#compress word processing

[gay-victorian-astronomer]

pale latitude compressor gives kim amnesia au is 4000 words and counting! finished writing chapter 1 but I am not posting to ao3 until the entire work is done. doing the posting thing makes my brain think the task is done and then I never finish actually writing the fic (plus I would like to be able to update it consistently and that Will Not Happen if I post as I go).

[tonycries]

O-O-O-OBSESSED!

Synopsis. When he’s gonna hit it, he’s gonna hit it till your mind breaks.

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

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, dúmbifícation, running from it, cervíx kíssing, matíng presses, PÚSSYDRÚNK JJK MEN, bréeding, GOJO’S POWERS, mentions of kíds, p talking, headIocks, true form Sukuna, dp, spítting, cúmplay, MEAN Geto, breaking the béd, p spánking, marathons, proposals, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. PHEW hoping you have the loveliest week <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 3 min. 12 secs

“Tch- where the hell do ya think you’re runnin’ off to, doll?”

Toji’s trapping both your droopy ankles with one dextrous set of his thick fingers, dragging you about halfway down the king-sized mattress in an instant. He’s oh-so-greedily pinning them over the curvaceous dip of his deltoids with a mean, sweat-slicked palm, “Don’t tell me yer hah- tapping out after only three minutes?”  

Punctuating his filthy push and pull with a few syrupy thwack! thwack! thwacks! of his strawberry-pink tip down your sappy slit. He’s leaving generous wiry ribbons of pre that smudge and smear a pretty lipgloss as you clench.

“N-nooo m’not–” You’re shaking your dizzy head as urgently as you could, huffing at the utter teasing in Toji’s sleazy, dimpled smirk. “I’m just…”

But what could you even say at this point?

“Oh?” Toji’s letting his dark brows scrunch at your hypnotized silence, the way your gaze was practically plastered with little heart-eyes and- Oh. Oh. He can’t help but loosen a breathy snicker as the realization hits. “Already?”

Yes, already.

Because Toji Fushiguro never held back - he never ever hid that his exact goal in these lecherous sheets was to fuck you until you saw stars. 

Always ruthless whenever he’s kissing your spongy cervix with such copious French kisses of his fat, rotund head. Always swollen so thick, with probing little veins sprinting against every one of your tender spots. 

The stretch so maddening that it left a translucent trail of dribble spilling from the corners of your mouth. Puddling out with every pressurized pound to swirl wet splotches all over that magical spot until you were sure it was bruised and battered.  

Until you were sure you couldn’t even formulate the thought process let alone the words to vocalize that he’d utterly fucked you stupid in all but three minutes. 

“Heh- shiiiit-” You’re blinking away the glazed film of lust that’d taken over your eyes, just in time to catch the way that Toji peeks his willowy eyes down below. Letting out the sexiest low whistle at the mess he’s making, “Think s’ a new record. Now, where’d my ngh- mouthy girl go, huh?”

Roughened circles of his digits dig into your legs, tightening and tightening when - with a ragged grunt - Toji bends. He hunches his bulky body until you’re compressed in half, washboard abs melting into your front, your heels imprinting into his back - into the dirtiest mating press. Gruffing, “Have ya seen her?”

And you swear you catch the way that Toji’s fattened tip only stretched tautly wider, swabbing around your sloppy hole in a teasing circle. He’s buttering you up with numerous lecherous slurps until you were dripping. 

But he was so slow - so taunting. Sharp malachite eyes dazzling with sheer amusement when you’re raking frustrated red, red lines down his muscular back. Mumbling tearily, I-If you’re not gonna hngh- fuck me properly already then–”

“Mhm- ya really are fucked dumb already.”

Hah, as if he already needed to confirm.

Because of course he was waiting for just this exact moment. 

Flooding your honeyed lips with the prettiest broken whines when he’s plugging you mind-splittingly full. Rasping out a low fuck! at the gummy resistance, Toji’s vice-like restraint on your legs grow even sounder as he all but hauls you down every snug inch of his cock. 

So solidly and completely spearheading his upright curve into your molten walls, it’s like you were scorching all around him. Sucking him up for more more more-

“Heh, do ya even r-realize how much you’re ngh- milkin’ me?” He’s cooing, pumping you with grinding ram after ram that has your clit massaging against Toji’s tufted black happy trail. Scratching. Filthily. 

“T-Toji—” And it’s the only thing you can say - the only thing replaying in your mind again and again and- Your maw slacks so scandalously open when his gluttonous fat head sugarcoats your g-spot in a melty mess of precum. Sloshing and sheathing your rummaged insides in a sticky second layer. “There- more- more please- m-more-”

You didn’t even have to ask.

Because Toji’s second-ever weakness was having you completely cockdrunk and stupid on his swollen length - his first being, well, you in all your entirety - and his third? Making you even stupider. 

Breath hitching, he’s angling his toned hips just right to brush up recoiling pecks on your precious spots exactly the way you like it. Making the splintering bedframe creak and whine almost as much as you. 

Eyes lounging lazily to the back of your head, your tongue lolls out with every dredge of creamy pre making it’s home near your g-spot. “Ngh- yeah- m-m…” Couldn’t even speak.

With a hoarse belt of chuckles, Toji’s free hand pokes your fuzzily cotton-filled head. “Oiiii- d’ya even hngh- have anythin’ else in yer cockdrunk mind? Ya always get so ah- greedy when yer like this, hm?” Those very same fingerpads hovering over your buttony clit, he’s giving you a sudden pinch. “Especially…her.”

Oh, that did it - just as Toji knew it would. 

Because you’re giving such a gluey squeeze of your adhesive-like walls around Toji’s throbbing shaft - making his chest stutter with a condensed heave, mouth lathering in a fresh batch of saliva that coats his sinful scar, and his brain short-circuiting just enough to feel the way you cum.

And not just any old orgasm - Toji’s spitting out a sharp few slews of profanity when he feels his hefty base soak in shiny, vicious waves of your slick. Blinking his dazed eyes down at his glistening abs - his pecs - to titter at how drenched he was. 

How you’d squirted until his weepy cock was dripping with every ounce of sopping wet juices. That blankly loving filter in your stare that made him wonder if you even realized how hard you’d squirted - or whether you realized that you did at all. 

You looked so tempting that he really, really can’t help but drag a thick thumb around your saturated pussy lips, drawing little hearts round and round where you were still bulging with all his bloated inches. 

“Awwww– already?” Toji’s hips were still so mean, panted out through each scouring jackhammer of his cock. He’s drenching little puddles on his digit, slipping it into his mouth with a greedy pop! And- shit, maybe he’s the one fucked stupid now. “How sweet. S-sooo generous this pretty pussy is.”

Because in a split-second he’s coiled two big, beefy arms around your waist. Biceps digging into your mounds of flesh, silky sheets hot against his back as he manhandles you to pliantly flip over however he wanted. 

Ruddied cock still buried deep into your goopy depths. So easy. So filthy. “Don’t think we’re gonna be hah- done for a long, long time, doll.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - 7 min. 4 secs

“My love.” Nanami’s engulfing hand oh-so-sweetly cradles one side of your pretty face as you ride him senseless. Running his fat thumb down the tear-slicked rim of your lips. He’s warm, soft - the complete opposite of that chilling wedding band of his against your scorching flesh. “My love- a-are you alright?”

“Mhm— M’doin’ juuuust fine.” you’re barely able to mumble out, head lolling behind you as he thwacks his plump tip once more against your gummy cervix. Twice more. Thrice. “Ngh- easy, baby, the k-kids are sleeping.”

But your dear husband can sense that something is off. Something is…different. 

Maybe in the way that you’re looking up at him with bigger and bigger heart eyes after every rolling jackhammer, maybe in the way you’re practically plastered against his hulking body. Soft tits glissading up and down up and down the sweat-slicked plane of his wide, cushiony pecs. So drunken. So pliant. And he can’t help but plant a soppy smack! against the hooded of your puffy clit with one free hand. 

“Oh!” Your back curls into such a slutty arch - such a heavenly sight that makes him wish he had a photographic memory - squirmy hips bucking down harder and- “H-harder- Kentooo- wan’ some more–”

Oh?

And Nanami’s feeling his thickened head splurge your gooey insides with creamy wads upon wads of glossy pre at the mere thought - just the simple idea of you fucking yourself dumb while riding him. 

He could probably cum just from watching you like this.

Breath hitching choppily, he’s grabbing your throat - dragging you like some ragdoll until you were only mere condensed inches away from him. You couldn’t be…could you?

“Ken—” Your spit-slicked bottom lip juts out, weighty shuffling forward to press a pretty peck against that shallow dimple on the corner of his lip. Oh, you’d meant for it to land on his lips…but. “Awww, I missed.”

Oh.

But of course he can’t leave his dear wife hanging - especially not when you’re all fucking yourself stupid on him like this. 

He’s gifting you with an utterly dizzying kiss - making your tummy so melty with butterflies even after all these years. And you can’t help but keen-

“D-darlin’-” Nanami almost feels like he’s the utterly speechless one now, curling a singular hand around your waist to help your stumbling hips use his cock steadier. Deepening the angle to pound battered hit after hit against your tenderized favorite spots. Those manicured nails of his leave pretty crescent marks all over your fleshy skin when his uprightly curved cock thwacks! upwards. Feral. “Do you- ngh- know how b-beautiful you look right now?”

“Huh?” It’s so adorable how you’re stealing a few sloppy gyrations first before even registering what he’s asking. Cockdrunk and wordless that he’s coaxing out your answer with a sodden thumb smearing your waterfalling drool. “N-no?”

And without a second’s warning - without even a single speck of hesitation - the hand around your tender throat turns vice-like. Shackling. Cutting off both your airway and your heavenly view of a sexily prespired, half-lidded Nanami - turning that bleary gaze of yours towards the specially-installed mirror by your bed. 

Head craning to the side to catch how fucking ruined you looked right now, hips moving out of control. Cunt just bawling with a syrupy slick mess pooling underneath you two with every shuddering spearhead of his cock. 

“See? Just see h-how ngh- pretty my wife is.” Nanami’s rasping out, utterly wrecking your insides despite his sweet, sweet words. Branding circular divots of his head right into the very resiny bottom of your cervix. His lightning bolted veins just thump cheekily against your g-spot. “Always so pretty- could cum j-jus’ from seeing your ah- gorgeous face ‘nyways b-but…” Fuck- if you were in any better state of mind you’d have caught the way his stoic ears burn red. “...especially when you’re dumb like this.”

“Kento-” You’re crying out, mussing a hand through his dampened strands of blond. Tugging. Pulling to make him hiss. “C-cum inside me. Please. Wan’ it all i-inside- want you to make me pregn-”

“A-another?”

“Another.”

Fuck.

You were making him lose it. 

So rudely swatting your hands away to pin them behind your back with only one of his - metallic wristwatch cold against your heated skin. He’s curling your back into a simpering inflection before hammering you with the almost-inhuman thick curvature of his cock, splotching out a wet few wisps of creamy white- 

“Not yet- not yet-” Nanami’s muttering, and in your stupidly fucked state you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or himself. “Can’t- can’t ngh- yet-”

Rapturing it like a mantra over and over while blotting your g-spot with sloppy, dirty remnants of precum. Sloshing and glazing his bulky base and all the way down to his tight, thwacking balls. Making such a mess that only leaves you whining incoherently, jolting as if spiked by a sudden million volts of bliss when Nanami’s scooping up the sugary gloss and smearing it back into your gaping entrance. 

Until you’re curling your toes taut enough that you can barely move, fingers digging into the pale skin of his back, your vision tinging with a sudden flurry of stars as you cum.

“Tha’s it- that’s right–” he’s breathing out, labored and throaty. So fucking grateful for those sound-proofed walls he installed when you had your first. Voice dipping into almost whiny territory as your husband’s babbling everything that your dumbfounded maw can’t, “Ride me- f-fuck- ride me until ya cum. Ruin me until I can…”

And with a sopping pivot of his fat shaft to hit right against the edges of your womb, he’s flooding your melty cunt with copious ribbons upon ribbons of thick seed. Milky. Heavy. Icing your weepy insides in his favorite white. 

“M’gonna take c-care of it- take care of ya-” Nanami’s whispering in a hot pant against your ear, breath so strained and heated that it’s sending shivers down your spine. “Got a place hah- alllll safe n’ sound right- here-” 

Nanami can only grin at that inflationary little nudge of where he’s feeling his spattering cum seep press gluey little kisses into your glutinous walls. Because yes, you were gorgeous when you’re fucked dumb like this…but you were even more gorgeous when you’re all round and glowing for him. Patting your pretty tummy, just so impatient for his newborn daughter - yes, daughter - already. 

He’s batting his loving eyes down at your fatigued figure with so much adoration that it’s practically palpable. Sensitive tip twitching a perking jerk dangerously…Nanami licks his lips. When you look like this, he wants m-

“Kento—” 

Your needy whine snaps him out of his pussydrunken hypnosis, smacking a few innocent smooches against the side of your forehead. “Yes, my love?”

“More.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - 4 min. 27 secs

Shit- shit.

You were so fucking cute - so dangerously ruined on Geto’s cock after only a few sloppy slathers of his thickened shaft down your spongy cervix that it was almost dangerous. That the ever-teasing Geto Suguru is finding his smirking mouth fill up with a few sing-songy coos. 

“Awwww, always so ngh- mouthy. What happened- you doin’ alright, gorgeous?” he’s breathing out in a hot baritone up against your ear, opaline white canines sinking into your lobe eagerly. “Though- guess she’s hah- talkin’ in yer place now, hm?”

She being your goopy cunt, the way it was resonating out the most sinfully saturated squelches! with every sheathing lamination of Geto’s cock inside your gummy walls. Practically talking - begging for more with every probing jackhammer of his angry, ample tip.

And with your teary gaze tiredly panned over your shoulder, you can make out the way that Geto was nodding. Dewy eyes scrunched shut like he was in deep thought, pretty lips moving to speak absolute filth. “Mhm– you’re heh- right. That would feel b-better, huh?”

Conversing - but not to you. 

And within one frowzy bat of your lashes, Geto drags up one of his thick, muscular legs. Years upon years of flexibility in battle being taken advantage of when he’s planting a foot down on your dizzy head and pinning you there. 

“Ngh! Sugu—” you can only whine, struggling and soaking yourself with the deepening change in angle. 

He’s only tutting at your sappy cunt, “I know- such a nasty girl, huh? So fuckin’- loud- too.”

Loud. So loud - and you weren’t even trying to be. Streamy rivulets of your glossed slick slurp out with every thudding thwack! of Geto’s sweltering hot tip drilling its way inside your elastic depths. He was so burning hot - feverish. 

Shoulders slumping, head bowing at just how lecherously you were sucking up every. Single. Blow he gave. And he can already feel the languid trickle of drool spattering at at the corners of his lips, “So cute- sooo cute- but the- ngh- the whole fuckin’ association’s gonna hear ya, y’know~” 

Before you know it you’re being engulfed with one of Geto’s massive palms - cold, slender, reaching over to muffle the utterly scandalous noises spilling uncontrollably from your sagging mouth.

“Not you, though-” he’s tittering, eyes locked down on the way all those weighty inches of his were disappearing and dabbing its way into your needy cunt. “You—” Leaving a particularly wet drag down your mushy insides, “Can ngh- talk allll you like- hah, because you didn’t get fucked stupid after only f-four minutes.”

“Ugh! So mean S-Sugu—” you’re sobbing out when his puffy head sponges against your poor g-spot for the nth time this night. Throbbing veins massaging your walls until you were sure your own heartbeat was syncing up with that staggering cadence. Nails raking down his strong forearm, “M-more–”

“What was that—?” He’s leering his head as close as possible, making your mouth lacquer with a greedy volume of saliva at the way his shoulders flex. Overflowing down his palm. “Heh- making such a m-mess, filthy girl. If ya want something, say it l-louder.”

Oh, by now you’re not just dumbstruck by his relentless pace - but also by how pretty Geto looks. With his long, inky hair freefalling in a soft curtain that tickles your curvaceous spine, half-lidded eyes unfocused and mean, cheeks flushed an innocent pink that matches his weepy tip.

And it’s just about all your melty mind can manage to hiccup out, “More.”

“Awww how cute- s’that all you can s-say?” He’s chuckling in a delirious little tone from above you, free hand nuzzling against your pulsing clit softly. Teasingly. Fully enjoying how you’re struggling against his hold to let out just a few more pretty noises. “Tell me.”

You’re nodding - nodding and nodding so hard that Geto snickers. 

But, well, who ever said that Geto Suguru was a merciless man?

“Fine- I’ll let ya have yer little fun.” He’s rasping out with a hoarse sort of shudder at the very thought that makes him whimper. But- shit, was he glad that you’re too stupidly ruined on his achy cock to notice. Too drunkenly ecstatic when he’s suddenly setting free your wobbly mouth, “If you can first hah- speak a proper s-sentence while takin’ my fuckin’ cock- how about it?”

“I-I- ngh!” 

But, shit, Geto wasn’t making it easy for you - the weight of his herculean body being pressurized into his foot even harder. He’s driving his hips into you so rocky that you’re sure you spot a few purplish bruises on his sultry hip bones. 

“Heheh-” Ah, he’s having so much fun leaving you stupidly speechless like this. You’re only whining when he toys a thick thumb around your clit, before pressing down on that buttony hood. Hard. “Biiiig stretch makin’ you stupid, gorgeous?”

It was. Oh, it really, really was - and right now you’re so far gone that the only thing you can do is take it. 

And Geto’s so perfectly practised in ruining you this way, too. Planting dense drivels of his fleshy tip against your sweetened spots, dragging the tubby divot in wet little smears in expert time with every squeeze of your clit. 

“Yes-” you’re mewling out a belated response to his question. “Yes yes yes-”

Only to be cut off with Geto’s palms smearing back onto your dozy mouth, blocking out the slews of addicted whines that just won’t stop. 

And, honestly, that heartbrokenly teary look in your eyes is so adorable that Geto’s throat clogs up with his own little whine. 

God, you were breathtakingly contagious. 

Voice strained - halfway through breaking - dipping a few octaves higher than usual when he’s hushing out, “Shh shhh- no needa force that ah- pretty lil’ head to overwork-” Leveraging the hold around your mouth to drag you backwards into his cadence. Filthier. More. “-you jus’ focus on t-taking my cock like a ngh- good girl and I-” Oh, he’s almost collapsing onto you - already in for a long, long night waking up the association. “-will focus on fillin’ this talkative cunt up.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 6 min. 18 secs

“Ch-Choso–”

And, to Choso, it was like the pearly gates of heaven had already opened their way up - and sat right front and center waiting on the other side for him was you. 

With your trembly legs splayed out on either side of his vicious hips, hands sticking oh-so-desperately to the leather seat of his sleek black Hellcat. You’re lathering his swollen cock with thick, lustrous coatings of his cum from just before - when he’d crashed into his orgasm simply from putting it in. Drowning out your thoughts with the most saccharine sweet slurps from down below-

“Cho, baby–” Tapping his lovingly blushed cheeks a few times to knock your dear best friend back to at least an ounce of his senses. You brush away a few chestnut strands sticking to his prespired forehead, “D-dunno how m’gonna face your f-family after- ngh- this!” 

And it takes him a few sloppy seconds - it takes him everything to even think of a jumble of words that might count as a reply. 

Clammy hands latching on greedily to your vigorous hips, Choso has to force your cadence to slow down until he can string together a few syllables with his slack mouth. “Wh-why? I already hngh- parked a few blocks away from dad’s, s-so they won’t catch-” 

“I know but—” your whining comes out so treacly condensed in the heady air of his car. Making him mindlessly ram another syrupy snog into your cervix. “But- you’re just fucking me so- so stupid.”

Oh. 

That’s enough for Choso’s head to fall attractively backwards until his full weighty body was being supported solely by the cushiony seat. Pretty twinkling tears of sensitivity clinging onto his batting lashes, he’s whimpering, “M-me? I’m fuckin’ you hngh- stupid, baby?”

“Mhm—” 

Nodding your head, your thighs just burn after every shuddering dab of Choso’s thickened length probing inside your gooey insides. Mushing up a spot modeled after him, an angry circumference of his fat tip indented into your poor g-spot. You’re feeling rivulets of his veins reaching each and every sensitive spot you never could. 

He was drilling into you so filthily. So dirtily that your head was spinning with each sloshing wad of his seed swirling your insides. 

And Choso - fuck, Choso looked like he was on the very urge of sobbing. Or, perhaps he was, you were much too cross-eyed at this point after every ram to confirm.

“I’m fuckin’ you s-stupid- Me.” he’s breathing out with such an air of worship. Blindly clasping one of your hands smeared against the foggy window to guide up to his lips and kiss. “S-say it again, my pretty baby. Heh…”

And right now, you don’t think you would’ve wanted to even if you could. 

Jostling your hips with fresh pound after pound that leaves your soppy mounds of flesh stinging at the impact, every doughy thwack! of Choso’s plump, cum-filled balls against your ass has you gasping. “F-feel so- hngh- dumbstruck right now, Cho–”

“Because of m-my cock?” He’s giggling - giggling, a sleazy grin splitting that handsome face of his. Choso’s steering your needy hips to bounce down his copious inches faster. And faster. “Heh- is takin’ my cock like a hah- good girl m-makin’ you feel good?” 

Fuck- and you can only nod. 

“After o-only a few minutes?”

Punching your fists against his broad chest, but to Choso it only feels like a few kittenish bumps. “Cho! M’gonna g-get off if you t-”

“No! No no no no—” His knees thwack! against the car interior when he’s manspreading even wider. Legs jerking tightly up and down to collide your tender insides with plumpish mushroomy cockhead, “Stay- stay. Hngh! Hafta fuck you s-soooo much stupider.”

Fully as stupidly speechless as Choso was right about now, you didn’t know who was faring worse. 

His muscular thighs slipping and sliding against yours with a glazed coating of cum and your honeyed slick. A low ah! ah! ah! slipping out every few seconds from those rosy pink lips of his with every drooling blow into your slobbery pussy. 

“R-ride me until ya can’t even think, baby-” He’s pleading - begging. Viscous ropes of spit spattering out between his slack maw, he was drooling. Lips trembling, “Ride me- hngh- ride me a-and…choke me.” 

Oh, the very second those pretty fingers of yours take Choso’s favorite position around his neck, his proudly globular head racks up a few gauzy wisps of pre. Dangerously creamy. Icing down your walls and making his overstimulated self keen. 

Unable to even your sentence, your face hides in the very crook of his neck. Nuzzling against his sweat-simmered skin with how positively heavy your entire body felt. “G-god- feels s-so…”

“Nuh uh.” Choso lets his words drag out into a cute whine, chest hitching purely parched when your digits block off his airway even more snugly. “N-need to see your ngh- pretty face, baby- please- I need you to- need-” Sheer yearning flashes in his eyes when you’re tilting your head towards his fucked-out features once more, “-need you to kiss me.”

You’re giggling out, words airy. “S-so bossy, Cho–”

“Jus’ can’t get ‘nough of you.” He’s mumbling - hot and and heavy against your rawly kissed lips. 

And it was a wonder that Choso could manage to strangle it out from his heaving chest, that he could even manage to breathe. Because with one last shuddering smooch of his rotund crown into your g-spot, you’re both tumbling headfirst into your high - Choso’s second orgasm of tonight.

And with every toe-curling flash of white, he’s smearing such streamlined splatters of seed into your melty insides. Hot. Sploshing down your walls and milking velvety rings upon rings around Choso’s hefty base - so viscous that you could almost taste it. 

He’s making such a mess, too, giggling at how utterly speechless you were. Shrilling out nothing but mewling calls of his name.

Shit, music to his ears that Choso finds himself hypnotized to. Barely even registering when he’s patting the nudge of his puffy tip against your womb, pushing - just slightly - enough for tumbling dredges of cum to spill down your seeping slit and luster him until he was drenched. 

“G-gonna hafta clean the c-car before we get back and ah- announce…” He’s looking up at you with stars in his eyes, so adoring that you could almost cum again from just this. “-our engagement.”

Your words choke up into a rolling ball of lead - an engagement? To your best friend? All the way before dating? And, yet, maybe it’s because your mind is still left in completely stupid shambles from before that you find your lips curling-

THUD! THUD! THUD!

A knock, and Sukuna’s voice through the black-tinted windows.

“OI! Jin is searching for you brats all over the place- SO YOU BETTER BE IN HERE-”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 2 min. 8 secs

“Fuck- fuuuuck would ya look at that cute lil’ bulge.” Sukuna’s chest heaves with rumbling little chuckles that echo against your back, two out of his four beefy arms pinning you so helplessly into his cushiony chest. “Well…heh, not little.”

The notorious king of curses was standing so tall - towering - and his dually rock-hard cocks were just the same. Swabbing open your slickly flooded insides in such a lecherous full nelson, he’s splitting open your glutinous walls with branding, thorough thrusts. 

Knocking up against each and every bullseye of magical spots that he’d already memorized. You’re being shovelled with a girthy indent of his upper tip against your mushy cervix, managing out a broken K-Kuna—

“Tch, I know I know-” he’s rolling his eyes, leveraging the sinful uses of gravity below to watch you slip and slide your snug channel languidly down his left-curved shafts. “Ya want more- ‘sn’t that right, spoiled brat?”

But the only thing that thunders in Sukuna’s ears are the melodies of your sweetly singing cunt, slushy squelches of your puffed-up pussy lips slurping up every one of his numerous inches. 

And, now, don’t get Sukuna wrong - it’s one of his favorite songs, one of his few weaknesses - but where was your honeyed voice?

“Oi- silly girl- forgot how ta ngh- speak?” You’re hearing from above you, all monstrous seven feet of Sukuna’s figure hunching over just enough for him to snarl hotly against your ear. “How else is the ngh- entire palace gonna know that m’makin’ my wife feel good?”

Punishing your plump clit with a lingering swat! of his thick fingertips, “Not answerin’ your king, huh? Guess I’ll jus’ hafta-”

“Ngh- m-more-”

Oh? That tone sounded familiar. 

And now usually Sukuna would growl at you for speaking out of turn, usually he’ll plant a few sodden thwacks against your battered cervix to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with. But right now, he’s only scoffing, “The hell was that? Speak up.” 

“More, Kuna—” Fuck, the utterly primal neediness in your voice has even Sukuna stuttering his vicious hips - much to your disappointment. And you’re wrangling in his vice-like grasp to gulp down a few more clingy gyrations of his cocks inside your gluey depths. “More- I n-need more- harder.”

“More?” he’s whispering. Seething. Shaking with a humorless little grin that oh couldn’t have been directed by anyone but you. “More. Heh fuckin’ slut. M-my little human wants more- oh, new record.”

Ah, new record indeed. 

It’s been only what? A minute? Two? And here was his beautiful queen, all fucked dumb on his cocks again. So ruined that you could barely even speak, a smooth staccato of only wanting more replaying in your mind when your husband plunges in a capsizing few jackhammers. 

You barely even register it when one of his hands tighten on your scalp, overgrown fingernails craning your head uncomfortably up, up, up for him to splatter your tongue dripping wet with a sleazy wad of his saliva. “Yer fuckin’ gone arentcha?”

And he might just be, too, with how pliantly you’re letting that thickened mass slide all the way down your tastebuds. Huffing, “F-fuck- more.”

“Greedy lil’ thing.” He’s puckering up your sodden folds with a slow circles of his fingers, before clashing another good smack! Dragging out velvety ribbons of your honeyed slick that cling to his digits, “Such a filthy pussy, even after- hah- after I can see my bulge in that ah- puny human cunt o’ yours, woman. Ya still want more?”

“B-bulge?” Your head lolls over to rest against one of the curvaceous cushions of Sukuna’s muscular deltoids, glazed eyes drifting all the way down-

Oh.

Fuck- the sight as complete heaven.

Your lips were parting way for Sukuna like butter, slobbering down your sweet sap of juices to him like you were glossing every inch of him. Bludgeoning in his rotund mushroom tip until your ass was bruising against the unruly trail of drenched pink that led to his swollen hilts. And the bulge- shit.

The bulge was rummaging itself to all the way up about halfway down your tummy - edging at your fucking lungs it felt like - was such a perfectly cylindrical outline of Sukuna’s matching cocks. Smearing open your gluttonous walls so widely agape, he’s crashing his smooching tips against your g-spot, your cervix. Both at the same time. Everywhere and anywhere that you could see now. 

“Oh-oh-” you’re whining out, lower lip trembling every more frenzied with every glissading dab against those spots. The way that Sukuna had your clingy walls milking him so tight. “S-s’so big, Kuna–”

“Oh? So ya can speak other words.” He’s chuckling, fat fingers pressing a curving little pattern down on your sensitive nub. Pinching. Tugging. So harshly that you can’t help but flail in his hold mid-air. “Easy, easy there, brat. Jus’ thought ya f-forgot how to, heh.”

Oh, he was such a tease. 

Such feral darkness oozing into his words when a third of his hands guide your own to caress that lecherous bulge. “Here- don’ be shy- wanna touch it, ngh- dontcha?” And of course, you do. Rubbing over the creamed divots of his outlined tips. In awe. “-yeah like- fuuuck like that- heh…such a cutie when you’re all f-fucked dumb.”

Shit- so utterly adorable that he can’t help but leave another sopping wet smack! on your clit. Another. And another. And another and another until the heat curls up scorchingly in your stomach, and Sukuna’s taking your star-struck moment to snicker, “Mhm– m’feelin’ a little bad for this ngh- p-poor cunt though. Maybe  I should take out one cock…” 

“No!” You’re crying out, hips trying so ravenously to scoop up every sloshing glob of pre that butters up your insides. And you’re sucking in every inch that you get, every merciless ram. All while boring your eyes into Sukuna’s tearfully, “N-nooo I wan’ it- wan’ them both s-so badly.”

Fuck, you were dangerous.

And the most powerful can’t do a single thing. Because, really, who was he against you?

Can’t do anything but lacquer your drooly tastebuds with another syrupy ball of spit - enough to make you cum. 

Sparks of your high sprinting throughout your body, sheening an almost-sparkling wet slobber around Sukuna’s bucking cocks - all the way down to his flexing thighs. It’s thwacking and skidding your jiggling ass against his mounds of muscles even harder, riding out your orgasm on the way that Sukuna’s gifting sopping smacks! on that poor hooded peak of your clit. 

Blinking back overstimulated tears, “Kuna–”

“Ah ah- ignorin’ the king when he’s t-talking to ya, cutting me off, cumming with no warning…” he spits hotly against your ear. “I should make ya pay for treason, woman.”

“H-how?” Still so cockdrunken. Still uselessly struggling against his twitchy gyrations, zig-zagging little wet paintings down your inner walls. 

Sukuna pretends to think, a sleazy grin plastered permanently on his face. “Hmmm, how about…ya ah- squirt f’me.” All the while boring his devilishly red eyes into your heart-eyed ones. How cute. “If that pretty lil’ empty head remembers how that is, h-heh.”

♡ INO TAKUMA - 11 min. 6 secs

“C-can I cum inside? Again? P-please?” Ino’s hissing - more to himself than anything. Words bubbling out after each and every lazy swat! of his fat, ruddied tip down the very bottom of your pappy wet cervix. He wants more. He need more. “Shhh sh sh- jus’ a lil’ more- please. Just some- ah-”

Shit- it’s been what feels like hours now. 

Your beloved boyfriend stuffing you full of ropy smears of cum over and over. Until your slick-filled cunt was flooded with an excess of his seed, until you couldn’t even think over the deafeningly saturated slurps of thick wads oozing out from you down below. 

Until you were fucked stupid after only a few greedy hits of Ino’s fattened tip into your melty core - until he was utterly spellbound, too, after about solely ten minutes into this new round. 

“T-Taku…” You yelp, throat scratchy with how strained your poor whines have become. Your legs dangle helplessly off his strong shoulders, such a sloppy mating press by now that it would be embarrassed to even be called one. “Baby- harder. Wan’ more…wan’ you to f-fill me up.”

Fuck.

Now, Ino knew that you were thoroughly drowned and cockdrunk - but he didn’t know you were this ruined. And fuck- fuck, he’s giving the side of his fatigued thigh a harsh pinch. Once. Twice.

Trying oh-so-hard to blink back some semblance of thought into his dizzy mind. He feels like he’s nodding drunkenly, planting a damp trail of pecks down your cheek because shit, he missed your mouth. “Oh. Wh-what was that? Ngh- say it again f’me, pretty? P-please–”

“Taku—” you’re whining impatiently. Cloying wet grinds of your hips swirling his thickened length around you so blissfully, sugarcoating thick rings of pre around your insides. “J-jus’ cum inside me again.”

“Sh-shit-” Ino’s pretty features scrunch up in such bliss, plumped-up balls squeezing to dredge out another wispy chain of cum. “Ohh ya have n-no idea what ya do to me.” Decorating your familiarly bruised cervix with a freshly lathered glaze, he’s whimpering. “C-can you say that f’me a-again, sweetness?”

And you’re letting your pouty maw fall slack in order to - to demand for more. A few stupidly mewling sentences on the edge of your tongue when Ino’s reeling his hips back and thudding numerous wet collides into your sloppy cunt. Prespired body glissading easily - so sloppily - against yours in determined smack! smack! smacks! such a tangled mess of limbs and need.

God- it almost hurts. Overstimulation and pleasure hitting him doubly all at once, he’s gritting his teeth with a rough groan of your name before planting more pounds after pounds. 

“D-didn’t say it f’me- ngh- ah! again–” Ino’s panting into your dumbstruck-open mouth, sweat-lacquered forehead resting against yours. Pinching his thigh over and over to just keep his senses. And his deep voice cracks into a whine at the very end, “Talk to me. Please, tell me- ngh- t-talk me through it, pretty. Please-”

But his actions spoke the complete opposite. 

Ino was clashing the steamy curve of his rotund tip against your g-spot so hard, beating it like a sloppy drum with every jackhammering dab of his hips. Fucking out every thought and gurgling syllable out of you with a pussydrunkenly boyish grin.

Spitting a thick pwah! of saliva onto two of his slender fingers, he’s dipping them down, down, down to roll a few zig-zagging patterns on your pulpy clit. 

“C’mon- w-wanna hear your pretty voice—” he’s babbling, pearly tears making their home at the crinkled ends of his delicately pretty eyes. 

“T-Taku–” You don’t think you could’ve spoken even if you wanted to, tugging through his smooth woody hair. Until it makes him hiss, and his sultry crownhead gush out wet globules of precum. “No ngh- fair.”

“Heh. Who has ya f-feelin’ like ah- this, sweetness?” He’s snickering into the corner of your mouth, chestnut eyes drooping further and further half-closed the deeper his veiny shaft was poking into the goopy bottom of your pussy. The further he was milking his seething tip on every miniscule cling of your walls. Teasing, “Who? Oh whoops- h-heh- tha’s right…you can’t talk right now.”

But oh, Ino had forgotten that just how fucked stupid that his brain was meant the exact same for his body, too. 

Because in a split-second, you’re elbowing the pillowy mattress determinedly to flip the two of you over - Ino’s swollen girth still sunken inside, your brain still woozy. Even more so when straddling the slender curve of your boyfriend’s hips, trembly palms trekking down his mountainous pecs to push him flat onto the silky sheets. 

Ino has such a sexy look of drunken adoration in his eyes when you’re bouncing your squelching cunt to ride him out of his mind. Prattling with your currently one-tracked brain, “S-said I wan’ you to f-fill me up, Taku–”

Oh. oh. And then he is - both of you are. 

You’re jerking almost-violently at the wracking bouts of high that take over your body, flashing silvery stars behind your scrunched-up lids. Those sobbing thwack! thwack! thwacks! of his bulbous tip have you shrilling, letting Ino reach out a hand to draw little circles over your overwhelmed clit.

And he isn’t any better off - has his eyes sliding all the way back until all you could see was pure ivory, Ino’s chest arching deliciously into yours. His lower lip strawberry-red from being bitten hard enough gulp back those wrenching whimpers threatening to burst pathetically free.

One hand leaving a quick smack! to the fat of your ass before swirling it in hypnotic little circles to feel those ribbony globs of his cum sloshing around. Ah, he can feel it steaming thick masses so deep inside you - jittery fingers feeling for that familiar hot nudge at your womb. Such voluminous amounts that laminate his twitchy shaft with layers upon dripping wet layers of glistening seed, making such a mess-

Ino ends off with a giggle - a giggle. “Oh, I love it when yer r-rough w’me, pretty.” 

♡ GOJO SATORU - 25 secs

“-twenty-three…twenty fouuuur-” Gojo’s dragging out, rounded tips of his fingers ghosting over your pulpy clit - just far enough to zap! your sensitive hood with an atomic buzz of jujutsu. Grinning down at you from where he’s holding you captive in a lecherous prone bone, “-twenty-five- h-heh…n’ already gone. New record, sweetheart.”

And you would’ve snapped back at your utterly ecstatic boyfriend if you could, you would’ve huffed out that he totally drawled on the count far longer than it should’ve lasted - but how could you?

Because just the sappy peck! of Gojo’s globular tip down the treacly pucker of your slit makes you dizzy. Meady wet spurts of his precum strolling languidly down your pussy lips, making such a mess - and he’d barely even shovelled you overly snug of his full, thickened tip. 

But oh what was unfair - what was so completely dirty - is the way he was buzzing his filthy fingerpads with a shimmer of cursed energy, pinching your sensitive clit just enough to make you see stars.

“Ngh- oh my god.” you’re babbling out through slacked lips that feel like they’re fucking numb. Hips dizzily confused whether to bury yourself in a cocoon of those silken navy sheets or to run away. 

“Yes- yes tha’s right–” he’s cooing, one hand swiping away the globular pearls of sweat that trek down your forehead, the other ringing out against your peaked clit with a miry swat! “Talk t’me ngh- l-loove hearin’ what that empty lil’ haaah- cockdrunk mind of yours has ta say.”

Sobbing out, “S’jus’ so- so big, Toru—”

“Heh…see?”

Yeah, he loved the cute wafting nonsense that spilled from your lips whenever you were fucked stupid on his thick, throbbing length. Red and angry to make your head even emptier-

And you’re scrambling helplessly towards the plushy pillows, the edge of the bed, the fucking headboard - only for Gojo to slam! one massive palm down on the mahogany headrest. Splitting it straight down the middle-

Muttering in your ear so sultry, Gojo’s slurring out a stumbling, “Now now- where’d ya think you’re going?” Your entirely shivering body being scooped up with a single curl of his bulging forearm around your throat. Fuck- his sweat-glossed biceps flex as you’re hauled back down, down, down onto his thoroughly rummaging cock. 

“B-barely even halfway in n’ yer already so heheh- fucked dumb.” Giggling - giggling - deliriously in your ear in condensed little pants, he’s so hot glissading his weighty body down your back. Rows of ivory white teeth sinking into your precious ear lobe, you’re graced with a firm set of six-inch fingers on your waist. “Get- get ready for a hah- biiiig stretch, sweetheart.”

And a big stretch, it was. 

It feels like you’re being rawly split apart - Gojo’s intruding girth caving out a bulging cylindrical pathway down your slobbery pussy. Puffy, crowned cockhead smearing open your gluey walls until you were sure you could feel every ridge, every thumping vein. Feel him poking his weepy divot into your mushy cervix in thick drags - you could cum from just this. 

And you think you do - without your poor, spellbound goo of a brain even realizing. Your back arches into an almost painful curvature when you’re throwing your head back and cumming. 

“Please- please please-” Garbling out, so fucking cute that he can’t help but lick a sleazy stripe down the glistening middle of your back and hum.

You’re gasping at the thickly vicious splatter of something on your shoulder - only to bleary your heart-filled eyes over your shoulder at the way that Gojo was drooling. 

Whining, with every pap! of his prettily full balls against your ass. Slumping his heavy bodyweight like he was melting into your, ridged washboard abs massaging your back, hefty bodyweight pinning you down onto the mattress. His bicep curls into an even tighter headlock around your straining neck, “Yeah- ohoho yeahh that’s the stuff- t-talk to me s’more, my girl.” 

“C-can’t even-” You’re whimpering out, hips jostling upwards in embarrassing little grinds that swirl the very rounded tip of Gojo’s tip around your melty insides. Milking out heaps upon heaps of creamy precum with every one of his greedy drives. “-can’t even think- can’t even b-breathe. J-jus’ want you…”

God - he was making a sheerly sludgy mess out of you. Branding your sweet insides with sugary coatings of precum, with thorough bruises. 

“What do ya w-want, sweetheart?” Gojo’s muttering all over again, bearing your puffed-up clit with another pinch. Then another. And another. “Anything m’gonna give ya- ahhh, fuck- anything.”

Blinking up tearily, “A-anything?”

Which only makes him fuck you hard enough to practically mesh into one with the mattress - and then some. And it’s like he was pounding himself just as stupid on your cunt as you were with every one of his animalistic rams. 

Sodden. Heavy. French mushes against your bruised g-spot - and you could already tell by the scarily bittersweet accuracy and those stray bolts of tiny blue lightning that Gojo was using his six eyes to cheat his way buttering your pretty cunt with lethal hits. 

To spy your sweetest spots inside-

“M’gonna marry ya-” Promising over and over when he’s routing a wet trail of kisses down your perfectly arched spine. “-buy us a niiice big mansion- or a small one- your hah- choice. Grow old together, n’ I’ll kill off anyone that dares object.”

“Satoru…”

“Yes- yes?” Sapphire eyes wide and wild now - like he was in the middle of a fight, like he was prowling for prey just the way his fat tip was probing down every orifice of yours. “Tell me- tell me, sweetheart.”

“I-I want-” your lower lip wobbles adorably, and Gojo can’t help but slither his own down and suck like his favorite gummy candy. Making you mewl, “-wan’ a baby.”

And you swear you could hear the lilting crack in Gojo’s voice when he’s echoing out a highly-pitched. “A b-baby?”

The only thing your poor brain can manage out is a nod, and the only thing he can manage out is to just barely not fucking snap. 

THUD!

Gojo’s got you locked in his powerful hold - muscled figure pinning you to the soiled bed, his deadlocked bicep hauling your mouth onto his. And he’s snapping his hips to yours so hard that you wince ever-so-slightly at the bruise surely formulating by now - or, well, would have formulated had it not been for Gojo’s reversed curse technique. 

Working overtime now to not break a bone when he’s plugging your sodden insides with thick knots of cum. He’s cumming and cumming so hard that Gojo thinks he can’t stop - thinks he doesn’t want to. 

“H-how I love when ya talk outta yer ngh- pussy, sweetheart-” Your shoulder stains with a few more translucent spatters of drool - and tears. Big and overstimulated, beading behind his glazed lids. 

Gojo can’t let a single swashing wad of his seed drizzle to waste, plugging in numerously overspilling ounces back in through your puckered pussy lips. The sheer volume making his achy balls twitch with more and more. Doubly penetrating your sloppy hole with two fingers, he’s taking the sinful opportunity to slither a few spiralling patterns around your sensitive entrance. 

A baby. 

“A baby. A…a fuckin’ baby.” Gojo’s shaking his head - crazed. Smile humorless and dangerous where it was directed at you, and for a moment you’re wondering who really is the one fucked stupid right about now. “Oh, my girl, I’ll give you ten.”

A/N. Smooches to that one nonnie for sparking the idea hehe <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

[inmaki]

gojo showing off your back scratches to geto

( cont from this fic! req, visual ) .

contains: sex talk, desc of back scratches, crack, sugu is called daddy once (as a joke.. right..)

everything was relatively peaceful in suguru's apartment. key word: relatively.

a forgettable yet appreciated sunday afternoon, not a cloud in sight despite the weather forecast predicting downpours of rain. either way, the raven-haired man insouciantly rested across his white couch, reaching the conclusion that today would be a day for self-care, relaxing, and perhaps some meditation.

there was only one thing ruining his peace.

all morning, suguru has been forced to try and ignore the stain a certain someone has left on his couch — a pair of unecessarily expensive yet dirty shoes being the culprit.

despite these attempts, every once in a while his gaze can't help but wander over at the mark — as if it'd poof out of existence if he glared hard enough.

"fuckin' asshole.." he mutters. it was a wonder his relationship with his best friend managed to stay so promising despite all their differences, yet suguru wouldn't have it any other way, even after situations like this.

right when he grumpily turns back to the tv — which was playing some crappy, low budget rom-com — his apartment door is yanked open and suguru swears he nearly jumps out of his seat.

great, was this it? was he about to get robbed, perhaps evicted? and then probably die? forced into the afterlife knowing gojo's shoe-shit was still on his new couch? no that can't—

"i fucked her!"

suguru whips his head towards the apartment door, announcement being disregarded as he nearly groans in agony. speak of the devil.

big blue eyes peak out from under circular sunglasses, one hand already raised in preparation for a dap up while his stupid, big, dirty shoe pushes the door closed behind him. gojo wears a black compression shirt with grey sweats, marching over to his friend with a ginormous grin across his cheeks.

"take your shoes off, now," suguru snaps, nodding to his friend's feet with a frown.

"yeesh... whatever y'say, daddy," the bastard never loses his smile as his hands raise in surrender, kicking them off by the door smoothly. "what's got your panties in a twist?"

geto pinches his nose bridge. "don't call me that," as he continues the scolding, he points to the living room with his free hand. "you got a mystery stain on my couch, satoru. do you know how many youtube videos i watched trying to get this shit off?"

unphased, gojo takes a look at the strangely colored blob against the armrest's leather material and shrugs. "my bad. did you try febreeze?"

"what— no? dude, febreeze is for.." when suguru looks back up to sourly meet his gaze, he could immediately tell the white-haired man was already drifting back into la-la-land, words going in one ear and out the other. "..nevermind. why're you here?"

at the reminder, satoru seemingly brightens, head shooting back up as if he was just told he'd won the lottery.

"oh god, don't make that stupid face—" he pauses. "the fuck are you doing?" suguru might as well say goodbye to his self-care day, because now gojo was stripping in the middle of his living room, shirt thrown haphazardly onto the still-very-much-stained couch.

"just look!" suguru squints as his friend swivels around to face the wall, pushing his bangs away to get a better view of the— oh shit.

it takes the raven-haired man a second to process what he's seeing before shuffling forward, closely examining the achingly red, bulging scratch marks displayed sexily across the latter's back and shoulders. "no way.."

suguru knows the strongest sorcerer well enough to notice how he purposely didn't use reversed cursed technique on these scratches, just so it'd be obvious to anyone that caught a glimpse of what exactly occured. to his further dismay, he can already picture a smug and sweaty gojo walking around their local gym like this, proud simper on his pretty lips as he easily raises a pair of weights in his veiny hands.

a hiss escapes geto's mouth as he runs his finger down a particularly agitated one, knowing exactly how painful they could be after experiencing many hook-ups of his own. even so, satoru only licks his lips, neck craning to the side so he can pride himself in his friend's gobsmacked expression.

"damn, these are deep. you actually hit it?" suguru confirms, raising a celebratory hand.

turning back around, satoru daps him up, a massive smirk now on both their faces. "hell yeah, it was amazing."

it was impossible to predict what gojo would do next after barging through his front door — especially considering how many times he's done so — but this has to be the last thing suguru ever expected.

not that he was complaining — in fact, all of geto's temper and need for relaxation seemingly flew out the window, the feeling of proudness for his best friend overthrowing anything else.

and even if he hated to admit it, the way gojo was so eager to come over and announce his virginity loss to him was more than a little endearing, and dare he say cute.

"that's great, man. congrats." suguru leads him into the kitchen — still shamelessly shirtless — to grab them both a can of beer in celebration. while the white-haired man usually didn't get involved with any form of alcohol, this occasion was most definitely exception-worthy. "you made y/n cum too, right?"

an offended glare is shot his way. "duh, two times."

"huh. surprised you could last."

as suguru pours their drinks into two fragile cups, gojo exhales, not bothered in the slightest by his jab. "dude, same.." he admits dreamily. "she was so fuckin' tight and warm.. and oh— fuck, her moans? heavenly.. 'can't believe i didn't bust after the first minute.."

geto gulps, trying his best to ignore the mental image his brain was producing from his dirty words. you can't blame him — both of you were smoking hot, and he was a simple man.

even now, he could already imagine what you both looked like; panting and moaning, skin-slapping so loud that it echoed through the whole room, how blissed out you'd look as gojo's cock split you in t—

satoru's playful sigh cuts through the tensing air. "who knows sugs, maybe you'll have another kind of stain to worry about next time we're over~"

he's never snapped out of a daydream so quickly. "don't even joke about that."

over the next hour, the two men sat manspread on the stained couch, taking leisure sips while recalling satoru's final moments as a virgin — suguru giving out his secret tips and tricks along the way.

maybe sometime, suguru could offer some.. hands-on learning instead.

mlist! <- sugu.. how could u think abt ur bestie and his gf like that... tsk tsk tsk (if u enjoyed reblogs/comments r appreciated heheh)

© inmaki on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[himasgod]

Can I request a leona x reader where the reader got hurt during his overblot I’m feeling a little bit of hurt/comfort 

LEONA X READER

Where you wake up after his overblot

How would Leona act seeing you wake up in the infirmary, knowing that he damaged you and left you unconscious during his overblot?

The silence is unbearable.

When you opened your eyes with difficulty, everything around you was dim, the smell of dried herbs relaxed you. You're in the infirmary… and you're not alone.

Since you woke up, Leona hasn't said a word.

He's there, sitting in the chair next to your bed, his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the floor. He's wearing the same clothes before you lost consciousness, traces of sand clinging to the folds. His tail isn't moving, his ears are lowered, his expression tense.

He hasn't looked at you once.

And that scares you.

Because if there's one thing Leona Kingscholar never does, it's avoid confrontations.

You blink several times, trying to clear your blurred vision. You feel heavy, as if your body were trapped in a lead swamp. The pain in your side reminded you with cruel precision what happened in the Savanaclaw Coliseum.

The dark sand.

Leona in the middle of all, consumed by his own venom.

The impact of his attack is still etched into your skin. The brute force with which he threw you through the air, the feeling of everything inside you compressing to the point of suffocation, the sharp pain as you hit the floor.

You remember Ruggie's voice calling your name.

You remember the screams of the others.

You remember… the silence afterward.

The emptiness.

Now, in this all-too-quiet room, that same emptiness still surrounds you.

"…You're not going to say anything, are you?"

Your voice comes out weaker than you'd like. You try to joke, but the pang in your chest makes the attempt fade into a whisper.

Leona clicks his tongue, but still doesn't look up.

"What do you want me to say?"

Your throat tightens at his dry tone, but you force a smile, even though it hurts.

"I don't know… 'I'm glad you're still alive' would be fine."

His reaction is immediate.

His expression twists. His ears twitch slightly, as if those words have struck an overly sensitive nerve.

"I have no right to say that," he whispers.

It takes you a moment to process what he just said. And then, you understand.

His fists are balled until his knuckles turn white. His tail is motionless, as if even his own body is paralyzed.

The way he still doesn't look at you.

Leona isn't angry.

He's scared.

And he doesn't know how to deal with it.

"Leona…"

"Shut up."

The rawness in his voice takes you by surprise. It's a low, sharp growl, like a razor's edge slashing at your skin.

Hearing his name on your lips, his hands clench into fists.

"Don't say my name like that," he growls, but not angrily.

It's something else. Exhaustion. Frustration. Something he doesn't dare name.

"As if… as if I didn't almost kill you."

But what shocks you most isn't the anger, but the trembling that runs through him.

Leona Kingscholar doesn't tremble.

Not when he's fighting. Not when he's furious. Not when the whole world is against him.

But now, with his head bowed, his shoulders rigid, and his lips pressed into a tight line… he's trembling.

And that's worse than anything.

The pain in your body is insignificant compared to the knot forming in your chest. You want to reach out, to touch him, to say something that might pull him from this abyss into which he seems to have sunk.

But you can barely move.

Gathering all the strength you have left, you reach out and brush your fingertips against his.

Leona freezes.

His green eyes, dark as a shadowy forest, finally meet yours.

And there it is.

Fear.

Not fury. Not disdain. Not the bitter resignation he usually carries.

Fear. Pure, absolute terror.

As if, for the first time in his life, Leona Kingscholar had felt what it was like to lose something that truly mattered to him.

As if he still couldn't believe you were here, breathing.

As if, deep down, a part of him was still trapped in the moment your body fell motionless onto the sand.

Your hand closes awkwardly around his. It's cold.

"It wasn't your fault," you whisper.

His jaw tenses instantly. His ears flatten even further.

Leona clicks his tongue. His tail whips around sharply.

"Don't be stupid. You are hurt because of me. No one else."

You know what he's really saying is that he hates himself for this. That he won't forgive himself.

"Are you… okay?" you ask, reaching out with a struggle.

Leona tenses immediately, as if you've hit him.

"Me? Are you really asking that?" His voice cracks slightly, and his ears flatten back.

"You're the one bedridden, herbivore."

Still, you manage a small smile.

"Yes… but I want to know."

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he lets out a heavy sigh and rubs his temple with his fingers, as if fighting off a splitting headache.

"…I hate this," he finally murmurs, his tone almost inaudible.

"I hated watching you fall. I hated knowing it was my fault. I hated not being able to stop myself…"

His hand closes on his knee.

"If you hadn't woken up, I would—"

"It isn't your fault," you insist, more firmly. "You know it isn't."

Leona lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. A dry sound that doesn't reach his eyes.

"If I hadn't lost control, you wouldn't be like this."

His other hand slides across the sheet, almost unintentionally, until it brushes against your bandaged side. His touch is so light you barely feel it, but even so, his hand moves away as if it's been burned.

"I wouldn't be here watching you lying in this damn bed, helpless."

His voice grows raspier with each word. More stifled.

The weight on his back is so visible it seems he could break at any moment.

Leona exhales sharply, as if he's been holding his breath this whole time.

"I didn't want to lose you," he whispers, and this time there's no anger, no pride, no masks.

Only Leona. Only his fear. Only his guilt. And it hurts.

It hurts because you know how hard it is for him to say it. Because you know that in his mind, all of this is his responsibility, even when it isn't.

Because you know he's the one who hates himself the most right now.

"I'm strong," you say, interlacing his fingers with yours. "I won't get rid of you so easy."

Leona closes his eyes tightly, exhaling a long, contented breath.

"…You're an idiot," he whispers, his eyes closed.

"But I guess I'm your idiot."

And for the first time, you feel his grip respond to yours.

Firm. Warm. Alive.

Leona won't leave. Not this time.

And never again.

That was more than enough for you.

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 2 — POWER IMBALANCE

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — neuvillette, diluc, ayato

— warnings. — fem! reader, power imbalance, toxic & manipulation, hard syx, dom/sub, reader teases in diluc's part, ayato is really toxic in this one kinda???

⚝ — NEUVILLETTE

when neuvillette tells you to do something, you're doing it, point blank— because you see, he's your master, the man who's saved you, not to mention your literal boss since he was so nice to give you a job as his sweet n pretty secretary.

as it was, in the grand halls of fontaine's court of justice, neuvillette’s word were law itself— precisely when he tells you to do something, it becomes absolute, you're immediately on your way without processing any of it.

his presence alone commands respect— coldness, it reveals a composed man, an untouchable one—yet his touch, it's surprisingly warm despite the fact that he rarely spoke about love or intimacy.

despite the fact that the subtle gestures on your body— the little kisses and reassuring tugs on your flesh whenever he fucked you on his desk were maddening, never leaving out the best part of it; when he places his palms around your head so you wouldn't hurt yourself, immediately resulting in you melting underneath his broad body as he revealed a softness beneath the stern exterior.

you feel the weight of his authority in every thrust, every grind and harsh squeeze of his palms reaching for your tits.

the unspoken pressure to be perfect for him was there, yes, to make him feel perfect while you're also contemplating if you'd ever be enough for an enigmatic individual like him.

face nuzzling into the crook of his neck, you feel how his fingers apply more strength as he flexes his digits into the flesh of your hips, dragging you deeper towards his cock twitching between your walls— the desperate milking compression of your warm cunt making him want to lose control.

you begin feel lightheaded at the arousal messing him up— and ugh, how much there was, and ah, you’re so tight, even after multiple rounds, desperately waiting for him to drag you against his desk and make your pussy squeeze him, wanting him to feel like you pull him.

⚝ — DILUC

in front of strangers, diluc’s intensity was something which was being noticed right from the start— and well, he wanted it that way, it meant that he had one headache less to worry about.

it doesn't matter though, because behind closed doors, your hand slips under his loosened shirt like it's meant to, graciously rubbing at his bare muscles flexing underneath the softness of your palms. having an affair with your boss surely wouldn't look good to bystanders, nor was it something diluc wanted to get out in the first place— hence why he'd never fail to subtly show you, also throwing a slight passive aggressiveness into it, that he was in charge of this, or whatever you might call the situation between you both.

he sucked in a sharp breath as his dick gradually got hard under his tight pants, pulsating on all the sharp edges and rough lines when you began to fidget with the belt, "hey now, you shouldn't get so bossy," he smiles down at you, cupping your cheek before placing his thumb on your bottom lip to tap it repeatedly

"you have quite the personality today, master diluc," you frown at him, with one hand grabbing at his biceps as he breathes— for a second deflecting the real reason as to why he would pretend to care about what other people thought about him, or about this.

or perhaps he was utterly scared of showing genuine emotions to someone he hasn't known for long.

yet instead of going through with his newfound thought, diluc instantly grabs at your hips to make you fall against his chest in combination with him bumping down the large sofa, the leather of the furniture creaking.

he licks his lips, fuck— diluc forgot how much passion could manifest in simply being felt up a little and he desperately attemps to focus on playing with your tits, or at least watch how pretty and nicely they fit in is hand.

be as it may, all that has really gotten his attention was the feeling of your hand on his cock, fiercely palming him through his boxers, your fingertip teasing along the edge of his waistband.

"you'll get in trouble," he manages to breathe out, whimpering when you angle your hand upwards so he could feel the heat of your hand on his tip.

⚝ — AYATO

ayato, most famously known as the head of the yashiro commission, had an unique gift inside of him— you see, he knew how to use words like deadly weapons.

when he wants something, really craves and desires a certain being, it felt like the world immediately bends to his will— including you, the person he was actually after. ayato will convince you that his decisions are in your best interest, even when they serve his own.

"oh, is my sweet girl worried about me?" he breathes out before placing his wet tip on your clit, tapping and nudging at it— the sound echoing through the room and standing over your head was making you feel hot and cold at the same time.

you can sense the painful squeeze in your stomach to just want to be filled— please, get his thick shaft into your intimate space until it's obvious on your face, sending him back a doe-eyed look while he towers on top of your naked frame— thighs twitching, his dick sinking back into your mushy cunt.

okay, maybe he's gotten a little too lost in you.

since you're intriguing in his eyes, well— ayato knows he can get a hold of you, that you admire him and are more than happy with the job that he's given you— not that he cares, in fact, he need you, that constant drive of feeling you was burning hotter and turning him insane.

his body trembles as he watches your liquids stick around the base of his cock, proving his point that you're as desperate for him as he was for you as he smeared your slick back inside your trembling walls, your skin throbbing and twitching with every unforgiving push of his hips.

with how big he was, in every aspect imaginable, you begin to feel like he was stretching you forever as you gasp out a broken mumble of his name, the waves of his thrusts and rolls stinging along your nerves as you begin to moan out shamelessly, feeling every detail and vein of his cock moulding into your walls and marking its shape inside.

ayato was intoxicating— no, stop it, he's your boss, okay, cool down.

yet it never ever felt fucking better.

© 2024 anantaru  do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[sulkenswan]

❥ care for you, ellie comforting you while you're on your period

cw: slightly nsfw/suggestive + a joke, boob play, can u tell im in severe pain, not edited (1k words)

groaning, you roll over onto the other side of your shared queen bed for what felt like the millionth time, ellie's quiet snoring emitting from beside you, her arm sliding off your from around your waist in the process. nothing changing. the cramps you were experiencing right now felt like the equivalent of your stomach collapsing in on itself, even after you took painkillers. simply nothing seemed to help, not a hot compress, not staying active, not even stuffing your face. the clock read 1:02am beside you, you didn't want to wake up ellie, but you feel as if you could cry. the room is closing in on you as you curl up into a ball under the thick covers. holding on to your legs underneath you as tears shamefully roll down your cheeks, frame shaking.

you can feel your girlfriend stir beside you, causing panic to rise within as you rapidly try to calm your frantic being down. breathing in... and out... in... and ou-

"mmm baby?" ellie tiredly mumbles, feeling around for you beside her. when she can't find you immediately, she wakes up even more, sitting up slightly trying to figure out where you've gone before seeing the lump underneath the covers.

"you okay?" she asks, you can hear her flop back down onto the pillows, calmer now that she knows you're still in bed. lazily throwing an arm somewhere on you.

you don't answer. if you even try to speak you know your voice will wobble and fluxate so much she'll clock your fragile state immediately, so you stay silent in hopes she'll just think you're asleep, and that you shaking is some kind of bad dream.

but ellie's not that tired. sitting up once more, focusing in on your body language.

"you okay baby?" her voice is raspy from sleep, and if you weren't in such immense pain, you probably would've jumped on her.

with no answer, she slowly pulls the duvet cover down, you don't have the energy to try and stop her or fight it. you just let her expose you, tears slowing down but still staining your face as cold air hits you.

"what's wrong? what happened?" her concerned voice comes from above you, rubbing your arm soothingly & watching for your reaction, the last thing she wants to do is hurt you.

"just um... cramps." your voice wavers as you speak, and ellie's eyes turn soft straight away, her touch becoming even gentler than before, almost as if she was afraid to break you.

"oh babe..." she comforts, laying down cuddling into your side. you turn around to face her and smother your head into her shoulder as she loops an arm around your waist and head, playing with your hair while simultaneously rubbing soothing circles on your panty line.

"do you want me to run you a bath? get you some medicine? give you some head?" she whispers, chuckling to herself at her poorly made joke

you shake your head no but can't help to let out a small laugh, "it hurts to move."

"i can move you? you know i can."

contemplating her offer for a minute, you figure it can't hurt to have some hot water surround you.

"as long as you join me." you bargain, ellie practically jumps at the opportunity, removing herself from bed (not without giving you a kiss on the forehead first" and swiftly making her way to the bathroom. long sleeve drawn up to her mid arms and boy shorts clinging loosely to her hips, gosh, you're gonna marry her one day.

you fall asleep briefly, eyes tired, but she's back before you know it and lifting you gently from your position in bed, carrying you bridal style to the bath that's already halfway filled with water. signalling for you to lift your arms up where she removes your tank top, before pulling off your panties & socks. she's not disgusted at you being on your period, or seeing it, she's a girl too. and you've done this for her more times than she could even try to count.

carefully, she grabs your hand and gently guides you into the water. it's in nice contrast to the cool house, as the hot water envelops your senses completely, you moan at the feeling.

ellie's quick to follow in after you, positioning herself so she's behind you while you're in between her legs, laying against her chest, the sound of the tap is oddly comforting as you lean into your girlfriends body that is somehow warm.

the two of you sit in a relaxing silence for a few moments, before ellie interrupts it.

"how you feeling baby?" she questions, there's no urgency to her voice, she just wants to make sure you're okay, and hopefully a little better. her hands run up and down your body methodically before massaging into your shoulders.

"better." you sigh, enjoying the feeling of ellie's hands working your shoulders.

"anything hurt?" she genuinely asks

"my boobs do a little." you cheekily answer, but ellie pays no mind to it, if you say you're in pain there then she'll try to help however she can, shifting her position slightly to begin massaging and pinching at your boobs, you moan into it, relieved that the pain is slowly fading away, in both your lower abdomen & tits.

"that feel better?"

"so much better."

silence takes over the two you once again, but it's tranquil. ellie's turned off the tap at some point so the barely noticeable drip of water is the only think you're hearing every once in awhile, alongside your sighs of relief.

you can't help but think about how grateful you are for the girl behind you, she loves her sleep yet here she is, keeping herself awake and fully attentive to you, trying her best to help you however she can at an issue that seemed unsolvable not even fifteen minutes ago.

wherever ellie goes, you would follow. but you're more than happy sitting in the tub, soaking all of her in.

[lily-bisque]

toji know's how to hit you where it hurts. hurt/mild comfort. wc: 3k

A heavy, black mood settled in your living room, with you standing on one side of the couch, and Toji on the other. A wicked snarl painted his face as he leaned forward, making him nearly unrecognizable from the man you knew, the man you loved, mouth contorting as he spat venom in your direction. 

He’d been coming home wasted after his shifts recently. Kicking his shoes off in the foyer, stumbling and shedding his clothing right in the kitchen, and collapsing in your shared bed without even a word to you.

Worried as you were, you’d asked him about it after the first couple of nights, but you’d only been met with mutters and huffs, asking you to lay off him.

So you did. Allowed him to process whatever it was he needed to. When it came to his occupation, he never let you in much. Never gave you the details of his missions or showed if it affected him. He liked to keep his work and personal life separate.

But now that carefully drawn border was blurring, Toji teetering on the precipice of the straining overload that was beginning to consume his every waking thought.

Even with you, he couldn’t seem to escape it.

Instead, he stopped at the bar for a drink, which turned into a couple, which turned into a concerning amount where the waitstaff kicked him out routinely from how intoxicated he was and causing a scene.

You didn’t have to know about the brutal nature of his job, he preferred it like that.

In spite of that, you began to nag and itch at him for every fucking thing. Asking too many questions for your own good, and lingering with that pitiful expression that made his skin crawl.

He could barely look at you.

And now you were cowering, fingers twitching at your side as tears cascaded down your cheeks. Saying how you couldn’t recognize him anymore.

It made him sick.

But, in truth, deep down, in the grotesque depths of his gut, twisting in shame and contrite, he couldn’t recognize himself either.

He’d wash his hands of sticky, still warm blood in some cheap motel, wringing his compression shirt of any evidence before staring at himself in the mirror for hours. He wasn’t quite sure who was staring back at him.

At some point in his wrath, he’d lost himself.

And he was beginning to lose you, too.

So why delay the inevitable?

“You stick ‘round me ‘cause I’m your new charity case,” he slurred out with malice, eyes red-rimmed as he gripped the headrest of the couch until his knuckles paled. “You pity me. I fuckin’ see it every morning when I wake up, and every night.”

You scowled, a fresh set of tears flowing down your heated cheeks. “So you’re saying all the time I’ve spent loving you was because… because–” You threw your hands into the air, chest heaving as you swallowed a thick lump akin to a rock in your throat, body rigid and shoulders tensed. “That this was all because I felt bad for you?”

Your pinched face and frigid features unlike your soft demeanor made his body run cold despite the rising heat in the room. But Toji was conscientious. He left no ends untied. He always finished what he started, even if it killed him to do so in the act.

“Or to feed that savior complex of yours. You see anything broken, you’d crawl to the depths of hell to mend it,” he asserted, eyes narrowing like slits as he gave you a once-over short of nothing offended, repulsed. 

But he wasn’t done, not yet. He took a sharp inhale, hoping his knees would buckle and the world would swallow him whole before his misplaced anger spoke for him.

“Easy for your consciousness to make you forget just how screwed your life’s always been.”

The nail in the coffin. 

Your body went stiff as cardboard, breath hitching as your blurry eyes went wide.

Fushiguro Toji, the sole person in your life you knew you could rely on after all of these years, used the one thing he knew to hurt you. To slide the knife deeper.

You’d always been fragile when it came to your shaky upbringing, and you’d only opened up to him when you felt vulnerable with him and knew for a fact he wouldn’t judge you for your past.

And he hadn’t. He’d held you in his arms, whispering and muttering endearments and praises of just how strong you’d been despite it all. Initially, he even felt empathy as he could relate. You were one of the few people he could relate to in that sense.

Yet somewhere along the way, his mind had become such a muddled mess of his emotions. He was no longer rational. He couldn’t see straight.

But Toji emanated no regret, no remorse, not a sliver of empathy. He just stood there, his body stock, still save for his heaving chest, a prominent, smug grin on his mouth, like he was fucking proud of himself.

Your breaths quickened, the edges of your vision darkening as a horrible sense of dread washed over you.

You needed to get out of here.

Looking back, you couldn’t remember much, how you scrambled to shove your things into a small duffel bag and the loud sobs that left your lips as you did so.

You didn’t remember to grab your toothbrush or any underwear.

Didn’t grab a single photo to keep with you.

All you could make out of that night was the way Toji didn’t move from where he stood. He was like a statue, feet planted in stone behind the couch, imbued in the very ground below him. Not sparing even a glance in your direction.

He became a ghost in his own home.

You didn’t care that it was freezing outside. Nothing could rival the icy chill in your bones.

Didn’t care that the motel that you checked into probably scammed you in your frantic state.

Didn’t bother changing out of your clothing littered with your tears and snot.

Didn’t bother sliding beneath the blanket, the itchy linen would do nothing of comfort for you now.

You just curled up, a pillow in your arms as your eyes became dry wells, empty and staring blankly ahead.

There were some things with Toji you could forgive, like his spending habits or snarky attitude, but this was too simply too much.

You knew his words had now torn the already frayed edges of your psyche. You were inconsolable, and left to mend the shattered pieces of yourself all on your own.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You weren’t sure how many days you’d now spent at the motel. In truth, you didn’t care if it drained your savings.

There was nowhere else for you to stay, no second home you could go to to get back on your feet. You’d managed to leave your personal documents back at your place with Toji, but you’d be damned if you took a step inside of there right now, a home haunted by memories with the person you thought you’d be buried beside.

So you went to work. A bleary job at the convenience store around the corner. Selling cheap cigarettes, gum, beer and gas for hours on end. Mind mushed and eyes puffy and blank as you punched something into the screen you weren’t quite registering.

Small talk was stifling, like a vice to your throat. 

You felt like you’d been submerged in ice water–your head just beneath the surface as everything dulled to a murmur, your body settled in a consistent, stabbing chill. You were slowly suffocating, the one thing that made it easy to breathe now wrapped around your ankle and tugging you deeper.

You took on extra shifts, terrified to go back to the motel alone and stare at the wall, nothing to distract you from the ache in your chest.

Your manager asked if you were alright after eyeing your withered state. You gave them feigned reassurance and a smile that hurt your cheeks.

Your appetite was practically nonexistent. You’d pick at the reheated pasta you attempted to shove down your throat the previous night before tossing it out.

Sleep was of no evasion–restless nights spent tossing and turning, sweat like a second skin, as you replayed moments and were unsure if you’d made them up or if they were true.

You began to shuffle through life, enduring one day after another as they blended depressingly into each other, a montage of gloomy moments strung together.

Until something out of the ordinary fizzled into your reality–your detached mind wasn’t quite sure if you were dreaming or not. An issue you’d become familiar with as of late.

You ignored it, walking past it without a second glance and shut the motel door behind you before dragging your heavy limbs towards the shower.

But then there it was again. Same place, but it looked different, new clothing.

You squinted your eyes, clearing your hoarse throat, then stared blankly ahead at your door before stepping in your room and locking the door.

Then, on the third day, they walked towards you and wrapped a firm, familiar hand around your wrist and pulled you towards them. You couldn’t make it out, their voice muffled as you were still in the depths of that lake, before your vision cleared and you deciphered their face.

Your heart rate quickened as your eyes went owly, pulling away from his grip. But he held fast, still speaking but you weren’t hearing a word of it. Like a Chinese finger trap, each wringing movement only made him tighten his grasp.

“Let go,” you coughed out, mouth desert dry as you hadn’t had a lick of water in days. You were too weak to free yourself from his unrelenting grip from days of not taking care of yourself.

His forearms that looked to be cut from marble, flexed when he saw how you trembled in his grasp, bile tasting on his tongue as he made it known to himself exactly whose fault it was that made you like this.

You were unrecognizable, that gleam in your eyes he’d seen when he first met you, the fire in your eyes snuffed out.

You fought against him, strangled shouts of demanding he release you, face coiled in anger with something fractured just simmering beneath the surface, your cries broken and shrill.

He couldn’t meet your eyes, nor could you meet his.

He averted his gaze, his composure faltering by each passing second, his tongue a thick wad of muscle resting in his mouth. He was far too ashamed to utter anything to you.

The sky was now tempestuous, a deep and dark grey that held heavy above your heads, mocking the turmoil coiling between the two of you.

Toji was too ashamed of an admission that if he could take it all back, he would. That he desperately needed you, not the other way around. That he’d been pulverised to something he couldn’t recognize in your absence.

That the one thing that remained true was that you didn’t pity him, but he pitied himself to accept such unconditional love. He was so deeply insecure that he pushed away anything when it got too hard, when it began to puncture the bubble of safety he’d wrapped so carefully around himself over the years.

Your fists pounded into his chest, and he wanted to claw at the ache in his chest that seemed to grow with each passing second.

In your flailing state, a man of such formidable strength could easily have subdued you.

But Toji was weak when it came to you–you’d stripped him bare to his smallest, most repulsive layers and still loved him when you held them in your palm.

His teeth gritted against each other each moment he recalled just how spineless he’d been when you were simply reaching out. Toji couldn’t even reach you halfway, no. He sliced any tether that held the two of you together.

But he’d rather meet an early demise than not have you in his life. He was going to work at it, every single day, until he could hold you in his arms as his again. Until he could pepper kisses against the column of your neck in a way that made you squirm, until he could trace the dips and curves along your form, until he could watch the expressions you made as you unraveled beneath him, whining and exposed to your rawest nature as he pushed into you.

Your body began to tremble as you exhausted your efforts, out of breath and muttering cries to yourself under your breath mixed with curses condemning Toji to hell.

Until your tears worked their way up again, your body weakening as you convulsed in his tight hold of your arms. Until you collapsed against his chest.

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his jacket, face digging into his chest like you’d done thousands of times before, pleading to Toji something neither of you could understand.

Did you want him to free you from this hellish torment? Spare you from any more of his hurt? Or for him to hold you like his again?

For the first time Toji could count, his hands trembled. They wavered above your back with reluctance. Your tears stained his shirt, wetting the skin beneath and burning him. Reminders that these were tears he caused.

He felt like he couldn’t breath, his lungs stuffed with cotton. His legs were rendered useless as he could barely take a step forward, or backward.

He needed to move. He knew it, he repeated it over and over in his blank-slated mind until he was able to will himself to do so.

The two of you had yet to notice the drops of water that sprinkled onto the pavement, slicking the ground.

With apprehension, his hand brushed against your back, a warmth suddenly heating his palm, calloused from years of strain. He began to question if he even deserved such an act, rendering him foolish as he started to skim his fingers through your hair.

He had been so catty and abrasive with you, pouring anything good he had with you down the drain with a couple sentences of words to hit you where it hurt. 

He tugged his bruised bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing at the same spot he’d been doing for days. The difference was he tasted copper on his tongue now.

You don’t know how long the two of you stood there, bodies drenched from the rain, hair matted with water, clothing that clung uncomfortably to you.

A hiccup left your lip well after your sobs died down. 

Toji slipped a hand into your pocket, pulling your motel keys from them before lifting you into his arms.

You didn’t fight him this time, resigned to your exhaustion and something else you didn’t want to address.

He kicked the door shut after stepping in, expression sober as he walked straight for the bathroom, not even caring about all of the mud and rainwater he’d tracked in.

He sat you on the counter, then turned the shower faucet on.

You sat limp, nose stuffed and sniffling, skin paled.

He began to undress you carefully, tugging your top over your head and slipping your jeans off along with your panties. He unclasped your soaked bra and tossed it on the pile on the ground, then began to undress himself.

You weren’t entirely focused on all of his movements, something akin to familiarity wrenching in your chest.

He pulled you off of the counter and carried you into the shower before letting you settle on your own two feet.

He grabbed the measly bottle of motel shampoo and began to work it through your hair, the hot temperature he’d always shower with scalding your skin.

You stood there, letting him work the suds off before he began to scrub away at your body.

Toji had always been a rough-handed man, but the way he tended to you so delicately, like you were a prized piece of China he held in his palm, afraid to crack it with his brute, made you nauseous.

You stood there as he cleaned himself off.

The air was steamy and suffocating, a humid temperature billowing before he shut the water off.

The two of you smelled of the same soap.

He wrapped you in an abundance of towels, making sure to wipe away any lingering tears. His feather-light touch made you shiver as he dried you off.

He propped a window open, before making the bed.

Sifting through the cabinets, he found a hairdryer and did his best to figure out how exactly they worked before ruffling it through your hair.

You shut your eyes, for a moment pretending like everything in the world wasn’t wrong when it was starting to feel right.

His meaty fingers attempted to braid your hair back, but it looked disheveled and disarrayed.

You didn’t care.

He lifted you up once again, the both of your bare skins grazing against each other in a matter so intimate you could feel your heart sinking to the depths of your gut.

He lifted the sheets, before laying you down.

Then he laid beside you.

Without a moment of hesitation, like it was second nature, he pulled you against his chest, his bulky arms engulfing you in his large form.

Your breath stilled as his breaths began to pick up, his heartbeat quickening beside your ear.

You felt something wet touch your scalp.

He cradled you like a dove.

And then he began to whisper your name out, heady and abject. His voice was swimming with repentance as it started to crack.

He apologized profusely, in a hushed tone for only you to hear. Swore on you like you were his salvation. In his misery, he beseeched you to curse him, a promise that he’d never forget, whispered in the night.

Nothing was fixed, not right now. You weren’t sure if it ever would be.

You weren’t sure how to describe the gnawing feeling in your gut.

Toji could barely rest without your forgiveness, but for now, this would have to do. Your breaths synced, chests rising and falling in tandem, as slumber took the both of you.

[mischivousvoid]

You will never be her

SYNOPSIS : You've been in love with your coworker forever, you sadly discover he's in love with someone else. Except, she's shattered his heart to pieces.

PAIRING : Zayne x Non-MC!Gender-Neutral Reader

TAGS : Hurt/comfort, Oneshot/Drabble, kinda-sorta-slice-of-life

❄️🍧☃️🍧❄️❄️🍧☃️🍧❄️🍧☃️🍧❄️🍧☃️🍧❄️

The first time you saw how he looks at her, it stung. I mean, it hurts, watching the man you've been pining for for the last few years be so desperately in love with someone who isn't you.

Yet somehow, what hurts even more, is that you can see from a mile away that she doesn't look at him the same way. How could she not?

Your coworker, Zayne, is perhaps the kindest, most thoughtful and caring person on Earth. He speaks in a cold and professional demeanor most of the time, and does not seem to emotionally attach to the patients, but his actions speak so much louder than his words. He stays late just to make sure things go smoothly, he checks up on patients in his free time, he stops stops by to help out people he doesn't know when he can. On the rare occasions he brings snacks for everyone, he remembers exactly what everyone is allergic to and what their favourite is.

It really is outrageous that the woman he lights up when seeing and keeps a picture of on his desk doesn't like him back. You almost think to yourself that how dare she hurt him like that. But I guess when you just don't feel the chemistry, you just don't feel the chemistry. Life is cruel sometimes...

Your heart feels like it's being squeezed and compressed into a black hole every time you look at him talk to her. One time it was so bad you almost scheduled an appointment with him to see if there's an underlying physical issue. But, no, sadly your heartbreak is emotional and has quite the obvious source... You doubt you had a chance before, you know. Zayne tends to keep his personal life out of the hospital and the hospital out of his personal life, he'd probably never go out with a coworker. And fat chance you were his taste. But seeing him so... enamoured with her. Right in front of your salad. Well, it really crushed your ribs from the inside. She didn't show up often, only some evenings to meet him after work and head off together, or occasionally as a hunter assigned to clean up when there was an incident at your hospital. But you still couldn't bear seeing them.

You sat with the feeling many evenings after work, suppressing it in the moment and putting away for crying into your pillow late at night. It sucked. It really sucked. Many sleepless nights of chest pain and close calls of being late to work because your meltdowns made you oversleep. But thanks to you processing your feelings and not ignoring them, over time, it got easier. At least, the pain didn't feel so suffocating and you made peace with the fact that you'll never have him. You felt... mildly content just seeing him happy.

Except, that didn't last. The more time passed, the more apparent it became that the woman he loved only saw him as a friend and would never "warm up and like him back" the way you thought. You don't know if he noticed that too, or if she outright rejected him, but you watched him slowly wilt. It was subtle, many people wouldn't even notice, but it was the little things. He'd eat his lunch just a little too long staring off into space, end conversations just a little too soon, stay so late at work that it wasn't just to check up on the patients anymore but quite clearly to distract himself. One day, she showed up with a man and cheerfully introduced him as her boyfriend, and said he'd be tagging along to their outing and that she hoped they'd all get along. The next week, her picture was gone from his desk. And the whole following month Zayne stayed late at work on every day and had bigger eyebags on him than you've ever seen.

This had to stop. You can't... You can't watch him destroy himself anymore. It was one thing to have your heart broken, but seeing him fall apart into pieces was so much worse.

You gathered up whatever courage you had, and invited him for coffee and pastries right after your shift ends on the day your schedule alligned. Made an excuse as to why it cannot be any later, apparently the cafe won't serve any cake after a certain hour because the owner believes sugar before bed will kill you. No, it can't be another cafe, it has to be that one, it has that special edition dessert you wanted to try forever but had no one to go with. Your treat, of course.

Somehow, he agreed. He wasn't very talkative, but you still had a good time. Doctor Zayne when he isn't a Doctor is a sight to behold... You had fun seeing all his reactions. His scrunched-up nose when he tried his drink before adding 5 spoons of sugar, his satisfied expression when finishing his 3rd slice of cake. You feel a little bad, enjoying this so much while inviting him to make sure that *he* feels better. But hey, he seems happier and he didn't overwork himself again, so maybe you deserve to enjoy this a little bit. At the end of the evening, you nod and go your separate ways.

You do this again the first time you have an opportunity, make some other outrageous excuse why it has to be right after work. And then again. And again. And every time, by some miracle, Zayne says yes. You talk more and more each time. By the third time, Zayne asks you if you'd like him to accompany you to your house. It is late, after all. In twice the time, you don't even have to ask, and he's ready to head off with you when your work is done. It becomes routine, you finish work, you go get some sweets and coffee, Zayne walks you home.

It feels like a privilege peering into his private life, to hear him talk of things other than patients and surgeries and scheduling. You learn of his terrible sweet tooth, his favourite foods, his interests out of work. You learn of his sarcastic and playful-jabs kind of sense of humour, his smile engraved to your memory. His outward cold demeanor seems like almost a facade with how warm being around him makes you feel.

You're so happy to see him better and to know these new sides to him that you don't even notice when he starts to linger around you, when it looks like he doesn't quite want to leave after walking you home, how he stands just a little closer when you walk next to each other. You're just glad to give him some company that you can tell he needed.

One fateful evening he does something you've never thought possible. He kisses you. Your mind melts while you try to process what's happening, but you instinctively kiss him back before you can even tell. You've wanted this for so long. You're not sure what you expected him to feel like, but his lips are soft and a little chilly before they warm up to yours. When the kiss turns open-mouthed, he feels much more like warm cocoa, even tastes a little like it, sugary flavour lingering after you two had your desserts earlier in the evening.

You pull away and try to hold yourself together. Emotions circle through your head, and you only manage to force out the dumbest thing you could possibly say right now.

"You know I'll never be her, right?"

You're afraid you ruined this for yourself when his face falls and he stares to the side into blank space. But he looks back at you and smiles.

"I know."

He looks a little melancholic, but he kisses you again and your worries melt away with the rest of your thoughts.

——————————————————————————

Sometimes, he still looks at her like he did before, but with an additional layer of sadness and melancholy to his expression. It doesn't hurt though. Because he looks at you with the same warmth and shine, and at least, you make him smile as well.

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Imagine helping Crocodile discover a new way to use his devil fruit

Before the cross guild's morning meeting

You: [watching Crocodile repeatedly thumbing the spark wheel of his sputtering lighter, attempting to light up a cigar] I have a question.

Crocodile: [cocks an eyebrow over at you for your audacity, lips still stubbornly clasped around the cigar]

You: Using your sand, how fast can you get your sand particles to move?

Crocodile: [uses his hand to show you he can move them faster than your eye can see]

Mihawk: [stops reading the newspaper to look up at you]

Buggy, the one who invited you: [looking nervously between you and Crocodile]

You: can you do that while compressing the particles?

Crocodile: [shrugs]

Mihawk: [mildly suspicious of you] Why?

You: [looks between the three men, to realize you might have fucked up, so you start back-pedaling] Oh, no, uh, I just figured if he compressed his sand while trying to circulate it rapidly, the friction would create enough kinetic energy to produce heat that was hot enough to light his cigar. I wasn't, like, meaning to offend.

Crocodile: [lifts his finger in front of him and tries what you just said, and gets it to glow red with heat]

Buggy: UHH?

Mihawk: ( = _ =)?

Crocodile: [lifts his cigar to the glowing whirl of sand pulls off the cigar, and chuckles, swirling smoke escaping his nostrils] Oh this will bring so many more possibilities to me.

Buggy: great, nice going jackass, now he's even more powerful.

You: You probably could use it to cook someone.

Crocodile: excuse me?

Mihawk: shut up, little bird, stop giving him ideas.

Crocodile: [Cages you against the couch with his arms and leans in close] Keep talking, I want to know what fucked up thing is floating around in that little head of yours.

You: [pulls away from him and averts your gaze]

Crocodile: [uses his hook to pull your chin towards him to make you look at him] Look at me when I'm talking to you.

Mihawk: [sighs loudly and leans back in his chair] Leave them alone, Crocodile.

Crocodile: [ignores them] tell me

You: if you have enough sand to encase someone, you could cook them alive.

Buggy: That's kind of scary, kid.

Mihawk: [runs his hand over his face] What the fuck.

Crocodile: [laughs and ruffles your hair after he processes your words] I like this kid, good job Buggy for finding this one.

List of Up-and-coming works || Master list || Twitter| Kofi || Patreon

[bluemerakis]

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ────

❝ skin covered in ego ❞

❝ all the stars ── ၊၊||၊|။||||။၊| ── kendrick lamar ft. sza ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x fem!supe!reader

warnings .ᐟ cussing, dual pov, angst, oral f receiving, unprotected sex p in v, fluff, just sappy drama actually. pls lmk if i forgot any :)

synopsis ─ a retrospect of how soldier boy meets his saving grace—a superhero he’d been forcibly co-partnered with during payback’s prime. throughout their time spent together, she helps to refine all the fragments of him that have always lingered within, but had lacked the grip to pull together into something whole—respectable. eventually, with her influence, he reinvents his image into a sense of self he can claim without pre-programmed shame, and in the process, he discovers just how pivotal her existence is within his formerly, self-centred universe.

word count ~ 9.2k

based on this fic

──────────────────────

ʿ Skin covered in egoʾ

Vought-American’s council room felt suffocated with the aged, bronze statues looming in every corner of the space—a dramatic glorification of countless Vought-owned Supes, both old and new alike, that you’d neglected to learn the names of. Like honourable guards, they perched on their metal posts with watchful eyes meant to convey a sense of security and comfort. But instead, the weight of their rusted, faux eyes compressed your lungs to the point of shallow, jittery breaths, and the impressive height on them made you feel belittled. Judged.

Misplaced—like you’d never measure up to all the virtues of Supe life that their metal forms had come to embody.

The unwelcoming, inanimate atmosphere was only given a certain life by the company’s executives, who’d personally received you at the doors and guided you into this room. But there’d been no genuine sentiment beyond professionalism to warm their welcoming smiles, and every advance they’d made in becoming better acquainted with you had felt orchestrated—robotic. It’d done little to soothe your unease, and everything to feed the mental monster fear-mongering your better judgement.

Now, in the midst of the council room, the executives were fanned out all around you in a formation that should’ve made you feel caged in—like you were about to be fed to something far worse than the statues’ lingering jaws of judgement. But even then, you didn’t seize any wise instinct to flee. You felt immobilised by dread—the dread plaguing the idea of new beginnings. Your new beginning as Payback’s newest, super-abled member.

The title should’ve left you feeling honoured. Where you should’ve celebrated the letter housing the formal invitation, you mourned the loss of the comforts you’d come to call home. Where you should’ve marvelled at the idea of getting to work with Vought-American’s renowned Supe team, you harboured only a nagging fear of never measuring up to their standards. Where excitement should’ve imploded within at the mere idea of meeting the Soldier Boy, only panic arrived to brace every inch of your mind.

You were terrified.

And what didn’t help your rattled lungs was the way the doors to the room seemed to part with a dramatised creak, displacing the tense silence momentarily—only to replace it with an overwhelming air of self-righteousness as the man you dreaded meeting finally strode into the room. It was as though all the air in the room parted and pressed up against the walls to accommodate his demanding existence, and all at the expense of everybody else unlucky enough to share the space.

Clad in the iconic green uniform you’d seen advertised across countless costume stores, Soldier Boy marched a line that drew directly toward you. His jaw was perched on some invisible stage of importance, his hardened eyes finding yours in a cynical standoff. His broad shoulders were braced with a practiced composure as he covered the length of the floor, and it only added to the overwhelming demeanour you were sure he’d forged for the sole purpose of intimidating everybody below his pay grade.

As he drew up before your waiting form, you found yourself rooted to the spot—frozen with the uncertainty of how to approach the figure you’d come to know as America’s icon. But thankfully, you were shielded from Soldier Boy’s grilling glare as the executives all around you stirred, taking turns to greet the leader of Payback with more enthusiasm than they’d showed you.

You took that moment to gather your wit, but your attention didn’t falter from Soldier Boy, and you couldn’t help but notice the way he came off as a dull, painful contrast to his bustling higher-ups. He seemed disinterested, gloved hand outstretched to deliver curt, half-hearted shakes—if only to fulfil the duty of formalities that must’ve come hand-in-hand with his position of import. It was so unlike the charming and chatty persona you’d grown used to seeing through on-screen commercial airings, but his aloofness didn’t seem to phase the executives.

It shouldn’t have surprised you, either. Meeting your heroes never went to plan. Reality wasn’t something that could be as carefully scripted as the faux media aired from every corner of America—and like that, you knew that Soldier Boy’s cheery personality was all an act. It’d fooled you, that’s for sure.

As you stood there, unable to tear your gaze away from America’s Sweetheart, you couldn’t help but seize the close-up company to study every detail about him—his sharp features rigged with enough tension to fuel an army, the captivating green of his eyes framed with a hard stare, and the soft, light brown hair that seemed to effortlessly catch the room’s light. And yet, for the long-standing reputation of war he’d forged his name within, there was not a single scar carved into his fair skin to reflect the records. But it didn’t make him less rough and raw.

And admittedly, he was breathtakingly beautiful—like he was made to be more of a God than a disciple.

Everything about him laid a siege on your lungs—made breathing the same air as him feel impossible. But you were forced to adapt when his attention finally forsook the executives to pin you down, and for a second, you saw him squint with a curiosity that mirrored your own. But the fraction of transparency he’d let weaken his carefully-curated mask was blinked away before he furthered his advance on you, effortlessly clearing a line through the loitering executives.

Subconsciously, you held your breath as you watched his taller frame stagger up to you. He drew up before you with an arm’s length of space to spare, the shy space breaching your bodies quickly becoming infused with his strong cologne. His gaze was intense as he searched between your features—enough of a silent interrogation to make your skin crawl with the urge to buckle your head. But you didn’t. You feigned bravery by holding his quiet challenge with a fragile determination, just hoping that he didn’t catch the subtle bop of your throat.

Your apparent boldness must’ve been an amusing feat on your part because the corner of Soldier Boy’s lips hitched with a light smirk. For a few seconds, neither of you said anything, but it did everything to thicken the air circulating between your faces. You wished he knew what was going through his mind as he scrutinised what felt like every inch of your face. It was intense—slightly uncomfortable, but you continued to hold his attention out of a petty need to prevail. Your head only buckled to shed his glare when movement on his part caught your eye, his hand finally neglecting his formation to lift in the offer of a greeting.

“What’s your name?” He asked—the sound unexpectedly sonorous. Dulcet. Composed. It’s not an octave you’ve ever heard broadcasted across the radio—so you figured it must’ve been a genuine detail about him. Something worth remembering.

Hesitantly, you reached out your own hand, drawing it rigid to still the nerves before you slid your fingers across his palm. Instantly, his own fingers seized your hand in a firm grasp—but he didn’t shake on it. It made you lift your head with mildly-alarmed curiosity, and when you met his gaze once more, you saw that same look of scrutiny he’d branded you with upon his arrival.

“Does the mouth on you talk, or’s it only there for the sake o’ pretty smiles? Which you still haven’t graced me with, by the way,” He said smoothly, features now polished with the same charm he often weaponised amongst his fans—as if you were some fangirl he’d expected to swoon under his influence.

You uttered a mental scoff at that. You’d be damned to let Soldier Boy believe your otherwise muteness was owed entirely to his presence—and while it definitely played a role, it wasn’t the singular circumstance holding your tongue hostage. Today had been extremely overwhelming. Draining. It had put a damper on your mood—and clearly made you come across as a meek thing star-struck into silence. But you were far from it, and if you were to work alongside Soldier Boy for the foreseeable years to come, you’d rather not have his first impression of you be a doting fangirl.

You firmed up your own grip on his hand, which the Supe acknowledged with a hitch of his brows and a subtle jut of his lower lip. “She speaks,” you replied eventually, thankful that the sound was clear and not breached by a quiver. “And she smiles when she’s smiled at, which I don’t seem to remember you doing, either,” you added with a certain spunk.

Soldier Boy grinned at that—perfect, white teeth blooming into view. But it didn’t last long, and it certainly wasn’t as authentic as the action was made to be. It quickly simmered into a laxity of his jaw, tongue poking out to drag across his lower lip—like he was attempting to understand you. “Alright,” he conceded ambiguously, his grip on your palm unrelenting. “Fair enough—and if you’re goin’ to be joinin’ my team, you better keep on makin’ points as valid as that,” he huffed half-heartedly, eyes making a bold dip toward your lips. “And some more,” he muttered distractedly.

You pretended not to notice his wandering, flirtatious eyes, your own gaze steadfast at eye level despite the faint hint of self-consciousness burning your body hot. “Our team,” you corrected thickly, which made the Supe’s attention snap back to you with a newfound focus that banished his play-boyish desires from existence.

“The hell you mean our team?” Soldier Boy demanded tensely, his voice roughened with a note of disapproval as he finally released your palm in disdain—like he’d touched something revolting. But he didn’t wait for your answer as his head swivelled to drink in the idling executives, and the glare on him must’ve been scathing because a few of them were instantly averting their attention—like students who didn’t want to be picked on by the prying teacher.

You watched the Supe retreat a stride as he sought to confront the only people in the room with more power than him—in title, at least. If it came down to getting physical, god bless their souls.

“The fuck is she on ‘bout, huh?” He snapped, his voice resonating across the room. “Payback’s mine—I built this team up from the fuckin’ ground. I own each and every one o’ those sorry shits—turned them into somethin’ worth a damn! So if you think I’m just gonna step aside and let some dreamy-eyed rookie take the credit, you better think again—or somebody’s gettin’ their useless fuckin’ head bashed in.”

You grimaced at the temper on him. It took one hell of an ego to speak so confidently about one’s ability’s, and you didn’t doubt Soldier Boy harboured enough of it to represent the entire male population. It made you wonder how his super suit could contain all six feet of it.

The executives had warned you about his temper prior to this meeting, and the likelihood of an outburst once the news finally reached him. You’d taken it with a grain of salt—unconvinced that the leader of Payback could be so comparable with a teenager grappling with puberty—but as you stood observing his slightly feral stance, you decided, then, that you’d seen it all.

Feeling as though you should have some say in this—being a new addition to the team in question—you cleared your throat with enough purpose to turn all the heads in the room. Soldier Boy abided last, as though it was a mockery of his importance to spare you the light of day. The Supe turned his body fully to face you, and the displeasure radiating from his rigid stance made you clench your jaw with careful consideration. The last thing you wanted was to ruffle his invisible cape the wrong way. You didn’t need that sort of drama on your first day—and you certainly had zero desire to entertain a feud that would taint the rest of your days with Vought-American.

You offered Soldier Boy a tiny nod of thanks—a peace-offering, but the Supe merely lifted his chin, as though undecided on his standpoint with you. You took your lower lip into a brief bite before releasing it with the first clause of your peace-treaty.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” you began lightly, taking a few steps toward him until you were returned to the personal vicinity from before.

“That so?” He mocked bitterly, watched you with careful eyes almost turned scornful. But he didn’t falter an inch from his position, so you figured that he was listening, anyway.

You lifted your hands in a steadying gesture. “Look, I’m not here to steal your spotlight—”

“Nobody’s stealin’ my spotlight, sweetheart,” he cut in with a scathing huff, and an equally heartfelt frown to accompany it.

Your nostrils flared with a breath of patience, providing the pause you needed to reason against the urge to strangle him. “Like I said,” you continued tensely. “Not here to steal your spotlight. The only reason Vought decided to recruit me is because I’ve been gaining attention with my most recent feat—”

“Yeah?” He interjected, arms coming up in a cross as his head tilted with the slightest interest—but somehow, it still felt like a mock. “And what’d ya do to get on Vought’s radar? Campaign for the destructive feminists? Screamin’ some free the nipple bull-shit at the top o’ your lungs?” He paused at that, lips drawing into a slight pout as his eyes flickered skyward. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he made some silent concession. “On second thought, they might be onto somethin’ with that,” he stated, eyes finding yours in a mischievous squint—like he sought to get a rise out of you.

You weren’t going to let him rub your hair the wrong way, so you disregarded that comment entirely—but it didn’t stop the word dick from blaring at the back of your mind. “It was a fire,” you clarified, which apparently was a detail mundane enough to make Soldier Boy’s lips draw back with disinterest. “Started in the park of a neighbourhood I used to patrol frequently. Burned right through to the nearest house, and the family got caught inside. Parents and three kids—one barely old enough to walk.”

As the Supe listened, the judgmental furrow in his brow didn’t relent, but there was some new interest to his attention because his chin jerked in your direction. “So?” He prompted. “What’d you do—tell it to fuck off? You a wind-whisperer or somethin’?”

Far from a wind-whisperer, but I know a few ways to tell you to fuck off, you remarked silently. Your tongue poked at the inside of your cheek in a summons of patience. “It’s easier to show than tell,” you said tensely, the explanation so ambiguous that Soldier Boy frowned questioningly.

“Well, we don’t got all fuckin’ da—” his words caught in his throat as he sputtered on some invisible lump, his arms uncrossing in a state of panic. Almost instantly, his cheeks flushed with a deep red only elicited by a lack of air, and the veins usually tracing his temple in secrecy now bulged with a concerning thickness. His eyes—bloodshot in the state of his asphyxiation—flickered to you with a primal fear that you didn’t believe he’d ever worn, before his attention dropped to the hand you’d brought up in a focused clench.

Decidedly satisfied with your display, you relaxed your flexed fingers, and it was the singular permission that the Supe needed to draw in a large bout of air, his chest rattling with a series of coarse coughs. He staggered over slightly, but caught himself just in time to remain respectable.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he choked out, frown lines carved into his forehead as he lifted his head to glare at you past stray strands of his bangs—freshly escaped from the prison of his collected hairdo. “Alright. . .” He murmured hoarsely, fashioning caution—and wiser words—as he straightened to full height and faced you once more. “I’ll admit, that’s not the worst parlour trick.” You knew that it was Soldier Boy for that was impressive, so you accepted it with a satisfied jut of your chin. Then, the Supe’s index finger lifted in your direction in a stern scolding. “But don’t fuckin’ do that again,” he warned.

You smirked at that, crossing your arms with the intent to negotiate. “Stop doubting my capabilities and I won’t have to,” you countered smugly.

Soldier Boy glanced around the room with a clenched jaw, as though unhappy with his dwindling sense of control, before turning to face you again. “Yeah, whatever,” he relented with a sniff, but you could have sworn that there was a shade of red still lingering in his cheeks. “So I take it you choked the shit outta that fire, too?”

“Mhm. Saved the whole family. Some guy saw the whole thing and reported it to. . . whoever the hell makes things like this happen. Next thing I knew, a Vought-American letter’s in my mailbox. Apparently, I left quite an impression on the public, and they thought it’d be good for the scores—having me partner up with the Soldier Boy.“

“The public is gonna love it!” One of the executives chimed in eagerly, as though seizing the opportunity to quench the lead Supe’s ruffled fire once and for all. But when Soldier Boy slowly turned to cast him a glare, he wilted back into silence.

Turning back to you, the Supe scoffed. “What—so we’d be like America’s next, hottest couple?”

You paused at that, mulling over the title. Admittedly, it had a certain ring to it. “You could put it that way,” you said thoughtfully. “Because if there’s one thing this country loves—it’s Supe scandals.”

For the first time, the lead Supe showcased an emotion other than scorn and condemnation—he laughed, genuinely laughed. “Ain’t that the goddamn truth,” he agreed gruffly, head briefly tilted to the ground as he considered your words with ridicule. “God bless fuckin’ America.” Then, he lifted his eyes to you, and they softened with just enough tolerance to come off as respect. “Whaddya say then?” He asked. “Ready to take on the role, sweetheart?” There was the faintest ghost of a smirk on his lips—like he was eager awaiting your reply.

“First of all, drop the sweetheart thing,” you told him flatly. “It’s not flattering, and it’s certainly not the panty-dropper you think it is.”

Soldier Boy’s brows lifted with brief offence at being called out, but then his chin dipped in surrender. “Fine. You got somethin’ else you prefer? Cause you still haven’t told me your name.” His eyes glinted with something mischievous as he added, “sweetheart.”

With a light shake of your head and a weakly amused smile, you offered him your name. He rolled it over his tongue once or twice, then winked in acknowledgment once he’d mentally marked it down.

“A beautiful name, but I still think sweetheart suits ya,” he wondered aloud.

You couldn’t help but smile at the nerve of the Supe. He’s attractive—he knew it, and so did you. And you also couldn’t deny the way some primal part of you seemed to flutter at his attention, but you were wise enough to know that it wasn’t exclusive—nothing ever was when it came to him. “Well, I guess it’s a shame that you’ve named every other woman you come across sweetheart,” you scoffed.

Soldier Boy’s smirk deepened, like he enjoyed your nerve. “What—you callin’ me some sorta floozy?”

You shrugged innocently. “If you really have to ask that, I think you know the answer.”

His chest rattled with a chuckle—you figured you should’ve started a tally of all the times you got the Supe to laugh. You might’ve been able to pawn it off to some museum showcasing historical events to behold.

“Yeah, alright,” he murmured half to himself, then sobered his attention as he cast you a scheming glance. “Just one last thing,” he said.

“What?”

Soldier Boy leaned into your vicinity—close enough to feel his breath flush your nose with warmth. “Think you can handle being tethered to my side ‘round the clock?” He murmured lowly, a smug smirk poking through as he eyed you like an object of desire.

You braced your chin with a boldness to match his. “Can you handle me?” You countered levelly, arms coming up in a cross as you searched his sultry stare.

“Damn right I can,” he murmured even softer than before—more like drawled, but it was no less intense. His attention snagged on the view of your lips for a few, hot seconds before fluttering back up to your eyes.

You stole your own glance of his lips, and you wandered whether they were good for anything other than offending every person he came across. “Really? Sure I won’t take your breath away?” You jabbed lightly, casting him a heavy-lidded stare.

Air jetted through his nostrils in an amused sound, his tongue poking through to sweep across his lips. “You already have,” he admitted with a heavy stare. “And I don’t think you’re quite finished yet, either.”

Those words took you by surprise, your head recoiling a measly centimetre, but Soldier Boy seemed perfectly content with his choice of words—unmoved by your reaction. With a mildly flustered swallow, you shook your head lightly. “You’re trouble, Soldier Boy,” you remarked carefully, but a fraction of a smile still managed to slip through.

“Ben,” he corrected, lips wound thin with a devilish smirk. “And you may be right—but I’m all the right kinds of trouble, sweetheart.”

ʿ Get to talkin', I get involved, like a rebound

Got no end game, got no result, got to stay downʾ

The first week at Vought-American had been quiet on the mission front, so you’d spent most of your time exploring the compound, though not without unsuccessfully shaking Ben’s company. More often than not, the lead Supe got his fill of entertainment by trailing around after you like a sheet of toilet paper you’d accidentally tracked from the bathroom. It drove you insane, but he was relentlessly clingy, so he’d gotten his way and stuck around.

And what made it worse, was that—against your will, you’d come to tolerate him. But as the weeks turned to months, tolerate became appreciate, and it wasn’t long before appreciate became crave. Coming to terms with the fact that you actually sought out Ben’s company had been a jarring moment in your character arc. You’d made yourself the promise—when it all began—not to let the faux title of America’s Power Couple influence your heart. But beneath all the Supe makeup, you hosted a very human heart that thumped loud and clear, and it was the ultimate weak link that betrayed your own.

You’d tried hard to fight the urges that had jumped you without any prior warning, but it felt impossible to escape when you were attached to his hip every other day—if not to cover one another in adrenaline-worthy missions, then to pose for the camera as the duo that America had come to adore. The news of your partnership had taken to the headlines almost immediately, and it meant that there was no going back on it—meant that you truly were stuck with him now.

Most of the public had voiced their adoration for your relationship, and as part of the act to make it believable, Vought had sent you both to events as a couple forced to act in love. There were shared hugs, hands draped across your waist during idle chatter, glances exchanged with intense passion, and lips contacting with a point to prove—and it’d all made it difficult for you to not join in on the public’s swooning.

In stark contrast to your own, very clear struggle with the push on professional boundaries, Ben seemed elated by it all. Marvelled in it, even. He seized every opportunity to make casual remarks that burned your cheeks hot, or made sure to hover his hand a fraction too long when lightening the load on your palms. He could see right through you, and he’d made true on his word to pose the trouble he’d warned you of.

One night, he’d taken it a step—one giant leap further.

After a late night, last minute meeting with the executives, you and Ben had exited the room in tandem, and it wasn’t supposed to lead anywhere past walking you back to your suite. But it did. It did—from the moment he cut in front of you with an earnest look morphing the features you’d come to memorise in the midst of your growing infatuation. And it did when he took the step that pressed your bodies close together, exchanging heat like a symbiosis that had always meant to exist. And it did when his hand came up to frame your jaw with a gentleness you’d never seen him practice, his lips lowering onto yours with a point that invalided your every pre-conceived notion on his capabilities.

You should have pulled away—if you’d known what was good for you because you knew that Ben was no role model for long-term commitments. And you knew that your heart would be the first to find that out somewhere down the line. But because you chose to listen to what was good for your body, instead, you pressed your lips against his with a force that made you an equal accomplice to bad decisions.

You should have pulled away, but you didn’t.

ʿ It's the way that you making me feel like nobody ever loved me

Like you do, you doʾ

The door to Ben’s suite slammed closed behind you before his hands seized your waist firmly, his lips hot on the trail to provide all the reinforcement needed to corner you against the nearest wall. With a passionate lack of care, the length of your back was pressed flush against the cement as his palms glided over the meat of your hips, squeezing the anatomy with an appreciative firmness before they glided to the underside of your thighs.

His lips feuded with your own in a sloppy and heated make out, then dipped into the divot of your chin when he buckled an inch to gather the momentum needed to hoist you up. Your arms instinctually found his neck in a vice grip, legs coming up to wrap around his waist as he successfully—and effortlessly—lifted you into his grasp. His head leaned back into yours to slur a brief kiss across your lips, large palms tightening around your thighs as he turned and steered the both of you toward the nearest sofa.

You were blind to where the sofa began, but Ben lowered your form just enough for the armrest to graze the small of your back before you were tossed a very short distance into the cushioned length of the couch. The thud of your back against the sofa knocked a breath from your lungs, but you weren’t afforded the chance to replenish it before the Supe came crashing down on you with one motive in mind: devouring you.

His lips crashed into yours once more, one hand curling around your nape, tussling your hair as he pressed you further into his famished lips, while the other skilfully worked at undressing you. And it wasn’t long before he was dragging a wet trail of kisses down the arch of your neck, around each perked bud of your breasts, and down the line of your abdomen.

“Fuck, Ben, it feels so good,” you breathed out appreciatively, head burrowing back into the sofa and toes curling into the material as he flicked and dragged his tongue through your folds—tracing all sorts of patterns he’d perfected through prior experiences you’d chosen to bar from your mind.

His tongue was rough—impatient, and it did a splendid job at summoning your high. But his hands trapped your thighs against the sofa to deny the buck of your hips that would’ve given you the last push you needed to fall into the abyss of pleasure, and before you could complain, he pulled you up at the wrist and spun you around.

Positioned ass up and face down, he smoothed over the skin of your ass with an appreciative hum. “You look good like this, sweetheart,” he remarked crassly—only because he knew it’d burn you the darkest shade of red. And it wasn’t long before he slid himself into your welcoming entrance, his thrusts driven with by purpose—rough, quick and straight to the point.

He fanned a hand over the small of your back, pressing you further into the sofa while the other found firm grip at your hip. The space was filled with a raw skin-on-skin percussion that sounded primal—shameful, almost, but you were so far lost to the drilling of his tip against your cervix that you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. You craved him—craved the way he made you feel. And you showed him through the slurred moans pouring from your mouth with every snap of his hips against you.

His broad chest pressed against your bare back as he brought himself to your ear. “Jesus, you’re somethin’,” he growled, his thrusts intensifying to the point of flattening your lower half against the sofa. “You’re everythin’,” he husked against your hair, one hand coming up to wrap around the front of your neck while the other tightened into a bruise-worthy grip at your hip, and as he pummelled you into the cushions, all you could think about was how you never wanted this to end—and you also hoped that the sofa wouldn’t break.

ʿ You kinda feel like you tryin' to get away from me

If you do, I won't moveʾ

You counted another night in Ben’s bed, where raked your gaze over his sleeping form, and it marvelled you that he could look so at peace with himself—with life. In waking times, where he constantly barrelled from one mission to the other, he gave the sort of impression that he didn’t know a second of peace—like he’d been made solely for war and conflict. So seeing him like this—it warmed something inside of you. But the feeling didn’t linger when you swallowed thickly with a guilty realisation.

You’d lied to yourself.

What was supposed to be a once-off, one-night stand had turned to weeks of ritualistic, late-night visits. Almost every other night, you and Ben were tackling one another—a battle of bodies and orgasms. It wasn’t supposed to go beyond that first night—and once it did, you’d told yourself that it wasn’t supposed to go beyond a physical relationship.

But it had—for you, at least. You hadn’t exactly had the nerve to ask Ben whether he saw you as anything more than a warm body to pass time—didn’t think you could handle that punch to the gut. But it’d been slowly eating you up inside—the uncertainty of it all.

Deciding that it wasn’t tonight’s problem, you cosied up beside his sleeping form, eyes drifting closed to summon a sleep that would quell your mental misery. It took a while, and after a few tosses and turns, you’d settled in with your back facing Ben. And at some point—just as you started to swoon with the first glimpse of dreams—Ben’s hand shifted to wrap around your waist. That singular action provided all the comfort you needed to slip off into easy dreams.

The days following that night had taken a complete detour in energy. Ben had been uncharacteristically distant and curt—almost as though he’d reverted back to the hardened persona you’d thought you’d worked your way through with the weeks spent at Vought—with the time spent at his side. You had no concrete idea on what had installed the distance between you, but you suspected that the Supe had come to realise the feelings you bore for him outside of a night of fun.

It must’ve deterred him because he kept your every interaction short—filled with nothing but droning reports and information about the next missions to come. It was agonising to endure, and you wanted nothing more than to go back to the way things had been before.

But they didn’t.

Back in the warmer days—prior to the current, cold ones that currently hosted you both as strangers—you would find Ben waiting outside your door, craving more than what your body had to offer him. Company, chatter that wasn’t rehearsed down to the last line, and friendship. He didn’t have many friends—you’d once told him that directly in the heat of an argument, but hadn’t looked too marred by it. Despite his ego, he could admit that he wasn’t the easiest person to tolerate.

But you had learnt to, and maybe that had played a role in morphing your relationship of pleasure into a relationship of the mind, body and soul—all at once. And you realised then, that maybe Ben did share all of your finer feelings. It would certainly explained the way he’d suddenly turned his back on everything you’d once shared. As much as you wanted to chase after him with the question armed at the ready, eager to gun down the excruciating tension, you chose to offer your surrender, instead.

Ben wouldn’t come around with your pestering. He had his own things to figure out. And when he did, you could only hope he’d take the initiative of returning to you—unshielded, unhardened, vulnerable. That he’d acknowledge the truth that hung over both your heads like a brooding storm cloud—the truth that what had started out as a hollow title of professionalism had been filled to the brim with countless banter, near-death experiences, and shared warmth that warranted a type of closeness only this lifestyle could provoke.

That you were more than partners—more than two people playing make believe for the public eye.

That you were in love.

You could only wait and hope that he’d see it, feel it, and own it.

ʿ I just cry for no reason, l just pray for no reasonʾ

On the drive to the next mission, the vehicle’s air was thick with tension. Ben manned the driver seat, so there wasn’t much opportunity for his stare to forsake the road ahead—but when it did, it never lingered on you for more than a second.

He gave nothing away, either. He’d gone back to being as mysterious as when you’d first met him, and it made your heart ache. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, head turned to gaze out of the window as though it could shun the taunting reality into non-existence—but it didn’t.

Each passing second of silence weighed heavier than the next, and Ben said nothing, did nothing to alleviate the crushing force of it. So all you could do, as you found yourself drinking in the buildings and trees whisking across your vision, was hope and pray that he’d live up to his title, act the soldier and put an end to this misery by confessing his feelings for you.

But you couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that it was a day you’d never come to outlive.

ʿ I give thanks for the day

For the hours and another way, another life breathin'ʾ

The mission had taken every wrong turn possible, and you’d been caught in the cross-fire of the enemy’s newest anti-supe contraption that had left you severely wounded—injuries that not even your super-abled body could resolve.

Your vision was mostly blurred with the severe bloodloss, so you couldn’t make sense of the shapes whisking past your vision as medics carried you through Vought’s compound. The pain festering at multiple sites upon your body was debilitating and brutal, almost enough of a force to persuade you into letting go of life entirely—but a hand kept you grounded, tethered, through the dragged out minutes that it took to set you down on that operating table.

Ben’s frantic face appeared in front of yours, but most detail of his features were lost to your disorientation. His lips moved with words that sounded distant, and your face scrunched with the frail effort to try and perceive them—but you couldn’t. Darkness began pressing at the corners of your vision, threatening to drag you into a sleep that had no return. You caught the way one of the assistant’s placed a hand onto Ben’s shoulder, tugging at him with a passion that the Supe didn’t permit—if evident by the way he straightened up to send his fist flying into the assistant’s face.

Guards showed up to contain him, and he cast you one last glance with a mouth gaped around a shout you couldn’t acknowledge. You wanted to reach out to him, to tell him you’d be okay, but you couldn’t. The world weighed heavy on you now, blanketing you with a darkness that felt comforting—tempting you into fluttering your eyes closed for a much needed break.

And you listened.

For a while, there was nothing. You floated through endless, dark matter, ceasing to exist in the bottomless space. And then a light beamed through, so blinding that your eyes screwed shut to avert the assault, and when you opened them again, you were greeted with the view of Vought’s hospital. You blinked many times, fighting off the haze that had consumed you for god knows how long, and when you finally mustered up the strength to lift your head, you found Ben nestled at the side of your bed.

His cheek was settled into the cross of his arms, his eyes sown shut in a steady sleep. You don’t know how long you’d been asleep, and how long he’d been camping it out beside your comatose form, but what you did know, is that you were thankful to have survived the whole ordeal. Thankful to see another day—to see Ben here with you.

With great effort, you reached out a hand to brush through his hair—and he’d always been a light sleeper, but this time, he didn’t stir. Not immediately, at least. It took a few surfs of your hand through hair before his eyes fluttered open to drink you in, and it was then that you noticed just how deep the skin beneath his eyes had sunken—as though the wait he’d endured to acquaint you in the land of the living once more had burned through everything that he was. Exhausted him to the point of a humanly slumber.

Instantly, Ben collected himself into a sit, hand reaching to grab yours fiercely. “You’re okay,” he breathed, his green eyes brimming with raw relief, and slightly teary along the edges. “Jesus, I thought I’d lost you,” he choked out gruffly, jaw clenching around his worst fear.

You smiled weakly, warmly, sympathising with his pain as your own eyes grew teary. “I’m right here,” you murmured meekly, your voice cracking with the prolonged disuse. “I’m not going anywhere,” you added in a soft, broken whisper.

Ben’s composure cracked at that, and instead of responding with words he had no experience utilising, he leaned himself toward you to place a chaste kiss on your forehead. When he pulled back to gaze at you, something in his expression shifted, and he felt compelled to speak, anyways.

“You wouldn’t stand a damn chance, anyway, ‘cause I’d follow you all the way to the edge of the earth—holdin’ that fuckin’ lifeline that’s keepin’ you tethered to a sorry dick like me. ‘Cause I’m selfish—and ‘cause I’m nothin’ worth a damn without you.”

Your heart imploded at that, the tears that had been idling about your eyes now cascading down your cheeks uncontrolled. Ben’s hands shifted to cradle your face with an unfamiliar tenderness—one that you could, and would, grow accustomed to—as he leaned himself down to place a kiss on your lips.

When he came face to face with you once more, his eyes brimmed with adoration. “Fuckin’ hell, I love you—I do. I’ve been a real pussy ‘bout it these last few weeks, but I do,” he murmured.

“I know,” you told him gently, leaning your cheek further into his hold. “I’ve always known—I just needed you to be the first to say it. You needed to decide what you wanted for yourself—”

“You,” he cut in instantly, earnestly. “You—god, you’re all I want. Nothin’ else—nobody else.”

You smiled weakly at that. “Then I’m all yours.”

ʿ I did it all 'cause it feel good

But wouldn't do it all if it feel bad

Your recovery was slow, but Ben had been by your side through it all, handing off missions to the rest of Payback while he nursed you back to full health within the comforts of his suite. Nothing you asked of him was ever too much, and it made you burn with a newfound love for him—made you fall in love with him all over again.

Better live your life

We are running out of timeʾ

Little did you know that the next mission to come would be as heart-breaking as the last. You and Ben had gotten split up in the midst of Niaguara, and the gunfire was so heavy that you’d lost tabs on his whereabouts during your attempt to take cover. All around you, bullets whisked through the air. It was defeaning—overwhelming, and you almost thought it’d never end short of claiming your life.

And then the scene around you only intensified when an aircraft suddenly blared overhead, and your head tilted back against the brick wall shielding you from death as you tried to get a glimpse of the structure. But when you saw what dangled from the aircraft—a contraption immobilising and holding Ben’s unconscious form captive, your heart seized up on the spot with such panic that a bullet might as well have pierced right through it, ending all that you were.

And you almost wish it did—that you’d been put out of your misery right there and then because as you watched the aircraft grow smaller with the distance, you weren’t sure you’d ever see Ben again.

And like he’d told you back at the hospital—that wasn’t a life worth living

ʿ Love, let's talk about love

Is it anything and everything you hoped for?ʾ

As soon as you’d recouped with the rest of Payback, they’d enlightened you on who the aircraft belonged to—that is was the Russians that had kidnapped Ben. It sparked some sort of hope within you, knowing that you had a lead to follow, and you’d taken it upon yourself that evening to plan out his rescue with Vought’s executives.

It was then that the jarring truth of it all had been revealed, that Ben’s kidnap had been staged by the company—and Payback—itself. You’d been outraged and overcome with an anger you hadn’t thought yourself capable of, doing something regrettable in the process.

It all happened so fast—your hand curling into a fist that drained the lungs of the closet executive to the point of no return. It only hit you once his body dropped to the floor, never to stir again despite the remaining, panicked executives rushing to his aids. And they’d cast you horrified stares, something that told you you were done for if you didn’t make a run for it now—so you did.

You didn’t look back as you fleed the compound, not once, but you made a beeline toward an office you knew held all the information of Vought’s dirty secrets, adding another body or two to your fatality count to acquire the files that would lead you directly to the Russian compound holding Ben captive.

The journey there had been a hassle, almost enough to make you want to give up—but then you pictured how helpless and afraid Ben must’ve felt, and it fuelled you with the power you needed to keep on going. You needed to see him again. You would see him again.

You’d managed to gain access to the compound under the alias of a compound v scientist, and given your very real knowledge and experience on the sciences, it was an easy role to assume—and one that brought you all the more closer to seeing Ben again.

But the circumstances of your reunion was far from ideal—Ben strapped to an experimenting table while a lab assistant approached you presenting a vile of poison you were to inject into his veins, all without a single guess about what it’d do to him. How it’d completely remake him. But you did it, anyway because your compliance meant building trust with the Russians, and trust paved way toward power—influence. And that meant that you could take control of these sessions—keep him safe.

So you grabbed the needle and approached Ben, who drank you in with an amalgamation of relief, betrayal and fear all at once. But the minute you sank that needle into his arm—all his emotions sobered up into one, single thing. Hatred. And it ate away at everything that you were, and continued to do so in all the years that passed.

But despite the heartbreak, you kept at it—kept on returning with needles of poison you’d modified with just enough care to spare him disastrous side effects, finding solace in that fact to ignore the way each dose completely remade him. You weren’t sure how much of the Soldier Boy you’d come to know and love would be left by the time the Russians concluded the experiment, but you did know that you were doing a necessary evil to keep him safe from something far sinister, should you be taken off the experiment.

And thankfully, that day never came. You’d made contact with a group known as The Boys—who launched the plan to free both yourself and Ben from the compound in exchange for a favour that only Ben could fulfil. Once he’d done it, you were both free to pursue your newfound freedom, and to rekindle the bond that the tragic years had eaten away at. And you were given the chance to explain that everything you’d done to him had been done from a place of love—as fucked up as it sounded.

And it wasn’t a type of love you’d ever dreamt of knowing—of showing him.

ʿ Or do the feeling haunt you?ʾ

Ben watched your lip quiver with the memories of the harmful emotions and experiences that he hadn’t been around to shield you from. The time with the Russians had broken him in every manner physical—all part of the plan to build him up into something far more lethal. But you? You’d been mentally reconstructed.

As you delved deeper into your experience working under the Russians, he listened to you speak with a heaviness he didn’t usually acknowledge—not him, super-abled Soldier Boy, strongest man alive with nary a concept on humanly burdens. Emotional and physical. But the words that slunk from your mouth settled over him like a deadweight that had him feeling—for the first time ever—like he was helpless in escaping it. Like he was weak.

He felt weakened by the guilt of knowing what you had been forced to endure. The strength you’d mustered up in order to stick poisoned needles into his arm, and the strength you’d needed to keep your chin elevated with the memory of the goodness in your heart. And he felt weakened by the guilt of knowing, there and then, just how much you truly loved him.

It was crushing.

He’d never mastered the depths and tides of his emotions, but you’d taught him how to surf the currents with just enough control to remain afloat. And it was a regrettable skill on some days—days like this—where he was forced to feel things he’d perfected the art of ignoring for. Because now, he felt it all.

And it haunted him—the way you love.

The way you love him. The way you’d do anything for him. The way you’d bargained away years of your life to ensure that the years of his were bought and secured. The way you’d once promised you’d stick with him through it all, and the way you’d followed through. Because deep down, he didn’t feel like he deserved any of it.

The guilt of knowing your love—it haunted him.

ʿ I know the feeling haunt youʾ

Ben found his lips wandering every inch of your skin with a need to memorise the taste of your flesh. He pressed kisses the soft apples of your cheeks, to the bridge of your nose, to the fragile sheets of your lids after you’d simmered into a symphony of pleasure. And because he’s greedy, he even found his nose burrowed into the crook of your neck while his lips branded the arch—where he inhaled the scent of you and surfed a wave of ecstasy that put the bona fide drug to shame.

You were an assault on his senses, disorienting every sensible instinct he’d spent years forging. His instincts were critical. They made him strong and driven and deserving of his title as a soldier. But you. . . you were like a foreign scent that had wafted beneath his unassuming nose—a scent that he just couldn’t ignore. A scent that triggered some other, unexplored instinct within him, and it compelled him to blindly follow you. Allowed himself just enough slack to be consumed by you.

Once he'd worked his way into the wet warmth between your thighs, his thrusts were slow and sensual. Patient. He wanted to savour every second of you-more like needed to. He gripped one of your thighs with a firm gentleness, the other arm venturing beside your head to prop himself up as he carried his hips toward yours. Your hands curled around the muscle of his biceps in a sensual line, moans spewing from your lips before your palms flattened over the toned contours of his back—nails gripping his flesh to keep yourself grounded against his ascension-worthy movements.

He took his sweet time feeling on, listening to, and indulging you. And once you begged him for more, he delivered. He nurtured your high with a quickened pace, releasing your thigh to join the other you'd wrapped around him. He settled both arms on either side of your head, and there, he hovered himself over your lips, pressing scattered, incomplete kisses to the tender flesh while he focused on the tension connecting—and threatening—to end you both.

“Just like that, Ben,” you breathed into his ear, your hand curling around the nape of his neck, where you clung to him like any other hair embedded within his skin.

“Yeah—I got you,” Ben grunted against your lips, air jetting through the slits of his grit teeth as he endured the overwhelming storm of pleasure. He pressed a firm kiss to the corner of your lips, eyes briefly flickering up to where your expression contorted with each of his thrusts. And he studied everything—the bold furrow of your brows, the lustful haze glazing your eyes, and the way your nose scrunched with every other prod of his manhood. You were breathtaking, and it drove him feral. “I got you,” he repeated—promised.

He felt as the hand you’d furled around his neck drifted up the expanse, fingers ploughing through the field of his hair to entangle with the unruly strands. His eyes fluttered closed—however briefly—at the way you tousled his hair. The sensation was overwhelming, hypnotising—almost enough of a physical persuasion on his shoulders to release a year’s worth of tension. You’d had that effect to you from the moment he’d met you, and somehow, it’d always worked on him.

It wasn't long before you finally let go of yourself, and he tossed a line of his own to match. Then, you were briefly smothered by the weight of his panting form before he rolled himself over to the side and pulled you into his arms. You instantly took to nestling his one arm in the crook of your neck, and his other moved to drape loosely across your waist while you drifted into an instantaneous sleep.

As Ben laid there, curled around the fragile body he’d tucked into the safety of his grip, he felt like he’d been reborn—like the hands the Russians had forged to meld iron could now cradle fragile glass without instilling a single crack. Like he’d been modelled into something—somebody more than his upbringings. Somebody worthy enough to be bestowed with the highest honours of loving you.

It amazed him, really, how you’d unintentionally strolled into his life with zero intention to take up space within it. And yet, you’d managed to selfishly hog every inch of his heart—making him feel things that forced him to reminisce the misery of humanity and feelings. You filled his heart with adrenaline that was unlike any he’d ever hopped himself up on amongst the battlefield. That adrenaline was potent—wired him to flee the dangers constantly gunning for him. But this adrenaline—the type only you could get his heart to muster—it drew him in like a whirlpool that would swallow him whole given the chance.

It made him want to do anything but flee.

Your grit, your wit, and your unwillingness to let him dangle from the rope he’d hung himself from had left more of a mark on him than the binding of his trauma. For once, he actually craved to memorise the lines left behind by the cuffs you’d unknowingly slung around his wrists—tugging him along after you like a dickless mutt begging for some long-lost action. And he blindly followed. He didn’t question it. For once, he didn’t want to question it.

He only wanted you.

God, admitting it made him feel like a goddamn swooning pussy—but you’d once smacked him across the shoulder for saying that aloud. He’d get better at it—the whole holding hands and professing feelings thing. He would. Admittedly, it was difficult following through on a resolution so soft he could have throttled it between two firm fingers—but he’d made you a promise, and it served as an armour that shielded his word against any intrusive impulse he’d allowed to jab at his life for far too long.

As he laid there, savouring the bare warmth of your body pressed against his with every hushed breath, he couldn’t have pictured a more ideal view. He’d once thought it a big, stinking pile of bull that one person could demand everything that you were—that somebody could ever matter that much to warrant his unfaltering devotion. But now, he knew it to be true. He knew it with every glance he stole of you.

The thought of losing you haunted him.

It haunted him with the same fear that the solar system would regard the loss of their sun with—the singular body drawing in and holding everything together. Making it whole. Complete. Functional. In the same way, you’d become a sort of North Star in the black expanse of his heart, orientating the soul he’d thought he’d lost ahold of a long time ago. You kept him grounded and guided. Safe.

And in all that he was and ever would be—everything that you’d thought him capable of—he’d devote it to keeping you safe, too.

Even if it killed him.

Because the thought of having you plucked from his grasp was one that he couldn’t entertain without a debilitating dread. Life without you wouldn’t be truly living—it would be boiled down to fruitless survival. It’d be the misery he’d been trapped in before you came and snagged onto the latch that finally set him free. And he couldn’t—wouldn’t be forced back into that cage.

So, the arm he’d loosely strung around your waist neglected all careful consideration as he pulled you tighter against him. You stirred briefly with a groan so soft and slurred that he might as well have imagined it—but he clung to it like a mantra of just how real this all was. It was selfish, maybe, trapping you against him with a fervour that wouldn’t have him letting up anytime soon—but he did it, anyway.

Ben wasn’t supposed to be human enough to be marred by anything. Physical wounds could scarcely be inflicted, but scars couldn’t be left behind. It was an exhilarating reality—one that made him feel invincible. Fearless. But you—the thought of letting you go, it was unbearable. Crippling. Fear-worthy.

And it haunted him.

──────────────────────

a/n ─ first of all, i was on my sza shit more than usual and the lyrics of this song resonated with me and the sb’s unfinished story i was thinking about. i had always wanted to do some sort of story portrayal for how he and fem!supe!reader met, sooo have this ig?! second of all, i did not forget about wrapping this fic up, i just got severely demotivated and side-tracked. oopsie. i swear i’ll post the last part some day. for now, it’s rotting in my drafts, unedited and with a few gaps that need to be filled. my motivation comes and goes like the auroras, so that’ll come when it comes lmfao. thirdly, i hope you guys enjoyed this. i started out feeling great about this, but i’ve been sitting with a massive migraine as i finished it, so it feels like ive placed words that dont quite click. idk? 🤷‍♀️ also im like 8 followers from 700 so take this as my wtf thank you sm gift!! 😭 this is not proofread bc it’s 1 am and i have class tomorrow so actually i apologise for the horrendous amount of errors you’ve likely come across—i’ll fix it tomorrow, i just wanted to get this out like i promised

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind @angelicjackles @deansbbyx @titsout4jackles @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @honeyryewhiskey @florchids @floralscented @deansbeer @deansbbyx @figthoughts @dulcescorderitas @whisperingdaze @st4rmarley @bakugotypecrashout @jaydensluv @chi-raz @youdontknowe @misatxox @lixiesbrowniess @ilovedeanwinchester4 @beelzebzb

want to become part of the taglist for any future soldier boy works?

other works ─ the boys masterlist

© bluemerakis ─ do not plagiarise or steal any of my works.

[star-suh]

Titfest Anthology

Kim Mingyu, Song Mingi and Lee Jeno x Male Reader

—

he doesn’t even know how it started but he was enjoying it now, yn somehow managed to convince the three most popular guys to let him titfuck them. kim mingyu, a football player that always wears that tight uniform shirt that hugs his big chest and slutty waist so delightfully. song mingi the gym addicted guy always wearing those compression shirts. finally lee jeno, part of the swimming team and known playboy, his tits were always out but when he wears shirts, fuck, that sight alone drives yn crazy.

mingyu:

“i love man tits” yn murmures always when one of the three passes in front of him, “hey ynnie” migyu cutely greets, despite his big manly frame and somehow scary gaze he’s actually a loving and caring person like a ray of sunshine. “hey mingyu, what’s up?” yn greets him back, “nothing i’m just going to take a shower, you know, i hate being all sweaty and sticky”, yn sees this as an opportunity to shoot his shot, “i was just thinking the same you know, it’s been so hot today but i can’t enter the showers, it’s for athletes only haha”, yn looks down to the ground. “come with me then. i’m sure you can come in if they see you are coming with me” mingyu extended his arm towards yn, a somewhat scary grin creeping up on his face ‘fuck yeah’ he thinks, “okay mingyu you’re so nice, i feel like i have to pay you this favor back”. they walk towards the bathrooms, “there’s no need to that” a flustered mingyu says scratching the back of his neck, “no i insist”, millions of pervy thoughts and scenarios taking over his mind. suddenly in the middle of his shower, yn enters mingyu’s stall with puppy eyes he says “can you please help me scrub my lower back?” and mingyu as the sweetheart/ himbo he is, complied. “my turn now” yn says, his hands roaming around mingyu’s wide back. at first it was good for mingyu but then it turned into something more… erotic?, “y-yn what are you doing?” he asks when the other’s hands start to grope his wet soapy chest. yn’s hands went up and down, grabbing a handful of those muscle tits that bounce every time yn’s hands went up. his fingers massaged those pretty perky nipples “it’s like they were made for me to use, don’t you think?” yn whispers sexily to mingyu’s ears, “yn i- i don’t know but i want more.. hngh!”, “such a good boy you are gyu” yn licks a stripe on the back of his neck.

“fuck yes, keep it like that” yn growls in pleasure, he finally is fucking those magnificent tits he always dreamt of, “harder?” mingyu asks, “yes please” yn replies. mingyu squeezed his chest harder than before to create more friction for yn’s dick that was aching red, begging to release but thankfully mingyu’s tits and his pretty mouth sucking the tip of it helped to relieve it a bit. “fuck mingyu i’m so close”, yn’s sloppy titfuck ended with him releasing all his pent up cum in a bit spurt that painted mingyu’s face and chest in white, “fuck -ahhh-” yn pants, “you look godly like this” he praises mingyu after helping him stand up, “i hope i can see you like this more often”, “mhmm” migyu nods while cleaning himself, “good boy” and with a kiss they both sealed what it looks like a deal.

mingi:

“1 out of 3” yn blurted out while walking towards the gym in where mingi works out, let’s say yn didn’t know much about how those fancy gym devices work or in what posture he has to sit or stand so his back won’t get hurt in the process so naturally one of the veteran gym users came to help and luckily it was the song mingi “hey bro, are you new here?”, curiosity laced on his words, “ahh yeah bro hehe” yn pretends to be flustered, “you need help?” mingi offers his help and without thinking about it yn accepts quickly. days passed and a friendship blossomed between them, and that’s when the ‘bro jokes’ started with mingi sometimes pinching yn’s nipples through the shirt’s fabric but yn didn’t stayed behind and did the same to mingi, his hard nipples peeking through the tight compression shirt made them easy to spot and pinch but these type of jokes just escalated quickly into more pervy things, whenever mingi sees yn he slaps his butt or straight up grabs his bulge so it was natural that he wanted to get his payback. once again in a shower setting, this time in the gym, but they were so used to treat each other like that, that there’s no surprise they showered together, a certain homoerotic atmosphere always forming around them when they are together, the tension grew uncontrollably until yn decided to break it the best way he could think.

immediately afterwards he just kissed mingi and played with his nipples, after minutes of making out yn went down leaving a trail of kisses until he finally reached the other’s chest, carefully he bit the hard nipple while still playing with the other. his tongue swirled on the bud leaving it all slobbery, “fuck yn you know how to work with that tongue” mingi moaned, one of his hands going down to stroke his throbbing shaft. they kept going, giving into his carnal desires not caring that they’re in a public space and that someone could catch them.

the water going down their bodies wasn’t enough to calm the heat they were feeling, mingi with no warming pushed yn’s face in between his chest wanting to feel more of that tongue, “you better leave them nice and puffy or else i would revoke your walking privileges” this threat instead of making him afraid just made his hole pulsate in joy but that’s not what he wants today, “i have a better idea” yn pushes mingi to his kness and position his dick in between them, “be a good bitch and squeeze them for me” yn demanded and made mingi smile, “as you wish sir”. the titfucking session continued until they both came, their sticky juices covering the floor and mingi’s face, “come clean it hoe” mingi grabbed yn by the back of his neck and forced him to lick his face clean of cum, “next time the fucking won’t be on my chest but your ass so you better prepare it” with a last spank he lefts the shower withan exciting yn sighing cheerfully “2 out of 3”.

jeno:

it wasn’t hard for yn to flirt with jeno, after all he’s known as the campus playboy who flirt with whoever he wanted butin one of those flirts yn, as the big chest obsessed he is, flicked his finger on one of jeno’s nipples. yn laughed but jeno didn’t, thinking he fucked hiss opportunity up he turned his head to where jeno was sitting just to see his face flushed and his eyes teary, “what-” he asked to himself then something clicked. “your nipples are sensitive?” he asked and jeno nodded holding back a whimper, “i put tape on them but it seems it don’t work” he explains, “let’s go” a flushed yn grabbed his hand and guided him towards his room, ‘fuck! fuck! fuck! fuck! sensitive nipples holy fuckkk!!!’ his mind went wild, this time he didn’t try to persuade him like the other he just went straight to business. when he closed the door, yn pushed jeno against it and kissed him, a surprised grimace appear on jeno’s face, what was happening now and why is he giving in?, the answer was easy, yn was toying with his nipples so the overstimulation hit him way faster than it should, his brain turning into a pulp of lust. “you’re so fucking hot lee jeno” yn slapped his hard cock on his chest and brushed the swollen nipples with his precum covered tip, “i wonder how would you looked covered in my spooge”, he continued to drag his cock across the chest, “what do you think hmm?” jeno who was already jerking off agreed, “but only if i get to do the same with you” and yn nodded.

he poured some lube stored in one of yn’s drawers, leaving his cock and jeno’s toned body glistening and sloppy, “perfect” he starts to thrust but this time jeno used one of his hands to press his chest together and put the other hand on top of yn’s dick so in that way he can get a more pleasurable friction and therefore cumming faster than he should, yn played dirty with jeno, brushing his nipples from time to time to make him moan and cum fast too but jeno didn’t stayed behind, he took advantage of the thrustings to spit on it, “you bitch, you’re making it more slippery on purpose” yn complains,”and you’re trying to make me more needy by touching my fucking nipples”. “smart boy” yn mocks just to proceed and pinch the other’s buds and pull them as hard as he could. jeno emitted a guttural moan, cumming instantly, soaking his underwear that was rolled down his shaft, just covering his balls.

he leaned against the door, feeling defeated but horny, the immense pleasure leaving him dumb at this point, “be a nice pair of tits now and let me cum, yeah?” yn mocked and resumed the titfucking. when he was about to cum he lined his cock right above jeno’s face, threads of gooey spooge falling on the other’s face, rolling down to his chest and landing on his chest. “nicee” he sighed, trying to catch his breath but when he turns around he fell to the floor, jeno had pushed him and then sat on his chest, “you agreed i get to do the same to you, but i change my mind”, “whahh-” yn didn’t get to finish his question when jeno’s dick entered his mouth and as if his mouth was a fleshlight jeno fucked it until he got his throat flooded in cum, “swallow it all or i won’t pull out” tears pooling on yn’s eyes who was starting to cough some droplets of it, he swallowed the load little by little until his throat was completely unclogged of cum, “good boy” jeno smirked and slapped yn’s cheek who sits up quickly to cough, “don’t break your deals next time or it will be worse” jeno then leaves, leaving a bewildered yn by how he turned from a needy tit sensitive fucker to a dom one so quickly.

after all those three encounters yn now has a titfucking schedule, assigning days to each one of them to go and fuck their chests but it didn’t stopped there, now some fucking were added to the mix, yn gets to fuck them or they fucked him but anything just to touch those glorious manboobs each one of them has, “this is a fucking paradise” yn exclaims while being surrounded by three pairs of big bouncy tits.

[write-tama]

"hank.. what am i feeling right now?"

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ connor anderson (rk800) x officer!reader

sypnosis ; connor is very interested in an officer who just joined the police force. after being told the news that they would be joining the team, connor just had to make an acquaintance with them. anything to hear their voice.

containing ; use of you/yours and they/them pronouns! connor struggling to process emotions. hank being a proud father.

author’s note ; hihi! havent written for connor in SO long so i thought this was a cute little way of them meeting each other.

04.12.24 | 1.9k words

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Everyone knew about the infamous RK800.

The last most developed and intelligent android produced by Cyberlife.

A machine built to hunt its prey and to always accomplish his mission.

But now?

A confused man sitting at his desk, elbows on the surface as he ran the fourth diagnostic this morning.

Connor was never really taught how to feel his emotions, considering that he was forced to compress them from the moment he was made. If he were to feel any sort of emotion, it was either to the scrap factory for him or a hard lecture from Amanda.

But Amanda was gone, and androids were free to express any emotion they pleased.

It’s been weeks since Markus hit the headlines for his famous android revolution. He worked with the government extensively to pass bills in order to settle android rights for the country. Connor, on the other hand, continued to work with the DPD as a full-on detective under the supervision of Liutenant Hank Anderson. Hank was more than just a coworker, but a father figure to Connor. And that brought Connor joy, an emotion Connor was well aquainted of.

But not the feeling he was experiencing now.

Connor couldn’t get his mind off a certain someone who had joined the team a bit before the revolution. You had joined a week prior, and honestly, you were kind of regretting it. As android and human tensions rose, you were on duty 24/7. Originally, you were supposed to start easy with basic patrol around a part of a city, but because you were so impatient in doing the “big kid stuff” you found yourself frequently in the middle of the android and human discourse. Your shifts nearly lasted twelve hours, and you would be absolutely exhausted.

Things are different now. Sure, there were still some situations between the two sides, but it was definitely peace compared to literal boycotts. You sat at your desk idly scrolling through your past cases, making sure that all the information was correct and accurate. On the other side of your desk was a tablet full of notes you had taken after some cases you had to deal with. What you didn’t notice was the android detective constantly glancing at you, watching your every move to see if maybe, at some point, you would notice him.

A loud groan echoing from the desk in front of Connor made him jump, immediately turning his attention to his lieutenant taking a seat in his chair. “Fucking hell..” Hank sighed. “Fowler does nothing but my bust my balls these days, huh?” Connor stared at his partner with his hands folded in his lap and eyebrows furrowed.

“Is everything okay, Lieutenant?” Connor asked, tilting his head.

“It’s nothing too serious. Fowler just wants me to take the rookie on our next homicide case. He insisted that they would be a perfect addition to the team or whatever.” Hank groaned. “Now I’m responsible for two of you fucks.”

Connor, admittedly, felt his thirium pump racing. You? As part of the team? It was almost like he could overheat and shutdown momentarily right now. “I think they would be a great addition to the team.” Connor stated, biting back from smiling. “They have an excellent track record of solving cases in an orderly and timely manner, has caught every perpretrator with their undercover skills, and had a reputation back in their training classes as one of the top students.” He explained. Hank looked over as he was slouched in his seat with arms folded across his chest.

“Jesus, Connor, you sound like some creep searching up their name on Google.” Hank scoffed, half smiling. Though this caught Connor a little off— was he being creepy? He didn’t want to leave a bad impression on you, especially now that you're about to meet for the first time. His face scrunched up in anxiety, feeling as if he made a mistake. Hank immediately took notice and sat up. “Ah— I was just joking, Connor. I’m sure you have uh.. Good intentions.” Hank reassured, though he never said he was exactly good at it.

Hank looked over to you, seeing that you were preoccupied with work despite the fact you haven’t been on a case in a few days now. Hank looked at Connor. “Well.. Why don’t you introduce yourself to them.” Hank suggested, nodding his head over to you.

Connor immediately jolted his head up, a little wide-eyed to even suggest such. “O-Of course.” Connor stuttered out. Connor never stuttered, and though Hank was in a mood after his exchange with Fowler, he certainly didn’t leave that unnoticed.

“Did you just stutter?” Hank asked, a little amused. “Are you.. Nervous?”

“Of course not, Lieutenant,” Connor replied as steadily as possible. “I am an android.”

“Connor.”

“Yes?” Connor replied, mindlessly.

“You’re a deviant, for fucks sake.”

“Oh.”

Connor, to avoid anymore embarassment from the man he deemed his father figure, swiftly got up and started to approach you. Hank watched in pure amusement, not even wanting to stop the boy from probably embarassing himself even further, but at least Hank had some faith in him. He is Detroit’s best god damn detective.

“Hello, Officer (l/n). My name is Connor. It is nice to meet you.” Connor said, putting his hand out for a shake. You looked up from your computer screen only to be met with the most chocolate eyes you’ve ever had the privilege of being in the prescence of. He smiled politely, but behind that smile he thanked Elijah that androids could not sweat, otherwise you would’ve felt the claminess of his palm.

You took his hand and shook it firmly. “A pleasure to make your aquaintance. My name is (y/n).” You smiled generously, and wow, did Connor felt like his pump couldn’t get any faster.. He cleared his throat before darting his eyes to the unoccupied chair that sat next to your desk.

“May I?” Connor asked, gesturing towards the seat.

“Of course, I’m not doing much anyway.” You nodded. Connor took a seat, and for some reason, he struggled to even maintain his balance as he sat himself down. He nearly had to think about how to fold his hands before placing them firmly on his laps and looking at you. Thankfully, you barely realized any sort of struggle as you looked away to take a swig of your morning coffee.

“So..” you said, clasping your hands. “Am I in trouble or anything?” you joked. Connor immediately shot his head up, worried he had made the wrong impression.

“Oh, no— I—” Before Connor could sputter out an explanation, you tilted your head a little and started laughing.

“Relax! I was just kidding!” You playfully waved off. Connor’s shoulders immediately relaxed as a breath he didn’t even know he was holding back escaped his lips. You looked at him curiously, a smile still resting on your face.

“I’m sorry. Usually, I am not like this.” He said, shaking his head a little in embarassment. He was always on his A game and constantly prepared. Why were you the reason for this disruption. “I.. Uh..” He couldn’t think of anymore to say. Suddenly, he got a message through his LED.

NEW MESSAGE:

HANK: tell them u think theyre pretty.

Connor blinked a bit, registering the text message. Hank was at a perfect view watching this unfold. The back of your head was visible but he could see all of Connor’s reactions, who desperately tried to maintain a polite smile.

“I think you’re very pretty, (y/n).” Connor complimented.

“Oh— ah—” A subtle blush began to form on your cheeks as your eyes widen a little, not expecting a compliment from a handsome android such as Connor. “Why thank you, Connor. I wasn’t expecting that as our first conversation.” You chuckled a little. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

Thirium was rushing through his circuits and to his cheeks. The faintest color of blue appeared dusted on his face. “Thank you.” He maintained a calm, neutral voice. They stared at each other for a minute, sort of registering the sort of corny first conversation the two of you had.

“Ah.. I almost forgot to mention.” Connor snapped back to reality. “I came here to introduce myself sfter I heard that you were joining our team on our next investigation. It’s good to make an aquaintance with our future team member.” Connor smiled politely.

“Why thank you. I am very excited to work with you and Lieutenant Anderson.” You nodded. “Though I will miss working with Gavin and Chris’ team.”

Ah, that’s right. You used to work with Gavin. It almost left a bad taste in Connor’s mouth knowing that Gavin probably spat some awful opinions about him to you. Though from the looks of it, you were enjoying your conversation with him which eased him.

“I promise we will a provide a welcoming and safe space in our team, and of course, to make sure you don’t come into harms way.” Connor assured. Though he was mainly promising this to you personally. God forbids Connor seeing you get hurt.

“Why thank you, Connor.” You said, tilting your head. Connor was rather intriguing to you— an android acting this way around you. His LED constantly switched between yellow and blue as if he was making sure to process every word you uttered. Yet he was so human— he would scratch the back of his neck, fidget with his fingers, and shuffle a bit in his seat. You would think someone as advanced as him would at least be able to have a composure, but he was different. It was something you admired about him.

“(l/n), in my office!” Captain Fowler called from the balcony of his room. You looked over to Connor before sighing.

“Well, boss is calling me. I’ll talk to you afterwards?” You suggested as you stood from your seat.

“Of course.” Connor replied, shielding his excitement. He stood up from his chair as well. “I’d be happy to talk again, (y/n).”

“Likewise.” You winked. With that, you left your desk and headed straight to Fowler’s office. Connor stood shellshocked. Did you just.. Wink at him?! Connor’s eyes slowly drifted to Hank, who was chuckling heartily. He gave Connor an assuring thumbs up as Connor made his way back to their desks.

“You’d be a shit detective if this is how you acted all the time.” Hank snickered. Connor grinned a little before taking a seat back at his desk.

“I know.” Connor sighed, leaning a little back in his chair. He at you through the glass walls, noticing your upright posture and the way you listened intently to Captain Fowler’s words. He looked over to Hank before thinning his lips.

“Lieutenant?” Connor asked.

“What is it, son?”

“What am I.. Feeling right now?” Connor asked, a little lost on how to explain it. “I can only think about them— only envision them when I close my eyes. I get nervous and its like my programming has reduced to 0s and 1s.” He sighed, hell, even a little frustrated that you had this affect on him.

Hank with a wide smile, shook his head and looked at Connor with a knowing stare. Connor looked up, both lost while desperate for an answer and maybe even a cure. Hank sat up and made sure to look at Connor right in the yes.

“Connor,” Hank sighed, grinning. “Son, that feeling your experiencing is called love. And your plastic ass better get used to it.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

thank you so much for reading towards the end ! im sorry if its a little messy-- i quickly had to post this before hanging out w some friends but i just wanted to get this out of the way rq! reblogs, replies, and even likes are so so appreciated <3

[flamingwell]

Making Your Podfic (especially with Music and/or Sound Effects) More Accessible and Listener Friendly

So you're planning to make a podfic with music and/or sound effects, and you want to think about ways to make it more accessible? Awesome!! This will guide you through some steps you can take to make your podfic more accessible, some of which will also make for a more pleasant listening experience for listeners without accessibility needs, but the focus will primarily be on accessibility. Some of this will also be applicable to podfics with multiple recording sessions without music or sound effects, but again, that's not the focus.

What's the number one thing you can do to make your podfic with music and/or sound effects more accessible to those with noise sensitivity, auditory processing conditions, who are somewhat hard of hearing, or other auditory accessibility needs?

MAKE A CLEAN VERSION, with NO music or sound effects! This can be a very easy change to your process for most people! After editing out mistakes and doing your audio clean up but before you add music or sound effects, simply export your audio. Upload it wherever you upload your final version, drop in a second link to the no music/sound effects version, and that's it! Of course, this may not be trivial for some people, depending on your individual process or other factors. I hope you will decide that it's worth doing anyway. As someone with audio accessibility needs myself, I can tell you it makes a HUGE difference. There are podficcers I love who I can't listen to some of what they've recorded because there's no version without music/sound effects, or sometimes I can only listen on a good day. There are fics I love where there's a podfic version, but I will never be able to listen to it because there's more music/sounds effects than I can handle. This one change will make people like me VERY happy and will expand your audience!

Secondly, especially if you've got a lot of audio dynamics (really quiet whispery bits and also really loud shouty bits), be sure to use the Compressor tool. Long story short, the compressor makes the actual noise level of the quiet bits louder and the loud bits quieter, while still leaving the impression of whispering or shouting. In other words, keep the emotion, but don't force your listeners to keep changing the volume on their headphones/speakers/hearing aid to be able to hear what you're saying or avoid getting their ears blown out (very useful for other listeners too, especially people listening on headphones or in the car). A quick overview of how to use the Compressor settings (this is for Audacity, which is what I'm most familiar with, but most audio editing tools will have something similar):

Threshold: how loud do you want to go before starting to make things quieter?

Make-up gain: after compressing the loud bits down, how much do you want to make everything louder to make up for it?

Knee width: how quickly and starkly do you want the compression to apply? At 0db, this will be a very sharp change. Lower levels will lead to less sharp changes

Ratio: for the loud bits that are getting compressed, how much compression should be applied? The higher the Ratio the more the loud parts of the audio will be compressed.

Okay, but maybe you want to ALSO make the version with music and/or sound effects more accessible, since that's your vision for the podfic and you want as many people as possible to be able to experience it? Great! PLEASE still make a version without music/sound effects as noted above, because even doing everything you can won't be enough for everyone. But it's also great to do what you can to make your music/sound effects version accessible for those that are able to enjoy it with some changes. So….what are some things you can do?

As much as possible, avoid putting music or Foley over your words. For people with audio processing issues especially, it can be very difficult to parse words when there's background music (and especially background music that itself has words).

If you're going to have music or Foley over words, make sure the words are significantly louder than the music. You can use the Analyze Contrast tool (in the Analyze menu in Audacity) to compare the relative loudness of two selections.

For music or Foley between words (like in a section break), make sure it's not too much louder or softer than the sections that come before and after. Again, use that Analyze Contrast tool to compare selections.

You can also use Analyze Contrast to even out the sound between recording sessions!

For sound effects that modify your voice, go only to the point where your voice still sounds very intelligible to you. Someone with auditory accessibility needs will likely struggle with intelligibility well before someone without those needs.

Hope this was helpful!

(This is written from my perspective as someone who has audio accessibility needs, as well as being a podficcer myself. Beta help and additional thoughts from @writerproblem193 @keriarentikai @xiaokuer-schmetterling and others not on Tumblr. But this is not The Definitive Guide To Accessibility or anything, so please add your perspective!)

[freakaszoyd]

Missin' You Already

Synopsis: You're finally getting the time to spend with your girls after you all planned a long-awaited trip away for the weekend. But how will ony take being away from you?

pairings: semi-clingy!ony x black reader

warnings: nsfw, more suggestive, use of the n word, not proofread fr (lemme know if I missed something)

"Onyyy!!" you whine, irritated, while pacing around the room. where the fuck did you put it? You JUST had it no way it could be gone just like that.

"hm?" he says more interested in the game than you. this just makes you more irritated. You have somewhere to be in not even 30 minutes.

You and your girls have been planning to go on a weekend getaway after you all agreed to the stress of jobs and life. This was the one time you could see all your girls in one place and relax all at the same time.

"Ony did you see my phone? imma be late!" you say flipping the sofa cushions up and down.

"Nah ma, i ain' seen it. did you check the dresser?" ony asks nonchalantly while still keeping his focus on the games screen not even sparing a glance. Of course you checked the dresser, that was the first if not second most obvious place to check.

You let out a sigh knowing he'd be no help in your search. You end up finding it in the bathroom on the sink. "how'd it get here?" you think, but you have no time to fully process it and give ony a quick, "I found it." before rushing back to the bedroom to gather the rest of your things.

Rolling your suitcase out to the living room you ask "Baby can you take me over to shy's place? I don't wanna be late." he looks over at you while removing one side of his headphones. "Yea ma don't worry bout it. I'll take you over there... just after this match" placing his headphones back on and refocusing on the game.

He cannot be serious. You've told him about this trip for weeks and now he's making you late.

"Baby please! everyone's probably already over there and im gonna be the only one that's not!" you pout in hopes of him immediately taking you to your destination.

"cmonn mama. just sit on my lap here" he pauses the game and pats his thigh and you hypnotically make your way over and place your self on him. He was dressed in his signature black sweats and his black compression shirt. Dont know what it is but it gets you everytime. "you're gonna be gone all weekend just give me 5 more minutes witchu baby. I know you're gonna miss me too" he gives you a peck on the cheek. you sigh and say,

"but I don't wanna be late" you whine hoping he'll just get up and take you.

He gives you this confused look while saying "but baby you're always late. it don't make a difference now." you look at him shocked. "fashionably late" he's quick to save himself.

"I know that's right, don't try to play me" you both laugh at each others antics. "but for real let's go, you know how long this has been planned I wanna go like now ony." you tell him as you start to get up but he wraps his arms around your waist to keep you on him.

"but maybe I don't want you to go mama." he teases. damn he's too cute. how can he switch up so fast? what happened to 5 more minutes?

"ony" you say his name in seriousness. nows not the time for this you gotta go he promised to take you.

"I'm serious mama, I don't want you to go" his tone is whiney but alluring all at the same time. he leans up to kiss you pouty glossed lips. it'd almost be sensual if it wasn't for how quick it ended. "you don't love me no more so you tryna go away wit yo friends for the whole weekend?" he says smirking. he knows what he's doing. "I know what yall doin there anyway, bouta be flirtin wit other niggas n shit tss" he shakes his head and pushing you off jokingly. "I guess I can take you."

You smile "Baby I'm not. you know you my only one" you bring your finger to brush his nose, a little habit you developed to show your affection towards him, and kissed it right after.

"yea I believe you ma" he chuckles. You stand up out of his lap and start to gather your things again to get ready to leave.

"wait baby, shit. why you in such a rush? s'not like they gonna leave you here. damn" hes gripping his arms around you harder to keep you in place but now he's kissing up on your neck. you know he's trying to be slick and get you to stay. "how can I let my pretty baby go when she looks this good hm?" he breaths into your neck and keeps kissing on it.

you let out a soft moan and started to lean into his affection forgetting all about your plans. he starts to tease you, kissing you everywhere but your lips. he knows exactly how to get to you.

"cmon mama, just let me say goodbye to her." rubbing on your clothed pussy. ony whispers in your ear, "just a quickie I promise." you're hesitant. you know it's never a quick fuck with him. he loves to make you feel good inside and out. so there's no way he'll ever leave you dissatisfied. which is why you say:

"Fine." with a playful smirk on you lips.

Because what would he do without you?

[euphoriaslux]

two’s a party.

summary: you recently transferred to stanford, and decide to tutor a tennis player in your class. he has a friend. severe indecency ensues.

word count: 3.3k

warnings : smut, threesomes, f!oral receiving, swearing, smoking, drinking. slight cuck energy if you squint (i’m sorry ((no i’m not))). no challengers spoilers!

a/n: this fic got away from me big time but this movie has rotted my brain and as a result i have written utter debauchery that i will not apologize for. just had to get this out of my head, enjoy!

-

stanford science hall. monday , march 3.

You swear the last thing you’ll hear before your body is lowered into your grave is the process of lactic acid breakdown.

It’s 2:30 PM. Kinesiology 189 with Professor Wilson, a lanky middle-aged man with a PhD in exercise science and a half-grown beard that you don’t think will ever fully grow in, is almost over. He’s teaching Extended Studies of the Human Body in a humid classroom filled with student-athletes, most of whom are trying to stay awake, trying to hide that they’re taking a nap, or making no attempt to hide that they’re on their phones. You don’t really blame any of them, because the professor’s voice is so soft and monotone that it feels like he’s begging everyone to pay attention to anything but him. You’ve managed to stay somewhat on course with the thread of today’s lecture, the notebook in front of you filled with scribbles of incomplete molecular structures and somewhat legible drawings of the muscular anatomy of a hamstring.

This class is required for your biology major since you’re on a pre-medicine track. You don’t know why you’re doing it, the whole doctor thing, but you’ve developed a weird fixation for this class. The functionality of the body, how muscles stretch and tear with each movement, and how amino acids work to build them back even bigger.

And, possibly because of the tennis player who sits four rows ahead of you every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

His last name is Donaldson. You know because of the faded label on the massive bag he throws on the floor every time he walks into class, at least ten minutes late with a backward Stanford Tennis cap on his head. His first name remains a mystery, partly because he never talks in class, and mainly because you’ve made no attempt to speak to him. You like to think it’s because you’re so focused on the curriculum.

Professor Wilson knows your name, though, since you’re in his office hours every Thursday at 11 A.M. In part because he gives out most of the answers to his homework, and because you just transferred to Stanford your last year and very desperately need a letter of recommendation for medical school. Hence why you agreed to tutor a student with lower than 60% in the class during one of your meetings. And why everyone in the class was staring at you right now.

“... first come first serve, so reach out to her sooner rather than later.”

You give a tight-lipped smile, glancing around the room. Most people have looked away, back to their distraction of choice, but you meet eyes with the fluffy blonde-haired tennis player.

stanford library. wednesday, march fifth.

It’s 11 A.M., and you feel like your brain is about to explode if you look at another practice set.

“Hey”.

Your head whips around to the harsh whisper, only to be met with the blue-eyed mystery from your class. He has that large bag slung over his shoulder, with the end of a tennis racket peeking out of it. His hair is slightly stuck to his face, and his compression tee is slick to his chest like a second skin.

“Hi,” you whisper back. He smiles before tossing his bag on the floor and sitting in the chair across from you, either unaware of or completely ignoring the glares he’s receiving from the other students studying.

“You know,” he pulls out some kind of nutrition bar from his bag, unwrapping it and taking an aggressive bite, “for someone advertising their services, you’re pretty hard to find.”

“You’re in Mr. Wilson’s class, right?” you ask, hoping your subdued voice will remind him that he’s in a notoriously quiet place. He hums, pointing at you with his half-eaten snack.

“And I’m trying not to fail, but you didn’t leave your number anywhere in the classroom, and you bolt after every class. So how am I supposed to patronize your tutoring services…” he trails off, his volume the same level as when he walked in. You furrow your brows as he leans back into the chair.

“That’s when you say who you are.”

You feel a burn on the back of your neck as you tell him your name. He glances down towards the problem set you’ve nearly finished.

“How do you turn in any of those, I can’t get halfway through one of them.”

You pause for a moment before leaning slightly across the table to whisper:

“This new weird thing called studying. I think it just got approved by the CDC.”

“Very funny,” he shakes his head as reaches for your binder with your class schedule printed out on the front of it.

“Why are you taking so many bio classes?”

“Because I’m a biology major,” you can’t help the sarcasm dripping from your voice, and he looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, you’re making this too easy for me,” you raise your hands in conceit.

“I have practice every day at five so you can tutor me for like an hour beforehand,” he says before standing up, crunching up the silver wrapper and stuffing it into the front pocket of his blue jeans. You scoff at his sentence.

“Well, thank you for so generously fitting me into your schedule,” you roll your eyes, turning the page in your textbook. He grins.

“Tell the coach you’re there for Art. They’ll let you through.”

stanford tennis courts. friday, march 7th.

It’s 4 PM, and the California sun is sweltering. Your shorts feel like they’ve become a part of your legs, and your bag feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. By the time you make it to the tennis courts Art is already on the green concrete, shirtless with beads of sweat dripping down his face and chest. You hear his grunts as he sprints across the court, hitting the ball toward a slightly taller brunette with dangerously short red shorts. You watch them at the entrance for a few minutes, slightly entranced as the two play so seamlessly, as if they know every move the other person is going to make. You force your eyes away as you walk up the bleachers, stepping over leftover water bottles and chip bags to sit down and grab your notes from your backpack. It takes a couple more minutes for Art to notice you, yelling your name after he turns around to grab a ball his partner had hit particularly hard. You wave, and he says something you can’t hear to the brunette before the two of them jog across the courts and up the stands to where you are, blocking the sun as the two stand side by side.

“Who’s your friend?” you ask as you stuff the problem set you were working on in between the pages of your notebook.

“I’m Patrick,” he says, with a toothy smile and his ears poking out from under his hair. He has a bit more of a boyish charm to him than Art does, whose eyes are glued to his brunette counterpart.

“Are you in Mr. Wilson’s class too?”

Patrick opens his mouth to answer but Art speaks first, slightly pushing his friend with his shoulder as he says “He doesn’t go to Stanford, too busy being a tennis pro.”

Patrick rolls his eyes but his smile doesn’t leave his face. You notice how different this Art feels from the one in the library, how direct his playfulness is and how close he and Patrick stand together, their sweaty torsos nearly melding together.

Interesting.

“Like, Andre Agassi level pro?” you smile as the two of them laugh. Patrick raises the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, and you can’t help but take a glance at the exposed skin just above his waistband.

“Sorry, he’s like the only tennis player I know.”

“No, no I’m taking that as a compliment that you think I’m on the level of Agassi. No takebacks if you see me play,” Patrick points at you.

“Will do,” you salute, turning over to Art.

“You ready to study?” you ask him as he makes a comically loud groan, his head falling back. Patrick laughs, reaching over to ruffle his friends hair.

“You do remember that’s why I’m here, right? Midterms are in two weeks.”

“I definitely have not forgotten that.” he says. You purse your lips just as Patrick’s eyes seem to light up.

“I’m staying at the Courtyard Hotel for the weekend. You two can come over and study, I need to review my last match anyway. Kill two birds with one stone,” Patrick suggests.

“Just studying?”

“Just studying,” Art says, wrapping his arm around his friend's shoulder. You glance between the two of them, trying to decipher the unspoken communication they seem to be doing. But you can’t crack it, so you shrug.

“Sure.”

“Let us finish this set, and then you’ll have me all to yourself. Sound fair?”

“Wow, what a privilege. Don’t take too long, it’s hell on Earth out here!” you yell the last part as Art jogs down the steps and back down towards the net. You look up once you realize that the sun is still being blocked, and Patrick is still standing in front of you.

“You ever play?” he grins, flipping the tennis racket in his hand.

“Tennis? God, no, that would not be a pretty sight. I’ll stick to what I’m good at,” you gesture to the books and notes in your lap. Patrick nods.

“If you ever want to learn, I could teach you sometime, you know if-” he’s cut off by Art yelling his name, and you both glance to see him with his hands on his hips.

“Go, don’t keep your boyfriend waiting,” you wave him off, and you swear you can see him blushing. Must have been the glare.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he runs toward Art.

courtyard hotel. saturday, march 8.

It’s 11 pm. There’s a cold shiver in the elevator as you wait to get to the fourth floor, your tennis shoes tapping against the floor as one hand plays with the handle of the pack of beer in your hand while the other crumples and re-crumples the piece of paper with the hotel room number Patrick scribbled on it.

what are you doing?

You don’t have time to think about the consequences of your actions as the robotic voice signals that you’re on the fourth floor, the elevator doors fluttering open. It’s like your feet have a mind of their own, as you find yourself almost mindlessly wandering through the hotel halls until you’re planted in front of room 4B. You raise your hand to knock on the door but before you can make contact with the wood it’s thrust open, and Patrick is standing behind it. His dark hair is slightly tousled around his face, his striped shirt unbuttoned and his black boxer briefs low on his waist. He’s smiling, that same big smile as before, but his face is a little flushed, a gentle pink hue touching his cheeks. The two of you don’t say anything for a few seconds, as if you were both testing to see who would concede first to acknowledge the other’s presence. You raise the pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in your right hand.

“I brought studying fuel.”

You were never good at waiting.

Patrick laughs before he moves slightly out of the way to allow you to walk into his room. It’s small, with a queen-sized bed and a tiny desk, and the A/C emits an odd rumbling sound as it smacks against the window. Clothes and scorecards are strewn across the floor, and the scent of cigarettes permeates the room. You place the alcohol on the floor before deciding to sit on the bed, kicking off your shoes as you cross your legs. Patrick seems to stall for a moment, smiling to himself before closing the door behind him. He doesn’t lock the door, but you didn’t notice.

“Art’s not here yet?” you ask, watching as Patrick walks over and tears open the cardboard case, cracking open a can. Taking a sip, he leans against the desk as he smiles.

“Art can be bad with time.”

“As I’ve noticed,” you reach your hand out to motion towards the drink and Patrick hands it to you, staring as you take a large sip.

“Well,” you wipe the side of your mouth, “I told him to bring the topics he wanted to study, so I guess we can’t do anything until he gets here.”

Patrick nods with a slight pout, his fingers playing with the pop tab of the can. “I guess we can’t.”

“How’s tennis… stuff,” you laugh as you finish the question, not sure of exactly what to say.

Patrick seems to tense a little at the mention of the sport, moving over to sit next to you on the bed. His knee grazes your leg and you feel a slight buzz at the contact as he takes the beer from your hand.

“I’m kinda fucking it up right now,” he says, and you furrow your brows.

“How? You were like, really good yesterday.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. He hands you the beer and you finish it off, placing the empty can at the bottom of your feet.

“I’m good with Art. It feels so fucking natural and easy with him. But in my other matches, I don’t know. I just … can’t replicate it.”

You nudge him with your leg.

“Sounds like you two were made to play tennis together.”

He makes a noise of agreement, his hands slowly moving to ghost over your thigh.

“You and Art are pretty close?” you ask as he plays with the bottom hem of your shorts, but he doesn’t say anything. You take his silence as a yes.

“Do you ever get jealous?”

“Of Art?” he asks, almost incredulously. You shrug.

“Yeah, or jealous of the girls he’s with. Either or.”

Patrick sits on that for a few moments before smirking.

“What’s mine is mine, and what’s his is mine.”

You laugh at that, a real deep laugh, and Patrick giggles next to you, the both of you tipsy from the can of beer you finished. You reach over and put your hand on his flushed face, rubbing your hand across his cheek.

“What were you doing before I came?” you feel his face warm even more against your skin as you position yourself closer to him.

“Practicing- or, sorry, rereading my scorecards from my last match.”

You tutted as you moved your hand to the back of his neck, gently running your hands through his hair.

“You can tell me the truth, Patrick.”

He turns his head to press a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand before looking up at you as if to check if that was too much. Whatever your expression is gives him the confidence to move down to your neck, his tongue licking your skin.

“I think you know.”

You feel a pull in your lower stomach at his words, muffled by his mouth nipping at the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he sucks hard enough for you to put your hand around on his face at the pressure. Pulling his face up, the two of you stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and his eyes glance toward your lips. You wanted to wait, to make him beg and plead for it, but your body seemingly pulled you forward as your pressed your mouth onto his.

You were really quite bad at waiting.

He tastes like tobacco and faintly of the fruit medley in the dining hall, and you sigh as his lips interlock with yours and his hand grabs the back of your neck, pressing you into him. The kiss gets messy and hard, his tongue gliding over your bottom lip and into your mouth as you lift your leg to straddle Patrick, grinding into him. He whimpers into the kiss as his calloused hands drop down to the waistband of your shorts, hesitating for a moment before dropping his hand into your underwear. You grind just a little bit faster as his fingers press circles into your clit, covering your mouth with your hand as you moan.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as he uses his other hand to guide your hips, and your move your hands down to tug firmly on his hair. You can feel your climax building, the pressure in your stomach getting closer and closer to taking you over the edge-

You both jump at the sound of the hotel room dor slamming shut. Art is standing there, in that damn backward cap and a Stanford tee shirt as he crosses his arms over his chest, saying nothing as you and Patrick sit up straight, him adjusting his crotch and you smooth down your shirt, avoiding his gaze. Finally, the silence is broken by Art laughing.

“Christ, I’m not the cops,” he slips out of his slides as he waltzes over and opens a can of beer, drinking about half of it in one go. You look at him, and at Patrick, and then back at him, not knowing what the hell you just got yourself into.

“You want to fuck him right?” Art asks, and you can’t help your small gasp at how easily he said that. You glance at Patrick, hoping he’ll know what to say, but he’s just staring at Art.

“I-um,”

“So, no one’s stopping you,” Art cuts you off, taking a final swig of his beer and moving to stand directly in front of you. You open your mouth to try and explain, but before you can talk Patrick’s mouth is on yours again, his hand roaming your body. His grip is firmer now, his fingertips digging into the side of your stomach. He tugs at the bottom of your shirt and you separate, breathless as you pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. Patrick’s mouth moves down to your neck, then your collarbones, and then your chest as he reaches around to take of your bra, and you feel on fire from Art’s gaze across the room. As Patrick kisses down your stomach and yanks down your shorts, you turn over to meet Art’s eyes.

“Come here.”

Whatever resolve Art was holding onto crumbles as he quickly takes off his shirt and slips out of his Nike shorts, tossing his hat on the dresser. In a flash Art’s hands are on your neck, tilting your head around to kiss you as Patrick lifts up your hips so he can take off your underwear. Art’s lips are softer than Patrick’s but he kisses you a little bit harder, his hand cupping the base of your neck. Somehow, they both taste the same. You moan into Art’s mouth as you feel Patrick’s tongue swirl around your clit, rolling your hips into his mouth as Art’s cock presses into your back. It’s just so much so fast, and that familiar buzz starts to pool in your lower stomach.

“Look at him,” Art turns your head to Patrick and you look into his eyes as you cum, Art’s hands hold your head forward as a wave of euphoria crashes over you. Patrick’s hands are digging into your hips as he stares up at you and Art. Your chest heaves up and down as you try to catch your breath, leaning against Art as Patrick leans back up, his mouth a few inches from yours.

“Who do you want first?

[rainrot4me]

Important question: EJ and Period sex? It’s a common idea that EJ would be down, but I’m curious if he would in your mind.

── .✦

Yes. 100%. Unequivocally. And not just “fine with it,” but actively into it.

Jack is canonically associated with blood, organs, and surgical precision. To someone like him, a demonically-inclined medic who’s intimately familiar with anatomy, mess, and viscera, menstruation wouldn’t bother him in the slightest. In fact, he may consider it natural, fascinating, and even beautiful in a way others shy away from.

What it’s like with him:

He’d notice it before you say a word. Scent, heat, small shifts in your body. If you’re shy or hesitant, he’d reassure you in that low, calm voice:

“Love, if you think a little blood will scare me off, you’re forgetting who you’re in bed with.”

He’d handle it carefully but intensely, lifting your hips, his mask off (because he feels no need to wear that thing around you), murmuring sweet nothings or praises against your throat while holding your thighs open.

And the aftermath? He’d take care of you like always: warm compresses, clean towels, meds for the cramps, maybe a little praise if you were self-conscious about the mess:

“You were stunning. Don’t hide from me, not over something so beautiful.”

Bonus:

If you’re a proxy, especially injured or bleeding often, Jack doesn’t flinch at blood anywhere. Period sex would just be one more bodily process he accepts, respects, and honestly? Might even worship in a in-depth, more sensual way.

꩜ .ᐟ