dabbed it into his wound, “next time you decide to bleed out on someone’s balcony, maybe call ahead.”

Still nothing.

“Okay,” she said quietly, more to fill the silence than anything. “Tough crowd, huh? I’m going to stitch you up now.”

He gave a barely perceptible nod. His eyes stayed fixed on some far-off point beyond the wall, his whole body still drawn tight, like even this simple act of care was a battle he wasn’t used to fighting.

She pierced the skin with the first stitch. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

“You could’ve disappeared somewhere,” she murmured, tying off the thread. “But you didn’t. You’re still here.”

No response. From her position, she couldn’t see his face through his curtain of dark hair. Just the edge of his jaw - clenched and tense.

She made the next stitch, quick and clean. “You didn’t go to Steve either.”

That got something. His mouth tightened.

She kept her gaze on the wound, continuing to press out of genuine curiosity. “Why not?”

He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, he spoke, voice low and strained: “Didn’t want him to make me stay after what I did.”

“But you do remember him,” another stitch, another beat of silence from the former assassin.

He didn’t answer. Just swallowed.

She didn’t push—just finished the last stitch and gently wiped away the blood. After securing the gauze with a bandage, she finally sat back, eyes flicking up to his face. He looked away, teeth still clenched, like the words were still crawling under his skin. Like being here, being helped was almost worse than bleeding out alone. He had to be pretty desperate if he was coming here to a woman he had no attachment to. But then, when you were a recently brainwashed hundred year old, super soldier assassin, your inner circle had to be pretty nonexistent.

She still was confused why he ended up here, but judging by his lack of chattiness, she doubted she would get more than a two word answer.

She stood slowly, wiping her hands on a towel, then tossed it into the bloodied bowl beside the couch. For a long moment, she just looked at him — this man who had once been nothing more than an intimidating name in a file, a monster in the shadows. Now, he was bleeding on her couch and trying his best not to fall apart.

“I’m going to tell Steve you’re here,” she said finally, calm but firm.

His head snapped up. “Don’t.”

She blinked, surprised. “He’s your friend. He’s been looking for you — he never stopped. Even I know how much he cares about you and I barely know the guy.”

“I said don’t.” There was steel in his voice now, raw and sudden. He pushed forward, trying to stand.

“Hey—no, no, stop,” she said quickly, reaching out to steady him. He swatted her hand away but the movement cost him. He staggered backwards, legs buckling as pain seized through him.

“Damn it,” she muttered, catching him for the second time that night before he could completely collapse. “You’re still losing blood. You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”

“I can’t stay,” he gritted out, trying to shake her off.

“You have to,” she snapped, forcing him back down with more strength than she looked like she had. “God, you’re fucking stubborn. If you leave like this, you’ll bleed out in the street, and I’m not dragging your ass back inside a second time after all this work.”

He collapsed back onto the couch, breath ragged, the fight draining out of him.

She had to get him to stay.

Sure, the guy’s kill count probably broke records, but the man in front of her wasn’t him. She kept telling herself that. This man was a victim, really. It had been hard to justify at first, and yeah, she was still very much on edge, but the humanity of it all ran deeper than fear or instinct.

He needed help. That much was obvious. And if he wasn’t going to get it from Steve—or from S.H.I.E.L.D.—then she owed it to the barest thread of morality to help him herself. For as long as he’d let her. Plus, he was a huge threat. Or used to be, she still wasn’t sure. Someone had to keep an eye on him if all this was a farce.

She crouched in front of him, lowering her voice again. “I won’t tell Steve. Or anyone else. Not if you stay. Just until morning. That’s all I’m asking.”

His eyes met hers, staring at her intently, suspiciously. But something was cracked and tired underneath it all.

Finally, he gave a slow, reluctant nod.

“Okay,” she said softly, affirming it out loud. “Just ‘til morning.”

He leaned back, closing his eyes, shoulders slumping as the tension in him finally gave way — if only just slightly.

She sank into the chair across from him, watching his chest rise and fall. Another question that she had yet to ask was burning in her mind.

“How did you get hurt?” she asked quietly.

His eyes flicked to hers, wary. He didn’t answer right away.

She hesitated, then added, “Did you kill someone?”

That hit a nerve.

His jaw locked, the muscle twitching just beneath the surface. “Is that what you think I do now?” His voice was low, sharp around the edges.

She held his gaze, unphased by the anger. “I think someone put a bullet in you and you nearly bled out on my balcony. I’m trying to understand what happened.”

He looked away, exhaling hard. Frustrated. “What’s left of HYDRA is still chasing me.”

She sat up straighter. “I thought they were gone.”

“They’re not,” he said darkly. “Not completely.”

“And this?” she asked, nodding toward the bandage. “Was this them?”

“I neutralized the threat,” he said, flat and final. A confirmation.

Something about the way he said it sent a chill down her spine, but not from fear. From the weight of it. The exhaustion in his voice. Like he hated that he had to do it.

She stood up carefully, gathering up the bloodied gauze, the tweezers, the stained towel—everything she’d used to piece him back together. Wordlessly, she carried it all into the kitchen, rinsing the tools under the faucet one by one, her gaze never fully leaving him.

He hadn’t moved. He lay there with his eyes shut, breathing evenly but not quite at rest. Every so often, he flinched—just slightly—when a pulse of pain pushed through him. Not asleep. Just…still. Like if he let his guard drop for too long, the whole room might turn on him.

She filled a glass with water and walked it over, setting it quietly on the table beside the couch. That got his attention. His eyes opened, sharp and suspicious as they locked with hers again.

She lifted her hands in surrender. “I promise I’m not here to do anything but help,” she said gently. “As long as you don’t kill me. We got a deal there?”

His jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line, like her attempt at lightness rubbed him the wrong way. But after a moment, he gave her a single, reluctant nod.

She exhaled slowly, pointing toward the linen closet behind her. “There are extra blankets and pillows in there, if you want them. Try not to move too much—just let your body catch up.”

She nodded toward the hallway next. “My room’s down there. Door before it is the bathroom. I’m gonna go to bed, but… if you need anything, knock.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at her with those piercing blue eyes, unreadable but no longer cold.

Another nod.

It wasn’t much. Not trust, not really. But it was something. She nodded back, awkward in the silence between them, and turned toward the hallway.

The truth was, she didn’t know what this was yet. A favor? A risk? A mistake? Maybe a bit of everything.

But he was still here. Still breathing. And he hadn’t killed her.

That had to count for something.

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

defying fate

a/n : love and deepspace au | reverse-harem | mature and explicit | MDNI — not for kids | lads boys x femreader | read at your own risk | story masterlist : love and deepspace

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CHAPTER 4 : POSSIBILITIES

The world had become a whirlpool of threats, each day bringing a new wave of fear. It was a well-thought-out plan: you wouldn't be left alone. For safety reasons, one of them was always by your side. It was a good thing they all agreed, because days later, incident after incident kept coming.

EVER was relentless, their shadowy organization still hunting your unique abilities for their twisted experiments. Smaller, lesser-known groups also emerged, all vying for the same prize.

UNICORN, your current organization, were barely keeping up.

Onychinus, through Sylus, had extended their offer of sanctuary, an offer you’d declined, leading Sylus to dispatch the watchful Mephisto to trail your every move.

Resurfacing Memories

The external threats were only part of the storm.

Inside, memory fragments, like shattered glass, kept resurfacing, each shard cutting deeper into your already tangled emotions. Your feelings for each of the men deepened with every passing moment, leaving you in a constant state of confusion and guilt.

Every time you were with one, you couldn't help but think of the others, a gnawing worry about how they’d react if they ever discovered the true depths of your entangled affections.

And the memories… they were the most disorienting of all.

Xavier's Fading Time

The truth about Xavier’s own timeline unfurled in your dreams, vivid and heartbreaking. You had been together before, trained, and fought side-by-side. He was the prince of your planet — Philos, in another lifetime, and he had searched for you relentlessly after you were swallowed by the Deepspace tunnel. The confrontation was inevitable.

You found him by the panoramic window in his apartment, the city lights a distant blur against the suffocating night. "Xavier," you began, your voice a fragile whisper, trembling with a volatile mixture of anger and a desperate, clawing ache that twisted your gut. "Tell me the truth. About… before. Everything."

He tensed, his broad shoulders subtly stiffening, his jaw clenching. You could feel it, the frantic flicker of a lie forming, the desperate urge to shield you from the crushing weight of a painful past.

But the ancient wisdom in his eyes, the deep, undeniable resonance between your souls, told him it would shatter everything.

He turned, his gaze meeting yours, and the silence that followed was his confession, a heavy, suffocating admission that hung in the air, thick with unspoken sorrows. His eyes, usually so fiercely protective, now held a raw vulnerability, a profound sadness that mirrored your own, tearing at you.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you finally choked out, tears stinging your eyes, a searing, bitter burn against your skin. "We were… everything. Our world, our future… it was ours. How could you let me forget?"

His hand reached out, trembling, hovering an inch from your face as if he feared his touch might break you, might crumble you into dust. Then, with a choked sound, it dropped, uselessly to his side.

"I couldn't," he rasped, his voice raw, laced with agony, a desperate plea for understanding. "Not when your memories were fragmented. Not when… not when my time is so… limited." His voice cracked on the last word, a sound that ripped through your heart.

You fumed, a tempest of anger and betrayal raging within, but beneath it, a chilling, gut terror gnawed at you, colder than any deepspace vacuum.

You knew.

You knew his time was up. He was fading, a slow, agonizing erosion of light and life, like sand slipping through your desperate fingers, impossible to hold onto.

"No," you whispered, stepping forward, your hands instinctively reaching, grasping his arm with desperate, bone-crushing strength, as if you could anchor him to this reality, to your reality.

"No, Xavier. I won't let you. Fate be damned, I will save you. I will defy fate itself, even if it tears me apart piece by agonizing piece."

Rafayel's Ancient Bonds

It was Rafayel’s saving grace, his shimmering, almost translucent Lemurian form, that shattered the barriers of your forgotten past.

The memories surged back, overwhelming and profound.

You had saved him once before, a sacrifice lost to the cruel mists of time. And then, further back, further still, you were his bride, offering your very life for his, a forgotten oath whispered on the winds of an ancient sea, a vow etched into your very soul.

Clarity and confusion intertwined, a dizzying, painful dance of truths that both illuminated and tormented you.

Rafayel was bound to you, and you to him, by threads of destiny older than time itself. He, the Sea God, and you, forever tethered to his ancient power, his very existence, his sorrow, his joy.

You cornered him after days of his deliberate, agonizing avoidance, his usual playful charm replaced by a skittishness that clawed at your heart, a haunted, distant look in his eyes that spoke of unbearable secrets. You found him by the ocean, the waves a cruel, mocking symphony of what you remembered, what you should have remembered, what you felt you remembered.

"Rafayel!" you cried out, your voice raw with desperation, a ragged sound torn from your chest, echoing over the crashing surf. He flinched, as if your voice was a physical blow, a harsh lash against his soul, his shoulders tensing.

"Why are you avoiding me? Why… why do I remember being your bride? Why do I feel like I died for you? What did I sacrifice?"

He spun around, his eyes wide with an ancient, unbearable sorrow, like the deepest, most shadowed depths of the ocean. "You —," he choked out, his voice hoarse, raw with suppressed pain, his hands clenching at his sides. "It was too much. Too much suffering for you to bear again."

But the memories kept coming, a terrifying, relentless flood, drowning you in forgotten grief, in echoes of a past love too profound to be forgotten.

A vision, hazy with time – was it past or future? – of the sea drying up, cracked earth stretching to an endless, desolate horizon, ancient bones bleached beneath a dying sun.

The desolation clicked into place, a horrifying puzzle piece slotting into your fragmented mind. You understood his disdain for humanity, the targeted deaths, all linked to Lemuria’s plight, to the dying echoes of his people, his very soul shriveling with their demise.

"The sea… it dried up," you whispered, the words catching in your throat, a desperate gasp for air, your own heart aching with a grief that wasn't entirely your own. "Is that why? Is that why you hate them so much? Why you’re so… broken? So alone?"

He closed his eyes, a single, shimmering tear tracing a path down his cheek, a clear drop of ocean sorrow, a perfect reflection of the pain in his soul. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, trembling with suppressed rage and grief, his body shaking almost imperceptibly.

"They took everything," he hissed, pain lacing every syllable, every strained muscle. "They always take. But you… you were different. You were my light. My very reason. My sacrifice. My bride."

Regardless of the pain, you knew how vital Lemuria was to Rafayel, how deeply it was etched into his being, into every fiber of his ancient soul. You reached for him, tears blurring your vision, your fingers brushing his arm, then gripping, desperate to convey your unwavering resolve.

"I'll help you, Rafayel," you vowed, your voice breaking, raw with emotion. "I'll do everything in my power to save what remains. We’ll save your home. We’ll save you. I won’t lose you again."

Zayne's Hidden Struggles

Zayne's true nature was revealed not by a grand revelation, but by a journal, stumbled upon by accident in his neat, organized office. The words within spoke of a losing battle against his own power, an internal struggle that shattered the perfect façade of his unwavering control.

When you confronted him, he couldn’t find the words, only a weary acceptance and an explanation that felt like a quiet surrender, a final, painful admission. There was no point in hiding it any longer.

"Zayne," you said, your voice barely a whisper, holding up the worn leather journal, its pages almost brittle with age, trembling in your hand. "What is this? What does it mean, ‘losing control of your Evol’? Are you… are you dying?"

He looked up from his microscope, his eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, now clouded with a deep, aching vulnerability that made your stomach clench, a knot of dread. He sighed, a sound of profound exhaustion, of burdens carried too long, too silently.

"There's no easy way to explain it," he murmured, pushing his glasses up his nose, running a weary hand through his hair, as if trying to physically smooth away the truth. "I… I'm not sure if it's in the past or the future, but it's starting to happen. The power… it's becoming too much. It’s tearing me apart from the inside. Slowly. Irreversibly."

"I didn't want to worry you," he confessed, his voice barely audible, his gaze dropping to the journal in your hand, avoiding your accusing eyes. "I was trying to find a solution myself. To spare you. To bear it alone."

Your heart ached, a sharp, piercing pain that felt like a physical blow, a wound opening in your chest. This man, who always seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, was crumbling from within, silently enduring an unimaginable torment, for your sake.

You walked over, gently taking the journal from his hand, and placed it on the desk. You reached for his hand, your fingers intertwining with his, a silent plea for honesty, for shared burden, for connection. His skin felt cold, despite the warmth of your touch.

"We’ll figure it out," you said, your voice firm, resolute, despite the tremor in your own soul, despite the tears pricking at your eyes. "Together. You are not alone in this, Zayne. You never were. And please… please, never hide anything from me again. Not like this. Not anything. Let me help you carry this."

He squeezed your hand, a desperate, silent promise hanging in the air, his fingers clutching yours as if you were his only anchor, his only lifeline in a swirling abyss. You felt the raw despair radiating from him, and you held on tighter.

Caleb's Painful Truth

The sight of Caleb in his room, hunched over, carefully fixing his bionic arm, sent a tremor of pure, unadulterated fury through you, a searing, hot anger that threatened to consume you.

The harsh glow of his desk lamp illuminated the sheen of sweat on his brow, the grimace of pain twisting his features into a mask of silent, agonizing suffering. He groaned, a raw sound of agony ripped from his throat, and it felt like a knife twisting in your own heart, a gut-wrenching pain that stole your breath.

You couldn't bear to see him like that, broken and in pain, at the mercy of something so cruel, so dehumanizing.

You slammed the door shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the small, sterile room, making him flinch violently. He snapped his head up, his eyes wide with surprise, then a flicker of apprehension, of knowing, as he saw the storm in your eyes.

"What happened?" you demanded, your voice laced with unbridled rage, a dangerous, barely contained edge you rarely allowed to surface. "Why are you always in pain? What did EVER do to you? What have they done to you, Caleb? Tell me!"

He had no choice but to explain everything, the experiments, the constant adjustments, the phantom pains that clawed at his very nerves, the insidious corruption of his own body, the way they had taken him apart and rebuilt him, leaving a part of him forever scarred.

He spoke in a low, even tone, his face a carefully constructed mask of stoicism, but his eyes, dark and haunted, betrayed the unbearable agony beneath, the quiet despair.

When he finished, a chilling, vengeful fury coursed through you, potent and undeniable, a primal urge to destroy. Your hands clenched into fists, your nails digging into your palms, drawing blood, the sharp sting a mere flicker compared to the burning inferno in your soul.

A raw, guttural scream built in your throat, demanding release. You turned on your heels, ready to walk out, to unleash a storm of vengeance that would leave nothing but ash in its wake, to burn EVER to the ground.

"Don't," Caleb's voice was sharp, cutting through your rage, a command laced with a desperate, heartbreaking plea. He was already out of his chair, faster than you thought possible, blocking your path.

His good arm shot out, his hand grasping your wrist, his fingers a strong, unyielding band, pulling you back. "It won't solve anything. It will only put you in more danger. And I can't… I won't let that happen. Not after everything." His grip tightened, a silent promise to protect you at all costs.

You stared at him, tears blurring your vision, streaming down your face, the searing fury warring with a devastating, crippling helplessness.

You knew he was right, the cold, brutal logic of his words piercing through the red haze. But the injustice of it all burned hotter than ever, a consuming fire in your soul that demanded retribution.

Sylus's Unbreakable Cycle

You didn't have to ask Sylus. It was one of those quiet nights, both of you lost in thought, the city lights a distant hum, the world outside a muted echo, when he began to tell you a lore about dragons. His voice, usually so composed, so detached, now held a profound, aching sorrow that resonated deep within your bones, stirring ancient, forgotten pains.

"There are tales," he began, his gaze fixed on some unseen horizon, his profile etched against the dim light, almost ethereal, "of dragons cursed to repeat cycles, forever bound to a specific fate, to a soul they are destined to meet… and to lose. Again and again. For eternity."

Your heart knew instantly he was speaking of himself, of you. A cold dread settled in your chest. You swallowed hard, the bitter taste of truth coating your tongue, a premonition of grief already settling in, cold and heavy.

"I've had dreams," you confessed, your voice barely a whisper, thick with unbidden emotions, with the echoes of nightmares. "Memories, I think. Of killing you. And… of you killing me. Over and over. A dance of death."

He turned then, his eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, now filled with an ancient, unbearable grief, like staring into the heart of a dying sun, a cosmos of sorrow. He pulled you into a tight embrace, a desperate, crushing hug that spoke of a thousand lost lifetimes, of endless partings, of promises broken by fate.

His arms wrapped around you, possessive and despairing. "Our fate," he murmured into your hair, his voice raw, broken, a ragged sigh. "Is a cruel one. A relentless torment. A cosmic joke."

But you were determined to defy it. You would not be a pawn in some cosmic game, strung along by an unseen hand. You would break free, even if it meant breaking everything else.

Then, his voice, gentle but firm, cut through your thoughts, a surgeon’s precision dissecting your emotions, yet laced with a palpable, profound pain. He pulled back slightly, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones, forcing your gaze to meet his.

"Is this," he asked, his voice filled with a desperate assurance, a raw vulnerability, "the same promise you have given to others? The same hope you offer them?"

You stared at him, confused at first, then slow, dawning realization bloomed, a sick, churning sensation in your gut, the crushing weight of your tangled affections.

He was talking about the other four.

Your gaze darted away, guilt searing your cheeks, burning like a brand, a tangible weight on your soul. You had indeed entangled your fates with theirs, a complex, agonizing knot of longing and devotion, promises whispered to each, unknowingly.

Every single one of them.

Sylus’s fingers tightened on your jaw, gently, but insistently, tilting your head back, forcing your eyes back to his, pulling you back from the brink of despair.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice filled with a desperate certainty. "It's not your fault. No one is at fault for what fate has orchestrated. Not you. Not us. We are merely caught in its web."

"No," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, tears finally spilling over, hot and heavy against his thumbs, tracing paths down your skin. "It’s fate's fault. This sick, twisted design. And it is time to stop this loop, this disgusting cycle of us being played by fate. I won't be broken again. Not for them, not for me, not for us."

Sylus then suggested a meeting with the rest. His eyes held a flicker of something ancient and knowing, a dangerous resolve.

"We need to break this, together," he urged, his voice resonating with a quiet, undeniable power. You were adamant at first, the thought of them all in one room, knowing your shared secrets, your entangled hearts, the unspoken desires, was terrifying, a precipice you feared to cross. But deep down, a cold, hard truth settled in your soul: you knew it was bound to happen.

So, with a heavy heart, you agreed.

A Fated Gathering

The meeting was, as expected, chaotic and tense, a volatile cocktail of unaddressed emotions, of desires barely contained.

The air crackled with unspoken words, with the weight of shared secrets and individual burdens, each man a force of nature barely contained, their gazes like tangible things.

Yet, amidst the tension, a strange, profound sense of déjà vu washed over you. You felt, inexplicably, that this wasn’t the first time these five formidable men had gathered in your presence, their fates converging around you, their eyes all on you.

Caleb was the one who confirmed it, his voice a steady, grounding anchor in the storm of your emotions. His gaze swept over each of them, a silent challenge passing between them, then settled on you, unwavering, accepting. "We've been here before," he stated, his jaw tight, a flicker of pain, of weariness, in his eyes. "All of us. Many times."

You were a whirlwind of shock, fury, and a strange, profound touch that pierced through the confusion, a sudden understanding that shattered your composure. "You knew?" you demanded, your voice laced with incredulity, with betrayal, directed at all of them, a desperate plea for answers, for honesty. "All of you knew? And you kept it from me? All this time?"

Zayne then explained, his usual calm demeanor strained, a rare tremble in his hands as he adjusted his glasses. "We didn't know how to bring it up. Your memories… they had to resurface naturally. We decided to unpack it one at a time, to spare you the immediate shock, the inevitable heartbreak." He ran a weary hand through his hair, his eyes filled with a deep regret, a silent apology. "It was the only way we knew how to protect you. To protect us all."

Xavier, who had been largely silent, his gaze distant, lost in unseen timelines, his very essence shimmering, finally spoke. His voice, when it came, carried the ethereal weight of a dying star, ancient and resigned, yet laced with an undeniable tenderness. "We decided to be patient. To give you time. To let you find your way back to us. To let you remember on your own terms."

You scoffed, a bitter, broken laugh escaping your lips, tears welling up again. "Time? You don't have a lot of time, Xavier! You’re fading! What good is time if you’re gone?" The words ripped from your throat, raw and desperate, a plea to the heavens.

He merely shrugged, a subtle, painful acknowledgment of his grim reality, a quiet acceptance that made your heart clench, a silent goodbye already etched in his eyes, a sacrifice he was ready to make.

Rafayel, ever the dramatic, but with a raw edge of grief, scoffed, a sardonic twist to his lips, his hand rising to run through his silver hair, pulling at the strands. "It's absurd. This whole situation is an affront to sanity. Fate has a twisted, sadistic way of tying us all together in a sick, painful cycle of endless agony. A cosmic joke at our expense."

It was Sylus who finally cut through the tension, his voice resonating with an unexpected depth, his eyes, like twin pools of ancient wisdom, fixed solely on you, burning with an intense, unwavering focus that promised both devotion and danger.

He stepped forward, drawing your full attention, reaching out to gently cup your face again. "How do you want it?" he asked, his voice filled with a desperate assurance, a raw vulnerability that surprised you. "You don't have to choose between them. You can have all of them, however you want it to be. This time, you decide. Break the cycle with us."

You stared at him, shock blossoming into a scandalous, dizzying realization, a revolutionary thought. The very idea, so forbidden, so impossible… yet, so profoundly, terrifyingly right.

It was a path you hadn't even dared to dream, a whispered hope you hadn't let solidify. But then, a new possibility unfurled before you, breathtaking in its audacity, its impossible hope.

Having all of them… fighting fate together… maybe this was the only way.

Maybe, just maybe, you could help each other, heal each other, break the cycle together, as one.

"All that matters is your safety and happiness," Caleb reiterated, his voice a solid, unwavering anchor in the storm, cutting through the swirling confusion, his hand reaching out, a silent offer of unwavering support, his touch a comforting weight on your arm.

"How… how would that even work?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper, a strange tremor running through you, a chaotic mix of fear and burgeoning hope. Your mind reeled, trying to grasp the enormity of it, the sheer, audacious scale of their offer.

Sylus’s lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile, a dangerous glint in his eyes that promised untold depths. He answered with a nonchalant shrug, as if discussing the weather, as if this grand, impossible plan was merely a logistical detail.

"We've got it all figured out. Bought a mansion for all of us. Maybe set up a schedule or something. Depends on how you want it. We adapt. We always adapt. Whatever keeps you safe. Whatever keeps you with us."

And in your mind, a fleeting, forbidden image flashed, vivid and potent, almost overwhelmingly real: you, wrapped up between all of them, their bodies a warm, protective cocoon, their intertwined fates a shield against the cruel whims of destiny, their breaths mingling, their heartbeats synchronized with yours.

You instantly pushed the "dirty" images away, a hot flush spreading through your body, a deep blush staining your cheeks, clenching your thighs, a silent acknowledgment of the raw, undeniable desire that flickered within you, undeniable and potent.

They all noticed, of course, their gazes lingering, hungry, a knowing, predatory glint in their eyes, but said nothing. It was a silent confirmation: you were in. And they could have you, shared – yes – but it was the only way to have you, truly and completely, in this lifetime.

The only way to save them all.

The only way to break the curse.

[review-anon]

Oh boy, Lobotomy corporation is one hell of a game. A brutal monster management simulator with rouge like mechanics. The premise is simple, work with monsters called abnormalities to meet an energy quota and if they breach, suppress them in order to recontain them and after enough working with certain abnormalities you can get gear based off said abnormality. At the end of the day you get a new abnormality and are able to hire new employees. However this is probably a grossly oversimplified version of the general loop - Abno anon

//So in other words, is like managing a Site in the SCP Foundation.

//Sounds fun.

[thebubblesareevil]

The Return of the First Hero

Danny was the first superhero. He started when he was 14 and there were no other heroes around.

He did what he could during natural disasters and global threats but he was only one kid.

Sure things got a bit easier when he leaned how to make clones but he never felt like he was doing enough.

Because of his status as a ghost he never got worldwide recognition but he didn’t care, that wasn’t why he did it.

Danny was getting ready to go to college when clockwork approached him with devastating news.

With Pariah being defeated and him taking the throne, unrest had spread throughout the different dimensions.

Danny would have to help stop the destruction of reality and protect and maintain the stability of the realms.

So Danny left. He left knowing he was doing what he had to do to protect everyone, but knew he was leaving his world without protection and knew there would be consequences.

—

When Danny left, life moved on. Disasters happened and people died. There were no heroes to save the day.

Until there was.

Slowly but surely they came out of the woodwork. The Batman in Gotham. A man of steel in metropolis. The scarlet speedster in central city.

But they never truly left their cities. They never took responsibility of the earth.

And then they had to. Aliens invaded and a team formed bringing even more heroes into the light.

There was controversy the world over whether or not they should trust these heroes.

All except from a small town in Illinois.

Not much happened in amity park. There was hardly any crime. There hadn’t been any recorded natural disasters in years. There was not a single supervillain to be seen nor any hero. There were no corrupt cops and the wealthy not only paid their taxes but were actively involved in the community and charity.

No one understood the adamant support of these heroes. You could always find a few at any anti hero protest yelling their screams of support.

Eventually the cries of invaders and aliens died down and the voices of support outweighed the cries of hate.

One day a large green portal appeared above amity park and the heroes of the world took immediate notice. The Justice league immediately deployed to come to the aid of the little town that had stood beside them for so long.

The energy levels were off the charts. No one knew what was going on but they did their best to do what they could. Try as they might though, none of them could persuade the civilians to leave the area.

No one was panicked as the crowd grew larger, though it parted like the Red Sea when a large van pulled up.

Five adults exited the vehicle (if it could be called that) 2 appeared to be in their late 60s while the young woman with them looked to be in her mid forties with the two others not much younger than her.

They didn’t say anything. They just approached the portal, ignoring any hero that tried to protest.

Suddenly the portal grew brighter as a figure emerged from the green abyss.

A boy, no, a young man exited the portal. He couldn’t be more than 18-19 by the leagues guess.

Not a moment later did he charge at the group immediately being wrapped into a group hug as the portal vanished behind him leaving behind only a single bag.

When they finally let the man go they turned to face the crowd with a smile and he simply said.

I’m home.

The crowd went wild shouting cheers of joy and welcome homes.

The heroes were well and truly confused.

It was flash that approached a man at the edge of the crowd.

“What’s going on? Who is that?”

The man smiled.

“That’s Danny Fenton. The greatest hero this world will ever know and after 30 years he’s finally come home.

Flash immediately rushed over to relay what he was told to the rest of the team and they started to discuss the implications. It wasn’t long though before they were interrupted by the man of the hour.

“Is it true?” He asked, his expression torn and his eyes wet with unshed tears “are you the ones that have been protecting earth?”

The league was silent until superman stepped forward “we are members of the Justice league and we have done everything we can to protect this planet for the last 10 years”

The man grinned as the tears fell down his face.

“All this time, after everything I’ve done, I was terrified there would be nothing left when I came home.”

“Thank you”

[opencommunion]

"The story of  'John Doe 1' of the Democratic Republic of the Congo is tucked in a lawsuit filed five years ago against several U.S. tech companies, including Tesla, the world’s largest electric vehicle producer. In a country where the earth hides its treasures beneath its surface, those who chip away at its bounty pay an unfair price. As a pre-teen, his family could no longer afford to pay his $6 monthly school fee, leaving him with one option: a life working underground in a tunnel, digging for cobalt rocks.  But soon after he began working for roughly two U.S. dollars per day, the child was buried alive under the rubble of a collapsed mine tunnel. His body was never recovered. 

The nation, fractured by war, disease, and famine, has seen more than 6 million people die since the mid-1990s, making the conflict the deadliest since World War II. But, in recent years, the death and destruction have been aided by the growing number of electric vehicles humming down American streets. In 2022, the U.S., the world’s third-largest importer of cobalt, spent nearly $525 million on the mineral, much of which came from the Congo.

As America’s dependence on the Congo has grown, Black-led labor and environmental organizers here in the U.S. have worked to build a transnational solidarity movement. Activists also say that the inequities faced in the Congo relate to those that Black Americans experience. And thanks in part to social media, the desire to better understand what’s happening in the Congo has grown in the past 10 years. In some ways, the Black Lives Matter movement first took root in the Congo after the uprising in Ferguson in 2014, advocates say. And since the murder of George Floyd and the outrage over the Gaza war, there has been an uptick in Congolese and Black American groups working on solidarity campaigns.

Throughout it all, the inequities faced by Congolese people and Black Americans show how the supply chain highlights similar patterns of exploitation and disenfranchisement. ... While the American South has picked up about two-thirds of the electric vehicle production jobs, Black workers there are more likely to work in non-unionized warehouses, receiving less pay and protections. The White House has also failed to share data that definitively proves whether Black workers are receiving these jobs, rather than them just being placed near Black communities. 'Automakers are moving their EV manufacturing and operations to the South in hopes of exploiting low labor costs and making higher profits,' explained Yterenickia Bell, an at-large council member in Clarkston, Georgia, last year. While Georgia has been targeted for investment by the Biden administration, workers are 'refusing to stand idly by and let them repeat a cycle that harms Black communities and working families.'

... Of the 255,000 Congolese mining for cobalt, 40,000 are children. They are not only exposed to physical threats but environmental ones. Cobalt mining pollutes critical water sources, plus the air and land. It is linked to respiratory illnesses, food insecurity, and violence. Still, in March, a U.S. court ruled on the case, finding that American companies could not be held liable for child labor in the Congo, even as they helped intensify the prevalence. ... Recently, the push for mining in the Congo has reached new heights because of a rift in China-U.S. relations regarding EV production. Earlier this month, the Biden administration issued a 100% tariff on Chinese-produced EVs to deter their purchase in the U.S. Currently, China owns about 80% of the legal mines in the Congo, but tens of thousands of Congolese work in 'artisanal' mines outside these facilities, where there are no rules or regulations, and where the U.S. gets much of its cobalt imports.  'Cobalt mining is the slave farm perfected,' wrote Siddharth Kara last year in the award-winning investigative book Cobalt Red: How The Blood of the Congo Powers Our Lives. 'It is a system of absolute exploitation for absolute profit.' While it is the world’s richest country in terms of wealth from natural resources, Congo is among the poorest in terms of life outcomes. Of the 201 countries recognized by the World Bank Group, it has the 191st lowest life expectancy."

[theflashjaygarrick]

Do people who say "Batman says no metas in Gotham" realise that metas include anyone with powers and super abilities, the vast majority of whom are civilians with no affiliation to superheroics or supervillainy. No metas in Gotham in reality would mean kicking out some random school teacher who in an accident suddenly developed the ability to teleport and mostly uses it to arrive to their school earlier and stay later for the kids. No metas in Gotham means forcibly removing an Amazon who is married to a local Gothamite. No metas in Gotham means an alien raised on Earth can't go to Gotham University without the Big Bad Bat showing up at their dorm room. No metas in Gotham mean existing meta characters from Gotham are awkwardly ignored or actively included just to be kicked out of their own city. No metas in Gotham means erasing the history of superheroes like Alan Scott and Dinah Drake who lived in and protected Gotham years before Batman arrived on the scene.

And no, jokes about how the Bats friends totally get a free pass under his seemingly totalitarian rule don't make it better. Having Duke around as the token 'good one' does not make it better. Not when its mere existence involves a 'hero' is systemically targeting a group based on immutable traits.

And if you're thinking that sounds dark that's because the whole fanon joke revolves around Batman being the kind of person who wants to keep an entire community people out of 'his' city because he believes their biology makes them an innate threat. That is horrifying. That has strong racist and xenophobic implications. That is high-key super villain behaviour. In fact, anti-meta crusaders are literally the villains of the recent Power Company books because it's a pretty clear allegory for real world bigotry.

If you want to keep this as a fanon trait for his character then you have to make it a really negative one. If you want to have it be a misunderstanding among the Justice League because he just wants no other heroes crime fighting there (never going to happen by the way) that means some members of the League are going to think he's an absolute racist asshole. I'm just saying if Oliver 'Batman is a fascist' Queen had this idea he'd be throwing hands with Bruce daily. If you want to explore it as a dark-Batman villain AU? That sounds cool actually, I'd read that tbh.

[namisweatheria]

I feel like we don't discuss Nami's relationship with gender enough. Her entire character is so deeply informed by being a girl in a male-dominated pirate world and it's so interesting and so worth talking about.

The background creepiness of Bad pirate crews, which are most of them, how they tend to not have any female crew members at all, how they beckon any pretty young woman around to come play with them and join them. It's real bad. It's also like, a totally 2 dimensional portrayal of evil that is reserved for the most background of background characters.

However I think their ubiquity says a lot about how piracy is meant to be perceived by the public in One Piece, and is one of the strongest indicators of how prevalent misogyny is in-world.

It's very normal in One Piece for regular island inhabitants to have never met a Different class of pirate in their life. There's no reason for them to withhold judgement that maybe these pirates won't be like every crew that attacked before, and to wait and judge them by their actions. I mean frankly that would be irrationally weak self-preservation.

There are people who live peacefully under the flags of Yonkos who protect them, and feel loyalty and gratitude to them for it, but that seems to only be thing with very big name pirates. The East Blue, being the weakest and least populated, has no such plethora of powerful people and resulting turf wars.

So. Nami. Is very clearly implied to have never met any Different pirates before. I'm thinking about what that means. About how every group of pirates she stole from were creepy, dangerous men. How she started going out stealing when she was still a young child. How she didn't have a mother anymore to guide her or comfort her. How Arlong would grab her chin inappropriately, talk about her as a "human female", as property, and god knows what else.

How all the men in Arlong's crew treated her patronizingly, pretending they're all friends, teasing her and playing at respect when really not a single one of them ever stuck up for her or hesitated to accuse her of betrayal. Who were always ready to kill her if she refused to cooperate. Who grabbed her and intimidated her when they felt like it.

That's what she had to come back to after a close call with stealing from other predatory men, instead of the relief of home there was a dark, cramped room filled with endless hours of misery and isolation and blood. Where any one of her captors could barge in and demand new maps, work faster, where did you go, you took too long again this time. Endless threats and incursions.

I'm thinking about that her fight scene in Alabasta, where she tumbles and rips off her cape and uses it to catch her enemy's spikes, before leaping to her feet and running out the back door, all in one moment. How it makes her enemy reconsider her and think, "so the girl's not a total novice at fighting after all." What that implies about her experiences as a young thief. The times she wasn't fast or clever enough and had to fight and claw her way out. Why she always carried a staff and a knife. Why she was the only one before Chopper who had any medical knowledge or experience.

You know she was stitching herself up. And the weapons, how do you think she learned to use those? If any of the Arlong Pirates helped her it wasn't out of kindness and it wasn't gentle.

Then I think about Nojiko, and Bellemere's memory, and the only softness in a hard life. How easily Nami connects to every young woman experiencing hardship that she meets. How completely she dismisses the struggles of men unless they mean something to her and are going through something terrible. The way that Nami only has sympathy for women and children is easily noticeable in-text, but it's also something confirmed in those words by the author. And it's clearly because of the life she lived, the men who had all the power and only abused it, who saw her as nothing but a girl to take advantage of, without anyone aside from her sister clearly knowing and caring about any of it.

Nami clearly isn't bitter, she doesn't think the world owes her recompense, on the contrary she knows she is far from the only person in the world to suffer the things she has suffered. She is endlessly reaching out and kind, but only to those that she isn't sure would get help without her. Certainly, before Luffy, Usopp, and Zoro, no man ever reached out a hand to her without an ulterior motive.

I think when she sees a girl in trouble, a girl biting her lip to hold in a scream of grief, a girl running in the woods away from a monster, a girl captured by pirates, she sees someone who no one is coming for. Who no one will stick up for. A person without allies in a world against her. Whether it's actually true in this case or not, she runs straight for that girl anyways every single time.

[zengguos]

in akilah's vision: ben was the bridge — his death caused the scientists to find them.

and civilization was just a cliff away.

so judging by this string of too good to be true coincidences, unknowingly to them, their escape is literally moments away here beyond the point they are on. beyond that person.

there's also a huge location reveal in this scene where callie is searching up the disappearance of the researchers. it tells us that the "canadian rockies" they were going through was actually mount robson (a place that borders bc and alberta). it is the area that has the highest point in the rockies...

from a little research (as I'm not canadian, so please correct me if so!) — mount robson is a brand new popular spot for scientists in the 90s, as it became a new protected place (in the world heritage site) to study the landscape and many endangered species, so there was a lot of science activity around that time (the resources ben found in the cave were from an old research group) and full mapping needed to be done still.

mount robson's terrain also has many lime caves which generate "foul air" — inexperience cavers usually pass out from long exposure to it due to lack of oxygen as they don't understand the signs of deprivation (and toxicity potentially in the caves too...)

but most importantly, mount robson is also next a highway — a highway known as yellowhead.

and akilah sees something like a highway in the distance with all the lights...

(there's also a lake/parkland area named after yellowhead too...fucking hell it's all so connected).

also...

the fact they stayed for a second winter despite them having a map of how to navigate the wilderness too (which tai picks up and doesn't inform van...)

— and jeff revealing the rough distance from the location of the last recorded scientists' camp to the yellowjackets rescue site being 100 miles apart... oh lord.

they truly were closer to home than they thought.

that's what adds onto more of the horror now as the endgame unfolds.

and because we are entering the endgame with the possibility of escape... the threat that has been with us along has finally developed too — the wilderness — lottie matthews. who will actively seek to keep them here one way or another as shown by akilah's other vision.

the second winter didn't need to happen — the losses they went through should not have happened. what was an accidental unfortunate tragedy has transformed into something more darker, a different kind of tragedy now.

this is yet again yellowjackets double reality... what happened in one reality, didn't happen in the other. if certain decisions were not made, how different would everything be...

[fordaryl]

REMEMBER.

minors dni. 2.6k words. smut. daryl dixon x fem!reader. protective daryl. hint of size kink. strength kink.

It's easy to forget his strength when his touch is always so gentle. When you're safe, he lets you forget everything he's capable of; the reason you've both made it this long.

Safety lets you forget.

And then—when it inevitably all it all goes to shit again—you remember.

"Get in!" he calls through the wall of bodies separating you. He keeps the attention of most of them, but there's a few stumbling in your direction—too many for you to handle alone. "Now!" he shouts as he takes another growling walker down.

It goes against every instinct you have—to leave him to fight this alone. But this was his domain. This was when you did whatever the fuck he told you to do. It was how you survived.

You drag the door of the container open, grunting as the heavy metal fights back. It's a makeshift prison cell, one that was supposed to be filled with live bait for the walkers. It would be if it weren't for Daryl. He was almost single-handedly dismantling whatever fucked up enterprise you'd both stumbled upon.

One of them reaches you before you'd manage to push the gate open enough to slip through.

One is fine. You can handle one.

Turning around to deal with it gives you a split second to check in on Daryl. He's making a dent in the mass of bodies, but it's not enough. Not with the shouts of the living making their way closer.

You kick the walker you've knifed back into the mass of bodies approaching, giving you just enough time to slip through the crack you've made in the sliding door and slam it closed behind you.

Locking it is another story.

You have no hope of accomplishing that.

Still, it's enough for now. It's enough to let Daryl keep his focus where it needs to be as you deal with as many as you can through the bars.

Then one gets shot down. Daryl, is your first thought. But then two are shot down at once. And then the voices reach your ears. Voices are bad. Walkers you can handle. The living was another story. Nothing stoked the fear constantly simmers in your gut like the voices of the living.

They shout over each other, calling directions as they pick off the mass with a spray of bullets. You can't see Daryl anymore. He's either dead or hiding.

Hiding. Hiding. Hiding.

You shift back into one of the dark corners of the container as the shouts draw nearer.

“What the fuck happened?! Don't shoot them you dumb fucks! Get any you can back into holding!”

Any second now... any second they'd find Daryl and your world would end. The living were different. The living were monsters of a different kind.

"They're bunched up around this one!" someone shouts.

You hold your breath.

"Well check it out then!" another demands.

Oh, fuck. You grip your pistol. Your aim was decent. You could take one out, maybe two. But there's a whole group... and they were coming for you.

You scramble to the other far corner as the last of the walkers are cleared from the entrance, hoping to take advantage of the darkest shadows. Daryl would be watching... waiting. Any extra moment you could give him could be vital.

"You better come out now," a man calls from outside. He's just out of your sights, prepared for you to be armed and ready to fight. You'd hoped to have the element of surprise. "I ain't asking."

You know what'll happened when they find you. It's the same thing each time. You're prey to people like these—something to hunt in a world without consequences for that kind of thing.

Your silence buys you less than a minute before the first of them are dragging the metal gate open. If you shoot, they'll shoot back. It's not something you'll survive cornered like this. So you bet on them being the same as the rest. You let them know you're prey.

"Please," you call, as meek and afraid as you can manage—vulnerable. Not a threat. "I'm—I'm unarmed."

Then a bright light blinds you.

"What the fuck?" one of them exclaims. Then, "Where'd the fuck this little thing come from?"

There it was. Little. Thing. You were nothing. You're not a threat. You'd bought Daryl more time.

"Come on out, girl. Come on." They call you like you're a dog, something less than human. That's how they see you. Something to use.

You take a small step forward, still blinded by their flashlights. Daryl was alive. He was alive and hiding and he was waiting for something.

You just had to stay alive.

"What do you... want with me?" you ask, still taking tiny steps towards the light. Weak. Vulnerable. No threat.

You get muffled laughter in response. Guards down. Distracted.

"What do we want? We want a little fun, honey. That's all. Just a bit of fun."

They're flash lights drop as you approach the entrance. They've pulled the gate all the way across.

Five. You count five. If you kill two...

"Why is she alone?" one of them questions. He's younger, a little less distracted.

The rest ignore him. Then one of them has you by the arm, dragging you the rest of the way out of the makeshift cell. They're hands send a wave of repulsion through your body as they grab at you, pulling you around and shoving you in front of them. They may as well be the undead the way their touch feels against your skin.

The young one doesn't move out of the way when you reach him. Instead he stares into you, suspicious and angry. "Who are you with?" he asks. Even then, his gun is lowered. Even to him you aren't a threat.

"Get the fuck out of the way," the man gripping your arm says, clearly irritated and impatient.

"But—"

"Now."

His eyes narrow, but then he steps aside—his back pressed to the wall to let the rest of the men past. It's now that you get a look down into the pit of walkers, the one's they've managed to recapture rather than take out. They reach up towards you, hands grabbing for you.

Then, only a few steps later—you're stopped. The man with his hand wrapped around your elbow leans over your shoulder, his rancid breath invading your nostrils as he speaks. "You alone?" he asks. "You tell me right now."

You blink away the burn threatening to pool tears in your eyes. Were you alone? If you were...

The man's grip tightens, the only warning you get before you're forced to your knees and staring down into the pit of hungry walkers. "Speak," he demands, nails carving into your skin. "I'd hate to waste you like this."

There's two other men behind you. Three surrounding you in total. You could take one out for sure. They hadn't even searched you for weapons. They expected nothing out of you at all.

But then there'd be two, only counting the ones in reaching distance. How long would it take the other two further away to aim their guns in your direction?

You were dying tonight if Daryl was dead, that was certain. Your only hope was that he was waiting and watching... but what would he be waiting for...

Your pistol sits at your hip, a comfortable weight.

You take a deep breath. You could wait to die. Or fight now and hope that's the moment he's waiting for... if he's waiting at all.

The man holding you drops to one knee behind you. He leans over to speak in your ear. You wouldn't need to rely on your aim for the first kill, only any that followed. It was a headstart you weren't likely to get again. You reach for your pistol and before the man can open his lips and taint your senses with his rot once more, you shoot him through the underside of his jaw.

Your ears ring as his body drops. But you were ready. The men behind you aren't.

You were nothing. Prey.

The few seconds that affords you are priceless. You manage to shoot one more through the head before he can get hands on his own weapon.

The third is another story. His gun is pointed at you for what must be milliseconds. They drag though, those moments with an enemy weapon pointed at your head always do.

But then Daryl is there, strangling the man with a rifle and shoving his body into the ground with a force that reverberates through the metal. It's only when he snaps the man's neck you spot the bodies behind him.

He'd been waiting for you.

You watch him stand, hair hanging in his face and his chest rising and falling with his deep breaths.

Then his eyes are on you.

Then his hands.

Those hands... the same ones he'd used seconds earlier to break a man's neck. His fingers are feathers across your skin as he brushes the hair back off your face. "Okay?" he asks, soft and a little shaky.

You nod.

"You did good," he says, that deep gravel back in his voice. "So good, sweetheart." His hand makes a trail down to your neck, gentle and slow over your pulse point to rest at your clavicle. "We gotta go," he says. "Stay close for me, yeah?"

—————

The first time after is always the same—after you're forced to remember. It adds something to the way his gentle hands feel as he reaches over your hips to dip between your legs. To the way his body feels pressed up behind yours.

His thick fingers slip between your slick folds as he holds you tight against his chest. Heat. It's an overwhelming heat. He crowds you, practically curled around you.

"You like that sweetheart?" His voice is almost sweet as his lips graze your ears and his long hair tickles your skin. "Huh? You like that?"

You nod with a small whine, pressing your hips back into him—desperate.

He sighs, finger prodding over and over at your swollen entrance—a teasing little hint of what's to come. He dips in slightly, his calloused fingertip pressing into your slippery, spongy entrance just enough to have you whimpering his name.

"Fuck," he grunts. "You need me here? Huh? You all fuckin' empty?"

"Yeah," you whine with a desperate nod. "Empty."

His grip around your ribs tightens for a moment before he's pressing you into the ground—cushioned by the few blankets you carry. He's rolled you onto your belly as he covers you completely, his warmth seeping into your skin from his calves to his hot breath on your neck.

"What do you need?" he asks. As if he doesn't know; as if he didn't always know.

"You."

"Hm?" he hums, sweet and coaxing. "How?"

You reach blindly to find his wrist, gripping it firmly. "Hold me tight," you gasp between jagged breaths. "Please... Please."

His weight is heavy over you as he drops his lips to your neck, a silent acknowledgement of your pleas.

Then he's scooping you up, lifting you and rearranging you exactly the way you want him to. Because he fucking knows.

He has you pressed to his chest with your tits against his skin as he lays back into the makeshift bed you've created for the night. His arms wrap around you, one across your shoulder blades and the other around your waist—secure and firm. His fingers press sporadically into your skin a little more than needed, like he's testing his grip on you; like he's testing he has you in his arms good and tight.

Then he hooks one leg under yours, a gentle guide to part your legs just the way he needs.

"You ready for me, sweetheart?" he breathes against your temple as one of his hands leaves you. It's temporary, you remind yourself. He'd be wrapping you up securely as soon as he'd buried himself deep; once his cock was guided safely into your throbbing cunt.

You nip at his neck in response, chasing with a delicate lick at his salty skin. "Please," you ask softly.

Then he's adjusting you against him a little, ensuring you're exactly where he needs you to be. "I got you," he says as his leaking tip prods at your entrance. "Got you," he repeats. He mumbles this way as he teases; as he plays. This was what he did: pushed you to the brink of desperate sobs as he guides his cockhead over your slippery, throbbing cunt... over and over.... and over...

Saying he liked you needy was an understatement.

Then, eventually, he slips inside. Just the tip.. and not far. Just enough so that he can wrap his arms around you again. Just enough that he can have you whimpering his name as he prevents you grinding down to take him deep inside.

This is when he gives you a hint of his strength. It's easy to keep you from your goal, his strong arms pressing you into his torso a little harder each time you attempt to resist.

He keeps you there, just with a taste of that fullness—a taste of having him as close as it was possible to be. "Kiss," he says, simple and a little croaky.

You obey, pressing your desperation between his lips. It's messy and interrupted by moments where you simply need to breathe, heavily—his lips chasing yours as you attempt to catch your breath.

"Daryl," you gasp eventually. "Now. Please."

His grip around you tightens a little as you drop your face to his neck.

Then he pulls you down to meet his cock, to fuck himself deep. It's hard, exactly like you need it—exactly the way he knows you want it. You bite into his neck weakly as he keeps you there, stuffed full—the thick throbbing length of him stretching you out so completely.

Then, "Like that?" he asks, that sweetness back in his voice—like he's offering you a gentle back massage instead of holding you down on his cock.

You nod weakly in response.

His fingers press into your skin moments before he's moving, fucking himself with your cunt as he pulls you down to meet his messy thrusts. You're completely pliant like this, all control relinquished.

He's got you.

His breathing is quickly transformed into uneven pants as he attempts to grunt broken sentences into your ear. "Sucking me in... sucking at my cock with your messy little cunt... aren't you, baby? Hm?"

One of his hands moves to your hair occasionally, a temporary and seemingly subconscious attempt to get a better grip—or just to hold you closer. His fingers tangle in the strands, never tugging hard—never hurting.

"My girl," he grunts. "My needy little girl."

It's only when he's nearing his end that he flips you onto your back and you get a real display. He grips your hips and tugs you down to meet him as he uses you, each thrust a slapping of skin and punching a helpless sound from your lungs.

Strength. Everything you've been forced to remember.

"Daryl," you gasp. "Daryl, fill me. Please."

His fingers dig a little more into your skin, his hair falling over his eyes. Then his lips part, a grunt... a broken, "Fuck."

He falls over you as he floods you, his cock twitching and pumping you full—just like you asked. But even then, even as he loses himself, he catches his fall—arms landing either side of your head to cage you in. "Got you," he gasps out between desperate lung fulls of air. "I got you."

[pencil-n-pen]

PLUSH

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

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masterlist | kofi

alexandria! rick grimes x fem! reader

summary: after settling in alexandria, you’ve put on a few pounds. you’ve never really been all that skinny, but rick is quick to set you straight on just how he feels about your tummy.

cw: reader isn’t like the biggest fan of her weight (rick is in FULL and INTENSE favor of the tummy!) but reader is otherwise not described

a/n: hey i don’t rlly know what happened to me while writing this little blurb. i just feel like rick is one of those guys who goes crazy over a woman’s pouch n stomach fat ESPECIALLY in the apocalypse

brought to you by the weight i’ve gained while recovering from knee surgery

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۫ ꣑ৎ

Alexandria is nice. Comfortable. Safe.

You might not feel safe all the time, but well. Does anyone, with the constant, looming threat of the undead? Alexandria has walls- good ones, but still.

Though it seems your comfortability has gone directly to one place.

It’s the end of the day, and you’ve taken off your usual outerwear and now stand in front of the mirror in the bedroom, the tank top you usually wear under your clothes a little tighter than usual.

You turn to the side, eyes ever critical as you trace the new curves you’re sporting.

Back and forth, side to side, sucking it in, raising your arms above your head, squishing it with your hands. Pulling your tank top off your body a little bit. Now, you have always been on the squishier side, having retained some of it even when food was especially scarce, but now you look more like you did before the world went to hell.

Funny how that works. How there’s hordes of undead not too far away, how society has collapsed, and you’re still staring at yourself in the mirror, wondering if you should try to lose some weight.

Someone clears their throat behind you, and you drop the plush flesh in your hands.

Rick’s leaning against the bathroom doorframe, eyeing you up and down with a certain heat in his eyes.

You haven’t been together for very long. Not long enough for you to know how he’ll react to the sight of the roll of flesh hanging over the edge of your pajama bottoms.

You’re not entirely sure how you managed to capture his attention in the first place, let alone move in together once you reached Alexandria. You were just a loner the group had picked up not too far from the safe zone, desperate for protection and safety in numbers.

And well. Who can look at Rick and not want his arms around you in every conceivable way?

“What d’ya have there?” He asks, pushing off the doorframe and making his way over to you.

You avoid his gaze (it still makes you nervous) and turn back to the mirror.

“Nothing. I guess I’ve been eating better since getting here.”

“Mm,” He hums, deep and throaty. “I like it.”

You frown. “You don’t have to—“

He comes up behind you, chin hooking over your shoulder and hands coming around the squeeze and roll the fat between his hands.

“You don’t like it?”

You make a non-committal noise.. “I think most girls don’t, really. Well, maybe not. I can’t speak for all women. But,”

You shrug. “I’ve never really been skinny, so. I don’t know.”

Rick’s hands are warm and hot where they hold and squeeze your tummy.

“Do you not like it when I do this?” He murmurs, lips against your neck.

It’s a conflicting feeling. On one hand, Rick is ridiculously attractive, and his hands feel amazing on your body.

On the other hand, the squeezing and rolling accentuates and draws attention to the fat there.

“I don’t know,” You decide to answer honestly. He hasn’t responded negatively so far. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the weight I lost when I was alone. Kind of a fucked up thing to think, I know.”

You sigh. “I appreciate what my body does for me.”

Rick just hums, arms around your waist. “You look healthy. Makes me happy to know my woman,” He mouths at your neck, “Is provided for. I’m a man, sweetheart. The only thing I want to do with this here,”

He rolls the fat in his hands for emphasis. “Is bury my fuckin’ face in it.”

Your skin feels hot and cold at the same time, and you squirm in place at the attention.

He holds you in place. “You know what it means? Means my woman is taken care of. Means I’m doing my job. What kind of man would I be if you were all skin and bone? Couldn’t call myself a man.”

You huff, leaning back into his chest a little. “I thought flat stomachs were the beauty standard.”

“Sweetheart,” He groans, “I don’t fuckin’ care what the standard is. You think the Greeks were carving women with flat stomachs?”

“No, but—“

“No, nothing. You look sexy as hell. ‘Sides. It’s protecting an organ I happen to like very much.”

You smack his arm. “You’re terrible.”

He kisses your cheek. “No I’m not. Come on. It’s too late for you to be worrying about anything.”

He turns off the lights while you get comfortable, then quickly settles in bed with you, arms circling your waist and pulling you flush to his chest, hands sliding under your tank and immediately resuming their ministrations.

“Rick.” You say warningly.

“What?” He murmurs, voice already rumbly and slow. “M’ just getting comfortable.”

“You’re such a tease.”

“Is it a crime to love on my woman? All of her?”

“It is when we’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“Fine, fine,” He grumbles, burying his face in your neck, hands stilling but remaining where they are.

“Can’t believe you don’t like it. S’ so soft. So nice to hold. One of my favorite things.”

“Oh really?”

“Mmm,” He gives it one last squeeze. “Yeah.”

Well. In the face of dedication like that, who could deny the man?

You let out a long exhale, relaxing into his hold and allowing him the comfort he so clearly desires. Rick makes a happy noise in the back of his throat and rubs your stomach a few times before well and truly settling into sleep.

With his warm hands held fast around you, you follow soon after.

۫ ꣑ৎ

[overthinkinglotr]

One thing it took me a while to appreciate in the LOTR films were the parallels between Frodo and Boromir—

At the end of Fellowship of the Ring, the two of them are both planning to “break the fellowship” for their own reasons.

Frodo wants to protect the others from the corruption of the Ring. Boromir wants “the strength to protect his people.” Both would have to sacrifice the fellowship for this— “to bear a ring of power is to be alone.”

They convince themselves it is their duty to save the world on their own: that this is their quest and their burden, and that they must take it even if it they do it alone, against the will of the rest of the Fellowship.

Boromir tells Frodo “I know why you seek solitude. You suffer— I see it day by day.” Earlier in Lothlorien, Boromir had walked away from the group to grieve alone.

When Boromir is first introduced, he has a large flashing arrow over his head saying “this man is going to be corrupted by the power of the Ring.” The other characters are often mistrustful of him, deeply wary, or treat his corruption as an inevitability. Gandalf warns Frodo about how “evil will be drawn to you from outside the Fellowship and, I fear, from within” while casting a side-glance in Boromir’s direction.

When the Fellowship is refused entry to Lothlorien because of the One Ring, there’s a scene where the other members of the Fellowship can’t meet Frodo’s eyes, looking away whenever he looks at them— it’s as if they’re starting to perceive him as the burden, and not the Ring.

Boromir notices this, and tells Frodo “you carry a heavy burden; don’t carry the weight of the dead.” He does not take his own advice: he carries the weight of Gondor’s dead. Fighting on the front lines of the battle between Gondor and Mordor has left him with far less hope than the other characters; he acts resentful of the other characters, because he believes they don’t truly understand the threat Mordor represents, because they haven’t spent the past few years on the front lines like he has. He tearfully confesses his kingdom “looks to him to make things right and [he] would do it”— it his duty to singlehandedly save Minas Tirith. The weight of this burden is what makes him so susceptible to the power of the Ring— which, in turn, is what makes everyone else so wary of him.

By carrying these burdens, Frodo is also becoming isolated from the other members of the Fellowship, the way that Boromir is.

At night on the banks of the Anduin, Frodo/Sam and Aragorn/Boromir have arguments that parallel each other— Sam tries to help Frodo and Frodo pushes him away; Boromir urges Aragorn to go to Minas Tirith and Aragorn pushes him away.

After the climactic battle at Amon Hen, they’re both in despair— Boromir believes his death means the end of the kingdom that has been relying so heavily on him, Frodo believes he is doomed to travel to Mordor on his own. But both are are ultimately “saved.” Aragorn swears to defend the people of Gondor, who he accepts as his people, and Sam refuses to let Frodo leave alone.

The parallels continue in the next films as well though: Frodo is ultimately corrupted by the Ring, just as Boromir was; he’s crushed under the weight of the burden he took on. But it’s just fascinating to see how much they have in common, despite being so different on the surface.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Protected by Shadows

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

AU: Mafia 141 x innocent Reader

Warnings: Mentions of violence (not graphic), protective behavior, sweet moments, and fluff

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy, I love this AU so much I’ve been so into these kinds of AUs for like ever now- also this is like my first time really doing head cannons (let me know if I did it wrong please-)

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Price is the most protective of the group, constantly checking in on you without being too overbearing. He’s the type to stop by your flower shop under the guise of "just checking in" while casually scanning for any potential threats. He keeps his voice calm and soothing, always calling you "love" or "darlin’," which makes your heart flutter. Price doesn’t just protect you physically; he makes sure you feel safe emotionally, often offering quiet reassurances like, “We’ve got you, love. Always.”

Soap is the most openly affectionate—he’s all about making you smile. He constantly flirts, dropping over-the-top compliments that leave you blushing. "Y’know, lass, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were a bloody angel sent to brighten my day." He’s also the type to sneak into your shop when it’s slow just to "help out," which usually means playing with the ribbon spools and getting tangled in them. Soap loves how flustered you get when he calls you "his bonnie girl," and he doesn’t mind making a fool of himself if it means you’ll laugh.

Gaz is the most thoughtful—he notices the small things and acts on them. When your heater broke during the winter, he showed up at your shop the same evening to fix it without even asking. He’s always bringing you little things: your favorite snacks, flowers he claims “don’t compare to the ones you grow,” or even a book you casually mentioned once. Gaz loves watching you light up when he remembers those small details, and he gets this soft smile that makes you melt every time.

Ghost is the quietest but the most intense when it comes to his care for you. He’s the one who lingers outside your shop after hours, ensuring you get home safely without you even realizing it. When he does come inside, he doesn’t say much, but his presence alone is reassuring. He’s incredibly observant—he knows when you’re upset or tired, even when you try to hide it. If someone ever upsets you, Ghost is the first to take care of it, and when you ask him about it, he’ll just shrug and say, “Handled.” He also secretly loves the nickname you gave him, though he’ll never admit it out loud.

Price, Soap, Gaz, and Ghost all have their own ways of spoiling you. Price takes you on peaceful drives to quiet places, sharing stories from his past and letting you vent about anything bothering you. Soap loves taking you out for fun nights—whether it’s dinner, an amusement park, or just driving around blasting music and singing along. Gaz is all about those quiet, cozy moments, like movie nights at home where he lets you pick every single movie, even if they’re terrible. Ghost prefers quiet walks in secluded areas or just sitting in silence with you, his hand always resting protectively on your shoulder or back.

They’re ridiculously protective of you, especially when they discover a rival gang has been sniffing around your shop. Soap was the first to get riled up, pacing and muttering about teaching them a lesson. Gaz kept it together but couldn’t stop checking in on you every five minutes, while Price made sure you had a personal escort everywhere. Ghost didn’t say a word—he just disappeared for a while, and when he returned, the threat was gone.

You’re their light in an otherwise dark world. They’re captivated by your kindness and the way you care about everyone, even when they don’t deserve it. Soap jokingly calls you "our sunshine," and while the others roll their eyes, they secretly agree. They’ll do anything to protect that light, even if it means shielding you from the darker parts of their world.

The first time they collectively admitted how much you meant to them, it was after a close call with the rival gang. Price sat you down and told you in his calm, steady voice that you were more than just someone they were protecting—you were family. Soap, of course, couldn’t resist adding, “Our girl,” with a wide grin, earning a glare from Price but a soft laugh from you. Gaz promised you that they’d always have your back, no matter what, and Ghost, in his usual fashion, simply said, “You’re ours.”

Life with them was never dull. Soap and Gaz constantly bicker over who gets to spend more time with you, while Price keeps them in line, reminding them not to overwhelm you. Ghost just watches from the sidelines, silently amused, though he occasionally throws in a dry comment that leaves everyone laughing.

You’ve become the center of their world, and while their lives may be dangerous and chaotic, they’d do anything to make sure you’re safe, happy, and loved.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[reasonsforhope]

"While COVID-19 lockdown will go down in history as a time devoid of in-person gatherings across the globe, in the United Kingdom, one quiet area on the coast of Suffolk became the hot spot for gray seals.

Orford Ness, a spit off of Great Britain that serves as a coastal nature reserve, has become the home of Suffolk’s first breeding colony of grey seals, according to the National Trust.

It is believed that these seals traveled from well-populated colonies in Norfolk and are now the first breeding colony to arrive in Suffolk — likely thanks to its remote location and very limited disturbance from humans.

The first 200 adult seals arrived at Orford Ness in 2021 when visitor access was significantly reduced in an extended period of COVID-19 closures. 

As it turns out, simply being left alone was all they needed to thrive.

Just last month, the first gray seal pup of the 2024 season was born, and this winter’s breeding season has already seen 80 pups on the scene, with many more expected. The site is now home to about 400 seals, up from about 200 just three years ago.

“We’re really happy to see new pups being born here at Orford Ness for the fourth consecutive year,” said Glen Pearce, Orford Ness’ property operations manager, in a statement.

“Despite the seals’ arrival in 2021, we held off talking about them until earlier this year because we wanted to give them the best chance of survival. Being able to talk about them this year, in real time, is a great opportunity to share more about the species and to help people understand how their own actions and behaviours can impact them.”

Human disturbance, which can include any human activity in the vicinity of the seals, is one of the biggest threats to the species, as it can cause them to change their natural behavior.

Gray seals are not listed as endangered and are protected under U.K. law, but they certainly face threats — mostly from humankind — including fishing nets, boat strikes, marine debris, pollution, or disturbance from fishermen and tourists.

Globally, the gray seal is also one of the rarest seal species, with about 50% of the world’s population dwelling in British and Irish waters. That makes this baby boom on Orford Ness that much more spectacular. 

“We’re really lucky,” Matt Wilson, the trust’s countryside manager for the Suffolk and Essex coast, told the BBC.

“They’ve formed a breakaway group, found this site and moved into the space we’ve got here. It's a real privilege to have them on this site and a responsibility, too, for the team here.”"

-via GoodGoodGood, December 11, 2024

[cyberclouddream]

Where You Feel Protective & Nostalgic

Cancer/Moon in the First House

your nurturing persona is often a shield to protect your sensitive self from getting hurt

tend to cling to a specific image of yourself, idealizing your past to avoid confronting who you are now

quick to build walls around your heart because you fear vulnerability

take criticism personally, reacting to any perceived threat defensively

Cancer/Moon in the Second House

place unrealistic value on family or sentimental items, which can lead to hoarding

hold onto old values and traditions that provide comfort

panic at the thought of losing what you have, whether it's possessions or relationships

you resist reassessing your values or beliefs about worth

you can fear taking risks with your money

Cancer/Moon in the Third House

often bring up memories that make you or others emotional

guard your ideas fiercely, reacting defensively when others challenge your opinions or beliefs

romanticize past conversations, often wishing to relive them

get too wrapped up in other people's drama, using it as shield against dealing with your own issues

Cancer/Moon in the Fourth House

prioritize family above all, which can make you blind to toxic dynamics that need to change

smother loved ones because of your desire to shield them, which can lead to resentment instead of gratitude

carry the weight of family issues, letting them define your present relationships and home life

protective instincts can turn your home (house, town, country) into a prison where you're afraid to leave

Cancer/Moon in the Fifth House

fiercely guard your hobbies and passions, fearing others may not appreciate them as much as you do

clingy in relationships when you get attached quickly, which can come from idealizing love or relationships

fear rejection which can hold you back from genuine connections

hold onto hobbies or interests that evoke fond memories, even if they no longer bring you joy

overprotective over children, suffocating their independence in your quest to keep them safe

Cancer/Moon in the Sixth House

take on the emotional baggage of your coworkers

cling to outdated health habits because they feel familiar and safe

romanticize or long for past work experiences

fear any change in your work life, no matter how stale it gets

Cancer/Moon in the Seventh House

smother partners with loyalty in a way that comes off as needy and desperate

lose yourself in the issues of your partner

obsess over the fear of abandonment

get stuck thinking about exes

outdated idea of what commitment means

Cancer/Moon in the Eighth House

get paranoid about betrayal that you won't share anything real with anyone, isolating yourself

cling to old wounds, letting them dictate your emotional landscape instead of healing

scared of new intimate connections

obsess over past loves

Cancer/Moon in the Ninth House

defensive over beliefs, shutting out criticism or new ideas that challenge you

daydream or romanticize about past adventures, in a way that can make current experiences feel disappointing in comparison

resist exploring different cultures

idealize schooling or past lessons, letting them cloud your judgment about current learning opportunities

Cancer/Moon in the Tenth House

overly concerned with others see you (reputation), letting it dictate your actions and decisions

dwell on former career successes

let family legacies dictate career choices

idolize past mentors or authority figures

Cancer/Moon in the Eleventh House

treat your friendships like possessions, suffocating them with your need for closeness

hard to let go of past friendships, yearning for times that are long gone

romanticize past group experiences

defensive when anyone challenges your views on causes you're passionate about

Cancer/Moon in the Twelfth House

hide your feelings or true self from the world

wallow in your emotional scars, protecting them like trophies

idealize solitude, thinking it's safer than connecting with others

retreat into daydreams and fantasies to avoid dealing with real issues

[nouearth]

“'TILL WE SEE STARS”

zane phillips, nico greetham, drew starkey, taylor zakhar perez, tom holland, and oliver stark x male reader.

𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓— fic [ 14.7k ] 〳 part one

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒—male reader〳make sure to read part one!〳established relationship 〳 collage!au 〳jealous!zane 〳 sexual content: everyone is a top, bottom!reader, cum dumpster!reader, double penetration, gang bang, rough!sex, kissing, spitting, breeding, cumplay, bukkake, blowjobs, handjobs, praising, body worshipping, lots and lots of filthy sex!

You didn’t notice right away.

In your defense, Zane had always been exceptionally distracting, and that would only become harder to refute since you’d been something to him.

Rephrase that—someone.

Someone special, someone of importance, someone that meant something.

You’ve had doubts. Who wouldn’t when even your own friends looked at you with such bewilderment upon introducing him to the small group. Nerds and Jocks don’t mix; a childish verity you and your friends held with high regard since being hit in the face with a ball happened one too many times to brush those instances off as mere coincidences. That, and your snickering high school classmates would since provide you a whole new perspective on that matter.

But you went on to prove your friends wrong, prove that your doubts were meager tricks that only persisted to keep you from exploring out of your comfort zone—from living life to its fullest possibilities. The house that had once shielded you from all cruelties the world and its inhabitants brought with them began to crumble from its residence on a clifftop. Parts that made up the foundation sacrificed themselves in pursuit to bring you home. Wood, stone, red bricks; they catapulted into the ocean, swam on the surface, floated for air, and dived in the deep sea. Farther and farther, they searched for you, hopeful for any signs of life that signaled for your immediate rescue.

Instead, what they found was baffling.

It was you, but it wasn’t you at the same time. Something changed—this growing assurance in your disposition, holding onto a man, large and more than capable to protect, a threat to the house that had kept you safe since birth.

Betrayal, what happened to my son? My boy? My sweet boy?

You could hear the rage in their authoritative voice, but you’ve grown to realize their awful cadence had only been a tactic for you to come back—come back to them—to scare you into being the perfect boy they’ve raised you to be.

Every kiss from the man ignited a fire within you. He forged you with strength, with fortification, with affection—and you uttered a strong defiance, then watched the foundation disintegrate before your very eyes, piece by piece.

***

There was always so much care in Zane’s palms, yet he’d proven you to be exceptionally attentive when he was upset. Like he was trying to persuade you from deviating too far into his worries.

It was embarrassing to admit how long it took for you to piece it altogether—why he was often in a mood, or why he was adamant in making you stay the night at his apartment. You never pondered about it for too long as it never amounted to much. All it took was a night in his bed, watching his favorite shows, kissing and fondling to take his mind off of what was festering inside, and everything returned back to normal. A stressful day at work or practice, you’d reckon as you watched him sleep on your chest, his gentle snores beckoning you to your slumber.

But you began noticing a pattern. It happened every Thursday and Friday. You’d come to his place after tutoring, and he would greet you by the entrance with the most fulfilling kiss. Grappled by his arms around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest, and your lips raptured by his.

“Well, greetings to you too! I brought dinner.”

“That can wait… I missed you,” he would say before swooping you off your feet and fleeing with you into his bedroom.

At the least provocation, he’d proven all too willing to lick into your mouth and shove his greedy hands beneath your shirt. It was a growing tendency that you weren’t inclined to draw to a close because frankly—there was nothing to complain about, other than the cold takeout.

As observant as you usually were, you blamed yourself for not puzzling Zane’s growing possessiveness to your tutoring sooner.

Or maybe you were turning a blind eye, because you anticipated the magnificent nights he’d bestow on you. On those nights, Zane was especially keen to make you take all of him—every inch, every seed, every feeling.

“Swallow it all. I don’t want to see a drop left, baby.” “M-mmfngh—“

All in all, it was beginning to become clear that those days were bothering him. You could feel the tension in the air, the heaviness in your gut as Zane swelled inside of you for the second time of the night, two days in a row.

It was beyond the fact that you tutored—he was fine with that.

It was who you were tutoring.

On Thursdays, you could feel his delusional need to investigate who’d been in your mouth. Tom? Oliver? Taylor? He would suckle on your tongue until you reeled back for a breath, and even then, he wouldn’t stop licking into your mouth.

On Fridays, his hands wouldn’t leave your body. They covertly searched high and low, back to front, squeezing, pulling, roaming, pushing, for any marks, for any evidence of Nico’s presence, of Drew’s marks—but the only blemishes were Zane’s from the day before. A love bite to your neck, and another one to the left of your hip bone.

No one.

You both knew it was the truth—your loyalty to him, but Zane was a madman who was being fed with delusions beyond your control, and in turn, it gifted you the most passionate lover only you could’ve fantasized in novels.

“Oh, g-god. Right there. Don’t go faster, Zane. Don’t slow down. Just like that—“ “Yeah? You like my cock wrecking your pretty hole? Just. Like. That?”

***

“Would it make you feel better if you were with me?” you mentioned out of the blue, the show you two had been watching finally rolled the credits.

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Zane averted his gaze toward you, blindly reaching for the remote and switching the TV off. Then, he pulled you closer into his arms and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. His nose buzzed with delight at the scent of your shampoo.

“Well…” he watched you ponder—your gaze avoidant and wandering unlike the abrupt tension he felt in your body. He opened his arm out of concern, allowing you to properly gather yourself with the newfound space. You sat up and resumed explaining carefully, “I know you don’t like it when I’m… with your friends—alone. Embarrassingly enough, it just hit me—and… well, you seem off these days. And I think it’s because of that.”

It was like being caught in a lie. Not one of those major ones that Zane knew he would commit from beginning to end, but a white lie—a vaulted truth to spare your feelings, even if it meant that it was festering and poisoning him on the inside.

It was an unspoken promise. A natural response. A firm conviction that he should bear your troubles and worries in solitude.

After all, he was your boyfriend, your protector.

“What? Babe—no, what? Have I been acting different? I don’t know. I guess work’s gotten busier, so I guess that could explain…” He was teetering on the edge of revelation or secrecy, stammering until he was one step away from falling.

Zane was never a great liar.

“Come on. You can be honest. Is it because you don’t trust me? Because we study at the library and—“

“No, I absolutely trust you. Don’t say that.”

“I mean, it’s probably weird for me to be hanging out with them—in a way. It makes sense that you’d want to be there, so I get it if you feel hurt or disappointed or—“

“Babe, it’s not—“

“They’re your friends, not mine. I mean, I don’t think they see me as a friend anyway? I’m their tutor, and that’s how it should be…”

“(M/N), wait a second—“

Your hands were theatrical. Grandiose. If you had a symphony playing with you, they’d be performing with fervor, sweating until the grasp on their instruments had slipped at the nearing crescendo, and the audience would gasp altogether to fill the void of abrupt silence.

“I promise, Zane. All I do is give them assignments, like I did with you—well, not like I did with you. We were a little different, weren’t we… but with them? I-it’s like how I tutor everyone else and…!“

You suddenly stood up from the couch, clearly exasperated by the lack of words that could properly support your claims.

“Hey, hey…” he quelled you with a gentle tug to your hand, silently urging you back to his side with a consoling grin. You huffed, sucking in what he could presume to be more self-destructing words, and dramatically let the tension on your shoulders push your body onto his lap.

It wasn’t the right moment to notice, but would you kill him if he felt more inclined to annoy you in the future if this was how charming you always looked? The answer would probably be no. You had a tendency to forgive—a little too easily.

“Then what’s wrong? Is it my fault? Over-cooked your chicken? Ate your protein bar without asking? Got a stain on your hoodie, but I think I washed it out…?” Frowning, you stared back up at him through your eyelashes, chin sunken to your chest, and completely hopeless.

For a moment, he was speechless. It always took one glance from you for Zane to lose his train of thought. Even when you felt all kinds of emotions, there was still that glint in your eyes that never failed to make his heart feel like it was about to burst.

“Kinda is your fault. I mean, if you hadn’t been born with that handsome face of yours, or been blessed with brains and kindness, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“Be serious!” Zane felt your body tense up again. You were about to pull yourself off his lap before he rested a hand to your chest and gently pushed you back. “So, there is a problem…”

“It’s my problem, (M/N),” he began soothing your chest in small circles. The cotton soft in his palm before it was inevitably delighted with the firmness of your chest when he slipped a hand under your shirt, resuming his caress.

“I might not have a lot of experience in dating, but I’ve watched a lot of films to know that partners help each other when either one of them have a problem.”

Guilt was quickly catching up to him. Zane could feel its presence looming over his head. Like smog, heavy and thick, and even if it had waned into thin air—completely obliterated to the back of his mind—Zane was confident he would be suffering from the ramifications of it in the future.

“God… what am I going to do with you,” he dipped forward and buried his head into your body, using your shirt to muffle his conflicted groans.

It was those eyes of yours again. He couldn’t bear to face you with the secrets he’d been withholding, but he was already in this predicament. Ignoring it, even after being called out on his behavior, would just make things worse than if he would just tell you the truth.

He waited for seconds. Then seconds turned into minutes. Then those remaining minutes were spent sighing at the softest strokes you brushed through his hair, to occupy the silence, or to break the tension between you two. Either way, his heart felt heavier despite your comforting attempts.

With a mutter, Zane turned his head towards you and looked truthfully into your eyes, “Yeah, I’m jealous.”

You immediately perked up to join him at his side again, taking his hand into yours, “Zane, I promise—nothing happens…”

“No, I know, (M/N). I trust you. I mean, what can I say? I miss you. Our schedule isn’t aligning like I thought it would, and it feels like I’m seeing you less since you’ve taken Tom, Drew, Taylor… all of them for tutoring.”

“I can cut back? Maybe arrange the meetings to fit your schedule, and that way we can—“

“No, absolutely not. I’m not going to be that type of boyfriend.”

“Well, I can’t just sit here and watch you suffer.” Zane watched you play with his fingers, clamping your hand to his, then unclasping as his thoughts prolonged another silence.

“You have no idea, (M/N). I… God, it’s all fucked up.” He rubbed his face to comfort himself, groaning into his palms before taking your hands into his again.

Nothing calmed him more than simply holding you.

“What? It’s just about us not spending enough time together, right? Maybe I’m too optimistic, but that seems like something that can be easily resolved…”

“No—I mean, yes. That’s the problem, but it isn’t the main problem…”

“Then… what is?”

From the corner of his eye, he watched you physically brace yourself, straightening your posture like the suspense had been literally killing you and your insides. You took one deep exhale, preparing yourself for the worst while Zane fished for his phone, and scrolled through his messages.

He began explaining.

Taking tutoring lessons was the last thing on the team’s mind. For Zane and Nico, it was a simple affair. Their grades were dropping like flies, and their coach didn’t like the sight of that, or the consequences that would follow. If they didn’t take their grades seriously, how could Coach trust them to lead the team? How can they lead the team with discipline—if they severely lacked it themselves? Zane was warned of this predicament for multiple semesters, and it was only recently when he began taking it seriously.

He’d never received a letter from his coach before, and as laughably traditional as it was, he’ll forever remember the sinking feeling in his chest when he read the last paragraph of his coach’s handwriting:

Fix your grades by the end of the semester, or you’re out. No more second chances. You’re great, but not that great for me to put your future in jeopardy. Sorry, I should’ve been harder on you.

Without much arguing, he did as he was told. Week by week, month by month, Zane and Nico’s grades improved tremendously, and the threat of being kicked off the wrestling team was delayed for another semester. However, as much as the guys were impressed by their success, Zane couldn’t owe the credit to solely himself. You were a major part of his triumphant journey, and the team would since become greatly fond of you and your saving contributions to the group.

Maybe it was inspiring to watch Zane and Nico dig themselves out of a rut, an underdog story that everyone loved rooting for in the movies. Or maybe it was some kind of unspoken brotherhood, where if one was struggling, then the other would join them in their agony to establish some type of rapport. Because soon after, Zane’s teammates found themselves in an awfully similar situation to him and solicited your service.

But Zane knew his teammates.

Zane knew that this decision was completely out of left field. Taylor, Tom, Drew, Oliver; it was strange to see all of them suddenly feel the need to seek out a tutor—specifically you out of all the available people—to help them with their studies.

It was odd to listen to them complain that their grades had been dropping, apparently lower and lower with every passing week.

And again, Zane knew his teammates.

He spent every waking second with them since they’d met each other as freshmen; aligned every course with the guys so he’d come into class knowing at least one person; visited each other’s house on semester breaks because why the hell not—it was on the drive home. For god’s sake, all of their parents knew the team by government name, siblings if they had any, and even their own aspirations in life.

They were teammates, but they were also best friends.

So, Zane had every right to call this entire arrangement as bullshit.

They weren’t struggling with their grades. Tom and Taylor were honor students. Oliver was a teaching assistant. Drew was interning for a marketing firm that made Zane’s eyes hurt when he snooped through Drew’s emails, and looked at the qualifications for the rather imposing position.

Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

They were fucking with him.

Or to better clarify—trying to fuck with you.

Trying to fuck you.

It was Zane’s fault. He wasn’t clear that he was actually serious about his relationship with you, and that unlike his previous relations, there was no sharing with the team. All hands were off—should be off—and the only ones you’d be holding were Zane’s.

No.

That didn’t sound right.

It was their fault. It had to be their fault. They were the ones talking about you like they had never seen a pretty boy in their life, like they had never seen a man sharing this dreadful place we call Earth. A man with those pretty eyes, smiling with that pretty mouth, frowning with those pretty cheeks, typing with those pretty hands—the team would practically brand you as theirs with every session they’d return from studying with you, and they boasted about it all to Zane’s face.

Maybe it was his fault after all.

Zane loved bragging about you. It wasn’t something he often did with his previous partners, but something about you changed him. Zane loved showing your selfies off to his friends. One day he’d marvel how soft your lips were, the next he’d go on a tangent about what an incredibly kind person you were for finding someone’s lost dog. It was all arbitrary. As long as it was framed around you, the topics bounced from your looks to your body to your personality, and to his surprise, his friends would chime in too.

Increasingly more, as they would get to know you following every meeting.

The worst part was that Zane allowed it to happen and found himself encouraging this behavior he was scrutinizing. The group chat was complete evidence of his participation, and with every message, he could physically feel the jury slipping out of his favor.

Drew: I shouldn’t have doubted you, Zane. There’s something about your boy’s eyes…

Tom: Oh god. Does he always look at you like that, Zane? I don’t know how you can handle it. I have to physically hold my crotch to keep myself from coming in my pants.

Taylor: Can we talk about his lips, though? They’re so plump. I couldn’t help but stare at them. He does that cute thing where he chews on his lip when he’s grading.

Oliver: I wonder what he does when his mouth is filled. Zane? Care to give us a hint, please? Or shall we give him a visit and demo for ourselves…?

Zane: Hm, I’ll just say that… (M/N)’s learning very quickly on how to breathe through his nose and relax his throat. Though, that doesn’t stop the noises from coming out of his mouth.

Nico: Always had a thing for nerds… He suck you off with his glasses on or no?

Zane: On.

Drew: Oh, c’mon…

Taylor: Shit. I’m getting hard.

Tom: Fuck. Me too.

Nico: Lucky bastard… It should’ve been me!

Oliver: Never mind. This is so much better than what I could’ve imagined.

Zane laid it all out onto the table for you. His phone was a bar of gold in your hand as you scrolled and read through the messages pertaining you between him and his friends. The more recent the texts were, the more explicit and brazen.

Taylor talked about a dream that he had of you, where you allowed him to kiss you wherever he pleased if he got a question right. This was as innocent it would get. His hand would be shoved into your pants while he would kiss at your neck, licking into your whimpers.

Tom texted about the random hard-ons he’d sport when he was with you. Something as simple as watching you lick your lips was enough to get him off for the night.

Drew daydreamed about you giving him a hand job in the library. The rush of being nearly caught, and the flood of embarrassment blooming on your neck and face resulted him coming within your fist. You’d hover your free hand beneath his cock, to catch the flood of cum, because you were a kind person who didn’t want to make a public mess. And because you were such a kind person, you’d slurp his cum off your palm, right then and there, before Drew’s very eyes.

Nico was the most yearning. Perhaps it was because he always played second fiddle to Zane’s leadership, and that reflected onto his fantasies, but he missed hearing your praises. Praises that consisted of how good he was at solving this problem; how proud you were when he went out of his way to do more problems than what was assigned to him; how nice he felt when he pushed his warm cock inside of you for the first time. You’d overwhelm him with so many compliments, so many kind words, that it wouldn’t take much for him to come inside of you.

Oliver was a brazen man. He spoke without thought, without a filter, and if it came to Zane’s decision, he would want to publish a book full of Oliver’s lewd fantasies about you. He wanted to fuck you. Point blank period. It wasn’t up for debate. He would make you take him in the car if he could. Bent over the backseat, while he pounded into you out in the parking lot, or maybe in the woods if you preferred seclusion. And when he was done with you, he’d leave you there dripping, inhaling another smoke to work up another appetite, as if the image of his cum leaking out of you and down your legs hadn’t strung up his cock like a puppet with every passing second.

“It’s a lot, I know,” Zane’s voice broke you from the spell that was his friends’ fantasies. You blinked rapidly to ward off the explicit images festering. He was reading them with you, the illusions silently feeding you and him simultaneously. “Listen, if you want to call it quits, I understand. But I just—I love… seeing them talk about you like that. It makes me… so proud. Powerful—knowing that they can’t ever lay their hands on you, as long as I’m in the picture.”

“But… you said you were jealous? I don’t understand—” You fidgeted uncomfortably against him. Zane took no mind to it, especially since you seem to be taking the information better than he’d thought, but your constant squirming was beginning to be a cause of concern. He blindly opened his arm for you, allowing you to snuggle into his side.

“Yeah, well… I guess riling your friends up and feeding into their fantasies has some consequences. I like it when they talk about you to me, but… I don’t know, I guess I imagine what they would do to you if you were alone with them and it makes me worried, yet aroused? It’s… confusing, I know. I don’t get it either—Babe, are you okay? You keep moving.“

“No, continue—it’s just—“ you groaned, pressing closer to his side and crossing your legs. “Is that why you’ve been extra affectionate? I mean, you always have been, but I swear, I think we have sex almost every day—or is that normal? Not that I don’t love it. I don’t want you to get tired of me or something.”

“First off, never going to happen. I could never get tired of you. And… it might be normal depending on who you’re asking… Might be our new normal, if I’m being honest. I can’t help that you’re so irresistible—okay, what’s going on—” For a couple more seconds, Zane endured you fiddling with the blanket on your lap before suddenly tugging it off and freeing you of your agony, or whatever was the reason of your constant writhing.

He glanced down at your lap, and your reflex was quick to hide it—whatever was near your pelvis. It was hard seeing you in the dark with the TV and his phone switched off. The moonlight filtered through the blinds on his windows, but it was only enough to highlight parts of your face, not enough to illuminate the entire living room.

Without a warning, Zane reached in between your thighs and frisked whatever that had come into contact with his palm. He raised an eyebrow at the sudden hitch of your breath, feeling nothing but the leather of the couch in his palm—until he moved it higher, toward your lack of an attempt at shielding, and pushed your hand aside.

“Oh,” it didn’t take long to guess what was in the palm of his hand. He could trace the shape of it in his sleep if he was asked to. Write the exact measurements as he recalled numerous nights with you if he was quizzed on it, even if majority of his calculations relied on his grip.

Zane knew you very well, and he especially knew what he was squeezing—gently kneading until those familiar sounds poured out of you like freshly squeezed orange juice.

Ah, there it was.

It was his boy’s cock.

“Don’t get mad—“ you warned, pausing Zane’s kneads with a gentle grasp, but he persisted, only challenging the tightness in your shorts in the end.

“Why would I be mad? You’re not mad?” his voice traveled ticklishly to your ear. He’d pulled you closer, whispering while his hand was all synonyms of tantalizing.

“Is it wrong to say that I’m not? Is this was what you felt like…? I’m confused and horny, and it’s all a mess, Zane…” you groaned when his hand into the leg opening, eagerly reaching for your stiff arousal.

“God, sorry—let’s just… talk about this later. Fuck, come on.”

“Y-yeah, good idea.”

***

“They never heard yours.”

It was cool and lulling—the baby wipe Zane was cleaning you down with. Just when you thought Zane couldn’t have gotten more attractive, the concentrated look on his face while he wiped the sweat and sticky residue off your torso made your flaccid cock twitch, his biceps bulging like they were still strenuous from holding you against the wall a few minutes prior.

Zane raised a curious brow at your vagueness and your renewed arousal altogether before chucking the wipes in a bin and tucking himself to your side. “What do you mean?”

At the advance of his arms around your waist, you turned in your position to face him, pulling him close by the hips. “Your fantasy. They all told you about theirs, but you never did. Just makes me curious… on what yours is?”

Zane pondered, his thumb pondering with him as it chased after an internal beat, a rhythm over your lower back. In the meantime, you surveyed his face, like you always did post-sex. His moles were attractive, his eyebrows and lips deliciously full, and his eyes—beautiful windows to his beautiful soul.

You were the luckiest man on earth.

“You can’t judge me, all right?”

He jolted you back from your studying, an uncertain air emanating from his disposition.

You took his cheek in your hand and squeezed him with assertion. “I would never!”

Your constant kneading made him loosen up. He exhaled deep, looking dubious, but compiled trust into your eyes in the end—because it was just a fantasy, right?

One.

BIg.

Fucking.

Dream.

Finally, Zane confessed.

“Gangbang…”

“Oh…!”

***

Zane didn’t know what to expect. He had to admit that you looked uneasy when he brought up the topic of having a safe word. As basic as it was, the traffic light system was ideal as vanilla as it was, especially for something as daunting as someone’s first gangbang.

Plus, you were getting a little too creative with the safe words.

“What about… peanut butter cup..?” “Eh… think that’s a little too long, babe.” “Ghost!” “You might freak Tom out. He apparently had an ‘apparition’ back at his grandma’s house.” “Sheep?” “Sounds like ‘shit,’ which can be misconstrued as “shit, keep fucking me!"” “Hm… pickle?” “Gross! You know I hate pickles!” “You don’t eat words, Zane!”

As hopeful and convincing Zane could be, the last thing he would’ve thought was you agreeing to this—without much hesitation too, might he add.

“Can you move okay?” Zane stepped aside for you to walk from one end of his bedroom to the other. It wasn’t much distance, but it wasn’t like you needed an ample amount of space to begin with.

You took the open floor to demonstrate your ability to walk. It seemed simple enough. You did it every day. One foot after the other, step by step, leisurely and calmly and—

“Oh—“ you stiffened after the first step and froze in place. One leg methodically moved back and forth to gauge the restrictive mobility. “It feels a little… tight?”

“We can go a size smaller, but it should be a little uncomfortable. Plus, you’re not going to be walking much? Hopefully…” Zane calmly reasoned, maneuvering you like a mannequin. His hand was searching high and low for any physical indications that a butt plug was lodged inside of you—pressing when the flange toy protruded a centimeter more than he had liked.

Your breath hitched and then you shook your head, deciding the size was adequate adequate enough, and resumed walking normally. One couldn’t have noticed any oddities, as long as they ignored the rigidness of your posture.

The feeling came out of the blue—you wanted to impress them. After all, you were the star of the night. Zane’s confession had been simmering in your thoughts for a few days, especially one comment when he described how powerful he felt knowing his friends wanted you, but couldn’t have you.

You wanted to make Zane proud. If the humblest of all brags turned his friends into complete brutes, you couldn’t imagine how they would act when they all have had a turn to explore your body inside and out, and never again. Dogs. Monsters. Yet they’d worship every sovereign step that Zane would take like they were indebted to his graciousness, like they were his men of labor, all for one more night with you again.

You wanted more than to make Zane proud. You wanted to make him feel like a king.

Three knocks at the door, and the long-awaited fantasy was a door away from becoming a reality. You tailed stiffly after Zane, the kiss he quickly granted you before jogging to the entrance like a spell to your pursuit—like a hex to the tension Zane knew all-so-well.

Zane looked back once more, a nod of assurance padded by a bright smile, and you exhaled out the tightness in your chest.

Let the party begin.

***

“Let’s make it… easier for you, babe. Warm you up instead of abruptly starting?”

“Yeah—that sounds fine to me.”

“You’ll spin the bottle, and whoever it lands on can initiate the first step. No more than a minute. Then, you’ll spin the bottle again—second person goes, so-on and so-on. Sound good? More organized that way, right? And you can get a feel of everyone’s… vibes without it being overwhelming. Fellas? Any objections?”

“Sounds good to me, Zane.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeap.”

“Mm-hm.”

“No complaints here.”

The slower the bottle spun, the faster your heart beat. Your eyes moved from one man to the next, as if you were the empty beer bottle itself. The group formed a circle in the middle of the living room, small but enough to accommodate for seven men: You, Zane, Taylor, Oliver, Nico, Tom, and Drew; in that order of the circumference. Other than the guys catching up with you—small talk about your tutoring, their assignments, dinner, new dogs, and whatnot—conversations were kept to a minimum.

All seven of you knew why you were here altogether, and they weren’t keen on drawing it out for any longer.

“You guys just came back from the gym?” Zane asked after taking a sip of his beer. You reached for his bottle, feeling parched, and he passed it to you with a composing grin, lingering to watch your expression sour as the bubbles tickled your throat.

“Yeah—was going to hit the showers, but then we would’ve been late,” Taylor explained, and the rest of the guys nodded in between sips of their beers, comically attentive to the slowing bottle. You took a silent whiff of the heavy musk radiating off of the five men; your dick twitched.

“Oh shit, who’s it gonna be?! First stud of the night!” Tom bowed his body forward and began drumming the floor in faux suspense. You laughed and joined in on the increasing drum rolls, the others including yourself finding his anticipation infectious as laughter spread amongst the group like a virus—the seven pairs of hands drumming on the floor altogether being part of the symptom.

There was nothing to be worried about, was there?

This was going to be fun.

A blast.

A bang.

The bottle slowed, passing pairs of bare feet in its rotation. Multiple postures straightened as if they could compel gravity to direct the bottle towards them, but then Drew’s slumped when it passed him, then Taylor’s, and a domino effect of lost hope was rippled—all except for one.

A chorus of oohs broke out when it stopped on Nico—Zane’s right-hand man. It must’ve been an inside joke between all six of them because Oliver made a comment about how Nico was finally having his moment, and they all erupted into another fit of laughter, cutting the tension in the air one chuckle at a time.

“You’re up!” Zane beckoned with a nod. You took another glance at him, nothing of concern, but rather to alleviate his own worries by the way he suddenly gathered his hold on your hand, and then pecked him on the lips and cheek. He smiled, returning the peck onto your lips before whispering into your ear, “Show ‘em what a lucky man I am.”

“Whew, all right..!” Nico propped himself up with a hop.

Nico made his way towards you and pulled you to the middle of the circle. Even knowing that you read his messages, he still carried that dashing smile like it was a weapon. One that regularly caused destruction on many hearts, one that charged your own like it was a battery—you just now discovered how disruptive dimples could be.

He was a sly man. Two-faced even, and you anticipated to discover this other side of him that he’d been reluctant to show.

“Hi—again,” Nico whispered through a smile. You found it charming how he couldn’t contain his glee. Dimple to dimple, they were like two separate smiles of their own, bracketing the salient beam from widening any further.

You wanted to peek over at Zane when Nico pressed his nose to yours, taunting himself—taunting you with the suspense of his soft-looking lips. But Nico’s hand on your nape was absolute and refusing, holding you like you were a weakening star—his dying wish, and made you fix his eyes on him, as he had done for you all this time. “Sorry you had to find out this way, but… I have a crush on you.”

“No—it’s fine. It’s why we’re here, right?” You braced one hand over Nico’s lap and the other on his broad chest. Sturdy, well-defined muscles graced your palm with every caress.

“Yeah… what a way to reciprocate my feelings…”

Slowly, you felt Nico’s breath warm your lips before they were taken hostage by his pair of reds, mirroring the close of his eyes upon noticing. The room fell to a silence, watching like hawks, closing in between the two bodies for front seating of the kiss.

He started gentle; soft lips moving against softer lips, careful to avoid hitting your glasses, your gasps and his groans filling your mouth with fulfillment. One hand of Nico’s maintained on your nape while the other rested on the small of your back, to pull you closer, to feel the skin hidden beneath polycotton. His hand was warm as he roamed; big as he held at nothing but something all at once; inquisitive as his fingers would occasionally dip into the waistband of your shorts.

The longer it goes on, the harder the kiss was. Nico’s mouth was illusive, now hard and abrasive to train your mouth open, and then stay open as he licked into your mouth and explored with his curious tongue. Your ears perked at an envious comment from one of the guys, but it was quickly hushed following the sound of your moans. Nico wrapped his mouth around your tongue and sucked with ardency, mining any possible sounds out of you like they were Earth’s greatest treasure. Your tongue reeled back in growing desire to tick a kink off of Nico’s bucket list, smooching a few more times on the lips, holding his cheek, and then whispering into his warm mouth with a bated breath as his hand halted its lone venture up the opening of your shorts.

“You’re a great kisser, Nico…”

“Time!”

A timer sang from your side, and a web of spit tailed your lips as you pulled away, letting your gaze linger to catch Nico’s heightened arousal in his eyes before returning to your seat.

“Fuck..,” chuckles spread from man to man when Nico returned, exhaling and shaking all sorts of trembles out of his body. Oliver and Tom aided with hard smacks to Nico’s back, sharing the thrill of the kiss simultaneously.

“Was that okay?” You whispered to Zane, fixing your glasses while the rest of the guys debriefed on Nico’s fulfillment. A collection of comments such as, “I’m fucking jealous…”, “Did you see the way he looked at you? Fucking sexy…”, “God, I hope it’s me next,” made you squirm in your seat.

Your mission from all of this was to make Zane proud, but it wouldn’t hurt if you gifted yourself a slight ego-boost in the meantime, right?

“You did… fucking perfect. I think you’re riling them up—riling me up too, actually,” he muttered, briefly maneuvering your hand to demo the boner in his shorts before returning back to his duties as the host. “Okay, settle down! Babe? Next spin, please? Think the team’s getting a little antsy.”

You surveyed the room again. Nico was subtly pushing down on his crotch while Drew, Tom, and Oliver were casual about it, openly massaging themselves through their shorts, their eyes wandering towards you with repose. If you hadn’t had the decency to look away, you could’ve indulged in their thick prints for a little longer.

But duty called. You reached for the bottle and spun it, bating the men with the suspense of who was going to be next in line in warming you up.

The crown of the bottle stopped parallel to Taylor, who was slouched on his elbows like he’d been expecting it—rigged it with his mind if telekinesis was more than hypothetical. He greeted you with provocation, flashing his brows and a smug smile all at once, then a wink, before joining you in the middle. You always found him intimidating. It was probably those eyelashes of his. They were always fluttering, even when you would go over his notes—he would blink and stare once knowing it was effective enough to render you speechless. As naive as it sounded—it felt like Taylor was adept to anything and everything, including whatever he was about to do to you.

And you were absolutely correct in that hypothesis—because Taylor immediately began stripping you down. It was inevitable, but you didn’t expect all of you to be bared within the second spin.

“Seems like Taylor’s on a mission.” Oliver laughed, catching your briefs and taking a whiff at it before passing it to the group. One by one, you watched each person press their nose to the center of your briefs, and inhale. Comments on the smell of your arousal made your dick twitch again. Harder, when Drew and Oliver engrossed themselves in the fine stain of pre-cum and took multiple lingering whiffs in hounding the sweet musk again. You’d think you laced them with some kind of potion—an elixir that amplified their excitement through every vein in their body, from hands to cock.

From head to toe, your clothes came off and were tossed aside, and you let Taylor’s spirit of inquiry explored as he pleased. Sprawling your arms and legs out like he was frisking you, smacking the back of your thighs like he was a butcher examining the quality of fresh meat. You groaned when he loitered at your naked body, noticing the constellation of goosebumps on your chest to the dimples on your backside—all with a glaze of his hand. Taylor’s fingers followed every contour of your body—from spine to muscle—studying you and the smallest reactions you’d spare him with pleased eyes as he smacked, kissed, smoothed, and licked the canvas that was made of skin and bone. You were a sculpture carved by the Renaissance, and Taylor was a curator, assessing your value through the warmth of his mouth, the slick of his tongue, and the kneads of his hands.

“Oh, what do we have here?” His mouth was on your stomach, closely tending to the warm skin with kisses, while his hand was on your rump, prodding at the plug that had been confined in you for the entirety of the day. “Guys, jackpot. (M/N) came with a surprise.”

“I-it wasn’t my idea—“ Heat rose high to your neck when Taylor turned you around and showed your ass off to the ogling group of men. While he was at it, he mind as well brand you with a price tag—right on your ass cheeks, where Taylor smacked each side once, massaging them with a firm knead, and spread you open.

“Holy shit…” Tom muttered while he stood on his knees, taking in the sight of your plugged hole. You impulsively squeezed your thighs together, covering your growing erection at the marveling shared between the six men. There was a wonder in Zane’s expression, resembling the first time he undressed you before his very eyes.

“You like teasing us, don’t you?” Drew said when your glutes tensed, and the room hummed with the soft susurrus of agreement. “Pretty thick ass too, jesus—“

“Time,” Zane stopped the alarm after a ring, sighing in between kneads to his bulge.

Five of the guys collectively groaned from the cliff-hanger while Taylor gave your hard ass a smack in midst of returning to his seat. “See how considerate I can be? You’re welcome, fellas!”

You jolted, gulping at the budding sting. It was becoming a habit to seek for Zane’s approval after every turn, and fortunately you did—because unbeknownst to Taylor, Zane was staring him down, a furious and annoyed look on his face that quickly simmered when he caught your gaze.

“Spin, please.”

The next stop was Tom—Eager Tom. He’d been making comments on your body since he stepped foot inside the apartment, so it was expected that his turn would be based on personal whims. Although, you reckoned that the plug inside of you turned the tides.

Making you kneel on all fours, Tom slowly twisted the plug in and out of you while the group gathered from behind and intimately watched. You clenched at the base, stifling your groans into the back of your hand upon the group’s growing fascination with the sight of your swelling pucker.

“Fuck, look at that pretty rim…” Oliver mumbled, and Tom took it as a hint to trace the border of your hole with his finger, lone yet devious.

“If it looks that appetizing, imagine how it tastes,” Drew covertly suggested.

Tom hummed in thought while toying thoughtlessly with your hole—into your hole. “Not much of an ass-eater, maybe I should hand that task off to someone more capable… What do you think, (M/N)?”

“P-please… anyone is fine—”

As the tip neared its exit, you desperately held onto the last bit of latex that kept you from baring it all—thighs vibrating from the difficulty, toes curling as Tom screwed—but your muscles were as weak as Tom’s patience, and you naturally gave into his tortuous wrenching, clamming up him when he suddenly plunged the plug back into you, then completely bloomed—when Tom finished you off with a tyrannical yank.

“O-oh, god!” You yelped loud as you bared yourself for the group. Deep waves of heat trampled over your body and swam into every course of vein as one person after the other, from Tom to Drew to Nico to Oliver to Taylor to Zane, moaned in chorus at the sight of your budding insides.

Your chest laid flat on the floor, your glasses tossed and forgotten, your hips and ass raised high, your cock throbbed towards the floor—you suddenly buckled your hips when you felt a wad of spit launched directly at your blinking hole.

Then another, and another, and then three consecutive more, until your hole felt completely, and utterly drenched—one from every man you presumed as you laid there, writhing and dripping.

“Fuck, so pretty when it’s glistening like that,” Tom groaned. You could hear fabrics moving, see clothes coming off when you peeked from your position, and your cock throbbed at the smallest glimpse of Tom’s naked body, followed by Oliver’s, and then so on.

“Time,” Zane said again, then a second later rescinded his announcement, rubbing an affectionate hand over your back for you to look up. “Actually, fuck this—baby, you’re okay with us starting now? I don’t think we can handle it anymore… yeah?”

“Y-yeah, no—I can’t wait any longer—oh!” Suddenly, you felt something wet breach your hole. Unrelenting in its expedition as it flicked and wiggled the group’s load of spit inside of you, sliming you up from inside and out.

“Sorry, (M/N). Drew hasn’t had dinner yet—come on, up and at ‘em,” Oliver steered you back on all fours with a rough pull to your shoulders, and knelt himself before you. He pushed your hair back once, admiring the sweat beading over your hairline, the increasingly dismayed look on your face when someone—Taylor—spread and smacked your ass apart for Drew to lick and devour inside you completely. “And neither have you. Open.” You couldn’t even hesitate as Oliver worked at lighting pace. He hooked his thumb into your mouth, pulled it open, spat a thick load of spit where your tongue deftly caught it, and pushed his thick cock into your mouth—all in one neck-braking motion.

“Fuck…” Oliver moaned at the warmth of your mouth. His eyes rolled, but the sight of your lips wrapped around his veiny dick was holier than the overhead lights spotlighting you from above, so he did his best to maintain his composure, working your mouth open with the girth of his cock—slow and steady.

At least Oliver was generous enough to not shove himself down the back of your throat, but still—your throat spasmed nonetheless when he shoved himself deeper with a tug to your nape. Upon the hit to your throat, you abruptly pushed him out with your tongue and a gag, launching into a coughing fit.

“Loosen up on him, will you? He bruises easily,” Zane muttered, noticing Oliver’s fingers turning eggshell-white upon taking your name in his hand. Although, that didn’t stop Zane’s hand from fisting his cock. If anything, it pulsed merrily at the sound of your throat resisting.

“He’ll use his safe words, right? You’re fine? Tell me if you need a break,” As much as Oliver was large and imposing, his body a thick and study mass akin to Zane’s, his eyes were made of sugar. An uncanny color for those soluble carbohydrates, but it was fitting, considering your body melted from the way he looked fondly at you and petted at your cheek. “Pretty.”

“I-I’m fine…” You said with a bated breath and nodded to Oliver with assurance. Then again, when Zane’s hand pushed your hair back and remained on the crown of your head. “I’m fine. Promise.”

“I know. I trust you.” He bent down to soothe the swell of your lips with a lingering kiss before delivering a smack to your ass and pulling away with a renewed disposition. “Suck his cock like how you suck mine. Properly, this time.”

“Fuck—“ Your body propelled forward from the never-ending feast on your puckering hole. Out of curiosity, you peered over your shoulder and instantly found yourself regretting it. It was unavoidable. Your cock leaking in agony, watching Nico, Taylor, and Drew take turns at licking stripes over your hole. Hungry animals.

On Drew’s turn, he caught your gaze in midst of his licks and came to a sudden halt. He then widened his tongue over your crack and with a leaden pace, laved his tongue over your crease like he was cleaning the last bit of crumbs off his plate, smug and teasing in his scheme to make you break.

“No more distractions, yeah? That’s not the way you treat your boyfriend’s friends.” A grappling hook to your nape tore your eyes back to your front, and your mouth was instantly filled again with the heavy weight of Oliver’s musky cock. Your hands were braced on the floor, clutching at nothing but the installed security of wood panels, as Oliver rocked into your mouth. Your cheeks hallowed progressively, adapting to the stretch of your mouth when he tested the depth of your throat numerous times before finally committing and sinking his cock into the back of your mouth, into your throat, with one gratified push.

“Good boy. Hold it, hold it, don’t move. Just relax…” Zane heartened by your right side, reaching in between your legs and fondling with your cock as he’d been doing with his own. Upon the welling of tears, you clamped your eyes shut for comfort, and nearly choked back on your own spit, impulsively squeezing around Oliver’s cock.

“Oh, shit… holy fuck, guys.” Tom was marveling at your left. You peeked your eyes open and caught a glimpse of his hand spit-shining his long, veiny cock, twisting deliciously eager over his plump glans near your temple, the sticky sound of his spit loud and clear in your ear. “Jesus, Zane wasn’t lying when he said you could take dick like no other.”

Oliver’s balls were pressed flush to your chin, your mouth was stuffed into the unshaven hairs of his pubic area, your nostrils was flared from arousal at the salty scent of the dried sweat within vicinity, and your throat was plugged with a glorious amount of thick and heavy cock.

“There we go, that’s it. Good,” Oliver moaned, tenderly massaging your nape while cutting off the supply of oxygen at the same time. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Doing everything we want, huh?”

“Mmfgh!” Your moans muffled in the cramming of his swollen cock as Oliver began patting and squeezing your cheeks, tightening the suction of your mouth by curling his body overhead, and simply pushing deeper.

Swelling harder, throbbing, the longer you endured. You’d learned how to breathe through your nose when it came down to this, but you still had difficulties relaxing your tongue. It wasn’t surprising when ample amounts of saliva began leaking out of your mouth. More spilled out when Oliver pulled you back a centimeter, only for the course of action to halt with another plunge of his cock, somehow sinking deeper down your throat.

“Think he can fit another one?” Nico halfheartedly joked, the last one to crawl over and join the group in their sight-seeing. His cock was hard, veins bulging in a way that made you delirious because Oliver alone was enough to make you overwhelmed in the best way possible.

You couldn’t possibly imagine another cock lodged in.

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, right, babe?” Zane tugged on your cock harder. He pulled at your balls, thumbed the piss-slit, and stroked your shaft with the pre-cum that had been dripping in solitude. “So wet, you’re so fucking wet from being used like this.”

Finally, you were graced with the precious taste of air. Oliver slowly pulled his dick from the depth of your throat, and the group moaned at the sight of your throat simultaneously deflating from its bulge.

Your throat was sore, but it was worth it. Moving your eyes from one man to another, it was finally registering what a dream this was. All of them were exceptionally fit with sweat proudly highlighting their training. All of them sported deliciously thick erections with multiple sights of pre-cum dripping like molasses to taunt you. What was more important was that all of their eyes were on you—something as minuscular as a blink would set them off, and they’d restart the non-existent staring battle between you and the group again.

They were as breathless as you were, and your heart was pumping with the sickening volume of their cocks being cordially stroked, their pecs and biceps brawny and bouncing from the exhilaration you’d been supplying them.

It was fucking worth it.

Under Zane’s conducting, the team flipped you onto your back, cushioning your body with multiple throw pillows, and surrounded themselves around you again, where you could properly watch them pleasure their cocks with the lube Zane had distributed as they kneeled over you. Then, Taylor made the decision for himself to slot his body beneath you, embracing you from behind and using his arms around you to hold your legs and hips back, positioning his freshly lubed cock near your hole.

“You smell good,” Taylor commented at the scent of your cologne, kissing madly into your neck as he found the source. You gulped, feeling him staring again through those eyelashes of his. With one hand, he turned your cheek to face him, his lips nearing and over yours, but never meeting. Lingering, breathing, gazing, indulging—you both surveyed each other’s features. Watching your soft but swollen lips, watching his sharp but pleading eyes. He pushed himself in without as much of a warning—and then watched the enlightened expression on his face, the immense rapturing of yours. For a moment, you swore you could’ve seen something other than lust in Taylor’s eyes, but he punctuated the delusions straight out of you with an unbearable thrust, and you never looked back. You gasped at the girth of his cock stretching you out, and his breath hitched at the spontaneous clenching your tight hole was bestowing him. “Fuck…”

You breathed out a whimper, and your parted mouth was immediately seized with the taste of Tom’s thick cock as he kneeled over your body and thrusted himself selfishly down your throat. Deeper, when Tom found your gags to be indecently enticing and feeding into his cock veins.

To make everything all the more dizzying, your hands were taken and wrapped around a pair of throbbing cocks; Zane and Nico’s in your left, Drew and Oliver in your right. Every contact point on your body, from Taylor’s dick pressing deep inside of you, to Tom’s succulent cock bulging your cheek, to Zane, Nico, Oliver, and Drew rubbing against their respective partner and fucking into your closed fist, burned.

“You love being full of cock, don’t you? Look at you… pleasuring the six of us at once. Come on, use your mouth. Suck Tom off, you can do it,” Taylor mouthed at your shoulder, the warmth of his breath tickling you, and then a complimentary bite to your shoulder—making your pulse run high. His grasp on the back of your raised thighs was warring as he used his core to beat his thick cock inside of you and pummel you open.

You cried around Tom’s cock, Taylor’s balls slapping your taint with every exhilarating thrust and feeding into your indulgence. Tom was noble. You already had enough on your plate; stroking two thick cocks per hand and enduring Taylor’s aggressive fucks. The intricate position you were in made it more difficult for you to suck him off, so Tom took matters into his own hands, and used your mouth as he pleased. His hands were behind his head as if they could stabilize the swimming lewd thoughts. You peeked at the utter state of bliss he was in, and your cock throbbed at the sight of his body. His chest full, his pits trimmed, his built expertly trimmed with fine and intricate muscles, especially so whenever he sunk in his stomach and flexed from the heat of your throat. You were salivating not only because the taste of Tom’s cock was so delightfully salty, but also because you were surrounded by such gorgeous men—a heaven of greek gods.

You felt reborn.

The kiss is all-consuming when Tom pulled himself out to press his lips against yours, making you sit up on Taylor’s lap. When his tongue pried your mouth open effortlessly, electricity shot down your spine, only for it to sear back up with the vicious pounding Taylor was giving you. “You taste like my dick, you like that?” Tom inhaled every ounce of breath you dispelled into his mouth. Broken sounds of whimpers and moans, a confusing yet compatible elixir that Tom drank up, and poured it back down your throat when he licked deeper into your mouth. He licked and nipped at your lips, tangled your tongue with his, and stole your breath with the eagerness of his mouth on yours that hadn’t seem to be faltering.

Heat flushed through your veins when each person took a turn to your mouth. The straddling position allowed the group to enclose themselves around you, the air thickening and weighing heavier than the swing of their cocks. Five heavy dicks surrounded your face while Taylor’s continued to swell beneath you, turning you inside and out as his hands on your hips hardened. It was an insoluble dilemma of your sexual appetite. You were starving for something to fill your mouth, but who—was the dilemma you were faced with.

“So big, fuck—“ You caught yourself drooling at the sight of their cocks dripping for you.

You behaved like a wanton, catching Oliver’s pre-cum with your tongue before sucking hard on Zane’s cock, then simultaneously stroking Drew and Nico over your shoulders ardently. The smell of Tom’s and Oliver’s salty cocks rubbing over your face made you vigilant and heightened your arousal to a crescendo. Eagerly, you replaced Zane’s cock with the two men, and moaned when the uncomfortable stretch they had provided made you stiffen around Taylor’s shaft.

“Shit, I’m going to—“ Taylor warned, his large hand splayed on your sweaty lower back while he wallowed in the confines of your walls, squeezing and clamping around his bristling cock.

Your mouth was stretched, saliva dripping from either corners of your lips, the crown of their dicks thick enough to shut your trap without so much as touching your throat. The wonderful sounds of their moans made the strain on your jaw well-worth the ache you were surely going to feel the effects from tomorrow onwards.

“Taking two cocks at once—never seen that before, Christ…” There was a vacant space in the middle of your mouth. Tilting your chin up, Oliver pushed a wad of spit into the opening—smug as he watched it fall into the void, somewhere in the back of your throat.

“He’s a horny little thing, isn’t he?” Tom followed in Oliver’s steps, spitting inside of your mouth. Two people were enough to set off a chain reaction as the rest of the group quickly joined. Nico, Drew, and Zane added their own shipment to the pooling spit haul, and they all watched in awe when you relaxed your tongue and let it drain into the back of your throat as one load.

The dehumanizing exploitation of your body turned sweat into goosebumps, and you were eager to be covered in welts by the time you were done.

Your entire body lit up at the attention the men were giving you. Taylor fucked you harder, his hands bruising on your body. Nico and Drew occupied the sloppy void that was your mouth when Tom pulled out to join Zane in kissing your flushed neck, and Oliver tended to your abandoned cock with his hand, stroking and twisting your knob. You choked on the two cocks as they attempted to fuck your mouth. It was a constant collision on your tongue and cheeks, where loads of spit pooled and dripped for a messy bustle, and you wouldn’t let them out of your mouth until Taylor delivered one strong thrust, and emptied himself inside of you. The sudden launch of his cum erupting inside made you pull away with a bated breath and moan, your body writhing as he flooded your insides.

“Fuck!” He shouted from behind you, clawing into your inner thighs while your ass was pumped with the warmth of his thick cum. Warm spurts continued to paint you from the inside as Taylor resumed his hips for a few more seconds, dumping every seed that he could push out deep inside of your violated hole, until his sack was emptied.

“Don’t let it leak out,” Drew hoisted you off of Taylor’s limp and recovering body, and pushed you back onto all fours, your head in between Taylor’s legs. “—and clean him up. Not a drop wasted, got it?”

“M-mm, yeah—fuck!” When you began licking at the underside of Taylor’s softening cock, your hole was back to being occupied again with the hung curve that was Drew’s dick. He didn’t waste a single second in making you squirm. With both hands tucked into your pelvis, Drew used your body as leverage while fucking madly into you.

“Fuck—look at you, you’re creaming all over my dick,” the sounds were delectable. Soft and creamy with every thrust Drew delivered to your ass—you felt some cum splatter onto your back from how hard he was fucking into you. As much as your asscheeks stung from the way his thighs clapped against your flesh, you were relishing every second of it with Taylor’s cock in your mouth, languidly swiveling your tongue and lapping up remnants of his seed until he was pristine.

The rough spanking marked you as Drew’s in the moment. You felt guilty for thinking it, but it was placed in good faith. HIs palm seared your stinging ass, reminding you to tend to the others. You do, your vision blurry and hazy, but you took whatever cock wanted to enter your mouth. Tom’s, Oliver’s, Nico’s, then Zane’s—they all tasted incredible and if you were allowed to, you could see yourself coming right then and there—simply from sucking cock—cocks.

You thrived in rough hands. Drew’s, Zane’s—anyone’s. Your skin throbbed when Zane and Nico slapped your cheeks with their cocks, and your asshole spasmed when Drew sealed himself within you, pushing every drop of seed until he slumped over the curve of your back, toppling you onto the ground with his weight. Even then, he pushed into your squirms, his cock buried deep into your ass, refusing to pull himself away from the sickening pleasure.

“Up and at ‘em, (M/N). Not done yet,” Oliver smiled and pulled you onto your feet, positioning himself behind you.

“Fuck—Zane…” You called out to him, bracing yourself on the arm of his couch as your muscles were still stirring awake from their sleep.

He approached you, quick in his steps, immediately tending to your non-existent wounds. His fingers through your hair, his hand over your cheeks. “What—you’re okay? What do you need? Too much? Fuck—Drew, I told you to go easy on—”

“N-no, no! I’m okay—fuck, I—I love this… so much… So much cum inside of me, god—” You were in a dreamlike state, drunk on the lights overhead you were mistaking for stars. Reality blurred even more when you felt Oliver take your wrists with one strong hold, holding them over your back, and pushed himself inside of you with one strong thrust. “Fuck!”

“Loosen up, dude. Your boy’s enjoying it—see? Taking our cocks like it’s a fucking olympic sport,” Oliver cruelly laughed, ignoring the twisting of Zane’s face as he focused on the absolute bliss on your face, holding you parallel to his body, to the sharp thrusts he catapulted upwards into your sloppy hole. “All the cocks that’s been inside of you, but you’re still so fucking tight. You going to loosen anytime soon? Hm? Too much of a slut to let that happen, right? I know you feel me in your guts, (M/N). You look fucking beautiful taking my dick so effortlessly.”

Drips of cum were leaking out of you. You could feel it trailing from your creamy hole, then down to the back of your slick tensed thighs as Oliver fucked you while standing.

Unlike Drew, Oliver didn’t need to brand you with hard spanks to your body. His hammering cock was enough, hollowing you with ease, the crown assaulting your sweet spot with ease—everything Oliver did was with ease, and it was further aided as you let yourself go limp. He fucked you bent over the arm of the couch, then when he had enough, you were back to being fucked standing. His arms looped around your pits, then interlocked behind your neck in support of his thrusts. His cock was ruthless in your ass, spearing and ruining your hole for anyone else to come after him. Your tender hole was brutally stretched around his swelling cock, your body burning up from the hold he was restraining your body with. Oliver whispered praises for your endurance, kisses you on the neck, then the shell of your ear for providing him a pleasure that would be the blueprint for the rest of his hook-ups. He straightened his knees, pushing himself balls deep into you, and in one long groan from his gut, spilled deep inside of you.

“Bet you feel so full, don’t you? Fuck…” Oliver grabbed his dick at the base and squeezed the remaining spurts inside of you before pulling out, flicking any remnants of cum over your bruised ass cheeks.

You moaned for him. The third load in your ass, and your heart was aching because you were another man closer to concluding the night.

It was open, dripping in cum, and then immediately seized when Nico pulled you onto his lap to join him on the couch. You felt like a rag doll—pulled, tossed, and thrown however one was pleased to treat you. As long as your hole was still functioning and remained at their disposal, neither of the men had any complaints about marking your body with a few scuffs.

Nico faced you to the group, your back planted against him. You whimpered when your tired limbs were hoisted once again as he hooked his arms under your knees, and then raised your legs up to position your dripping hole over his cock. Your hole had become a luscious swell of gape. The group marveled at the sight of your puffy rim, beautifully creamed by the pleasure of Taylor, Drew, and Oliver respectively.

“Holy shit, he’s fucking hollowed out…” Tom muttered, stroking himself to the sight of your insides blooming for everyone to see.

“Shit’s getting me horny again,” Taylor laughed, tugging on his flaccid cock, his body still recovering from the high he had inflicted upon himself moments prior.

Supporting your body with his arms, Nico raised your legs higher, bending them back until your knees hovered near your temples, and then locked his hand around your neck to hold you in place. Your mouth fell agape at the stretch of your muscles, and heat spread throughout your body as the group watched Nico’s cock breach your opening with a slow shove, pushing the leak of cum back inside of your guts.

Your hands trembled as you guarded your position on the couch upon Nico folding you back and feasting on your insides with his length. You felt Nico’s thighs tense, pushing up into you with all his might while your gaze locked with Zane’s. He gulped at the unholy sight of your hole being raptured—hungrily being excavated with Nico’s throbbing tool. Nico’s cock was covered in the recent load stuffed inside of you, an increasing sheen the more he fell into a rhythm, and rutted into you aimlessly, chasing after his fill. He slid in and out of you easily, the ample amount of cum replacing any need for to renew his dick with lube.

You and Nico panted in union. His heavy cock stretched you open, and Nico apologized with a blistering kiss to your shoulder, as if fucking you couldn’t be the apology itself. When you alternated your gaze to Tom, he looked almost predatory. Eager like he had always been, but something internal was running thin—Tom’s patience. He scooted closer, watching you take Nico’s fat cock with scalding envy. While your hole took the screwing, Tom caressed the rim of your asshole. You were loose enough for what he wanted to do to you. Carefully, Tom pressed one finger against the underside of Nico’’s cock, and you choked back on your moans, throwing your head back at the sudden tightness as Tom slipped a finger inside of you. Nico continued rocking, occasionally slowing to accommodate Tom as he worked three fingers inside of you.

“T-Tom, that’s too much—“

“But it feels good though, right? You seem to like it when it’s too much.”

Spitting on his own cock, Tom massaged the layer of lube in before lining himself with your occupied opening. Your eyes widened in stupefied anticipation—in arousing fear—yet you brought your hands over to spread your ass cheeks for him, for Tom to force his cock into your body alongside Nico’s length, and you cried with the double breach.

“M-mmfgh! Fuck…!” You cried out, your eyes rolled in the sockets, leaving only the whites of your eyeballs visible as Nico and Peter began moving in opposite rhythms.

“Fuck, Tom—your dick feels so good against mine, holy crap—“

With an animalistic groan, you pushed your ass out, greedily taking the two cocks into your gut despite the uncomfortable stretch signaling for you to stop and rethink about this decision unfolding before your very eyes.

Not long after, Nico and Tom pumped their hips in harmony, filling you over and over. Cum would trickle out from Tom joining, but he was quick to pull himself back out and scoop it back inside of you with a deep plunge that made the three of you reduce yourselves to nothing but guttural moans. You felt Nico’s body tense beneath you, coercing your own to tighten at the core.

Holding your thighs, Tom pushed into you to the hilt while Nico followed suit. They shuddered with ecstasy, growling like wild beasts from the natural impulse to clamp your sloppy hole around them. Their cocks were rubbing against one another, harder, faster, as they fucked themselves inside of you, opening you more than you had thought was imaginable at a relentless pace. You mewled, collapsing back onto Nico’s hold as your body rocked from the powerful thrusts as if you were caught in a tide.

You felt your own cock throb at this, balls tightening and stroking your cock to the sound of Nico in your ear and Tom at your lips, panting into your mouth in between messy kisses. You were wrecked, completely and utterly ruined as they rocked their shafts into you in opposite strides now. One would hit your sweet spot while the other pulled himself out to renew that fresh stretch of your rim again as they pushed with conviction. Between labored breaths, you searched for Zane over Tom’s shoulder, your heart beating faster and faster as he seemed to be mesmerized by the display of your sheer dedication in following in on your promise to make him feel like the luckiest man on Earth.

Faster. Harder. Deeper. In a matter of seconds, you all came together. Your body spasmed and writhed between their own twitching, your hole clenched around the erupting cocks, your own dick throbbed and spurted out creamy ropes onto your body. Their hips were unrelenting, frothing the thick cum sent deep into your crevices with writhing and swollen flesh, and you slumped, Nico’s released hold relieving your muscles as your body shifted back and forth from the two cocks milking themselves until their shafts softened.

At the thought of Zane—the last man that you would be taking—your position came to you unbidden. Scrolled over the arm of the couch again, you felt comforted by the ample leg room, stretching your muscles for the final act while Zane prepared himself behind you, laving his cock over your crevice, submerging himself in the wetness that your raw hole was dripping out. You were depraved of touch—Zane’s touch—you barely spent a minute with him in between stationing yourself with every men. All except him.

“They did a real number on you…” Zane muttered in your ear. His left hand caressed the tense muscles in your back before joining his right in steering you by the shoulders, his grip clutching a bruising shade into your skin. “Suddenly I don’t matter anymore, hm? You only call me over to show yourself off—showing off that dripping hole of yours.” Unsolicited moans drew out of you with the push of Zane’s hips, fitting his cum-covered cock over your crevice, as a way to soothe the swelling of your puffy rim, but also to ridicule your newfound addiction. “Showing off what was mine—that has now been ruined by five other fucking men. Fuck, I saw the way you were looking at them. All of them. You reek of them too, fucking slut.” He deliberately pressed his swollen cockhead to your ring of muscle, swirling and tracing the circumference, only to move back a centimeter and slide himself right by, pressing his shaft against you instead.

You whimpered, circling your hips back for more of Zane, to apologize to him with the warmth of your hole, to make up for your lack of attention towards him by letting him milk himself inside of you—like you’d done for the others. “I-I’m sorry—Zane, please—“ Your breath hitched when Zane wrapped a hand around your throat and pulled you against his imposing chest, arching you forward.

“So, you want my cock now? Five dicks weren’t enough? You need mine to feel satisfied? Face the group. Tell them how much you love my cock,” squeezing your cheek, he forced your head to turn to his friends. They stirred in their seats, their hands back to fisting their erections again.

“I-I love Zane’s cock… I love the way he fucks me—no—the way he makes love to my hole, the way he fills me up to the brim with his thick cum, the way he milks himself and breeds me. I love that he takes his time with me, s-shows me that I’m more than just a doll for fucking,” With the way you were looking; panting from the amount of dick you had taken for the past hour, sweating from the thickened sex in the air, dripping from the loads that marked their battle claim on you; you evoked a fever that spread from one end of the circle to the other. One by one, they gathered closer, inhaling the scent of your arousal—their sex, their seed deeply embedded into your body like you had no other choice but to use them as cologne.

“I-I love that he fucks me—like he loves me,” you peeked over your shoulder to look back at him with groveling gratitude. Was it a mistake to admit this for the first time? In this moment? Where it was confessed to the public, rather than solely to Zane? Your heart raced, and Zane was well-aware as he pacified you with doting affection on your chest, roaming his free hand over the plane, tweezing your perky nipples while his other hand at your throat maintained. You brought a hand up to hold his nape, to hold you close to you because—you’d been separated from your boyfriend for far too long. You were malfunctioning, throwing yourself to every man who wanted to please you and that swollen hole of yours, and you needed Zane to ground you back to him.

And ground you he did—Zane humbled you in the process, evidently satisfied with your short monologue as the kiss he honored you with was deep and enthralling. He poured all sorts of emotion in your mouth, explored it with his tongue in midst of tucking his feelings inside of you, muttered incoherent words of affection while he was drunk on your breath feeding his lungs with life.

“I love you,” he tucked the confession into the shell of your ear and punctuated his returning feelings with one sharp charge of his thrust. The previous loads within you permeated—saturated deep into your flesh—as Zane congested your guts with his large cock, making you wail on his slow, but bellicose hips. “I. Love. You.” Zane repeated in your ear, following up with every one of his thrusts. His cock was methodical inside of you. Screwing what was loose, tightening your walls like his cock was a hammer to secure you around his girth. You felt yourself tip-toeing the floor, the thrusts catapulting your body from Zane’s strength, but there was not a second where you didn’t feel safe. His hold on you—driving into you with his cock, restricting your limbs while he showered you with the most heart-fluttering compliments—he was your sanctuary, the holiest of all places, and you felt revived.

He had his hand over your throat, vaulting your moans with a clamp, pushing you back onto your heel, but as soon as he came up again and delivered those rapturing thrusts, you returned to your natural stance on your tip-toes. You struggled to make sounds—loud mewls and whimpers that proved how absolutely fulfilling you felt in the moment. Your throat was sore and dry, and your body was exhausted and could only endure Zane for so long. You fell limp in Zane’s arms, tensing at the right moments where he penetrated your prostate. It was the unsolicited answer to your body malfunctioning.

The roll of your eyes, the spasming of your asshole, the gape of your mouth as silent moans thickened the air—you and Zane bonded as one. Your ass pushed back to meet his thrusts, creating an electrifying wave of thunderous sounds of sweaty and sticky skin clapping against each other. You felt your body ripple from Zane’s power, from his devotion to forge your hole to the shape of his cock, from his desperate need to tell you that he loved you with more than just his words. You felt every inch of him through your gut. Bent over the arm of the couch, your sweat dripped onto the leather while he fucked you against it, your skin chafing abrasively. Your knees constantly collided with the furniture, but you were too far gone, completely lost in a cycle of Zane’s affection that you didn’t realize your chin was being held up by Drew, jerking his cock over your face.

You blinked rapidly to ward off exhaustion and before you could comprehend the line forming behind him, your face was propelled with thick flying ropes of cum. Drew spilled all over you with a moan, aiming wherever, but mostly at the center. He shot at you hard, feeling himself splatter from your lips, then to your hair.

It happened rapidly, Zane’s hips seemingly quickening to sync with the group’s thunder-paced wrists. Taylor was the next person in line, pumping his hairy cock to the sight of Drew’s cum dripping off of your nose from the vigor force Zane was pummeling you from behind. With a deep grunt and a push of his hips, Taylor emptied his heavy sack, adding onto the layers of cum on your face.

You’ve seen it in the videos you’d watched. It was no good letting their hard-work go to waste. You tipped your head back and Tom helped, resting his hand at your hairline while he stroked his cock over the stains on your face. Again, he was another man to blow another thick load onto your face. Before he left, he made sure to wipe himself clean on your neck, embellishing you with his gratitude.

Then came Nico; the massive amount of loads on your face pooled as you patiently waited for his second high. Your vision was screwed, trying to peer through the cum dripping down your eyelids, but eventually you had to settle on shutting your eyes and anticipate blindly. Within seconds, you heard Nico grunt and moan, followed by another spillage onto your face. He aimed directly at your mouth, where you missed the first unforeseen shot, but quickly adapted and opened your mouth to hold his seed. The salty taste on your tongue bloomed, and whoever’s cum was trailing from the bridge of your nose, past your philtrum and into your open mouth was even saltier, making you writhe as the shudders were uncontrollable when you swallowed.

Finally, Oliver stepped up and amused himself to the heavy decoration weighing down on your face. Stroking his cock, he also played with the cum, dipping the crown of his cock into someone else’s load, scooping a white thread was dangling off your jaw and into your mouth, wiping your eyelids clean with his glans—because he wanted you to see this. He wanted you to watch him come on you with immense pride, to watch him pump the study veins in his thick cock as he indulged at the sight of your pretty eyes surrounded by the four prior men’s fulfillment. With gritted teeth, Oliver groaned from the depth of his gut and released his seed all over you. The group saved the largest load for last. Your eyes immediately clenched following one thick splatter to your lid, then the other, blurring your vision and stinging your eyes once again as Oliver targeted painting you from all corners of the face, including the ones he had helped wipe clean. He squeeze the last remaining seed, and flicked it onto your lips, groaning from the sudden sensitivity in his cock.

“Shit… you look so—” Zane groaned from behind you. He couldn’t stop marveling at it; the unholy sight of your face snowed under an ample amount of cum. The scent of the group’s sex drifted in the almost still air, and Zane ached inside of you.

You can feel the warmth emanating from his study body when he pushed his weight onto you, fucking into you harder and igniting the burn in your thighs. Peeking from one eye, your head was turned to where Zane claimed his rightful place on your lips again. His eyes flashed with hunger at the taste of someone’s cum dripping into your mouth, so he kissed harder, molding your hole to his cock and hammering into you at a breath-taking pace. There were multiple passageways the various pool of mixed semen were taking on your face. A web dangled off your cheek, a trail dripped in pursuit of the kiss, a wet clump was smushed between Zane’s nose and yours; you and Zane were a sloppy mess, and you both were baptized by the scent, the taste, and the feeling of it all.

You were gorgeous, your delicate state only adding to your appeal. One more look at you, and Zane grunted low. He reached between your thighs with his hands, so hard it hurt, and he was wild and strong, fucking into you madly while knocking your breath into a state of stasis. His hips smacked against your ass, faster and faster, and your body was up in flames. Every thrust felt punishing, like he wanted to condemn you for seducing him—for loving him—but if this was punishment, you needed to find more ways to anger him, to love him.

You whimpered into his growls, his firm hands pulled you impossibly closer by the thighs, clutching and fucking you back onto his cock, as he raptured himself into you. He stroked the inside of your mouth, his tongue feeling fat and warm, savoring the taste of salty seed on your tongue, and he groaned into you once more. He grunted and growled like an animal, powered by the group watching in awe, the ravenous noise reverberating through your guts, and you feel the eruption of cum dousing your flesh, deep in your guts, his large cock pulsating in you.

The pleasure hit you like a lightning bolt. Your thighs shook, your hole spasmed, and you rut against his swelling cock, pleasured and soothed by the warmth and thickness of his steaming cum. His release had him quivering against your back, his face tucked inside the crook of your neck while he rocked slowly, breeding you.

“So good, you’re so fucking good…” Zane muttered weakly, panting and mouthing against the back of your ear.

“So full—“ you groaned at the heavy weight of dick in you, then hissed when Zane bucked his hips once more, kissing the crown of his cock to the mouth of your prostate, as if it was a reminder for you that he owned you.

Obscene noises came from his cock plunging your ass with cum—more cum, as you struggled to contain another load, and felt it drip down to your ankles. You sighed, taking it all in—taking Zane in—and slumped over the arm of the couch, heaving a euphoric sigh of relief, relishing in the high-yielding pleasure that was Zane’s cock, dazzling by the lights above you—the stars.

“You guys okay?” laughing at the group’s sudden exhaustion, Zane refused to pull away from you. His hands curled around your hips, then carefully maneuvered himself to lie on the couch with him, still buried to the root of your hole.

“Better than a smoke,” Drew yawned, rubbing his large hand over your ankle by virtue of exceeding his expectations. Nico petted at your head, the spent look on your face charming when you turned towards him and weakly smiled. Tom and Oliver were quiet, still recovering from their orgasm. When you caught their gaze, they held up their thumb once before plummeting back onto the floor.

“Fuck, man—you were great,” Taylor slumped against the foot of the couch, limbs sprawled from the exhaust of muscles, but he joined in on the caressing of your leg, squeezing at your calf, nearly rendering you to sleep.

One by one, the group fell to a silence, a gentle slumber despite the hardwood floors forewarning a few of them of a back ache the next morning. You watched peacefully, the caressing of your body slowly coming to a halt, and then looked back at Zane, collapsed onto your back, drifting into sleep with the gentle snores near your ear.

Hopefully by morning—Zane would tell you that you fulfilled on your promise.

He was the luckiest man alive.

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. and if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!