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scatter-snz · 3 months ago

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Best Laid Plans - Part 3

Details: 11k, M sneezes, no pairing (for this part)

Summary: A secret agent is going undercover for a few days, and his target has a sneeze fetish. When preparing his next move, he finds even the best laid plans go awry.

PART 2 - PART 3 - PART 4

EVERYONE 🥹💖 Thank you so, so much for your continued support and kindness!!!! 😭 I’m just over the moon that folks are enjoying this and I’ve deeply appreciated all the likes, comments, reblogs, and asks!! I feel like I’ll never be able to say thank you enough times to everyone 😂💕 Please know that I’ve read each and every wonderful word you all have said and those sentiments have given me soul power!!! 💫

This is a fluffy interlude, but it will spice up again in Part 4! 😏 These are original characters, all in their mid twenties to early thirties. Please mind the warnings if anything here might be uncomfy for you.

(Warnings: Unrealistic science, Mess Lite™, getting sneezed on [accidentally, not in detail], questionable coworker dynamics [discussing sexual pleasure in a professional way], humiliation themes [main character gets embarrassed from sexual discussion], micro/macro [it’s a dream], masturbation, being induced by another person [not on purpose], feeling pleasure from sneezing).

THIS STORY IS NSFW!

The Wooden Lantern, tomorrow, 6:30pm.

Omicron knew the place. He’d studied the resort’s directory extensively before they arrived. It was a high class, low-light, white table cloth and well-dressed waiter kind of restaurant. Either Josaline and her husband booked a reservation far in advance or they had the clout to demand one. The backdrop set the tone — extravagant, intimate, an evening of whispered banter. They better not expect me to pay, he thought, weaving around a housekeeper with a cart of towels and sheets. Head office probably won’t foot the bill.

It took longer than planned to pry himself away from Josaline. She was content to lounge for as long as he’d let her, asking him idle questions and tracing shapes on his chest with the tips of her fingers. All the while, she watched his nose. To Omicron it seemed like she was reluctant to miss even a second of his nasal misery, and she was treated to a fair amount of sniffling, sneezing, and nose blowing while they talked. When he finally managed to extricate himself, he surmised his nose was as red as the sunset. The light painted brilliant streaks over the coastline and reduced distant seagulls to silhouettes as they flew over sparkling water.

And somehow, looking too long at the birds flapping their wings meant he had to sneeze. Bitterly, Omicron tucked a finger beneath his nostrils. They began to flare, anxious as the tickle took flight somewhere in his sinuses. Indulging this in his hotel room was better than the hallway, so Omicron picked up his pace. He could feel the sensation worsen, his nerves trembling, and soon a whole flock of frantic tickles startled into motion.

“-hhHH-” He flipped his hand up over his nose and increased his power walk to a near sprint.

“-gUH!hhh..HHH-” He skidded to his room door and through tears he scanned the keycard, shoved himself inside-

“HHEH’DZZssch!”

“Oh, here he is. He just got back.”

Omicron eased his eyes open long enough to see Agent Delta with his phone to his ear, frowning at him.

“Bless-”

“-IHCHZSSH’oo!” He flattened a hand to his chest, feeling himself breathe and breathe and- “..hah!-CHIZSSH’uh!.. ngghh..”

Omicron groaned and belatedly nosed into his shirt, at this point a decimated, jumbo-sized rag hanging limply from his hand.

“Bless you.” Delta delivered it firmly, and asked in the same tone, “How are you feeling?”

“Whad?” he asked, muffled at first before he lowered the shirt. “I’b fine.”

The senior agent gave him a doubtful once-over, then spoke to whomever was on the phone. “He says he’s fine.”

Muzzily, Omicron looked down at himself. Then sidelong to the closet door mirror. He stood only in his swim trunks, bare from his hips up with hair made wild by hungry hands and a smattering of burgundy lipstick across his throat. Worst was his nose, just as raw and sore looking as it felt. It twitched as he watched, his nostrils slowly stretching wide. His expression collapsed by degrees, jaw slacking, eyelids fluttering, chin tilting, chest lifting in one long breath.

“hhhhhHHH’ADZSSHiew!!” he sneezed, and threw himself a step forward.

Delta sighed. “Bless you.”

Once again Omicron lifted his shirt late and huffed a frustrated sigh of his own. When the tickle came over him, he couldn’t do more than simply sneeze. His days of diligent etiquette were long behind him now. There was a tap on his shoulder and when he looked up, Delta was standing in front of him with a fresh box of unscented, lotion-infused tissues. Omicron could have cried.

“Thag’k you-” he choked, snatching a handful just before he “-hd’ZZSSCH!-guh..”

He transitioned his groan into a strengthless blow of his nose. Even for how little effort he used, the action was productive — more audibly than he would have preferred. At least the tissues didn’t chafe. It took several rounds, Delta patiently holding the box for him, until Omicron’s sniffling was stuffy but dry. The tickle relaxed as much as it ever did, tracing shapes against his membranes. It reminded him of Josaline. By the time he was finished, Delta had traded the box for the room’s little trash bin.

“Yes, just a moment..” he said into the phone, then tipped the bin expectantly at Omicron. Meekly, he dropped in all his tissues (as well as his shirt, it was a lost cause) as Delta continued. “Let me speak with him first.”

Omicron tried to cobble together some semblance of professionalism. He straightened his spine and folded his hands into a parade rest to deliver his report. “Sir, there is a new development-”

“Apologies, Omicron, that will have to wait,” Delta bulldozed over him. “Something’s come up.”

A prickle of anxiety raised the hairs at the back of his neck. “… Sir?”

“It concerns your condition,” Delta replied, and his faltering loss of eye contact didn’t reassure Omicron in the slightest. “It’s a.. delicate subject, so I’ll leave this to Dr. Voster.”

Omicron closed his eyes in exasperation. He’d forgotten about her. Shit. Delta passed him the phone, and then very conspicuously occupied himself across the room.

Bracing himself, Omicron lifted the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

“Hi, Agent Omicron,” said Dr. Voster in a tinny voice from the receiver. “You’re a hard man to get a hold of lately.”

“Well, I’ve been a bit busy,” he said, then lifted a fist to his nose. Idle as the tickle was, the incessant, gossamer sensation of it was beginning to bother him. “Forgive me if I don’t have time to shoot the breeze.”

“You think I’d come to you for small talk? I’d have better luck with a brick wall.”

“Noted,” he replied as he glanced around for the tissue box. He found it sitting on his bed. “Are you calling to berate me or is there something you want?”

“If you remember from yesterday,” she insisted with unnecessary attitude, “I’m calling to talk about your nose.”

The tickle twinged, perking up like a dog to a whistling call. The rims of his eyes grew wet. His breath hiccuped. “I’d reahh- hly rather not.”

“Too bad, I’ll cut to the chase: are you getting erections when you sneeze?”

Her words pierced him like arrows, followed by the bleed of heat into his cheeks, ears, and neck. Omicron’s hand froze halfway to his face, tissues hovering. She knows, his mind shrieked. She knows. He whipped his head to Delta, who was faffing pointlessly with his suitcase while pretending to ignore the conversation unfolding across the room. And so does he.

“Your silence is telling,” said Anita.

“No.” His mind was static and his mouth was dry. Words wouldn’t flow. “I’m not.. No.”

The lie was so poorly delivered that it wouldn’t have fooled anyone. Sweat slinked down his nape. Dr. Voster blew a breath over the line, sharp and rueful. “Welp. That one’s on me.”

He darted another glance to Delta and caught the man staring just before they simultaneously turned away. Meanwhile, the tickle followed the path of a twitching nerve with a light, curious touch. Hunching his shoulders and scrunching his face, Omicron mumbled into the receiver.

“What’s that supposed tuhh.. to mean?”

“Your reaction at the lab was extreme, in relation to the vigor of your sneezing as well as the presence of physiological responses indicating arousal,” she explained, her tone appreciably analytic despite the awkward topic. “Dilated pupils, shortness of breath, difficulty concentrating..”

She suspected it from the beginning? Omicron reeled. It made sense; she was impressively educated and one of the most respected techs at the agency. Her knowledge ranged from biology, physiology, immunology, and beyond. In retrospect, he’d been a fool to think he could ever hide something like this from her.

“Even so, I couldn’t be sure. It warranted further research and I found something unexpected.”

Omicron pushed a hand through his hair, pressing his thumb into the soft indent of his temple. He’d walked in here with a headache and he could tell this conversation would only make it worse. “Oh?”

“It’s a little known fact that parts of the nose contain the same type of erectile tissue as the genitals, and both are linked to the body’s autonomic nervous system.”

As she spoke, the tickle feathered a persistent, teasing swirl around a sensitive spot. His inflamed membranes pulsed insistently, as did his chapped nostrils. He tried his damned best to ignore it. “... Pardon?”

“I believe because I gave you a higher dose of viral particles than you needed, the overstimulation of your nasal nerves is causing an echoing effect to the erectile tissue in your penis.”

A dangerous emotion lurched up from Omicron’s stomach and got caught behind his teeth: anger. It warred, then mixed, with his humiliation. Exhaustion eroded his willingness to swallow it back down.

“This is actually not unheard of. Kinks aside, some people experience this during intercourse, or even from simply thinking about sex, though usually the arousal causes sneezing rather than the other way around..”

Anita blathered on about speculative science, and the bubbling pot of annoyance he’d nursed since the start of this assignment at last began to boil over. Frustration erupted into rage.

“..Still, it’s a variable I completely overlooked. I’m sorry, Omicron.”

“Sorry?” he barked, raising his volume to a throat-scratching degree. “You’re sorry? Are you serious?”

There was a pause over the line. “.. Yes?”

“Sorry isn’t going to cut it.” The ardor in his voice vibrated in his sinuses, heightening the caressing sensations of the tickle, which only angered him more. “Yhh-You told me I wouldn’t b-be comprhhuh-.. hhmised by your stupid experiment!”

“That was before I saw its effects in action. I advised you not to go forward with the mission, remember? I only agreed in front of Delta because you looked so sad. It was foolish on my part. I should’ve grounded you.”

“So that I could suffer for your mbistake??” he demanded. His nostrils shivered and he shoved them with the heel of his palm. Congestion clogged his words. “I’ve waited so long for this mbission, Anita, you kdnow I have!”

“It wasn’t my intention to compromise you, Omicron,” and while she said it with contrition, there was also resignation. “I can’t predict every outcome. It’s just one of those things.”

The pragmatism in her voice only fueled his fire, but before he could assemble his response, the tickle struck. Even in the throes of wrath it wouldn’t leave him be. Its touch seeped through his nose like a spill. His lungs jumped with a single breath, and then Omicron’s head snapped down.

“DDJZSSsh’oo!”

The sneeze staggered him two steps back and another was fast on the rise. It held him hostage in its grip, but Anita’s curt ��bless you” in his ear waylaid the urge. He fulcrumed a finger beneath his nose to buy time. Emotion roared up from his chest and broke out of him in a rambling crash.

“I get one chandce! One. To prove mbyself and if I fail they’re gonna relegate mbe to archives and filing duties for the rest of mby career!!”

He was peripherally aware of Delta, who’d at some point moved to stand in front of him. There was something in his hand, a gadget Omicron recognized but couldn’t think to name. His vision tunneled, dark at the edges. His heart pounded in his ears. His nose twitched ominously, not to be delayed much longer.

“I c-.. hhhan’dt lose this case,” he was babbling, quicker and quicker when his nostrils began to flare. The burgeoning sneeze tugged his eyelids shut and stole his breath away. “It’ll- it.. iyeehh…h-HH!hck’KZSShiu!”

Dr. Voster took the opportunity to cut in; she sounded deliberately calm as he sniffled fitfully through a recovery. “Omicron, listen to me, you’re catastrophizing. Slow down for a second and breathe.”

“Ndo, you listen!” His voice cracked and an ugly desperation made itself known. “They’ll really do it, if I’b ndot perfect they’ll write mbe off a’d I’ll end up a cautionary tale, they’ll laugh mbe out of the agency, everythi’g I’ve worked for will be for dnothi’g, I-”

Glowing numbers flashed in front of his eyes. Omicron startled, teetering unevenly on his feet. At first he had no idea what it was, but as his vision steadied the image formed. Delta stood before him, grim, offering the readout screen of an infrared thermometer.

The numbers read 102.4°F / 39.1°C . Omicron squinted at them, uncomprehending.

“... what’s thad?” he rasped.

Delta’s reply was immediate and immutable. “Your fever.”

Omicron blinked. Squinted harder. Read the numbers again even as they started to blur. I have a fever? he asked himself. As his fury ebbed, new sensations emerged: the painful heat radiating from his head, a pervasive chill seeping from his core, the weakness in his knees and the cotton in his ears. He began listing to the side. The phone slipped from his hand.

Oh, he realized. I have a fever.

“Oop!” Delta dashed and caught him before he could swoon to the floor. Together they sank in a controlled descent as the senior agent muttered, “Easy now, easy..” under his breath. Once they were down, Omicron tucked his head into his knees and tried to fend off the headrush.

Indistinct voices floated around him. He could only catch snippets of conversation — “high grade temperature,” and “want you here by morning” — and he gave up on the rest. Instead, he concentrated on the bracing passes of Delta’s broad hand across the span of his sweaty shoulders. It took longer than he liked, but eventually Omicron raised his head with minimal dizziness. He stared into the weave of the carpet.

“Did she hang up?”

“Yes,” Delta said beside him. “She gave me a list of questions to ask you when you’re feeling a bit better.”

Omicron dropped his head back to his knees. “... is she upset?”

“At your outburst?” Delta asked, and his subordinate cringed. “She’s more worried about you than upset, but you wouldn’t be remiss to apologize when she arrives.”

In the aftermath of his tantrum, clarity pricked him like a thorn. This was as much his fault as it was Anita’s. It was true her virus yielded unexpected results, but by concealing them from her, he’d failed in his responsibility as a teammate. She put her trust in him, and he let her down. There were few things more painful for him than owning his mistakes.

Stewing in his shame, he sniffled and said the only thing he could say. “I’b sorry, sir.”

Delta’s smile grew warm at the edges. “I’m not the one you shouted at, but I’ll accept your apology since you lied to me too.”

God, he wished the ground would just swallow him whole. Omicron folded into an even smaller ball, arms tightening around his shins. The position made his nose run, which required frequent snuffling for maintenance, but he’d rather do that than look Delta in the eye.

“I expect honesty from you, agent. Full stop. Not a single lie moving forward, either directly or by omission. Am I understood?”

Omicron could barely force himself above a whisper. “Yes, sir.”

“Not just about the virus,” his superior continued, “but also your wellbeing. You’ve put so much pressure on yourself, Omicron. I had no idea you were under the impression that this assignment would be your only chance to succeed.”

Without anger as a shield, he’d lost his last defense. Delta’s sympathy felt like a punch in the gut. Even worse, his near constant sniffles were going to make him sneeze. He keenly felt each bead of moisture drip down his stressed passages, then skate back up with every subsequent snatch of air. It was unabating, alluring, and it coaxed little sighs from his lip when he exhaled. He didn’t have to wait long.

“..hh’MMPHssh!!Huh..” Omicron muffled it into his knees, his entire body trembling. Then he hurried to respond before he could be blessed. “-but it’s true, righd?”

“Come again?” Delta asked, and when Omicron spoke it again with more volume, he could hear Delta’s brow furrow just from the way he replied, “No, it’s not true at all. Did someone tell you differently?”

With reluctance, Omicron lifted his head and confirmed with a stuffy mumble. “.. Agent Rho did.”

“Rho!” Delta scoffed, as if he could scold the agent from here. His voice lowered to a grumble, and that told Omicron exactly how Delta felt about Rho. “Don’t listen to them. They enjoy scaring less experienced agents.”

(Here Omicron swore a silent, seething vow that he would exact calculated revenge upon Agent Rho for their transgressions against him. Delta continued, oblivious.)

“A reprehensible practice, but between you and I, head office rarely entertains my complaints on the matter.”

Head office… Fuzzy worries came into focus as Omicron muddled through another lazy, slow-to-arrive sneeze. The fog of it clouded his expression as he tried in vain to soldier on.

“Are you goi’g t-.. hih’KIZSsh!” he bobbed his head, then slitted his eyes open only for them to flutter closed again. “..ehKZSSh’uh!... mmbgh..”

“Bless you,” said Delta, watching Omicron cup a hand over his nose. “Here, use these.”

Delta held out the tissue box, still half-full with soft paper, and Omicron plucked out several. His breath hitched high, voice heady, as he attempted to relay gratitude.

“Th-hhah.. ah’NKZSSS’hoo!” He crushed it into the tissues, and then flushed with a fresh layer of chagrin when Delta chuckled.

“Bless you, Omicron, you’re welcome.” He waited for the nose blowing to stop before he continued. “You were saying?... ‘Am I going to’ what?”

Oh, right, his question.. With fever, congestion, and the pledge of sneezes crowding his head, holding onto a thought longer than a few seconds felt next to impossible. “Are you going to ground me?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Delta replied. “Considering your condition, I should say yes, but I’d like Dr. Voster’s opinion first. You’re making progress on this case and I’d hate to halt your momentum prematurely.”

That was fair. Uncontrollable boners and a fever on active duty would probably dissuade any overseeing officer from adapting a ‘push through’ mentality. Especially Delta, since the man had the most heavily bleeding heart Omicron had ever known. It would be up to Anita, then; he couldn’t muster the energy to fret about it right now. They sat together while Omicron tended to his fidgety nose, still side by side on the floor, until Delta made a sound of recollection.

“Speaking of the case, didn’t you mention a development? I interrupted you earlier. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

Ahhhh, dammit, Omicron lamented. I forgot about that too.

Even before Anita threw her wrench, he hadn’t been sure how his date tomorrow would go over with Delta. He’d had plans of carefully breaking the news, laying out the variables and working gradually to the big reveal. But now he could barely remember the basic idea, let alone complex and eloquent details. Wracking his boiling brain did nothing but cost him his opportunity; the meandering tickle of his cold stumbled yet again on sensitive territory.

“-Hah…” It lured a dreading sound from his lips as the urge niggled him. Hadn’t he sneezed enough? His count had to be over a hundred by now, and yet his nose wasn’t satisfied. Overworked as they were, his nasal nerves were as ceaseless in their goals as the virus was. “..hiH-.. ngh..”

Omicron cut his losses. Either he ripped the bandaid off or wasted another ten minutes sneezing while his cold tickled him senseless. He took a moment to steady his breathing before saying, “...She has a hus’BEHSsh’oo!”

It startled them both, barreling out of him freely and with an unfortunate lack of cover. Delta flinched away, visibly caught in the crossfire, and Omicron panicked. Both hands jerked up to cover his nose as a whiplash of shame froze him to the bone.

“Fuck, I’b so siihH-” Oh god, again? His breath wavered at the top of his throat, almost a whimper, and he was so discombobulated from the first one that he couldn’t prepare for the second. “-ih’GXCHHT!”

It ran roughshod, mostly through his nose, and it scraped his sinuses on the way out. Very unpleasant, but fortunately the tickle had to play second fiddle to the stinging aftermath. Omicron hitched down from the high, hands still cemented to his face for modesty and eyelashes sticking with tears as he threw a glance to his superior.

“b’sorry!” he eked out, and he must have looked truly miserable because Delta’s eyes widened.

“It’s alright, it’s alright!” he said earnestly, with a shake of his head and a consoling pat to Omicron’s back. “I’m not upset, I know that was an accident. Don’t worry about it, hm? Here..”

He fished up the tissue box in offering before politely turning away as Omicron cleaned himself up. The mortification nearly crushed him, but still the junior agent reeled with relief. He could trust his superior at his word that he wasn’t upset; it just wasn’t in Delta’s nature to lie, unless it was for his cover. It took nearly the rest of the box before Omicron deemed himself decent, and even then he pinned a preemptive bushel of tissues around his nose in case another sneeze got away from him. Delta was looking at him with such effusive compassion that Omicron delivered his news without preamble, desperate to change the subject.

“I got invited to a threesome with Josaline and her secret husband,” he said from behind his hands.

Agent Delta was gobsmacked. “Wh- Josaline Jewel has a husband?”

Omicron nodded.

“We have no intel to suggest that at all. Are you sure?”

Omicron nodded again.

There was a bewildered pause, then an even more disbelieving, “And you’ve scheduled a threesome with them?”

For a third time Omicron nodded, bleary-eyed over the edge of his tissues. Beneath his hands, his nostrils spasmed around the shape of a sluggish itch. It stalled out somewhere in his sinuses, too present to dismiss but not yet committed to climax. Don’t tease me, he begged with a slow blink. Either hurry up or go away.

“Omicron,” Delta said, a note of wonder in his voice. “I knew you were talented, but this exceeds expectations. Particularly with the knowledge that you did this while contending with unforeseen complications. Well done.”

His heart fluttered weakly at the praise and Omicron squashed any pleased feelings that arose from it. There would be nothing to celebrate if he couldn’t finish the job.

“Th.. hhagk you, sir.”

“When are you meeting them?”

“T-.. Tihh-..” As he spoke the tickle squiggled like a banner caught in a breeze. He rushed the rest on an exhale — “..t-t’mborrow nhhigh..” — heaved in a huge breath, and then- “IDTZSSH’hoo!!”

“Bless, tomorrow night, hm..” Delta rushed the blessing as well, rubbing his chin with a long sigh. “This does complicate things. I doubt we’ll get a chance like this again, but I’m not granting clearance until Dr. Voster takes a look at you-”

“ht-.. HD’JZSS!uuh..”

“-bless you, because that fever of yours concerns me. That side effect wasn’t listed in the literature and it surprised her to hear that you’ve developed one-”

“.. eh-.. eH’TSCHHOO!”

“-bless you. So better safe than sorry. Your health and safety takes priority over any assignment, Omicron, do try and remember tha-.. oh, bless…?”

“.. h-HDT-!”

Omicron waiting on the cusp of another, eyes rolled skyward and lips parted in desire, still cloaked behind his curtain of tissues. He could feel he had Delta’s undivided attention, which made the tickle shy. It shivered inside him, sending his nostrils into a fit of flaring. Stuttered breaths filled his lungs in tiny bursts, emptying again on uneasy sighs, and he-.. he-!..

.. relaxed, defeated, with a groan.

“Lost it?” Delta asked, then quirked a smile at Omicron’s moody nose-blow. “I’m sure it’s very disappointing. My condolences.”

Because Delta was being very gracious about all this — Omicron’s dishonesty and careless sneezing — he couldn’t summon up any feelings of exasperation. It helped that he was running on empty, too enervated by his fever to do much more than slump with a nod that made his head gently spin. He waited it out and only when he startled to awareness at a gentle touch on his arm did he realize he’d been falling asleep where he sat. He squinted up at Delta who was now standing, smiling down at him.

“Dr. Voster asked me to collect more data on your condition, but that can wait,” he said, and hauled Omicron to his feet. He guided the smaller man toward the bright fluorescence of their hotel bathroom. “Why don’t you wash up? It might help.”

Too dazed to protest, Omicron stood shivering barefoot on the cold tile in his swim trunks while Delta babbled about this and that. A couple blinks later he was holding a set of sweats from his suitcase, his toiletry bag, and a clean pair of fuzzy socks that wasn’t his. Probably Delta’s. He’d seen the man wear a different pair around the room just last night. Juggling the items and mumbling thank-yous, he nudged the door shut with his foot as Delta stated he’d be going out to grab dinner.

And thus commenced his character assassination.

Omicron laid to rest and mourned what remained of his dignity. He was, in essence, sick on the job with an unseemly cold and his boss was playing nurse. In other words, a nightmare. Never had any of his coworkers seen him T less than peak health, and he hadn’t bargained on Anita’s monster virus turning him into… this. As he shambled through a shower, pajamas, and then curled up into bed, he hoped in vain that his fever would be bad enough to knock him out before Delta got back. No such luck.

Omicron knew how he could look, especially with fresh, fluffy bedhead and sleeves that drooped over his hands. He could only assume this aesthetic was exacerbated by his glowing red nose and glassy eyes. ‘Cute’ was a moniker he’d take to his grave unfortunately, much as it haunted him. He’d never managed to escape it in any disguise, not for all the leather, fake piercings, or platform boots in the world.

So when Agent Delta turned around and caught sight of him, snuggled in a poofy duvet clutching the tissue box with a little twitch troubling his nose, Omicron beat him to the punch. “Please don’t patronize me, sir.”

Delta’s smile threatened laughter, but he reigned it in with a polite cough and clear of his throat. “I wasn’t going to, agent. I’m just glad to see you’re more comfortable.”

‘Comfortable’ was a generous word that only got further from the truth as the night wore on. Omicron was treated to dinner in bed, complete with a serving tray borrowed from the staff, and the gesture was enough to obliterate any shred of appetite he had for the hot and sour soup Delta brought him. He just wanted to dissolve into the atmosphere and disappear. What he did manage to eat sprung tears in his eyes and a menacing prickle in his clogged sinuses. He spent most of the meal with a tissue held to flexing, leaky nostrils.

The conversation after dinner was yet another exercise in torture. Omicron would have tried choking down more soup if he’d remembered Delta had orders from Anita to question him about his ‘condition.’

Rationally, Omicron knew he shouldn’t be embarrassed. He had sex on the job now and then, and those wild whims he pursued on his personal time were a cure for boredom more than anything. There was something different about this though, the pleasure he felt from sneezing. It felt intimate, self-generated, and to some extent outside of his control. That he might accidentally get aroused without a purpose, beyond that it simply just felt good, was a thought he couldn’t bare to share with anyone.

“I find it endearing that you are so bashful about this, considering your line of work,” Delta said, understanding yet undeterred, “but as this pertains directly to your ability to perform on the job, I’m afraid Voster and I are on a need to know basis. I promise it will be quick and painless.”

The unyielding furrow in Delta’s brow told Omicron he wouldn’t escape this discussion, no matter how badly he wanted to avoid it. Maybe by some miracle he’d black out and not remember it after.

Once they got started, the questions were mercifully clinical: How often are you experiencing unexpected symptoms? Under what circumstances do they arise? Are you experiencing any unexpected symptoms beyond those already identified? And so on. All the while, Omicron dissuaded sneezes with nose rubs, nose blows, and general nose abuse of that nature. Each ticklish surge that scrambled for a foothold he countered with equal obstinacy. Nothing he did would rid him of the itch, so there was no reason to indulge it.

Yes there is, said the steady drip of tension into his abdomen. Feel that? It was a formless need, faint enough to ignore. For now. Given time the drip would form a puddle, then a pond, and eventually an ocean of want churning in the core of him. And it will feel so good to let go.

Omicron resolutely ignored that feeling.

When they finished with the questions, he didn’t even realize it was over; he dozed off while Delta prattled on too long about meaningless things, his voice soothing in its familiarity, and awoke with a start minutes or hours later from a soft touch on his elbow. Just Delta, whispering something about acetaminophen, offering pills and a glass of water which Omicron tossed back wordlessly before hurtling headfirst back into sleep.

He surfaced in and out of consciousness throughout the night, plagued by chills, sweats, and the strange dreams only a fever can cook up. Vivid, nonsensical adventures that ranged from confusing to harrowing, until Omicron eventually found himself spelunking. How he ended up in this damp, drippy cavern eluded him, but he remained committed to his single directive: explore.

It was an odd place, even in a dream. Rather than rough-hewn stone, Omicron walked barefoot on a soft, plush surface that spanned the walls and even the ceiling. Caves were usually quite chilly, but this one was comfortably warm. Steady breezes cut through the humidity, first blowing one way and then the other, ruffling Omicron’s hair at each pass. He staggered when a particularly strong gust dragged him like an undertow and leaned against the wall to keep his balance. This immediately backfired because the wall was unexpectedly slick. With a frictionless glide, he tumbled to the ground.

“Sheesh,” he muttered, planting his palms to push himself up. When he did so, there was a near imperceptible shudder through the cavern. The rhythmic wind stuttered, stopped, then continued with an unsteady edge. He raised arm against a blast of air. “What-..?”

A light caught his eye, and Omicron glanced down to find a nexus of thrumming veins spidering out from his epicenter. They pulsed with a beautiful glow, casting a red hue across his face and illuminating the cave floor with a pink, stained glass iridescence. Curious, he trailed his fingers along the branching paths and watched the veins spread further. Again the cave floor lurched, stronger this time, and the wind around him escalated into trembling, intermittent squalls. For some reason he didn’t feel afraid, only determined.

Omicron clamored to his feet. He approached the wall where the veins began to climb. They pulsed weakly, wanting, and he felt that he needed to help them. Feeling around on his person, he unearthed something from his back pocket: a feather duster. The feathers waved in the strong breeze, plentiful and downy. How he’d managed to fit this in his pocket was dream logic he didn’t question.

“Let’s see,” he mumbled, and crouched to sweep the instrument along the wall. It seemed to cringe from the sensation, twitching madly as the veins hungrily advanced.

Omicron kept it up, dusting as much as he could reach even as the cavern began to shiver in earnest and the wind whipped his hair like a storm. But he couldn’t stop. He just had this feeling that if he lit the cavern completely, it would be a magnificent sight. As the paths flourished, they brought with them a gorgeous backlight to the tender, rose-petal surfaces of the cave. Funny, they looked almost inflamed. Irritated by his influence, intolerant of his presence here. The thoughts didn’t deter him. Omicron raised up on his tiptoes to take a swipe at the ceiling and had his feet knocked out from under him when the world tremored in response. The gale sucked inward with authority, and the feather duster was ripped from his hands.

Something was happening. Around him, the veins fanned out on their own and he’d been right: the radiance of the cavern was incredible with it all lit up at once. Beneath him the ground throbbed contentiously, convulsing, hot to the touch, and for the first time, Omicron wondered if he might have done something he shouldn’t have. No longer distracted by his goal, he became aware of a weird sound. Something deep, rumbling beneath him, the desirous moans of uhh.. uHhh.. uHHh-!... growing in volume, pitch, and power.

And suddenly, he felt the echo of this urge manifest in his nose. Its vigor sprung tears to his eyes and his jaw dropped open, helpless as it consumed him. His gasps and groans synced up to the wild chaos around him, and he could feel the very nerves he squirmed against crying out for mercy. It tickled insufferably, teased to heights he couldn’t believe — and there was only one way down.

I’m inside my own nose? was his first bizarre realization. The second was, I’m going to sneeze.

Omicron opened his eyes, only to snap them closed again. “-HP’BBSZZCHHHOOO!!!-”

He groaned, arching against the mattress, as the sneeze went straight to his dick. Bleary, barely awake, all he could do was coast through a yearning gasp and “HEEHDZJJSSSZH!Nnngghh-!”

Raw relief tingled through him, shimmering through his nose and groin, and autopilot took over. Omicron plunged a hand down his pants and gripped his morning wood, firm and ready to burst. There was enough precum trickling from his slit and staining his boxers that he could smooth his thumb over the head and ignore the slight burn from dry skin friction.

His nostrils flittered in anguish, and his sinuses drummed with an insatiable itch. Please, they implored him. This tickle tortured us all night long. Do something. And Omicron was happy to serve.

A monumental gasp - “hHHHHIIH!” - heralded an comparatively monstrous sneeze - “EEHDDZZZCHHH’Uh!!-hoohhh..”

This was so much better in bed. A tidal wave of pleasure rushed through him, from his nose to his toes, and he couldn’t catch his breath. He gritted his teeth, bowing his back as he thrust into the grip of his hand. It was just on the edge of too much; Omicron wasn’t normally so sensitive, but he’d woken with every inch of his skin tingling and thought it had to be the fever.

The tickle flexed deep inside, and Omicron recalled the striking visuals of his dream. Wet, pink walls. Encroaching red veins. Sensitive nerves, shuddery membranes, the way he’d ignorantly worked himself up to this very fit with a bundle of soft, stroking feathers. He could imagine himself doing it again, deliberately this time, sweeping the inside of his nose deftly and thoroughly, tickling and tickling and fighting to keep his eyes open even as the sensation forced them tightly closed. Coaxing a hitching breath. Making him sn-..

“-hoh fuhhck-.. hh!HUH!. UHHZZSSSHH’iu!-ooh!” His heels slipped on the sheets, straining for purchase, as he panted his way up to another. “-igih.. iH’GISSCCHOOO!-hah!!”

Each one got him an inch closer to orgasm. He bobbed over every wave with surety the next one would break over his head and drown him. Omicron snuffled unsteadily, aware his nose was running without the care to wipe it, and began twisting his wrist when he felt his nostrils blow wide in preparation.

Yes yes yes, he cheered. Let this be the one.

He hitched through a dazed smile, a deceptively dainty hh-hht-htt! that then curled him up with a bed-shaking, “HAH’TSSDCH’UE!..hh’mmngg-!..”

Omicron’s whole body clenched, tense with the impending release, but before it could come he was hitching again. His dream self dusted away, dauntless with a single-mindedness to make him sneeze. And he’d assuredly succeed, as his real self shuddered through a fit-and-start buildup.

“-hihg..ihh!hhoh.. HHT-!chhhoo..”

It wouldn’t come, hovering so close to the brink that whenever he breathed into the tickle he sighed out the approximation of its finale. His hand never stopped, the steady pumps easier now that he was wet enough. Through the haze of fever, grogginess, and arousal, Omicron imagined the dutiful brush of that duster against his quivering membranes. He was a thorough man, never one to leave a job half-finished, and he visualized himself venturing deeper, farther, to a cowering patch of nerves hoping to escape torment. The feathers caressed them, velutinous and inviting.

“.. iih!HHhhh..”

Deeper, to the responsive edge of his sinuses, where he trailed the duster along the border with deliberate care. The tickle’s magnitude tripled, aching in its eagerness. His dick pulsed in reply, hot and heavy in his frantic hand.

“-HIH!..hh..hgIHH-”

Deeper still, to the end of the line, so far inside his nose he’d never hope to get it out. The feathers touched quivering flesh. With a smirk, his dream self stroked so gently, agonizingly slow, barely a tease and yet it tickled him to an unbearable degree. He could feel every fiber of the agitating feathers, the promise they whispered.

Come on, he said to himself. You know you want to.

Omicron’s gasp cut the air like a knife, inflating his lungs to capacity, before he roared violently into his blankets. “-iihHHHHH-?!..WRRIZZSSSCHH’IIUHHH!!-mmbb!!”

He turned his head into his pillow to moan through his orgasm, stroking through it as a euphoric, tingling balm spread through his sinuses. It lasted longer than he anticipated, a continuous ripple of ecstasy that had him whimpering, panting, trembling. All his muscles relaxed, every part of him sated, and when the aftershocks ebbed Omicron sunk into the sheets, hand still in his pants, to let sleep call him back into its arms. It’s not like he had somewhere to be. What did he have to do this morning..? Vacuum the apartment..? Get groceries..? Cuddle with his cats?.............wait-

OH NO.

Omicron jackknifed into a sitting position, then immediately regretted it when his head spun. He drooped onto an elbow, coughing, heart hammering, and in a panic he scanned the room. Nobody here. No sounds from the bathroom either. The relief was so intense it sent him into another sickening dose of dizziness. He flopped flat to the mattress and tried to steady his breathing.

I didn’t just jack off in front of my superior officer, he assured himself. Everything is fine. He finally slipped his hand out of his pants and wrinkled his sore nose at the stickiness of his skin and underwear. But I have to clean up.

It took a pitifully long time to do so. Shivers wracked him the moment he crawled out of bed, and every step was a wobbly gamble. He forgot spare clothes and had to backtrack, then couldn’t figure out how to clean up without taking a shower he didn’t have the energy for. All the while his head pounded, his throat stung, and eventually the whims of the virus brought him to the brink of feeble, fallout sneezes.

Finally, with his dirty clothes stuffed into the bottom of his suitcase and most of the sweat wiped off his skin, Omicron zombied his way back to the bed and collapsed face down. Some flailing got him purchase on the sheets, mercifully spared from most of his fluids, and at last he was horizontal. Of course the position dutched the congestion to a new angle. It tickled him.

Omicron huffed weakly, wearily, and ducked under the cover of his blankets. “-iih’KIZSSH!’iuh…” Only the one. He sighed, rubbing the edge of his sheet beneath his fussy nose. Now, maybe he could just….

From the door there was the sound of a keycard clattering, then the latch lifting, and a boisterous pair of voices entered the room. “Honey, I’m home!”

Omicron buried his head under the blankets.

“Anita, he may not be awake..” That one was Delta. “Shouldn’t he rest?”

“The sooner I examine him, the better. Where-?.. ah! There you are.”

Omicron tightened his grip on the blankets, and was right to do so because seconds later there was a tug from the outside. It was hot and stuffy under the covers, hard to breathe, but he’d rather suffocate than deal with Anita Voster right now. She tugged again and he didn’t budge.

“Oho?” she tittered. “Trying to avoid treatment, mm? You should know better, Agent O.”

He remained tense, blinking weakly against a flutterish niggle. His nostrils flared, nervous, and he would have soothed them with a touch of his finger if his hands weren’t occupied. He scrunched his nose instead, squirming it side to side when the tickle didn’t abate. Dr. Voster was on the move, he’d lost track of her-...

“Anddd.. voila!”

Cold air and light entered his cocoon. She’d rounded the bed and flipped the covers up from the back side, which was a dirty move. A chill swept up his spine, prompting a shudder that shivered into a sneeze.

“h-hhi’hHTSSsh!-hh..” He flinched his knees to his chest, tucking an arm around himself as he threw the other behind him for the covers. “Gih-..ig’IIZSSH!”

“Bless bless you,” she cooed in a playful tone that made him bristle. Her hand cupped his shoulder and pulled. “Now, let me see… oh.”

Her smile dropped away as she looked at him, lips parting in genuine surprise, her manicured eyebrows marching up toward her hairline. She was wearing an obnoxious summery ensemble, no doubt excited to exploit the mission for a few days at the beach. When no reply was forthcoming, Omicron glared at her. The ferocity of it was undercut when a twinge in his nose prompted a squeaky sniffle.

“.. Whad?” he croaked.

“You’ve never looked so pathetic before,” she said in wonder. “And I’ve seen you faint after getting a vaccine booster.”

It was an open secret that he hated injections as much as he hated the dentist, but everyone kindly agreed not to acknowledge it after that one time. He growled his words, snatching the blankets back from her. “The ndeedle was really big and you said you’d dnever mbendtion it againd.”

“Voster,” chided Delta, hands on his hips. “Please refrain from teasing him when he’s not feeling well. He’s under enough stress as it is.”

As infantilizing as it was as a grown man to have another grown man scold somebody on his behalf, Omicron shot her a smug look that she met with an arched brow.

“Fine,” she sighed, and crossed to his side of the bed. “I guess I’ll cut him some slack. Omicron, sit up a little.”

There would be no getting out of this. Delaying the process would probably get him another lecture from Delta, so Omicron reluctantly shimmied to a half-reclining position, arms crossed to ward off chills as she sat gracefully on his bedside. She crossed a leg at the knee, reached for his face, and cool hands cradled his jaw. He let her move him as she wanted, wrinkling and wriggling his nose to keep it appeased.

The sly bullying he expected didn’t come. Dr. Voster was professional when she asked, “Any fluctuations in symptoms since last night?”

“Umb.. ndot really..” Omicron sniffed sharply and swallowed. He considered leaving it there, but his promise to Delta wouldn’t let him. He mumbled through the rest and could only hope she understood what it meant. “.. there was an.. idncident this mborning. That I resolved.”

“Gotcha,” she said, and didn’t press. Omicron relaxed under her handling. She took his temperature (101.3°F / 38.5°C), tested his glands, pulled down the edges of his eyelids, and then at last took a cursory glance up his nostrils with a wince. “I didn’t think it was possible to see a sneeze but the inside of your nose looks like one.”

Apt, since he could feel it forming between his eyes. He leaned away out of her grip, and without any tissues in reach, Omicron shook his sleeves over his hands and tucked into them. “hh!MMPSSH!..”

“Bless you,” chorused the other two.

He surfaced briefly as the tickle toyed with him, playing his nerves like batons on a xylophone. Every note vibrated, compounding in harmony, cacophonous as it crested, “..aak’KZSCHue!.. hh?..hh..”

“Bless you,” chorused the other two, again. Anita passed over the tissue box but he could barely keep his eyes open and his breath from shaking. She took pity on him as his hitches became jagged, pitching in his upper register, and she held out a few in his direction just as he- heeee-!

“-ick’SSHIEW?!”

It relieved him, but his shoulders flinched to his ears at the embarrassingly high sound. Delta quickly turned away with a hand to his mouth and Dr. Voster snorted unabashedly.

“Bless yew!” she parroted, and he kicked her off the bed. She rolled with the momentum into a smooth dismount before plopping right back where she’d been. “I’m done, I’m done! But you owe me a couple free jabs after yelling at me yesterday, you know.”

Right. His stomach soured at the reminder, and he stared at the blankets with a sleeved swipe under his septum. “.. I’mb sorry about that. I shouldn’d have taken out my frustration on you. Or lied to you in the first place.”

Dr. Voster softened, the lines of her face smoothing into something genuine. “Mm, I’m sorry for my sloppy science. It’s my fault you’ve got such a lousy cold.”

Omicron never knew what to say after such sentiments. He considered and tossed out several replies, still boring holes into the blankets with his gaze, until she reached up and flicked the tip of his nose. His inhale was a hitch into the next before he flinched down toward his chest.

“h-h-H’TZssh!” He brought a sleeve to his nose belatedly, throwing a scowl her way. “Whad was that for?!”

“For lying to me about that other thing,” she said, leering over him with a grin. “... Seems like you really are the man-cold type.”

Omicron hurled his pillow at her, which she dodged and Delta caught one-handed when it soared across the room. His firm voice broke up a squabble before it could begin. “Enough, you two.” He fluffed the pillow and returned it to his sheepish subordinate before looking to Anita. “Well?”

“Either his immune system is reacting to the engineered virus, or somehow he’s caught another cold on top of this one,” she said. Both looked to Omicron, who was trying to blow his nose without popping an eardrum. “If it’s the former, the mission can proceed. If it’s the latter, we bench him. That’s my opinion as his physician.”

“I’b righd here,” Omicron grumbled behind a mask of tissues.

Delta ignored him. “How do we know which is the case?”

Dr. Voster reached for the medical bag on the floor by her feet, which Omicron only just now noticed was in her possession. “By administering a test,” she replied, digging through it. When she found what she sought, Anita presented it to Omicron with an apologetic smile. “You’re not going to like it though.”

He thought it was a syringe at first. Before he could react, she peeled open the thin package to show him what was inside. Somehow, it was worse. Delta hissed through his teeth and Omicron hovered a protective hand over his nose.

“No,” he told her, eyes glued to the offending object. “No, no. That’s not going to work.”

Dr. Voster twirled it between her fingers: a wickedly long plastic rod with a cotton tuft on the end. “A nasal swab is the fastest way, O.”

He shook his head, unable to look away from it. The sight alone caused his nose grief as the tickle found inspiration. Omicron did his best not to imagine how it would feel. “Anita, it’s not possible. I-.. I can’t evehhn.. look at- at it withhou..HH!with.. withhHHAH-”

Omicron jammed a finger beneath his nose and shoved the sneeze back inside. He could tell he’d be on a roll if he started, and while he’d literally just cum he was terrified this impending volley would get him going again. If at all possible, even if everyone was aware of the situation, he’d like to avoid erections in front of his fucking coworkers. He held his breath and waited until his pulsing nostrils quieted before letting it all go on a sigh. Pointedly, he avoided looking at the swab.

“Hmmmm,” Dr. Voster mused. “I wonder if we blindfolded you..”

“Trust me,” he said, knuckling his nose. It wasn’t happy he’d ignored its demands. “That’s not going to help.”

“Rather than hold them back, could you try holding them in?” Delta suggested.

“Absolutely not,” Dr. Voster said. “He’s terrible at it, and I wouldn’t recommend it anyway. Not everyone can be as proficient at stifling as you are, sir.”

Delta’s smile weakened, properly chastised, as Voster tilted her head back and pressed her palms on the bed. Her leg bounced in thought. The three of them sat in a contemplative silence broken only by Omicron’s sniffling before Anita slapped her hands to her knees and stood with purpose.

“There’s nothing for it,” she said. “You’ll just have to avoid sneezing.”

“I won’t be able to,” he told her. His cheeks flushed, and the flash of heat mingling with his fever made him tremble with a chill. Stubbornness alone wouldn’t deter her, so he forced out the rest with emphasis. “And it-.. might cause an unexpected symptom.”

That gave her pause, but only briefly. “When exactly did you last experience the culmination of this symptom?”

This was embarrassing. “... approximately ten minutes before you arrived.”

“And would you expect yourself to experience that again so quickly after the last occurance?”

Somehow, he felt miffed on behalf of his refractory period. “.... I guess not.”

“Then even if you sneeze your head off after this, you’ll be fine,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “If for some reason you’re not, it’s not a big deal. Agent Delta and I will just leave the room until it passes.”

I’d rather chew glass, Omicron thought, than have it come to that. The tickle nestled comfortably against his nerves, weighing his eyelids and prompting a reflexive sniffle. Cheeky bastard. He wouldn’t let it win this time. He grated the rough edge of his sleeve under his nostrils and squared his shoulders.

“Fine.” His flinty gaze locked onto the swab, his opponent in this battle. “Let’s do it.”

The other two exchanged a LookTM and preparation shortly followed. Delta announced he’d received a message from cyber security earlier that morning that required follow up, so he left to wire into the agency’s VPN in one of the hotel’s private conference booths. Voster snapped on some gloves and cracked open a fresh tissue box to place at Omicron’s elbow. He begrudgingly unearthed a wad of them to keep ready in his lap. Better safe than sorry.

Anita watched him carefully. “Would you like to get a few out before we start?”

If she was asking, he probably looked sneezy already. Omicron made an effort to sharpen his gaze and settle the tiny, twitching microexpressions that told plainly of a persistent tickle. “No. I want to get it over with.” He sniffled with a flutter of his nostrils. “Quickly.”

To her credit, Anita didn’t dawdle. “I’m administering a nasopharyngeal swab for the best results. If I can’t get enough from one sample, we’ll have to do the other nostril.”

Omicron nodded, tilting his chin when she stabilized him with a hand to his cheek. He blinked hard against a lurching itch as the swab came closer, hovering just in front of his flushed, prone nose.

“I need to rotate it for ten seconds, and then I’ll slowly remove it,” she told him. “Would it help if I counted?”

He flicked his gaze to the ceiling, hands fisted in the sheets over his lap. “Yes.”

“Alright, the count won’t start until I have it in place.” Dr. Voster eased his head back further, giving him a moment to arrange himself against his pillows before she touched the swab to the edge of one nostril. It pulsed, uncertain. “Here we go.”

This wasn’t Omicron’s first time with this particular type of swab. Normally he preferred it because of how deep it reached, so foreign and uncomfortable that a sneeze never crossed his mind. It was the shorter swabs, the ones that remained inside the borders of his persnickety nasal membranes that caused him agony. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he feared?

A second later that confidence was swiftly and callously dashed.

This cold was unlike any respiratory infection he’d ever had. It was engineered to inflame every cell of his airways, heighten them to such a state of paranoia that the very act of breathing registered as intrusive. This tickle wasn’t a physical thing; his nasal cavity was affected by such sensitivity that it inevitably itched and twitched and worked itself up into mayhem. Sneeze was the answer to every problem, even nonexistent ones. So to have himself in this state and introduce a material object into the mix was an instant and powerful regret.

The swab burned as it was threaded through his sinuses, razing his nerves as it went, and when the tip of it touched the back of his throat he could feel every millimeter of its length. He slammed his eyes shut. There was a brief moment of shock, as if his nose couldn’t quite believe what had happened. Then the swab began to spin.

His nostrils flew wide. “HHHHHHHH-”

“Shit,” muttered Voster. “Stay with me, c’mon, it’s just ten seconds.. Two….”

Just?! his brain screamed, overwhelmed by nasal panic and frantic to sneeze. Oh, he could feel it. An instant and oppressive demand. None of the usual hitching hesitation, just a massive and mandatory release sitting at the shores of his dilated nostrils. He couldn’t even communicate to Voster that it was coming.

“.. Three, fight it…”

Omicron pinched himself as hard as he dared by digging his thumb into the pressure point of his other hand. It took the edge off the swab’s insidious stimulation and downgraded the sneeze from automatic to imminent. Lungs at capacity, all the air sat at the top. His body wouldn’t let him exhale without irritation-induced force. A pitiful sound escaped, heady and weak without breath behind it.

“-uuhh-”

“I know, we’re halfway, hang in there.. Six..”

God, this was torture. His nose throbbed with need, the insides puffy and convulsing. Please, they cried. It tickles so badly. Too much. We have to! He hovered just on the verge of the inevitable. Grinding harder into the pressure point on his hand dampened the sensation enough to keep it from progressing, but it never diminished. Just waited an inch from the finish line. Another high, helpless whimper trembled his chest.

“-huUH!-”

“Eight.. you’re doing great, Omicron, nine..” The hand on his cheek shifted to brace him firmly. “.. almost done, try to exhale..”

He couldn’t. His lungs wouldn’t let go. All he could do was live on the brink, tears skating down his cheeks and his features frozen in what he knew had to be a ridiculous face. Yearning or dreading, he didn’t know, but his entire expression flinched when the swab retreated. She was slowly pulling it out, still twirling it. He could feel the thin ropes of his control snapping, the dam crumbling, the glass shattering. An urgent, breathy shout slipped out, pure desperation, and it heralded something enormous.

“-HUUHH--!!!”

The swab slithered out of his nose completely, leaving behind a trail of unbearable sensation. “Okay! Y-”

“--HHEZZSSCCCHHHHUUUEE-!” Omicron hurled himself over his own lap, dizzied by the release, and gasped immediately for more. “-hH-HH!IIHZSSSSHH’UUh!!”

More. “-HH’AADZZSSCHH’HOO-!!”

More. “-HEH’DTSSHHH’HAH-!!”

More still. “ohh-.. HD’DIZZSHHHH’HUH!!”

But the relief wouldn’t come. His nose was so angry by the intrusion, it would give no quarter. Big, heaving sneezes weren’t doing the job, so he found himself next encumbered by small ones. They burst out of him in a row, each igniting a furious itch to prompt the next.

“ihDSH!-.. hck’ISSH!.. uh-HH’TZIshh!.. ugh, god-hHIH!” Omicron fought his eyes open through another gush of tears and caught a blurry glimpse of white. Oh right, the tissues. He gathered them up as his gaze rolled skyward, mouth agape and nostrils vast. It took a couple hitches before the tickle caught again. “h-hHT.. idzz..iiH!..mgh.. aH!KZSSCHH!”

He sneezed through his teeth, then belatedly raised the tissues. His eyes fluttered closed as even the soft touch of them pried another sneeze loose. They mounted in power as his nose, fed up with the lingering tickle the swab left behind, puppeteered him through an increasingly vicious fit.

“-h’ETZsh!... huh.. TZSSCH!ue… h-H!...EHPZSH’Iu!!-oohh..”

At last, a wave of pleasure rushed through his veins. It was faint, but after the hellish holdback and punishing sneezes, Omicron welcomed it. The knowledge there would be more spurred him onward; he breathed into the next ticklish swell with hope.

“uh-HHUH-HESZSCHUUE!” Cool prickles swept through his nose, soothing the frazzled nerves even as they clamored for another. Omicron complied. “heh.. HET’JZZSSSCHHOOO!-nngh..”

He shivered as his skin erupted with goosebumps. A warm, wonderful feeling unfurled in his gut. Head spinning, nose twitching, lungs hitching, he knew the end was close. He breathed deeply, relishing the way it tickled all the way down. Then-

“HEH…uh.. hHP’BIZSSSHHIEW!!-oooohhhh..”

Omicron massaged his nose through the tissues with quiet noises of relief until somebody clearing their throat caught his attention. With wet eyes, he raised his head to see Dr. Voster across the room mixing the swab in a vial with some sort of solution. She kept her attention on it as she spoke.

“Feeling better?”

He paused to cough and swallow. The fit left him raspy. “Yeah.”

“Any unexpected symptoms?” she asked. Fuzzy headed, Omicron looked down at his crotch. There was no tent under the covers, and while he felt boneless, he wasn’t turned on.

“Ndo.”

“Great!” Dr. Voster chirped. “In other good news, I got enough particulate matter on the first try that we won’t have to do it again.” She continued her work, but glanced over to shoot him a smile. “Bless you a dozen, by the way.”

“Thagks,” he huffed, then collapsed back onto the mattress with the solace of a job finished.

It took a few minutes for him to clean himself up, and as he got his wits about him, he was appreciative that Voster kept herself busy so he could tend to his nose without scrutiny. His pleasant haze dissipated and Omicron realized he was totally spent. His head hurt, as did his throat, and his abs were aching. Once he was huddled under the covers, Anita swung by with a bottle of water and hushed instructions to take another fever reducer, which he did without complaint.

Some time passed. He didn’t know how much. One moment he was nodding off to the tinkling the whirs of Voster’s on-the-go mini-laboratory, and the next he was startling awake to a door opening. For a split second he forgot where he was, what was happening, but then a hand smoothed over his hair.

“Just Delta,” came Anita’s voice. Tension left his sore muscles and he melted back into the mattress. For once his nose took pity on him, smoldering with a widespread ticklish sensation he could chase away by pinch-rubbing the sides of his nostrils.

“Ah, I didn’t mean to wake you!” was Delta’s contrite greeting. Omicron cracked open dry eyes to see the man coming around the bedside, eyebrows turned up in dismay. “Sorry, Omicron.”

“S’fide,” he replied, voice creaking, and he had to turn his head into the pillow to cough. Fuck, felt like he’d swallowed a sword and left it there.

“Goodness, you sound terrible.” Delta turned anxious eyes to Dr. Voster, who was leaning a hip against her makeshift workstation at the desk by their balcony doors. “Did you get the results?”

“Yep,” she said, cheerfully brandishing the culture sample. “No secondary infection. He’s just having a pronounced immune response to the engineered strain.” Here, she smirked at the Omicron-shaped lump on the bed. “And being very dramatic about it.”

Delta caught the pillow lobbed in her direction before it could knock any lab equipment over. He arranged it back on the bed, then passed his hand over Omicron’s brow. The smaller man let him, closing his eyes as the cool touch moved to his cheek, to his neck, then glided to his shoulder to offer a reassuring pat.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Please be honest.”

Omicron thought of the mission. It didn’t escape him that Dr. Voster confirmed he wasn’t actually sick. His body thought he was, but with proper symptom management he could see this assignment to the end. Josaline would probably love seeing him like this; hopefully her husband would too.

“Ndot great,” he admitted, and Delta’s puppy-dog expression ramped up tenfold. Omicron rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. “I’b ndot dying, sir. If I get someb rest, I’ll be ready for tomborrow.”

The fact that he’d said all this without even sitting up likely undercut his claims, but Omicron truly believed it. When the time came, he’d rally. He always did. Delta considered him for a long moment before plopping down onto the other bed with a dejected bounce.

“Even if that’s the case, the situation has changed,” he said, lacing his fingers together between his knees. “I got word from Ops that there were attempted hacks into multiple independent identification networks for a ‘Nicolas Foster.’”

Omicron struggled up onto his elbows.

.. So, they were onto him. At the very least, they were wary of his cover. This wasn’t entirely unexpected. At the agency they explored every outcome, including this one. Josaline Jewel was a suspected cyber criminal. She was rich enough, powerful enough, smart enough to avoid the law. They’d chased her for years. This outcome wasn’t unexpected, but it still ripped a hole through Omicron’s sails.

All this work, he thought, blinking away a sting behind his eyes. For nothing? Because I wasn’t good enough?

“Don’t despair,” Delta commanded. “The hacks left traces and the cyber team is on it. It’s possible they’ll identify a source, and if they do, we can hack them back. This is a victory.”

It didn’t feel like one. Omicron slouched against the headboard, sniffling and sniffling as he compartmentalized any emotions he felt on the matter. Hopefully the others would attribute it to his cold. He nodded at Delta’s words, casting around for his tissue box. He’d knocked it off the bed at some point. Anita silently fetched it from the floor.

“Intel also shows that they have not left the resort,” Delta continued, gaze glued to Omicron as the man piled tissues under his nostrils. “This suggests they either found nothing dubious in your cover, which I doubt, or…”

Here, Delta paused and gave his subordinate a little ‘go on’ wave. Omicron flushed, but did as he was told. One big, trembling breath and then a gurgling nose blow. As always, it was much louder than he wanted and yet again he asked himself what unspeakable deed he’d done to deserve this level of karmic retribution. His nose didn’t feel refreshed afterward; rather, it was peeved. He wrinkled the bridge against a dull, undulating tickle.

“Or?” he prompted.

“Or.. they know you’re not who you say you are, but want to meet with you anyway.”

.. Could they be that horny? Omicron mused, swatching the length of his forefinger back and forth beneath restless nostrils. He recalled his time with Josaline by the pool. Yes, probably.

Sniffling, he asked, “Does this chhh..change anything?”

“They didn’t hack our network directly, so they have no idea what your true identity is or who you work for,” Delta said. “But the nature of the encounter will be unpredictable.”

Red-rimmed eyes tightened at the corners and he gave up on the finger method in favor of tissues. He spoke as he gathered them, his voice wavering into breathier territory as the tickle took shape.

“I c-.. cahhn.. hh..handle unpredict-t.. tahbBBZZSH!” He caught it one handed, not bothering to open his eyes as he lowered the tissues just enough to continue as he contended with an encore. “.. I can handle that.. hhah..” A sharp sniffle. “.. but I doubt they’d t-.. they’d tehh.. hih!PPZSH’uh!.. nguh, tell mbe adythi’g..”

“Well about that, bless you, we need them occupied and away from electronics if we attempt a hack.”

Omicron squinted over his tissues. “So I’d be..”

“A distraction, yes.”

The original mission was to extract incriminating information from the target, but considering the new variables at play, this new directive would be just as effective. Honestly, with this cold, Omicron wasn’t sure he could finesse a subtle interrogation with stellar results. Acting as smoke and mirrors for the cyber team, however..

“..hh!uhh.. hHT-”

That, he could definitely do.

“-DZSSh’oo!”

/tbc!

Next up, the big date!! ♨️ Apologies to anyone who was hoping for the threesome this chapter 😅 Had to indulge my rabid desire for hurt/comfort lol. A big huge thank you to anyone reading who’s stuck around!! My next update might be a little slow because of work stuff, but hoping to have it up in a decent time frame. See you soon! 🥰

PART 4 IS HERE!

#snzblr #snz #snz kink #snz fic #snzfic #scatterfic #snzfucker #original characters #omicron verse

182 notes · View notes

star-crossed-sluts · 1 year ago

Note

I saw that you write for so many of my favorite fictional men and wanted to request something for Venom or Lucifer x fem Reader involving Micro/Macro and Toys if possible ^^

Unfortunately, I realized after receiving this that micro/macro is different from size kink and I'd put the wrong one on my list, but I took the chance to write the sappy, filthy Venom fic I've always wanted to <3

I'd also like to note reader is described as soft and plush, but also drowning in Eddie's shirt. This is not meant to alienate any particular body type, I simply choose to write Eddie Brock as the broadest mfer who needs shirts with multiple X's on the tag to accommodate his beefy shoulders.

Contents: 4.8k words, female reader, chubby reader coded, playful banter, monstrous tongue and penis, oral sex (fem receiving), clit pinching, size kink, kitchen counter sex, I love you's exchanged, tentacles, multiple arms, poly issues, healthy discussion of feelings after sex, multiple orgasms (fem receiving), coming inside, breeding kink, doggy style sex, aftercare, talk of proper after sex peeing, talk of UTIs, post-coitus cuddles

Minors DNI

You are responsible for your own media consumption

“You’re wearing our shirt.”

The plural pronoun sends a shiver down your spine despite the wet summer heat invading the apartment. Thick fingers run down your exposed neck and across your shoulder. “Yes,” you say, even though it wasn’t a question. You glance back just to be sure and see Eddie staring down at you. “It’s too hot.” It’s a warning as much as a complaint. It’s too hot to do anything.

“Poor little one.” The voice coming from your boyfriend’s lips wasn’t his, but it made your core throb all the same. “Precious thing doesn’t deserve to suffer.”

“No,” Eddie agreed. His hands rub firm lines down your arms and over your waist, playing with the excess fabric his shirt drowned you in. “No, my sweet-”

“Our!”

He huffed, face falling to the crook of your neck, arms wrapping tight like a band around your waist. Despite your urge to smother this frisky mood, you couldn't not comfort your love, fingers threading through his short hair. Hot breath washed over the tender skin, dull teeth scraping against you.

“I had you first.”

You pulled him off your neck, pressing your lips to his. His moans rumbled through you, mouth opening, practically begging for your tongue, but you pulled him back off.

“Of course you did, baby.” You could see him bristle, knowing Venom was surely making his displeasure known, and pulled him back in. Eddie dove eagerly for your lips, but you pressed him back, hands on his shoulders trailing down his chest as you nudged his nose with yours. “You two ever going to get along?”

“Yes,”

“No,”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” you giggled out, pressing another soft kiss to his lips. Before, that would settle him. Nights when you both knew he needed to be at the office in six hours but still got lost in each other, you would force yourself to be the responsible one. Tongues lapping behind teeth became soft and slow kisses that often missed, grazing the stubble on his chin or dancing across his eyelids. Your hands rubbing over his chest would settle him, leaving him limp under your touch as you worked out his trouble spots.

That was before the equivalent of a 21-year-old on Viagra was piggybacking in his body.

He picked you up like it was nothing, fingers cold on your bare hip where they sank into the plush fat, swallowing your squeak as he placed you on the counter.

“Sweetheart,”

You knew that voice. Even half garbled with another man’s, you knew that voice.

“Baby, I'm so hot,” you pleaded, even as your nails raked down the back of his neck to make him purr against you.

“Yes, you are,”

Ah, fuck it.

“Shirt,” you demanded, tugging at his collar. His desperate scramble to get it off made your lips curl against his, lapping your tongue into his mouth to make it even harder on him: to hear him groan like you were hurting him.

He had to pull away to get the fabric over his head. When he pushed back in half a second later, his tongue hit the back of your throat.

They practically dripped saliva down your throat, swallowing every sound you made as you choked on their thick tongue. Your boyfriend’s lips were suddenly cold and slick against your own, his hands bigger and sending chills through your overheated body as they felt their way up your shirt. Growls poured into your mouth, big palms finding your bare tits - cupping reverently, letting the soft fat fill their palms, lifting them off your chest.

“Sweet girl pretends not to want us,” they muttered, pulling their tongue from your throat to taste the sweat beading down your neck, letting you pant into the hot apartment, trying to calm your pulse as it throbbed against their tongue. “But you strut around naked under our shirt?”

You took their wrist in response, dragging their thick fingers down, down, over your soft stomach - having to tug them along as they tried to follow your stretch marks instead - until they found their way between your wet folds. You let a smug grin spread your lips, even if the noise rumbling out of them said you’d pay for it. “I always want you,” you admitted, sighing at the soft pleasure as those slick fingers pet over your puffy folds. “I’m just an adult who can manage myself.”

Eddie came back to you, performing a scorned boyfriend with a dramatic gasp. “How dare you,” he accused, nipping at your plush bottom lip. “I manage myself just fine.”

“Yeah, I can see-” You squealed, high-pitched and mortifying and totally not your fault since he’s the bastard that pinched your poor clit. Your fist came down on his shoulder. “Asshole!”

“Hey, Vee did it!”

“Did not!”

“Oh, you’re such a little-”

“Lord,” you griped, pushing his hand away. Two distinct voices whimpered at the loss, the black slime-like substance that made Venom’s body swirling over Ed’s as they fought each other for control, Eddie’s eyes flashing white then back to your beloved bluish gray. “All right,” you decided finally. “You two need to learn to cooperate before someone gets caught in the middle! I’ve got too many sensitive squishy bits to let you past second base if you’re going to get pissy in the middle of things.”

Oh. Oh. Oh, you may have fucked up. You could practically see the will to live evaporate off both of them at the mere prospect of a world without your body. Venom’s goo turned watery, nearly dripping off of Eddie’s skin - as if he wanted to make sure you knew just how heartbroken you’d made him. And Eddie! Your poor boyfriend’s perfected the sad puppy look, big glossy eyes and a desperate rasp to every breath.

Damn it, why does he look so hot when he’s pathetic?

“You know I’d never let anything happen to you, sweetheart,” he stressed, nudging his nose against yours - a meek attempt to get you to forget anything that didn’t involve him being buried in your thighs.

“I’d eat every soul on this pathetic planet before bringing you anything but pleasure.”

“Very romantic, both of you,” you assured, carding your fingers through Eddie’s hair. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, you gently stroked Venom where he was bubbling to the surface on your boyfriend’s cheek. Both men leaned into your touch, nestling into your palm like it was home. You gently guided them back to your lips, laying soft kisses over their face. “Can you be good for me?”

“Mmm, I can be so good to you, sweetheart, you know I can.”

An eager grin spread from their lips to yours, sharing a wet kiss before you tapped their shoulders, nudging them down. “Show me?”

You may as well have offered them the world. In a way, you have: you’ve offered yourself. They gladly dropped to their knees, open-mouthed kisses pressed to your inner thighs, climbing higher and higher as you spread your legs for them. Neither was one to tease, and it was barely a beat before you had to brace your hands on the countertop behind you as their long, slick tongue lapped between your folds.

“So sweet,” they mumbled against your lips, easing their tongue into your pussy to lap at your inner walls. “Can we make you come, baby? Can you take several tonight?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but a soft suckle to your clit pulled a moan from your throat before you could get a word out. “Haa- several?” A deep growl rolled through their tongue inside you, curling to press on the spot Eddie knew by heart and Venom diligently took note of, working the thick muscle in your cunt. “Hey, I didn’t-” Their thumb - coated by Venom to ensure a slick glide - strummed your clit in soft circles. “Ah, fuck, Eds! Yes, I can take it!” One hand snapped to their head, fingers sinking into the soft locks to force them still as you rocked your hips against their face.

Normally, you wouldn’t consider yourself easy to please. Months of slow exploratory sex finally led to Eddie knowing how to bring you to the edge better than yourself.

Normally, your boyfriend’s tongue wasn’t nine inches and dripping thick spit, making a mess of your poor cunt he’d started fucking open on his tongue.

“Such a good pet for us,” they purred without moving their lips, Venom’s voice becoming more dominant. If you pried your eyes open, you could see him slowly hiding away the pale skin of your boyfriend: half his burly chest jet black and gaining bulk with every second. Their tongue and fingers faltered, and you watched their brows furrow.

“Be nice,” you reminded, but they didn’t pay you attention until you yanked on Eddie’s hair. “Boys,” you drawled, pulling your shirt over your head. Their movements immediately turned lazy: thumb falling short of your pearl, tongue slowing to soft laps at your walls as they practically gave you heart eyes. “Gotta be good.”

“We’re good,” they swore, even as Venom reached out with thin tendrils to pluck your nipples into peaks. “Just need our sweet girl to come on our tongue. And our fingers, and our cock-”

“So needy,” you teased, stroking down their sharp nose.

Maybe it was mean to tease your boyfriend so much. Maybe the alien cohabitating his body has a shorter fuse than Eddie. Maybe they were both so wound up from seeing you in Eddie’s shirt, sweat dotting your brow, the cusp of your ass peeking at them whenever you lifted your arms.

Maybe you should’ve thought of this before you were laid out across the counter.

Their tongue dove deeper into your cunt until you thought you couldn’t take anymore, then curled around and came back, double-stuffing your poor cunt to the brim, folds sticking together with your own slick and their spit. Their thumb on your clit became two thick fingers rolling the poor bud between them, pinching meanly at every squirm you gave - doing the same to your nipples as they slowly turned red under their touch.

“Cruel precious!” Your back arched off the countertop, scrambling for anything to hold onto as they started fucking you on their giant tongue. Sloppy, wet sounds of sex filled the kitchen, a burning heat crawling up your neck as they shamelessly worked you over, collecting your ankles in one hand to fold you in half. The burn in your thighs was nothing compared to the wave of pleasure every pinch, every thrust, every strum of your clit brought crashing over your body. It felt like you were getting your pussy stretched - guts rearranged - by the biggest cock on Earth, except a cock doesn’t lick and suck and roll inside you.

“Pretty thing always loves to tease,” they grumbled against you, their voice vibrating through your skull, filling your head with their words, making it the only thing on your mind besides the need to come. “Acting like you aren’t desperate for us.”

“Fuck, Eds-” A sharp pinch to your clit, the flat faces of even sharper teeth pressing warnings against your inner thighs. “Venom!” They rewarded you: a deep, pleased rumble running up your spine as the pointed tip of their tongue rubbed shapes into your g-spot. They let you writhe and buck against their face, tongue easily keeping you filled wherever you go. Your lungs were full of fire, sweat-slicked palms sliding on the counter as you tried not to fall completely onto their shoulders. “Please, Venom,” you whined, “make me come! You’re both so good to me! Don’t you want me to feel good?”

Oh, the guilt trip worked every time. Won’t you make me feel good? Don’t I deserve it? No matter how you dished it out, the result was the same. They melted under you - literally, in this instance, Venom dripping off Eddie’s arms - tongue working harder inside of you, pushing deeper, fingers rolling over your poor bud. Venom’s cruel pinching all over your breasts became a more loving caress, slick tendrils swiping over your stiff peaks like soft kitten licks.

“Want to make you come,” they rumbled, eating your cunt like it would be their last meal. “Always look so beautiful when you come. We'd be so happy to have you on our face all night.”

You could feel every nerve screwing up tighter and tighter as they worked you up, your body falling limp in their hold as they carried you over the edge. “Oooh, that sounds so nice, baby,” you breathed as you came back down. You reached out, a greedy smile pulling on your lips when their fingers laced with yours without a thought: your cutthroat journalist boyfriend and his brain-eating alien alike putty in your presence. On their knees to worship your body, eager to hold your hand at the slightest sign that you’d allow it. It made the words fall from your lips that much easier. “But I think if you don’t take me to bed this second, I’ll smother you.”

“Win-win,” they purred before they hurled you over their shoulder. “You should sit on our tongue after we fuck you.”

“Vee, I plan on being comatose after this.”

“That is acceptable as well,” they decided. Hands as large as your torso lowered you gently to the bed, arranging you on your hands and knees carefully - like a porcelain doll settled into her new home on the shelf. “Precious one?”

You gushed, chest swelling, lips spreading wide as your smile took over your whole face, fingers dancing across the sheets until their thick ones intertwined with yours. “Mmm, yes, my love?”

A deep purr rumbled from the barrel chest against your back, long tongue curling along your jaw as they formed their body to yours. Their wine-bottle thick cock spread your folds, rutting against your clit, letting you soak them in a vain attempt to make the entrance easier. “How do you want us?”

Fingers wrapped through yours, palms to the backs of your hands, chest to your back - they had you completely surrounded, encased in them. You turned your head, kissing their arm. “Take me,”

Your boyfriend was by no means a small man. Eddie’s always been broad. Thick arms, thick thighs, and a lovely thick cock that spread you like it was your first together all over again.

Venom’s weeping tip struggled to press past your lips. It took a few tries - a few, bullying thrusts - to fit the fat head into your cunt. The rest of their shaft went smoother, his hips rocking back and forth, fitting just a bit more into you each time as your slick covered them. Stretching your walls around their huge cock, head battering your insides as they stubbornly refused to let your body take anything less than all of them. It felt like Venom was purposely swelling his slick skin, just to make sure every sensitive nerve got some love - just to hear the breathless moans drip out of you like the sweetest nectar.

“Ours,” they gushed, hips beginning to properly piston into you, bouncing off your ass. Fingers occupied with yours, thin tendrils pulled off their torso and wrapped around your body, lifting you until your dangling fingertips barely brushed the sheets, pulled into Venom’s malleable chest like a waterbed. You’re sure they’d wrap completely around you if you’d allow it: envelop you completely, keep you so close there was no firm line separating your bodies.

Their tongue sank past your lips as if hearing you and agreeing, licking their way to the back of your throat. “Our pretty darling’s so sweet,” they purred, pressing their cock so deep inside you you thought they must be licking their own leaking slit inside you. “Should wear our shirt all the time: let us lick you up whenever we want.”

Your throat pulsed on their tongue as it slithered out, licking their own drool off your chin as you panted breathlessly. “You… haa… you both want to do that all the time, though.”

Their chest rumbled against your back with laughter at your expense, tendrils pulling you impossibly closer and splitting apart to tenderly stroke your clit and nipples. The steady thrum of another orgasm building ran through your nerves like electricity, but beyond that, a smile grew on your face. Because even with an alien tagging along, your boyfriend can’t leave an inch of your body untouched when he fucks you. He’s insatiable enough when he’s bound by anatomy, always kissing up your neck and rubbing your soft waist when he’s rocking his hips into yours - it only got worse when Venom got the green light to join in. Suddenly Eddie had a dozen hands, reaching everywhere to touch everything, almost as if it was for his pleasure instead of yours. Almost as if he wouldn’t - or couldn’t - come without your tits filling his palms and your gummy walls sucking on his cock.

“Can’t be helped,” they purred into your neck as your walls fluttered around them. Their hips stuttered against yours, pace changing to something slow and hard, dragging their fat cock against every nerve, punching their mushroomed tip to your cervix to try to force a path deeper into you. Their shoved their tongue back down your throat the second you opened your mouth to cry out, swallowing your moans before they even left your lips. “Such a pretty thing should always have her pussy filled. Lips kissed, hands held, fucked so dumb she goes limp on our cock-”

“‘Ee,” you struggled through their tongue and your own delirium, gasping for air when they pulled it out of your throat. “Vee,” you moaned, lightning running through your veins as your walls fluttered around them. You could hear the wet squelch that accompanied every trust, feel the creamy slick gathering at their base and running down your thighs, sticking to theirs with every solid connection their hips made against you.

“Yes, little one,” they cooed, nuzzling against the side of your head. Their hips hammered into you, efforts on your clit doubling as your whole body started to quiver so cutely in their arms. “Tell us what you need to come. We’ll give you anything, love, just tell us-”

“Kiss.” A heat washed over your cheeks and down your neck, but you persisted. “Eddie… kiss!” A sob fell from your lips when they remained poor and alone, throwing your hips back on his. “Eddie, please! Vee, give me my boyfriend!” Your dangling feet kicked through the air as the silence stretched, small growls traded back and forth in the same voice as the two argued with that special connection that only the two of them shared. The thought spurred you further, shaking your hands intertwined with theirs. “Baby, please!”

A slick noise, like tentacles separating, and the scruff of Eddie’s stubble raked deliciously against your neck, lips kissing up to your jaw just to tease you further. A desperate whine from your lips, and he finally caved, licking into your mouth like he could devour you entirely. His lips felt like home, washing over you so warm and soft even as he pounded into your sopping pussy - but then again, that was home to him. Fucking your soft body until you were limp and pliant for him, your usual banter dying on the tip of your tongue.

“Gonna come, sweetheart,” he breathed against your lips, flicking his chin to bump his nose with yours just to make you smile and giggle against him. “Gotta tell me-”

“Inside.” He started to smile, a laugh building in his chest as you freed one hand to weakly smack him for it. “I swear, Eddie, if you think about pulling out-”

“I know,” he soothed, pressing a tender kiss to your cheek as he chased his orgasm, Venom dutifully working your body to bring you yours, too. “I know, baby, you just wanna get filled up, yeah? ‘S why you need both of us, huh? You need us to fuck up your pussy ‘til you’re sore an’ swollen an’ fill you up with our cum?” Barely a beat before his fingers snatched the column of your neck, wrenching your head back against his shoulder. Your back arched with a deep groan, eyes going all misty as they pounded into you. “Tell me,” Eddie commanded, voice deceptively soft and sweet, like he was merely asking you for his morning I love you. “Gotta tell me how much you want it, or I’ll stop.”

“NO!”

Eddie groaned, rolling his eyes. “Fucking parasite doesn’t know how to talk dirty.” Another kiss to your cheek, his little grounding method: his assurance that his love for you can be chaste, too. “Teach him, baby?”

You kissed him back, lips dragging over his rough stubble. “Fill me up, handsome,” you nearly whispered, voice beginning to crack as he skillfully worked your body over. “Wanna feel you come inside me. Please?” A breath where you regained enough sense to question your words. Another and it was gone again. “Want a chubby baby with your eyes…”

Hands were suddenly everywhere. Two with a painful grip on your tits, kneading the soft fat. One on your hip and one with a handful of your stomach, both maneuvering your hips back as they thrust in, letting their fat cock breach further inside you than anything else ever has or will. On your neck, your clit, and your thighs, all groping and tugging and rubbing fast circles. You’re suddenly ass over head bent over, sheets getting caught in your mouth as they jackhammered into your poor, sopping cunt, thick cock pulsing maddeningly inside you.

“Precious little one wants to be BRED,” Venom hissed; terribly, awfully pleased as he overpowered Eddie to pound you the way you needed - the way your sweet boyfriend could never, for fear of hurting you. Venom had no such worries: you were a big girl, and if you wanted to get fucked and filled until his cum drips out of your folds, well, who was he to deny such a lovely creature? “Breathe, precious,” he coaxed, making another hand from his slick body to press your face further into the sheets. “Gonna give you everything you want,”

Moans died in your throat as they manhandled you into a deep arch, thick cock reaching even deeper without having to fight past the bulk of your ass, pussy practically on display for them to play with. God, you loved it.

Your orgasm hit like a brick wall, crashing over you, making you crumble in their arms. Their grip (all 12 of them) turned soft - tender, loving circles rubbed into your lax muscles, turning you into a pretty pile of twitching jello on the bed. They eased your hips down, letting you lay flat as they worked you through the high, hips pumping into yours at a steady beat. By the time they stilled, groaning low into your hair as they emptied their balls into you, your heart was pumping at that pace.

You smile when Eddie’s hands grab you, keeping you pressed firmly against his bare chest as he carefully rolled you both to your sides. Kisses pressed to your temple and soft cheeks between murmured praises. Whispers of my sweetheart, y’did so good, so gorgeous, filled the bedroom like a fog, rolling over your body like a warm bath.

A soft kiss to your neck. “Y’should pee, sweetheart,”

You huffed at him, grabbing his wrist to pull his arm tighter around you. “Five more minutes? I need my cuddle time…”

He pretended to groan, lying through his teeth about how he won’t feel bad when you give yourself another UTI, and he won’t even buy you cranberry juice, even though you know there will be a glass waiting for you with breakfast in the morning.

“YOU LOVE EDDIE MORE THAN ME!”

“JESUS!” You felt the wet slap against your hand before you realized you were swinging, Venom’s weird bobbing head taking the hit and simply returning to an inch in front of your face.

“WHY?!”

“Inside voice,” Eddie groaned, trying to shoo the symbiote away like a bug.

“I WILL NOT USE MY INSIDE VOICE! PRECIOUS FAVORS YOU!”

A groan built up in your throat as your high quickly faded, but you held it back: it couldn’t do anything good. “Vee,” you chided, “you know better than to talk to me like that.” It was something established almost immediately when he’d entered your relationship. He practically swoons at the memory of you throwing mugs at him while Eddie yelled at him not to let any of them shatter.

No, can’t get distracted!

He grumbles, laying his floating head on the pillow in front of yours. “... you love him more than me.”

It’s a statement. One that makes Eddie’s arms tighten around you, afraid of what the alien might do if he dislikes your response. He knows Venom wouldn’t do anything to harm him, but there may always be the underlying fear that you’ll become fair game one day. Randomly, or for whatever reason, he may wake to the taste of you on his tongue in a way he never wanted.

But you amazed him, just like you seemed to do every day. You pet the alien’s head just like you would Eddie’s when he was stressed, and you spoke without a hint of fear for the razor-like teeth in your face. “Love can’t be measured, Vee, you know that,” you chided, but your voice held no edge. The same way you would chastise your niece that you loved the bouquet she picked you, but maybe let’s not pick from people’s flowerbeds. “I don’t love him more.”

He bristled like a cat. “You always want him when we fuck you!”

“Yes,” you agreed gently, “because you hide him away.” You tapped the flat side of his teeth. “And you don’t have the equipment for kissing.” He still grumbled, but was all too eager to tuck into your palm when you offered it. “You have to be more understanding, Vee. You have no idea how long I’ve known Eddie. We were best friends, then he started courting me - took me on dates, brought me flowers - before we even started seriously dating, let alone living and sleeping together.” You stroked his smooth head. “So there’s gonna be a difference in how we interact versus you and me… okay?”

A stretch of silence where Eddie held his breath. If there was anyone who could talk down a brain-eating alien, it was you, but that fear in the back of his mind…

“... I understand.”

You smiled, kissing his head. “Good.”

“I should court you.”

A laugh from you, a joking gripe about having competition from Eddie. “That’d be sweet, Vee.”

A sharp gasp fell from your lips as Eddie’s cock was pulled from you so abruptly, his arms as well as he tumbled to the floor.

“Wha-”

“Let’s go, Eddie! I won’t come home without a suitable trophy to gift precious!”

“Wait, Vee - fuck - stop! I’m not wearing pants - I’m not wearing anything!”

“Not my problem!”

Eddie cried your name as a last attempt, glaring at your poorly hidden laughter. You took pity on him, clicking your tongue. “Not now, Vee,” you chastised, patting the mattress. “Y’know the rules, I need my cuddles.”

“Oh - yes!” He dragged Eddie right back into bed, snapping Eddie’s arms around you as if he wouldn’t do it himself. “Cuddles,” he mumbled, seeming to seriously ponder the word. “... ah!”

You felt your heart melt - just a little bit - as he curled into the crook of your neck, realizing he’d been pondering how to cuddle with his bobble head form. He nipped the tender flesh under your chin, just barely working it with his teeth without breaking it as he melted into the curves your body provided. Soft purrs started tumbling out of him, Eddie’s arms tightening around you, pulling you into his firm chest. His hands started kneading your hips, his self-soothing method that always emerged after a rough night - work or sex, he needed to touch you. Feel you push back on him, know you were real.

“Love you,” he muttered, words almost lost in your hair.

You brought his hand to your lips, kissing across his knuckles. “I love you.” You turned your head, lips brushing Venom. “And I love you.”

“I love the both of you, too,” he purred, “Eddie won’t say it, but he loves me.”

A short laugh, but no denial. You had rules about lies in your bedroom, after all.

“... You should really go pee.”

“Baby, please shut up.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

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smol-and-scared · 4 months ago

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18+ G/t vs Macro/micro

The NSFW debate has recently come up again and we as a community need to make a distinction. Not all NSFW / 18+ content is porn.

Non-sexual nudity exists, adult situations and topics like sexual assualt may be explored. Hell, the entire idea of G/t is a power dynamic, which means themes of dubious consent and dehumanization will always pop up.

If a tiny is not given clothes for story or world-building reasons, that content shouldn't be forced to use 'the porn tag'

I propose we need three seperate tags:

An "18+ G/t" tag for any g/t content that is not intended to be sexual at all. To be clear this may contain nudity or 18+ contact, but nothing sexual. (Medical or unwanted nudity go here)

Continue to use "Macro/micro" tag for anything that is purely pornographic, kink or smut (even softcore)

And something like 'Adult Size Content' for content that fits right in the middle (Content where sexual situations happen, but are not a focus, or are merely being used to explore more psychological themes)

Please note all of these are intended to be used WITH any NSFW filters or content warnings. The idea is that Minors don't see any of these tags, Adults filter to see the ones they want.

Please share your inputs or thoughts. This is meant to be a discussion

#G/t #g/t community

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ninyard · 8 months ago

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Thoughts about Kevin having an actual Ed and not doing all these rants about food for fun and giggles like some ppl think

OKAY. Okay. So this is just some kind of headcanon stuff based on canon that I’ve thought about for a while. Obligatory trigger warning for ED topics specifically related to ortho/fasting/general shitty relationship with food stuff.

So. I don’t think that Kevin is capable of admitting to himself, by himself, that he has an eating disorder. But I think there’s two sides to it - there’s his body image, and there’s his healthy eating. Their overlap is sizable, but blurry, in the sense that it’s not quite clear where one starts and the other ends.

I have this image in my head of two parallel situations; the first a situation where a young Kevin is sat on a couch with his mom by his side. It’s a lazy Sunday, the TV is playing old cartoons, and Kayleigh is sitting next to her young son, both of them curled up in pyjamas and awake too early to be sane. Kayleigh a book open to one side of her and a notebook on her lap, and she’s scribbling something down that a five or six year old Kevin couldn’t care less about. He’s a good kid, a quiet kid, and all he wants some mornings is just a bowl of cereal, his mom by his side, and his favourite tv show. So he gets all three; an old episode of Kayleigh’s favourite childhood animation, the two of them curled up beneath the same long blanket, and a big bowl of coco pops on his knees, or whatever the sugary, chocolatey American equivalent is. The spoon is a teaspoon, snug in between chubby little fingers, and there’s chocolate milk and cocoa puffs all over his little face, but he’s happy. He’s content, he’s comfortable. He’s a kid, being a kid, eating the cereal that his mom buys him without question, just because it’s his favourite.

Then there’s Kevin, not many years later, sitting at a cold kitchen table with Riko across from him and Tetsuji in between - their little bodies are too big for the chairs they’ve been sat in, but they’ve been pushed forward and boosted up until they’re uncomfortably sat over a gray looking plate. They aren’t allowed eat until they can identify the protein in their breakfast, until they can recount what macros are sat on their plates. It’s a cruel and unusual thing to ask of two nine year olds, but they’re used to it by now. Kevin doesn’t like eggs anymore. Every morning it’s the same. A balanced meal, with the same amount of calories as usual, at the same time every single day of the week. Routine is good for growing minds, the master had told them, and nothing should go into a growing body without knowing exactly what it is.

The problem starts in that, when he was younger, his diet wasn’t necessarily focussed on restricting. The master wanted to ensure that Riko and Kevin were hitting their daily needs. If a plate was not empty, then a goal had not been met, and it didn’t matter how much Kevin cried that he was full, or not hungry, he couldn’t get permission to leave that table until his plate was clean. Their meal times were set and strict - any changes were usually punished in the firing of cooks or the beating of unfocused children. They were weighed each morning to ensure they were growing as they should be, gaining weight as expected, gaining muscle as required.

The older they got the more particular things got; Kevin found himself on an almost unmanageably strict diet and weight management routine - nothing unhealthy, in theory, but too healthy, instead. Times that he couldn’t deviate from, the same meals day in day out, nothing added, nothing taken away. It was when he started working harder on his physique that it became second nature - there was no space for him to be a lazy high schooler who didn’t want however many grams of protein with his dinner. That didn’t exist. Want was a non-factor. Food was always a finely crafted need.

When Exy becomes the biggest priority in his life (as if it wasn't before), when gaining muscle and working out becomes more appropriate for his age, he's introduced to intermittent fasting by a Raven dietician that should've had her license revoked. He was 14, 15, 16 and calculating the times he would be able to stop eating at in order to get a decent amount of time without food in his system. He would calculate what he would need throughout the day to eat as little as possible but to get the nutrition that he needs. They built this bulking/restricting programme into his routine, weeks where he'd eat at regular intervals throughout the day, hitting his calories and nutritional needs, and weeks where he felt like he wasn't eating much at all. It was done in a way that research deemed healthy, so who was he to argue?

So it’s normal to him, this obsession, more of a built-in requirement than something he thinks about at all. He's never been around people that don't care about things in the way he's supposed to. He doesn't remember much of his mother or her eating habits, and until he's much, much older, he isn't reminded of any of the foods he was allowed to eat as a much younger child, until a smell or a taste throws him back. (When he tells David he's never had McDonalds before, he believes he is telling the truth, but when he allows himself to try the fast food some time into the future, he remembers that taste from some memory too far away to touch. It's confusing and sickening and it feels wrong, wrong, wrong.)

I think the thing about Kevin's eating disorder is that, until he is around people that can tell him it's not normal, he doesn't see any problem with it, and even then he sees the foxes as unfocused and unserious when he's called out on it. He doesn't believe anyone when they tell him he has an unhealthy obsession with what he does and doesn't put in his body - why would he? Why would he have any reason to believe that they're right?

The way I like to imagine him understanding his issues is between a few different ways. There's David, first off, in those first couple of weeks after he broke his hand. It's beyond David how Kevin can be in their hotel room with a barely recognisable hand asking about dinner, or calculating how he could properly fast around this whole ordeal. How Kevin could barely keep down any food he was in that much pain, but still insisted on having a full meal that he forced down his throat because he had to. He watched how frustrated Kevin became when he would throw up his food, some app on his phone or a scribbled-on napkin calculating what he was missing with every day that went on where he was in too much pain to eat. There's David, who tells him he can't justify cooking him a huge meal that he can't eat, and Kevin who has a panic attack at the idea of missing a week, two weeks, of being on track. I can't play if I don't eat, he sobs, when all David is thinking about is, I'm not even sure you can play at all.

There's Abby, who does his first physical a couple of weeks into his time in PSU, who carelessly tells him his weight, and Kevin who immediately freaks out and the number being much lower than he's expecting. Abby who tells him it's okay, that he's recovering, and he who panics and asks her to buy him as many protein bars as she can find.

There's Bee, who tells him his relationship to food is unhealthy, and Kevin, who doesn't trust her at all. There's the number for an on-campus dietician and a pamphlet about eating disorders pushed across a table that he throws out into the first trash can he can find.

(There's Allison, something I could fill a whole other ask about, who can't stand watching the way that he eats, his obsessions with food, who begs Bee to do something about it because of how triggering it is for her to watch.)

So that's one side of it - his obsessive health, his over conscious eating habits, his learned behaviours that he would never deem to be unhealthy. There's that need for control over everything that goes into his body, that sends him into a spiral when he can't keep on track of things. It's the eating disorder than most people in the sports world wouldn't bat an eyelid at. He's dedicated, of course he is, he's admirably obsessed. That's just what athletes do. That's just how he was taught to care for his body. He doesn't comprehend for a long time just how damaging it is for his whole world to revolve around his next or last meal.

The other part is his body image - this one, maybe, is less tied to canon than the healthy eating, but something that I feel goes hand-in-hand with 1) him being an athlete in the public eye and 2) already having underlying issues with orthorexia and the way that he eats.

Imagine this, Kevin who has always been mindful and obsessed with the way that he looks, how much he weighs, how his body is shaped and built - he's 17, 18, doing some of his first major magazine shoots. One is for a sports magazine, or maybe a pop culture magazine, and he's doing this shoot in a few different outfits. But the last of the bunch is some shirtless shots, all harmless and not-too-revealing, but shirtless nonetheless. And Kevin has been so obsessed with his own body for so long that he knows exactly how he looks when he's unclothed. Maybe he has a mole on his lower stomach. He has a rib on his left side that sticks out a little more than the rest. His six pack isn't perfect, but it's there. He has acne on his back. Something.

Kevin does the shoot, and honestly? He feels great. He feels like he looks his best, he's happy with himself and how well he's been looking after his body, and then the magazine comes out. Then the magazine comes out, and he flicks to the section dedicated to him, and there, in a full fold-out spread, is him, shirtless. It doesn't take him long to notice the differences - he'd asked the photographer to flick through the photos at the shoot, and there's some tiny, minor editorial differences that he can't stop staring at.

There's a little bit of normal body fat that usually just hangs over his pants - it's muscle, he knows it is, and it is minuscule when he sees it on himself, but for some reason they've edited it out. The mole on his stomach is gone. The redness on his chest, on his back, the textured skin on his stomach - smooth, gone, no longer a problem. It's the first time Kevin has ever seen his body photoshopped, as if the things normal about him are a problem, and he looks closer at any shoots he's done before; tiny blemishes on his face, little scars, freckles, things he'd never even considered to be a problem, disappeared through the magic of photo editing. It's jarring, at first, but he realises then just how much it's been done. And it's not necessarily that the editors of these photos sees these things as problems, we know that, it's just how normalised it is for celebrities to be flawless at that point in time, but Kevin doesn't see it like that.

Some other times he compares edited photos and non edited photos of himself - ones where he's been made to look taller, leaner, sometimes bigger, whatever the publication required, and that manifests itself into a different obsession. It manifests into the desire to look perfect, flawless outside of the healthy eating and muscle toning he's already doing. I've always thought that if Kevin's eating disorder was to turn from something along the lines of orthorexia into something else, that that would be the reason. When he loosens up from his strict routine after joining the foxes, maybe then would come the au or the point where it'd manifest into knowingly fasting without it being a healthy-diet thing. Maybe then it'd manifest into harming his body knowingly because he feels like it'll make him look "perfect", instead of harming his mind unknowingly because he needs to be "healthy".

I should stop myself before this gets too much longer but the TL;DR is that I have a lot of thoughts about Kevin & his relationship with food and his body and I could talk about it forever. <3

#thank u for indulging my thoughts #this has been in my drafts for way too long #kevin day #ask #mine

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bambiihee · 12 days ago

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✴︎ ───── ﹙ 𝔴ORKS IN 𝔭ROGRESS ﹚

𓄵 works below contain adult themes and dark/triggering content. read warnings carefully.

﹙✮﹚𓂃 join my taglist! ノ library nav! 𓂃 ﹙✮﹚

FLOWERS OF FLESH AND BLOOD. ◞ S. JAEYUN

Jake gets his first job the day after his release from the mental hospital. A secretary for a psychiatrist's office, something that felt familiar. A steady job, a new girlfriend, and an apartment away from his parents; he should be feeling ecstatic. But his new boss is equally as charming and beautiful as she is cold and overbearing, her stern words and pointed stares making Jake feel things he's never felt before. She's hiding a dark secret, he knows, because the monster that has followed him his entire life tells him so-- and attempting to unravel her mystery throws him into a downwards spiral of dark obsession.

sub!jake ⋆ boss!reader ⋆ vampire!reader dark and triggering content. cw for mentions of sh, depictions of mental illness (jake has borderline personality disorder and psychosis), religious themes, parental and spousal abuse, jakes family sucks, substance abuse, alcoholism, heavy dom/sub themes and bdsm.

010% ⋆ est. 30k

FROM UTOPIA AND BACK. ◞ L. HEESEUNG

You promised yourself one thing this semester, and that was to avoid Lee Heeseung at all costs. Your situationship ended months ago, you've put your past behind you with a new boyfriend to show for it. Heeseung was nothing but a fuckup and a bad influence. Or at least that's what you have to tell yourself to stay away, your carefully concocted good girl persona and squeaky-clean image like a house of cards ready to fall at any moment with any more slip ups. But of course Heeseung slides right back into your life like he had never left it, and you hate yourself for letting him back in again with so little fight. You hate that you know why you're so weak. You hate how much you crave his touch.

plug!heeseung ⋆ ex fwbs to ?? ⋆ college au cw. recreational marijuana usage, mentions of other drugs, alcohol, drug dealer!heeseung, frat boy!heeseung, good girl!reaser, infidelity, cheating, everyone kind of sucks, unhappy ending

025% ⋆ est. 20k

THIMBLE & FOXGLOVE ◞ K. TAEHYUN

Being a pixie was tough, especially when it came to love. Because the man you love more than anything is the young, eccentric village wizard that you accompany as his familiar. Years ago, he tricked you and trapped you into serving him, and while at first you hated him and tried to thwart him and his plans at every opportunity, slowly you grew attached to the point you were deeply, irrevocably in love with him. But you were a pixie, and he was human-- It was forbidden for humans and faepeople to be together, and you were certain that Taehyun had no interest in you because you were only ten inches tall. But what if that changed? If you were human, could you get Taehyun to love you? It sounded silly, but when a chance encounter gives you the opportunity to make your wildest dream a reality, you would be stupid not to take it.

fairy!reader ⋆ wizard!taeyhun ⋆ fantasy au cw. extreme size difference, extreme size kink, mini/macro, mean dom to soft dom!taehyun, brat!reader, brat taming, aphrodisiacs, magic and transformation

010% ⋆ est. 15k

DUALITY. ( AKA ALPHA KAPPA FALL OF TROY) ◞ C. YEONJUN, H. KAI

A rewriting of my most popular fic on my old blog, Duality, but with a twist. After a fight between you and your roommate escalates to you getting kicked out of your dorm, your boyfriend and his frat invite you to stay with them at their frat house. You really shouldn't have said yes, but you can't ever say no to Hueningkai, your childhood best friend and one of Yeonjun's many frat brothers. You've always seen him as nothing but a brother, but all it takes is one conversation and one rumor to change everything you've ever thought about your sweet, shy, innocent best friend. Tensions rise as Yeonjun's jealousy streak takes over, revealing a side of Huening you didn't know existed. Is there any way to get out of this without ruining everything?

➤ look out for the sequel THE THRASH PARTICLE!

love triangle ⋆ frat au ⋆ childhood friends to lovers cw. threesomes, mean dom!yeonjun, soft dom!kai, possessive behavior, arguing, bdsm, bondage, impact play, secretly kinky!kai

010% ⋆ est. 15k

BAD BEHAVIOR. ◞ P. SUNGHOON, P. JONGSEONG

You've had the biggest crush on the hot dad you babysit for since you first met him. Maybe it's a little obvious, with how much his wife hates you. But you never knew he felt the same way about you, Mr. Park always so quiet and composed, aloof. He brought his coworker Jay over just for some drinks and to chat, fully ready to send you home, but Jay insists you stay... just so he can flirt shamelessly with you, right in front of Sunghoon. He's too possessive over his favorite little babysitter to just stand there and let it happen....

dilf!jayhoon ⋆ babysitter!reader ⋆ virginity kink contains dark/triggering content. cw for threesomes, double penetration, age gaps, cheating and infidelity, virgin!reader, cherry popping and minor blood kink, dubcon

000% ⋆ est. 10k

CLOSET CONFESSIONS ◞ H. KAI

getting stuck in a dark storage closet with your work crush during the worst storm of the century was far from on your agenda when you asked him to help you find party decorations. Not that you're complaining.

coworker!kai ⋆ coworkers to lovers ⋆ office au cw. power outages and severe storms, trapped in a closet, sex in the dark, monster cock kai, big size kink, service dom!kai

000% ⋆ est. 10k

LET THE RIGHT ONES IN ◞ L. HEESEUNG

The Blood Moon shines like a ruby in the sky. A chariot is ambushed. An inkeeper takes in an odd guest. Something dark buzzes in the air.

vampire prince!heeseung ⋆ inkeeper!reader ⋆ historical fantasy au contains dark/triggering content. cw for blood kink, blood drinking, aphrodisiacs, dubcon, exhibitionism, orgy

000% ⋆ est. 10k

#enhypen x reader #txt x reader #enha x reader #enha smut #txt smut

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ctrlsatoru · 1 month ago

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DIABLO chapter three - Toji Fushiguro

content: techbro!toji, reader is gojo's little sister, age gap (toji's in his late 30s, reader in mid 20s) kind of ooc toji (he's a good father in this one) warnings: 18+ only. suggestive themes. explicit language, fluff, toji continues to be toji, pushes oc into kind of an anxiety attack. toji discovers a new kink at his big age. daddy issues. cheating. unresolved sexual tension (it only gets worse). pairing: toji fushiguro x afab gojo!reader word count: 12.9k summary: The aftermath of a chaotic evening. An unlikely late night conversation with the architect of your undoing. Neither of you walks away clean and the game has only just begun. previous chater - next chapter

It’s you and a sizzling order of grilled Yakimochi in a world alone. Across from you is he, the lone spectator.

He’s never seen anyone eat the way you do. Thoroughly, carefully, eyebrows crumpling and creasing with the kind of zestiness that any person in the field of animation would want to record and keep for future reference.

You rip the last bit with sharp front teeth, lick the corner of your mouth, and fail to do something about the sticky glaze making your cupid’s bow glow. You’re inspecting the skewer like you’re a creature from outer space and it’s your first night on earth.

He feels the urgency to unbutton the first few buttons on his shirt, but he already did that some time ago.

The blast of air from the fan above you strikes him like a bullet. Sharp and sudden, pulling him out of the dizzy tunnel vision.

Greasy walls, foggy windows, waiters coming and going, the pungent smell of draft beer. The muffled pit-pat of the rain outside the window.

He clears his throat and leans back, making the old plastic chair let out a brittle groan under his weight.

The sound makes you acknowledge his presence. Sticky mouth, flushed cheeks and pure, unadulterated contempt.

It’s almost like you’re not the reason he’s stranded in an izakaya in bumfuck Shinjuku, surrounded by hordes of grown men cozying up to their supervisors.

He makes a show out of checking his watch. You appreciate being rushed as much as you enjoy your beer at room temperature.

“Have you got somewhere to be?”

If being a first-hand witness to your father nearly get a semi-early ticket to hell doesn’t ease up the attitude, god knows what will.

He has a few explicit, well fleshed out ideas. Not a single one is feasible with all these people around you.

The TV hanging from the ceiling breaks the news about the shooter’s arrest. You push a plate in his direction, making more noise than necessary.

He stares down at it, unimpressed and uninterested.

“You can’t just sit there and stare at me while I eat.”

He sure can. Not without it awakening some strange primal impulses in him.

“It’s uncomfortable.”

“Didn’t stop you so far.”

The switch flips mid eye roll as the waitress walks past your table and you lean over, doe eyed and pliant, asking for another round and no— actually, make it two.

Someone might think it’s not the girl's job to serve you, and she’s the one who’ll take you home in —more likely than not— some degree of inebriation.

You’re causing quite the stir, beautifully dressed and chugging beer like a regular at the saloon. Toji’s sure you’d have a mean spit if you had in your vicinity. The congregation of salarymen queuing for crumbs of your attention would faint.

The waitress returns with two crisp, sweaty glasses, blushing at the sight of both of you. Toji pulls the glass away before you can get your hands on it, and the dreamy lingering smile you’re aiming at the girl crumples and creases.

“I’ll eat. You’ll stop drinking.”

Not out of surprises for the night yet, you only cross your arms and lean back. You watch him chew like you think he’d cheat otherwise.

You lift an eyebrow when he puts down his chopsticks and brushes off imaginary crumbs from his hands. Two orphan gyozas look up at him. “Worried about your macros, big guy?”

“You think I’m big?”

He gets a text from his driver, you take the chance and snatch your beer back.

“Fuckin’ brat. Throw up in the car and I’m kicking you out.”

“I'm not a lightweight, worry about yourself.” You reply without missing a beat, contradicted by rosy cheeks and glassy eyes. “And Nanami would fuck you up for not keeping your promise.”

“Don’t remember making any.”

The fan turns back in your direction, and you close your eyes and tilt your face at it, content. Toji doesn’t look at the layer of sweat covering your skin for nearly as long as he could; the subject sparks his interest.

“Still would. He really cares about me.”

“Does he?” You nod, petty down to the lift of your eyebrows. He hates to admit it, but he wouldn’t blame the guy, just like he doesn’t blame the waitress for blushing at the sight of your cleavage resting on the table, or the table of middle aged male schoolgirls back there.

“You got a crush on the monotone motherfucker?”

No reply. You take a good gulp before asking for the bill. There’s the usual confrontation about who’s paying, you agree to let him after a heartbeat of deliberation, not without telling the waitress to put your fanclub on your tab.

They push and pull at the youngest man who obviously noticed you first. Puppy eyes, droopy eyelids, and sweaty hands. He doesn’t even notice Toji following you on your way out, eyes only on you. God bless the poor fucking kid. Bar set astronomically high, absolutely no sense of self preservation. A terrible combination.

You’d eat him up and pull his skeleton like an old school cartoon cat.

The charming disposition is nowhere to be found on the drive to your place. You’re quiet, texting your brother’s boyfriend with a permanent pout on your lips. It makes Toji wonder if the cheap beer caught up to you, and if you get sleepy when you drink.

The car behind you follows you off the highway, the driver gives him a look in the rearview. Same plates he texted Toji earlier.

So far, you’ve successfully pretended that your ankle’s not killing you with every step you take. You’re staring at the sign on your building’s elevator when your face, shoulders, and overall act drop.

“Which floor?”

“4th,” you reply, defeat personified.

“Alright, then,” he sighs, because of course he’ll make it sound like it’s a shore “get up here.”

You look at him like he lost his mind and take a theatrical step back.

“You’ve been walking like you got a train run on you, what makes you think you can make it up there?”

The doorman fixes his throat. He perked up at the sight of Toji opening the door for you, breaking his neck trying to follow you on your way inside.

You look like you’re gonna make him pay for that later.

He has no interest in playing babysitter. “Suit yourself.”

“Fine.” You say right as he turns on his heels, not looking at him. “I’ll allow it.”

Toji rolls his eyes but leans down anyway, getting you off the floor for the second time tonight. Exhaustion is getting to you; you only tense up for the first flight and let your weight settle on him.

The travel size panther doesn’t shy away from eye contact or back away when Toji squats down to get a closer look. Fearless little thing, likely got it from his mother.

Kaiju, according to the tag with your phone number engraved on it, isn’t too against getting his chin scratched.

He struts over to the fancy automatic feeder, offering Toji a once in a lifetime chance to get on his good graces. All he has to do is tap the screen and get him one or two extra portions of kibble.

Amber eyes make a convincing argument, but judging by the size on him, he doubts you starve him.

Amused, Toji goes for the back of his ear, only to be swiftly stopped by merciless, sharp teeth closing down on his thumb. He hisses, surprised not to see any blood at the crime scene.

Kaiju blinks slowly at him as if to promise him he could've done a lot worse than that.

Definitely got that from you.

The sound of doors opening from the narrow hallway makes him rise to full height. Not without throwing the furry prick a warning glare.

Hair down, barefoot, black dress replaced by comfortable clothes. You walk past him like a stuttering breeze, right into your spotless little kitchen.

Kaiju has a change of heart and demands his attention by wrapping his tail around his legs.

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” you say off-handedly, so convincing as you’re looking through your cabinets that for a second he doubts it was you who let him carry you past the entrance door and said you’d be back soon before disappearing into the hallway, leaving a trail of hairpins behind you.

He scoffs at your asshole of a cat. You believe this shit?

“Right.”

No problem. You don’t have to say it twice. You’ll never have to be burdened by the need to dismiss him. One, two, three strides, and he’s reaching the door before you can turn around.

And as he expected—perhaps even hoped, though it would take some meticulous, gulag type of torture for him to admit it—you say the golden word before he can turn the handle.

“Wait,”

He levels you with that darkened glare that makes board members get in line during meetings and journalists scatter away.

You’re holding two glasses like it’s some sort of peace offering. He’s disappointed, you should know that’s not going to cut it.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

The fuck do you take him for? Do you think he has the time to solve riddles? Is he scooby doo?

You’re lucky he’s distracted by the way your hair brushes against the curve of your collarbone, drawing his gaze and tugging at him. Your shoulders peek through the shiny, dark waves.

There’s a faint dip of muscle as your arms move, nothing dramatic, but the suggestion of strength beneath the plump skin.

He is not above wondering if you’re wearing a bra under that flimsy top. Now, when it comes to peace offerings, that’s absolutely an upgraded start.

At some point during his rumination, a bottle of bourbon has materialized in your hands. The kind he enjoys from time to time after a rough day. He’s starting to think you weren’t lying when you said you could handle your liquor.

“If you think I’m gonna fall for that again, you’re sorely mistaken.”

He can't sound nearly as threatening as he intends to when you’re making a point by taking a sip out of both glasses. It’s a miracle meant to curse him that, after all the greasy food you indulged in earlier, there’s still some lipstick left on both rims.

But because he likes this carefully contained distress on you, his hand never leaves the handle.

You really want him to stay, don’t you? Could he make you ask for it?

“I thought you wanted an explanation.”

Probably, but he can save that for later. Rude as you were just moments ago, he wants to see you put your money where your mouth is and figure out what the glint in your eye is about.

There’s also that quiet, oblivious confidence in the way you move that tugs at him. Like you’ve never considered what it does to anyone watching. Especially him.

You melt down on your favorite end of the couch, letting the weight of the day sink into it. He doesn’t join you before taking in the view from your cramped balcony.

The driver pulls over the moment he gets his message, disappearing down the street without a trace. There’s another one parked just by the corner, away from the streetlights, windows too dark to see who’s inside.

The pause to survey your apartment is just for show. You don’t need to know that he already zoomed into the framed pictures on your bookcase, inspected the well loved Led Zeppelin III vinyl and picked up the Lou Reed on your fancy wireless turntable, skimmed the pages of a Jack Kerouac book full of handwritten notes, even found a Motoko Kusanagi figure forgotten behind a model of the golden gate bridge.

You were gone long enough for him to picture you sitting sideways on the olive armchair, knees thrown over the armrest, with a sleepy black cat kneading on your belly.

“So this is where you live.”

No male shoes cluttering the entrance. Nothing that would indicate that you share this space with someone else.

The kitchen’s too small for two anyway. It would only work in a romcom movie. Maybe he’s a little biased, but he just can’t picture you and the man child from hours ago standing close to each other, cooking dinner with Lou Reed playing in the background.

“For now, yeah.”

He sits on the opposite end of the couch with a healthy, unnerving distance between you, exaggerating the manspreading just to make your brow twitch.

It’s surprisingly comfortable. The leather feels nice and cool under him.

“Why make it so cozy if you’re not planning on staying?” It’s spelled in every detail, you’ve put time and care into filling up the space.

“That same logic is what makes gas stations so shitty.”

Always a reply for everything. Never let him catch a break. “It’s smaller than I expected, but it suits you.”

He means that. It’s a home, way warmer and cozier than what he would’ve guessed from someone so visually inclined. You’re a plant freak too, there’s only room in your jungle of a balcony for a small chair that you couldn’t pay Toji to try.

You warn Kaiju not to even try when he lurks a little too close to one of the pots by the corner. He backs away with his nose in the air and disappears down the hallway.

“It’s not small.” You turn to him as he leans over and grabs his drink from the coffee table, eyes accusing as they run over his back. “You just don’t fit anywhere.”

“Think so?” he says before he can think of it, savoring the first sip. “I think I’d fit alright.”

Your eyes widen before a frown takes over your lips, but your chest goes up and down with a deep breath you have no control over, and you’re suddenly sitting a little, just a little bit straighter.

He smirks, deeply satisfied with being able to do that to you even when he’s not trying.

“What’s that?” he asks, chin aimed at some heavy looking artifact hidden under the console.

“Pottery wheel.”

He snorts. “Of course it is.”

Your claws come out automatically. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I know you’ve had a shitty day and this isn’t how you planned it to end, but you’re gonna have to be nice if you want me to keep you company.”

That gets your attention. Toji’s half convinced you’re about to tell him to fuck off for taking your invitation as some sort of display of vulnerability and assuming he has any leverage here.

“You think you can do that?”

You cross your leg under you, careful when you ask, like it’s against his best interest.

“Do you want me to be nice?” His eyes narrow briefly, telepathically telling you to watch it. The corners of your lip quirk up, nothing kind about the gesture. “I can be nice.”

It sounds like you’ll weaponize the request against him. He can only hope you do.

“Now, if I open your freezer, will I find anything useful for that ankle?”

The question visibly throws you off. You blink once or twice and theorize about an ancient bag of peas that could be somewhere in there, doubting his chances at finding it. Toji waves off the last part as he stands up, pulling his sleeves higher over his arms.

You’re looking at him like he grew a second head when he leans over to grab your leg, not commenting on the obscene variety of chocolate covered berries he had to go through.

There’s a distinct clench of muscles under the thick gray fabric of your pants that are just a bit too long for your legs. He has to pull it up to reveal some skin, silently wondering if they belong to the man in your framed pictures.

Still confused, you go along and even twist on your seat, letting him place your leg on his lap.

“Hurts?”

He glances at you. You shake your head like the little liar that you are.

A quiet hiss escapes through clenched teeth, and your eyes shut tight the second the ice cold plastic touches your skin. You fight the instinct to run away, nails digging on the leather.

It doesn’t look as bad as it could be. No swelling is a good sign, but it’s only been a couple of hours. You’re quiet through all these observations as the unpleasantness of the sharp cold morphs into relief, staring at the bag of peas with a look on your face that he can’t put a name on right now.

He’s discovered quite a few of those tonight. You fix your face a bit too fast when you catch yourself, so he knows they’re rare and commits them to memory.

“How’d that happen?”

He tilts his chin at the pale scar at the junction of your left arm.

“Trying to get through a barbed fence.” You lift your arm so that he can see all of it, how it gets bumpier and thicker as it goes deep into your armpit. You didn’t give him the chance to notice it at Haibara’s party, and your dress did a great job at hiding it tonight.

It happened somewhere in Thailand, you befriend a baby cow way too fast, and the mother didn’t hesitate to set some boundaries.

Slipping between barbed wires had seemed easy enough, you didn’t count on your armpit getting stuck.

The incident nearly ruined a family holiday, got your brother the scolding of the year, and made the doctors urge your father to get you tested for what they called an atypical pain response. All the scans and tests came out perfectly normal.

He grimaces. Low pain threshold or not, you’d have to be a piece of shit to not hate the idea of a little girl getting hurt like that.

He changes the peas to the other side of your ankle. You fill your lungs up with a sharp breath but muster the will to try anyway,

“Your turn.”

He licks his scar briefly, wondering if you’re aware of him noticing your reaction every time.

He’s quite surprised, but nonetheless convinced that you’re not drunk just yet, perhaps just a bit less guarded. The walls are coming up and down like a pendulum, so he has to time himself, move with your rhythm.

“Not a charming story,” he carries on before you try to argue, “What about the murder weapon?”

It’s next to the fish tank, a single wooden pencil safe inside a gold frame. The small engraved message made him suspect that the stain on the tip is blood.

“Not a charming story,” you throw back, “and kind of a long one.”

“You in a rush?” you sip your drink and lift an eyebrow, he rolls his eyes. “I’ll tell you mine later.”

That’s enough motivation for you, though you take a moment to figure out how to start, chewing on your thumb until it turns red.

“I didn’t have a lot of friends in school.”

He nods firmly. “I believe that.”

You ignore that “I moved here when I was eight. My pronunciation wasn’t... great, and I was kind of alien to what kids were into, so I wasn’t exactly popular. There was one boy in particular who didn’t like me because Satoru dated his sister,”

Toji has no idea where this is going, but that last part gets a good chuckle out of him.

“So he made it his mission to let everyone know about my family lore.”

That’s one way of putting it. He knew, like anyone old enough to remember the nineties, that your mother had a hard time after the affair hit the public. The kind of hard time that gets you blacklisted and makes you move out of the country.

“It didn’t help that I was the only one at home with, you know, not stunning white hair and white walker eyes. He kept going for a while, and I held it in because you can’t be the new kid and go around snitching on your classmates.”

He huffs sarcastically, “Gotta stick to middle school street code.”

“But then, after a few weeks, he pushed me a little too close to the edge, so—”

“You did the sensible thing and stabbed him with a pencil.” Toji finishes for you as you finish your drink. The ice cubes clatter when you dangerously lean over to set it on the coffee table. He’s half prepared for you to slip, hands twitching to grab you. “Where?”

You smack your lips. “Leg.”

“Smart girl. You get in trouble for that?”

“No crying,” your brother said for the nth time, in a way that only made you want to cry even more. “Did anyone hit or touch you anywhere? You’re not gonna get in trouble, but you have to tell me the truth.”

Suguru gave you an encouraging nod behind your brother, but you could see that Satoru was pissed for real. You’d never seen him angry like he was when he spoke to the principal, not even when he locked the door on your father’s studio to argue with him.

Your father’s office had been impossible to reach, so they called him instead. He was quiet on the drive home while you fiddled with your fingers, wondering how your life would be when they sent you back with your mother.

A part of you missed your life at the farm and the way you didn’t need to get in a car to go places and do things, but the idea of not seeing your brother every day dug a deeper hole in your chest.

It was so unfair. You were just beginning to get used to never being bored. Even if things got scary between Satoru and your father, not a day went by that you didn’t laugh.

“He said my mother worked at a soapland. He said it’s my fault you don’t have a mom, and that you hate me for it, and that I’m not your sister.”

“Did he hit you?”

You shook your head, another wave of tears pooling in your eyes. Satoru sighed and sat next to you on the stairs, wiping your eyes with his fingers, over and over again.

“Stop that. You look super ugly when you cry, remember?”

“Is it my fault you don’t have a mom? Is that why you and dad throw things at each other?”

Satoru scratched his head and set his hands on your shoulders, shaking you a bit before talking.

“Here’s the thing, people say stuff all the time. Sometimes they’ll say things are kind of true, but—”

“Dude!?” Suguru hissed, making an X with his arms, shaking his head.

“So is it really,” you stutter, lips shaking, “am I not your—”

“No! I mean yes. Of course you are, bug, c’mon.”

He paused, fixing his approach.

“Listen, this is one of those things that make sense once you’re older. Your mom and dad… they felt love for each other, and so they made you… out of that love. You’re their, uh, love receipt?”

He made a weird face and hissed at Suguru to let him finish. He was onto something here.

“And yes, dad was married to my mom, but that was his thing, ok? It’s not on you. Never. You don’t have to worry about my mom either, she has a boyfriend and he’s younger and way more handsome than dad. She’s doing her own thing. And dad loves you a lot, definitely loves you more than he loves me.”

You started crying again.

“Quit it, bug. Think about it, if he only had me? He’d be in a bad mood all the time. I piss him off, you make him laugh. We’re like yin and yang, see?”

He grabbed a strand of your hair and held it up to his head.

“Point is, it doesn’t matter if kids at school say things about us because we’re a team. And you’re a Gojo, you can’t let that type of shit get to you. You know, people say I get good grades all the time because I’m handsome and too charming, but I brush it off. We’re better than that.”

He nods at himself. You blink, trying to make sense out of it.

“I promise it’s all gonna make sense later. Just don’t give people the power to use these things against you, alright? That’s a losing game, you have to set yourself up to win. Always.”

No matter how cool he was, giving you a life lesson like this, tears kept flowing down your face. You couldn’t even rip your fists from them, and he was starting to freak out. He needed to get a laugh out of you and put an end to this.

“I don’t want to get a call again and hear that you stabbed some stuck up kid in the leg, you better get the job done right and aim for the eye, alright? Make it worth the drive. Cyclops one hater and the rest will think twice before running their mouths.”

That didn’t get him the laugh he wanted either. Suguru’s face was becoming super familiar with his palm. Satoru looked at him with panicked eyes.

“You gotta help me out, man. I’m totally tanking here.”

Suguru’s eyes widened. He grabbed his wrist.

“Did you wash your hands?” he asked, looking at the reddish tint. “You were eating hot cheetos, idiot.”

“Shit. My bad, bug.”

“Stop touching her face!”

Toji blinks at you.

“What the fuck does a kid know about a soapland?”

You shrug. That was before kids had unlimited access to the internet, so it was probably the result of hearing adults talk.

“Back in my day—”

You snort violently. He rolls his eyes at you and removes the peas.

“Yeah, yeah, all I’m saying is… that little boy would’ve been dealt with. What’d your old man say?”

“Nothing.” You reply, suddenly standing up, thirst not yet quenched. “He took me camping for the first time that weekend.”

You leave him in search of something to snack on. It’s almost like that was just a trivial part of the story. Toji’s no damn shrink, but even he recognizes how that would fundamentally configure a kid’s elastic brain when it comes to affection and how to get it.

It’s strange. The strangest thing. You can’t make sense of how the night ended like this.

It’s 2 am, you’ve got a nice buzz going on, and Toji Fushiguro just gave you spoilers about the plans for the upcoming release of his magnum opus.

The details stay safe inside your walls, out of the reach of crowds of die hard fans that would kill for a small piece of information.

You’ve been thinking about giving the game a try. Perhaps you should exploit this civilized interlude between you and ask him if your old macbook would be able to handle it.

Probably not. He’ll laugh at you and find some lascivious but creative remark to make you shiver. As honest as the late night conversation air between you feels, he might begin to suspect that you’ve been seeing his face on the very same ceiling above you.

The thought of it makes you uneasy. You rip a piece of baby tangerine and shove the questions down your throat.

Determined not to let you dwell too much on your thoughts, he leans over and snatches one from the bowl in your lap.

Nothing on tv, not even the late night nineties reruns, could be as entertaining as him trying to peel it with his big ass hands. It looks like a grape in his grip, ready to burst at the lightest pressure.

“So you’ve always been daddy’s little girl, huh?”

You bite a bit too hard, and the sudden rush of juice spills down your chin before you can try to stop it.

He rolls his eyes like you haven’t heard filthier things from him.

“Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Oh, is that too much for Mr. fuck-a-wife? My bad.”

“Answer the question, Gojo.”

There’s a never ending curiosity about your family’s dynamics and no disposition to give details about his in return. You’re positive you can get him to crack. You’ve made it your mission to know where, when and how he got the lip scar.

“Even if I was, I got on his bad side real quick.”

He finally gets the peel off and just throws the entire butchered thing into his mouth. His question comes out muffled and tangy.

“Doing what exactly?”

“Getting my period, probably.”

That almost gets him to choke, you can’t help but laugh at him for being so scandalized.

“Something’s wrong with you.”

“Pot, kettle.” he pouts, not disagreeing. “What did you do to get banished?”

To your delight, he bites. “Who said I was banished?”

“Oh?”

He side eyes you, and you wonder how he feels. If he finds this as strange and easy as you do.

“My parents were shitty. Mom got knocked up too young. Ruined her life. He resented everyone for… well, everything. The elders made everything as difficult as possible. I got out the moment I got my ID and never looked back.”

Sounds like the Zenin experience. Whispers about their dirty laundry have made their rounds for years, quietly traded across manicured golf courses and under the clink of wine glasses at dinner parties. From incestuous traditions, to their offspring hunting housemaids for sport.

It takes a fucked up environment to create something like Naoya.

That first day on the set, learning that he was a Zenin in disguise made your skin crawl, making the initial attraction turn sour.

You took his arrogance, icy detachment and blunt words as a sign that he had failed to escape the bloodline even if he erased it from his name.

Now, you don’t know what to do with the realization that you were wrong.

Sure, the man is still a complete and total prick, always walking in like rules don’t apply to him, arrogance worn like a badge, begging your fist to connect to his pretty face.

But not in the cold, soulless Zenin way. There’s nuance to his assholery.

His brand of infuriating is his own creation. So aggravating it just… works, somehow loops right back around and, as much as you hate to admit, makes him magnetic.

Right now, talking to you, all playful and genuine, you feel the disconnect. There’s an openness about him. Some coarse, warped kindness that isn’t obvious at first encounter.

“Glad you did?”

“Best decision I ever made,” he replies easily, looking to his side and grabbing an album from your side table.

He examines the very personal and mushy paragraph the members wrote for you on the back before you can protest.

Just a few hours ago, you’d cursed him for stepping into your territory uninvited. And now here he is, looking softer around the edges under the low lights of your living room.

Your leg over his lap that neither of you have moved. Dress shirt half undone, hair slightly damp from the rain that caught you on the walk from the car to the building entrance. Sticking to his forehead with some worn, unexpected charm.

Casually transparent.

“You work with these kids? I’m pretty sure I took Tsumiki and Megumi to their concert last week.”

Making you laugh against your own will.

“Tokyo Dome?” he nods, you bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing, trying to picture him surrounded by lightsticks and people chanting their lungs out. “Yeah, that’s them.”

Tending to your bruised ankle like there’s no other reasonable thing to do.

And it’s worse than any other version you’ve seen of him.

This one could slip past your defenses without trying. Is it performative?

Is he waiting for you to let your guard down to strike? Is he not the type to enjoy the hunt while his prey is dealing with family drama on two different fronts?

“Felt like a cult meeting. I didn’t know they got down like that,” he says, suddenly sounding older than usual. “The production was hypnotic, I should’ve known you were involved.”

Your train of thought stops at the suggestion that he should be able to recognize your work at a glance, and the sudden reminder—

“I can’t believe you’re a concert dad.”

He glares through thick eyelashes. All the patience for you but none for your bullshit.

“Yes you can. Let’s not act like I didn’t trigger those daddy issues of yours from the beginning.”

He has some nerve to say that to your face while simultaneously flipping through the booklet.

But you said you’d be nice, and you’ve decided he’ll stay until the sun rises or until exhaustion knocks you out, so you try something new. Playing coy.

“You know, I had a rough night. Shouldn’t you go easy on me?”

He pauses, recognizes his own words, and considers choices unknown to you while brushing his thumb over his mouth, catching any dry tangerine juice.

You remember the way his lips felt under the Q tip back at the set. You know firsthand just how much more sensitive scar tissue is.

Has it been a month already? It feels like only a few days ago he cornered you with that brutish proposal, but so much has changed since then. More than a month or three encounters should lead to. Why is your perception of time suddenly so warped?

“Now that I think about it, that seems to be the case every time you’re around.”

“Yeah?” You didn’t understand how he knew back at Haibara’s, didn’t think you’d two cross paths again to ask what gave it away.

“Yeah. I’m seeing a pattern here.”

“And yet you invite me in, pour me a drink, and share your precious tangerines. Sounds contradictory.”

“Maybe I’d just rather deal with you.”

True as it may be, you notice right away just how terrible that sounds, and you look intently for his reaction. For any indication that he’s offended by your lack of filter.

His green eyes dance over your face and then, when they find whatever it is they were searching for, lock on yours. Knowing and prompting.

Let it all out. You sure look like you need it.

As if to remind you that there’s a quiet world outside, your phone buzzes loudly. It’s a text from Nanami. Your father’s finally getting some rest after talking to the police.

Suguru stopped replying hours ago after telling you to get some sleep and not worry too much about things.

Nothing but silence from Satoru.

There are a hundred open tabs in your head about your father’s speech and whatever he and your brother were about to get physical about. You saw the signs, but how things got this messed up is beyond you. Could you have done anything to stop it from spreading?

“You’re not gonna figure it out tonight, so don’t even try.”

His voice, measured and firm, brings you back, and you’re once again face to face with a man that you would’ve never expected to get any clarity from.

“What did you two talk about?”

“Nothing that would indicate that he was planning to pull that stunt on your brother.” He replies, and you know he’s not lying even if he’s dodging the question.

You laugh bitterly, rubbing your temples. All the alcohol in you has evaporated out of your system in a matter of seconds.

“They’ve always been too alike. Always clashed. But I would’ve never, ever imagined he’d do that to him. Not even when they didn’t talk.”

You’re not sure why you’re telling him this, but he’s listening intently.

“Holding that over him his entire life and then just…”

You stop yourself, shaking your head. He’s either out of his head, or there’s a plane headed to the Pentagon. You can't decide which is worse.

“Wanna know what I think?”

“Always.”

“I think he’s jealous of you two and how close you are. I think he feels cornered.”

What did he and your father discuss for this to be his conclusion?

“You’re a fucking menace, your brother’s as enjoyable as getting kicked in the nuts. You’re both smart as shit. I don’t want to know what it was like to have you two growing up in the same household,” he reasons. “There’s also the bit where parents resent their kids for enjoying what they gave them.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“It happens. Doesn’t help that he has his boyfriend, and I’m not talking about hating gay people. Anyone can see that those two are it for each other. That’s rare to find. You can have all the power in the world and still be fucking jealous of that.”

There was a time when your father encouraged Satoru to hang out with Suguru. Level headed, hard working, smart, polite and respectful Suguru. He trusted some of that could rub off on him, that he could help Satoru go down that good, decent and successful path he was meant for.

He didn’t expect them to take the concepts of rubbing off and going down in a whole different way, especially not fresh off seventeen, hiding in the cellar.

That discovery not only killed his hopes for white haired grandkids, it also radicalized him further, increased his donations to conservative parties, and sped up his heart problems by a decade.

As hard as that can be sometimes, you love your brother. You’re grateful that the stars aligned so that someone like him and Suguru could share the same timeline, but you’d be a filthy liar if you said it didn’t put a bitter, green taste in your mouth from time to time.

Wasn’t it enough that he never has to worry about getting his roots retouched? He had to go and befriend his soulmate in his teenage years?

Perhaps tonight was just god’s way of balancing that out.

And perhaps Toji’s right, and you’re just as messed up as your father. Worse, even.

“Could you? Do that?” Toji tilts his head at you, hasn’t let you out of his sight once. Your voice is quieter than you expect. “Resent your kids for—”

“Fuck no.” he cuts in, sharp and firm, the muscles of his jaw tense. “You do everything to make sure they don’t go through the shit you went through. Their lives have to be better, if you’re not gonna try, you might as well not have them at all.”

Something in you cracks.

That certainty, that unwavering conviction. Not sugarcoated to sound noble, just real and unmovable. You think, quite unhelpfully, that it’s not too unlike the way you’ve witnessed Satoru and Suguru carve into each other. Looking from the outside for over a decade.

There was a time when you thought you and Hiroki could do it for each other. Perhaps scratch the surface. Eventually, you found yourself hoping he wasn’t it. Relieved that he isn’t. Convinced that you’re built for something different. That the harder you fall for things, the less you want to keep them.

You rise from your seat and cross the room under the pretense of needing something else instead of him. Anything to not give away the fact that he just cracked something open.

The faucet hums quietly, deliberately filling the cup with water. Hiroki’s favorite. You got it for him, back when you were friends.

You lean against the counter and take a few sips.

In the back of your mind, and somewhere in your notes app, there’s a note with better bad decisions to make than Toji Fushiguro. But then you return and find him staring at you like he knows that was all an act. Like you’re a caged animal and he’s waiting for you to unleash the worst of you on him.

And there’s plenty of it, but you can’t get into all that right now. The moment is too right to let it go to waste. You can’t let the daylight steal it from you.

He looks up at you through those full, thick lashes of his.

You should’ve shaved them off while he slept next to you.

“Who taught you how to drink like that, hm?” he asks quietly, half impressed, half scolding. No need to raise his voice when you’re so close it feels like you might touch.

“Uni.”

He does something then, twists his wrist slightly until your lipstick stain fits the spot he takes a sip from.

And with that tiny, little motion, you’ve had enough of the chase.

He notices the shift, tilting his head to the side like a puppy who just heard a foreign sound.

“What is it?”

There’s nothing in front of your eyes but him. His eyes that somehow turn sparkly under the warm lights. Not red. Not yellow.

Go.

“I like the way you look at me.”

Admitting brings immediate relief, it makes just enough room in your chest to breathe a bit deeper.

“How do I look at you?”

You step forward until your shins touch the couch, right between his knees that he naturally spreads for you, your own coming up to rest on his thigh. Heat radiates off his skin.

He follows your movements, eyes trailing up slowly, like the steady ticking of the clock has halted. Lifts his hand and pulls on the drawstring of your sweatpants, no rush to it.

“How do I look at you?” he repeats, voice steady, urging you to answer.

The little bow comes undone, but your hips keep the waistband secure in place. Only a peek of your hipbones is revealed.

To your utter confusion, he starts tying them again, tighter this time, pulling you just enough to get your waist a few centimeters closer to his face.

He exhales through his nose, focused on the task. “Thought I wasn’t the type of problem you liked dealing with.”

How could you forget? He never gives anything without a barbed wire wrapped around it. Good thing you know your way around them.

There’s a second knot, and you let your palm meet the shadowy side of his face. Warm to the touch, much like the feeling in your tummy and the ghost of his hands on your feet. Skin both rough and soft.

You trace a path down his jaw, up his cheekbone, under his ear and then behind it.

He’s pliant under you, heavy lidded, throat bobbing. Asking for exactly nothing but more.

“I changed my mind.”

Nails scratch his scalp, and his breath stutters. His pulse races under your hand, you can smell and nearly taste his charred oak breath, see yourself in his eyes, hear the air as it makes its way in and out of his lungs.

A fist closes around a nice chunk of hair, rewarding you with a silent hiss and the parting of his lips.

A hand comes up to wrap around your wrist. Massaging it like he’s trying to make sure you’re flesh and bones.

His shoulders are tense under the thin fabric of his button up. If only the rain from earlier was a little harder, enough to soak him, you know it’d cling to him just right. Strong, massive, everywhere. Where do you even start? Why didn’t you start sooner?

“I thought you always wanted to fuck a married woman.”

His eyes slam open with a pitch black spark behind them. He lets out a wolfish, cruel, mocking smile that in any other scenario would've fired you up.

“You’re not married to anyone.”

And suddenly, with less mirth behind it.

“And I changed my mind.”

He stops you from pulling your hand away, grip tight around your wrist like a vice. A reminder that your bones could crack easily if he wanted. Your mouth waters.

It’s still him, the same reckless man who dared you to run and claimed to get bored easily, but also insists on preaching about patience.

You wait for any sign that your advances are unwelcome, and see nothing but pure tension simmering under the surface. He’s like a bottle of soda shaken to its limit, ready to pop and spill at the slightest nudge.

Patience is a virtue. You want to spit the words in his mouth and make him swallow.

Why is he suddenly trying to display some restraint?

“You choose now of all times to be a gentleman? The night I go through a traumatizing event and need a distraction?”

He has the gall to chuckle, flashing his front teeth at you, going as far as to turn his head and press his open mouth against your wrist, inhaling deeply.

His breath is warm, leaving a trail of goosebumps that fades up into your neck.

“Who said you need a distraction?”

You rip your wrist back and take a step back.

For a second, it looks like he’s about to stop you, but he stops himself and drops his arm, falling back against the couch with a thud.

Your mouth twitches.

“You think you know what I need?”

“I have a pretty good idea.”

“Wanna share with the class?”

“There’s a big difference between wanting and needing something. You see, most people get those two confused. Entire markets have been built on that single fault.”

Cut the cameras.

Rewind.

If you knew how to talk to god, you’d beg for the patience not to smash his glass against your head and chew the shards. Because listening to him describe the human condition like he’s an outsider and then twist it into a metaphor for capitalism feels way worse.

He was so fuckable just half a minute ago. If only he didn’t have to constantly make you want to choose violence.

And he’s not done yet.

“When it comes to you and what you need, it’s clearly nothing that you’re getting.”

You step away and plop down on your seat.

The rejection will be digested later, right now, you need to stay sharp and ready for the clash you feel building up.

“And of course, you also know what I’m getting.”

He doesn’t look so amused anymore. “I’ve seen enough to have a good idea.”

“Wow.” You deadpan, cold as ever. “You’ve really figured me out. I feel exposed. Whatever should I do now?”

“I told you before, didn’t I? You’re safe with me.”

You snort, dismissive. “Nothing about you says safe.”

“Is that why you want it? Feeling self destructive?” he taunts.

You shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have left your glass behind. Should’ve been a shitty friend to Utahime. The worst part is, you think as you look at him again, that you still would. He still looks disturbingly good sitting there, hair ruined by you, legs spread open like he’s missing you between them.

Stupid fucking old man. What’s the point of being so inviting? Does he think he’ll get you like this again?

“Control it.” he instructs, slow and carefully, like you’re a cat or a horse. “Don’t go around wearing your heart on your sleeve like that. There’s lots of weird fucks out there who’d kill to get the upper hand over a pretty thing like you.”

“Weird fucks like you.”

“Nothing like me,” he corrects quickly, no room for rebuttal. “I’m not saying don’t do it around me. Please do, I like seeing your mind work. Especially when you realize something’s out of your control, it’s priceless.”

You don’t flinch, but a muscle near your eye twitches in betrayal.

“Mm. Just like that.” He murmurs, satisfied.

“Fuck you.”

“But am I wrong?”

“Is it only fun when you think I’m intimidated by you?”

He gives you the most patronizing once over ever. “You have never been intimidated by me. Actually, why do you think that is?”

You drop your head against the back of the couch. “Gut feeling.” The sight, your brother said. One of the many things you’ll have to reconsider after tonight.

“Right.”

“Never failed me before.”

He’s suspiciously quiet for a minute.

And then, you feel it, the very light touch of his calloused thumb, rubbing right between your eyebrows, soothing the frown. He doesn’t stop until he’s satisfied, and you’re turning your head to look at him. Very much coiled, still.

“But you ignore it for him.”

Out of nowhere.

Your heart, your lungs, and your stomach plummet.

“Is it love?” he asks, turning the spark into a fire. Fake curiosity aimed like a knife at your throat. “Because if that’s what you think it is, I’ll drop it. Frankly, I’m not trying to hear anything about it.”

He has you cornered, finger hitting your shoulder as your heels dance on the edge.

Nothing good can come out of that, you’re not the type to fall without dragging someone down with you. But there’s only so much a day can do to you.

Next thing you know, you’re standing up and facing a white wall.

It’s calling your name.

“Easy.” he nods down at your ankle, like that’s of any fucking importance right now.

“Careful with the ankle.”

He’s blocking your way. You remember you can just turn around. But it can’t be that easy, it never is with him. Your arm is in his grip within the second.

“Don’t touch me.”

The second time he calls your name, you whip around to face him.

“Let me go.” Or I’ll put another mark on your face.

“You’re shivering.”

“It’s fucking cold in here.”

Ah.

That’s right. You keep it that way. You like it that way. It’s why you have blankets everywhere. You’re home. This is your territory, so why should you leave and not him?

He’s done this before. This is his thing. Pushing you to the limit and then reeling you back in, the masochistic fuck.

But it seems like right now, he’s not that pleased with the results.

“You switch from nurse to dickhead real quick, Fushiguro.”

He’s hesitating, slowly peeling his fingers off your arm. The flow of blood returns to normal.

The next time you open your mouth, dry as it is, you speak with your chest. The ground is steady under you. The room is no longer tilted. You’ve evened out. This will be the first and the last time he sees that.

“Is that what you’re into? Married women and pissing them off?”

There’s no way you could decipher what’s running through his mind right now, or why he’s stalling. You don’t want to know.

“You said you’d rather deal with me."

You clench your fists once again for good measure. Not anymore.

"So sit down, and I’ll tell you how I split my mouth in two.”

You wake up at exactly 10 am to the sound of birds chirping happily. Phone dead, head pounding, throat raw, and a perfect recollection of last night’s events in 4K.

You rip the sheets off your legs and start the process of filling your bathroom in a thick, white fog. Brushing your teeth comes next. One, two, three times until the stale oak and vanilla flavor disappears down the drain and the foamy toothpaste comes out mixed with blood.

Getting under the scalding stream of water, you try to remember how you ended up in your bed with a bottle of water and your rings neatly placed on your nightstand, but all you can come up with is a distant, worn out lightweight feeling.

“Toji?”

A deep hum, vibrating against you.

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Why the sudden interest?”

“What’s it like?”

A groan leaves your throat as your forehead meets the tiled wall.

Your father and your brother are to blame. You’re gonna make last night feel like fucking disneyland when you get back at them. You blame Kaiju too, for not immediately rejecting him like he does with most people, and making you feel like having him over was not that bad of an idea.

“It’s really easy. You just know.”

“How?”

You work your hands into your hair to keep them occupied. Scrub and scrub until the back of your arms and your knees turn red.

“Everything leads back to them. There’s no other viable way.”

A door opening. The darkness feels right.

“Like a bridge?”

He laughs, you wish your eyes weren’t so heavy, wish you could see it. “I guess it is kind of like a bridge, yes.”

You negotiate with yourself and decide that you’ll let yourself go through the mortification for about half an hour, or however long it takes for the shower to wake you up completely.

He’s gone. What are the chances of you two being in the same room again? The show must go on, and that’s a relief in itself. You have plenty of complications as it is.

“Would you do it again?”

Your phone resuscitates with a never ending string of notifications that you refuse to deal with until you’re less dehydrated. You put some clothes on, cover your dark under eyes, curl your lashes, and, right when you’re contemplating committing to waterproof mascara after all the work it took to remove the makeup from the day before, you hear the distinct sound of knuckles against your front door.

Three sharp, clear, confident knocks.

Spread lazily across your bed, Kaiju lifts his head, ears twisting curiously. You don’t hear that noise too often, not this early.

Satoru has not knocked on a door once in his entire life. Shoko and Utahime have a key. Hiroki’s half the world away. You check his location to make sure.

You rip the towel off your head and figure it’s another package you forgot about.

Unfortunately for you, it’s the one you’re trying to erase from memory.

Broad shoulders, white cotton shirt, aftershave, and coffee. The source of your mortification —that you left in the shower and already moved on from— stands on the other side, eyeing you up and down like he has every right to, and you just have to endure.

“Looks like someone’s escaped the matrix.”

You’re dressed head to toe in black, perhaps unconsciously mourning your ego after last night.

Ignoring his quip, you lift your chin and gather all the bravado you have.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Nothing of any nutritional value.”

He refuses to be normal about food. Can’t he just fucking say bread? And can’t sleep deprivation look a bit shittier on him?

Your hand reaches out for the bag, but he’s both faster and miles taller than you. Lifting it out of your reach is child’s play to him.

“You always this prickly in the morning, Trinity?”

“You always this shitty at breakfast delivery?”

“No,” he says, “I figured after the way you were drinking last night, you’d need some fuel before terrorizing the city.”

You let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding and step out of the way.

“I guess chivalry’s not dead.”

“No,” he walks in, unbothered. You stare at his back and the kind of visible lines under the strained fabric. Tattoos, scars. “Just looks different on me. Get used to it.”

The show must go on. But not without nourishment.

He sets everything on the counter while you put the dishes from last night in the sink and throw away the soggy bag of peas.

When that’s said and done, you inspect the bag, not without giving him a pointed glare.

“I better not find any keto bullshit here.”

His grin does nothing to pacify you.

If you two were completely different people in different situations, you’d kiss the lights out of him. Instead, you put the pain au chocolat aside, act normal, and try the coffee first.

Decent coffee. Great coffee. But is that oat milk you taste? He eyes you innocently when you look up at him in silent offense.

“How’s the ankle?”

You can be civil when layered dough is involved.

“It’s fine. A little sore, nothing I can’t handle.”

He makes a tiny sound at the third teaspoon of sugar you drop on the cup, meeting your eyes with a frightened furrow of his brows.

“I have a long day ahead, alright?”

“I’m not judging,” he lies, unable to stop himself from adding, “But at that point you might as well just do coke.”

Your nose crinkles. “Too trashy.”

The first bite is heavenly, flaky and soft in all the right ways, butter melting into your tongue and mixing with rich, dark, gooey chocolate. Your head drops forward as you splay your hands on the counter. Life is not that bad.

But then you open one eye, and he’s still in front of you.

You blink mid chew. “Stop that.”

The man pouts at you. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Stop watching me eat, freak.”

He chuckles, leaning over and swiping your cheek before you can move away. Then, he brings a chocolate stained thumb to his lips and sucks it clean.

“I brought you breakfast, don’t I at least get that?”

You stare at him, brain short circuiting. What's his issue? What is your issue?

A flash of sleek black fur lands between you on the counter, meowing curiously. You gave up trying to stop him from walking all over your kitchen a while ago.

Kaiju stretches, curiously inspecting the food before bumping his head against Toji’s chest. You know you’ll have to offer him wet food to stop him from fraternizing with the enemy.

“Has anyone told you your cat’s kind of an asshole?” Toji asks, rubbing Kaiju’s head.

“Only to people who deserve it. He's an excellent people reader.”

He’s suspiciously quiet after that. Just like he was suspiciously sweet last night.

Agreeing to a quick stop because you were hungry. Carrying you up the stairs. Noticing you didn’t want to be alone and sticking around. And then, like he just couldn’t wait, he deliberately pulled out the one box you’ve been trying not to touch for the last few months.

Your stomach twists a little. Is it guilt, or just shame? You’ve been acting a bit childish. You hate to think about how visible your bruised ego must have been.

All the conclusions you came to while you were waiting for your conditioner to sit seem questionable.

You’re leaning over, spooning the rest of the contents from the can into Kaiju’s bowl, when you see his reflection on the steel surface of your trash can. Watching you.

Not like he’s interested in how you feed your cat. Or annoyed by your lack of manners.

No, his gaze is low, deliberate. Dragging up the back of your legs, over the curve of your hips. Lingering and shameless. You’re half glad he’s back to being the dog of a man you’ve known him to be. What you’re not ok with is the heat of his eyes across your skin.

And you know that if you turn around, he’ll do nothing but smile. And what about it?

“What about you? Busy today?” You couldn’t care less about his schedule, but you want to know if he’s that much of a harlot to go to his office dressed like a swole James Dean.

He shakes his head, like nothing happened. “Gotta pick up the kids from their school trip.”

“Ah.” you say, suddenly remembering that last sleep infused conversation. How amused he sounded when you thought about bridges. You feel dumb.

You remember the things he told you before that as well, before exhaustion took you down. Things that could hint at his own room of untouched boxes. Things that made your blood boil, even if he wasn’t your favorite person in the world.

It makes you face that, despite his upbringing, he’s a good father. With how thoughtful and careful he can be, he probably was a good husband as well. Only a handful of men take their wives’ last names.

There’s no way around it. He loved the mother of his kids. He answered your question with too much feeling and confidence. It makes no sense for you to resent the idea of it so much, but you’d rather turn your stomach inside out than linger on the subject.

Is it love? Because if that’s what you think it is, I’ll drop it.

The lines etched into his back cross your thoughts, uninvited but helpful.

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

He takes another sip and assesses you curiously. You’re not sure how you should take his lack of surprise.

“Why? Someone giving you trouble?” The corner of his lips lifts. “Other than me, of course.”

You take a long gulp of coffee, wondering why he’s acting charming, all cute and domestic for. And just what kind of exorcising you’ll have to endure to stop finding him so damn attractive.

“God,” you sigh. “You are so fucking annoying.”

You might as well have slapped him across his stupid, handsome face with the way he flinches and leans back, hand to his chest.

“Don’t show up with coffee and pretend you’re noble,” you snap, “you want something.”

And at this point, you have no idea what it could be. He never wasted an opportunity to offer himself up to you, slipping into your imagination and haunting you in your dreams. He dares you to cross the line and pushes you away when you inch close, leaving without a trace, only to show up hours later. Flirting like he didn’t put you on the spot the night before.

“I do.” he replies, unbothered, digging out his ringing phone. You swear you’ll throw it to the street if he starts playing his stupid little game or answers the call, but he only mutes it and puts it back in his pocket.

“Not sure you’re ready for that conversation, though.”

“Didn’t realize that was a concern for you.”

His regret is ill-fitting. He wasn’t built for remorse, and you have no use for his apologies. Last night is done. It’s sunny outside. You’re sure the pavement is dry by now. It’s time to wrap things up.

You collect your phone, your wallet, take a last sip of coffee, and decide that you’ll brush your teeth in the office. He gets the message and waits outside your door, watching you close it with his arms crossed.

You two haven’t finished yet. The man doesn’t know how to drop things.

“What the fuck is that?”

“A helmet.”

“Yeah, I know what a helmet is,” he snaps “Why on earth would you need one?”

“Traffic laws,” you say, hoping he feels dumb after that answer. “I don’t particularly enjoy the taste of bugs first thing in the morning.”

You hear him, feel him walking behind you. Looming over your back.

“I can drive you.”

You scoff humorlessly. “No.”

He gets in the elevator with you. Protesting feels pointless at this point. Five floors and you’ll be out. Your hands are itching for the handlebars, and the wind punching against your chest.

“Would it kill you to work with me just once? Do you have to be so difficult all the time?”

“This isn’t a group project, Fushiguro.”

“A car’s been following you since last night.”

You stop. Looking up from your phone, thumb blocking it when you see his eyes brush over the chat screen.

“What?”

“It’s been following you since we left the party. They were parked across the street all night, and gone when I left. I saw the same car in the parking lot when I returned.”

You reel back, staring up at the mirrored ceiling before recognition lands.

“That’s my father’s security.”

He stares back at you like you spoke a foreign language.

"You think Nanami would've just let me walk off with a random guy?"

It never gets old, the look on his face when he's caught off guard. You know exactly what he's thinking, that the stories you traded last night aren't suited for random guys.

“So, which was it? Were you trying to play bodyguard or just hoping I’d throw myself at you again, sober?”

His face drops. You've seen that slow, heartless ghost of a smile before. All bets are off.

“I see,” he nods, crossing his arms, condescending and cold. “You’re throwing a fit because you think I turned you down last night, and you didn’t get enough time to lick your wounds.”

You’re going full stoic today, attention back to your phone. “No, I just think you’re a coward and you’re wasting my time.”

"Why don’t you try looking at me when you say that?”

As much as you want to, you're unable to keep the apathetic mask when you face him.

Eyes predatory, shoulders tensed. There’s a current in the air making the tiny hairs behind your neck stand tall. The consequences of running your big mouth. It happens at once, like boiling milk spilling over the second you look away.

His hand slams a button on the elevator panel, bringing it to an abrupt stop. A single stride and he has you cornered, unceremoniously ripping the helmet and your phone from your grasp as your back hits the mirrored wall with a soft thud.

He moves with a speed you doubt is humanly possible, rough fingers threading into your hair, eclipsing the dull white lights.

He’s everywhere, you couldn’t run even if you wanted to.

No warnings, no hesitation. It’s game over the instant his mouth crashes into yours.

Your imagination stood no chance. You had no way of knowing it would be like this.

Those alarms and red blinking lights that called out at you every time he got close disappear. Your insides melt into liquid fire, making every muscle tense and mold into him.

His mouth moves thoroughly against yours, coaxing your lips open. You're kissing him back with just as much enthusiasm before your mind can catch up. The kiss tastes like coffee, peach flavored lip balm, and all the things you’ve tried not to want and failed time and time again.

A hand comes down to grab your jaw in a mean grip, angling you up and to the side, just the way he wants to, without any pretense of tenderness. Your hands find his chest, and it rumbles under your touch before you grip the fabric, a small attempt at grounding yourself.

He bends over, arms wrapping under your thighs, and hoists you up in a quick, effortless move.

“I told you—”

Legs tight around his waist, arms over his shoulders, you're meeting him halfway for another kiss before he can complete the sentence.

“—to choose your words carefully."

He's muttering between kisses, giving you just a second to gather some air and make sense of what he's saying.

"But you don't listen to me.”

You rip away from the kiss, forcefully and unceremoniously. Anyone else would've at least winced at the dig of your palms into his shoulders. He only blinks at you with drowsy eyes and swollen lips.

“Why would I?”

This is new, being eye to eye. You can see straight into the pitch black darkness, the way your words bring out something hostile and dangerous in them, something you can't find a name for.

"All you do is talk," you mutter with unadulterated vitriol, eyes following his throat bobbing as he swallows. "I know you're used to people listening to you for a living, but that's useless to me."

He breathes out of his nose like a mythological creature, and you're perfectly aware that you're not in the safest position right now.

You let out a fake little gasp. "That's a scary look. Are you upset?"

The tip of his tongue traces his teeth in admonition, but your certainty won't waver. It's not the rejection that's been lodged in your mind and your chest since you woke up, but what came after.

“Is it always going to be like this with you?” he asks, voice strained.

“Like what?” you dare him.

“A fight.”

Hunger, that’s the name you’ve been looking for. He looks like a starving man.

"What? Did you crawl back expecting me to be nice?"

There's something ruthless and raw about the way he kisses you at the end of that question. The back of your head meets the wall, hand wrapped around your neck with a grip that makes you want to purr.

He dives down, trailing kisses and bites down your neck, breath hitting your skin with ragged gasps. You can’t help it, don’t even notice the giggle that leaves your mouth.

He stops at once, and that makes you hesitate.

Panic settles for a second.

He lifts his face to look at you. Close, so close you’re breathing his air and feel his heartbeat against you.

“Are you having fun?” he asks, voice deep and low, pressing his forehead into yours, lips brushing yours with each word. "You like getting on my nerves?"

You hum and nod, and he eagerly nods back at you, bruised lips parting slightly, ghosting against yours.

“You’re too smug for your own good. It pisses me off."

"It does, huh?"

"Someone has to make you struggle a bit. For character development.”

He makes a choked up sound, something that could be a hoarse laugh.

There’s no point in pretending that you haven't been thinking about the feeling of never knowing what his next move will be since that day your eyes met his and the set full of people became white noise. Dark green, tantalizing, promising everything but innocent intentions. Biding his time in the corner. Whispering in your ear. Do it, ruin it, take down the house of cards, don’t hold back.

“Is that why you were all over me last night? Hm? Character development?” he follows your line of sight, doesn’t let you run from the subject and shield your pride. “Uh-huh. Hey. No. Let’s get into it. Do you know the things I wanted— could've done to you—”

You kiss him this time, making sure to bite down on his scarred bottom lip hard.

He groans into your mouth, slow and heavy, pushing himself into you. He's no longer using his arms to keep you up, only pressing you against the wall with his body. Making you feel all of him.

You’re getting too used to it too fast. It will without doubt wreck what little stability your life has, but you don’t care for those racing thoughts, not when he’s talking to you like this.

“For looking at me with—”

It has to be the first time you hear him falter with his words.

“—with those siren eyes?”

You shake your head, lost in a trance.

“For putting your hands on me like that?”

You want to hear and know exactly what he's talking about, but you’d also like to get back to kissing him.

His hand is slipping under your shirt, creeping into your lower back and splaying open, massaging the tight muscles there. It's not fair. You want to touch him too, but with him pressed so tightly against you, there's not much you can do.

“You wanna act up because you think I wanted to stop you?” His voice is gritty now. Hoarse. Self control hanging by a thread.

“If you didn't, then why?” You don't recognize your voice. Needy and spoiled. Almost desperate.

“Strategic decision,” he replies, pupils blown wide following his hands as he pulls back just enough to watch how they wrap around your waist, thumbs caressing your sides. You shiver, loudly and visibly, and he looks, wildly satisfied by that reaction. “You're right about one thing. I should stop talking so much."

You push against his hold, but he refuses to give, pins you with a glare, thumbs pressing against your ribs hard. Your back arches on pure instinct, and he licks his lip at the sight.

"I meant it when I said I changed my mind.”

That catches you off guard. It feels like he’s warning you so that you can’t complain or act blindsided later. A threat.

“And should I be scared because you had this sudden change of heart?”

He studies your face meticulously, reminding you of a madman handling a bomb.

“No, not scared,”

He pauses, and a deadly shadow crosses his face. Definitely a threat. What have you walked into?

“Not you anyway.”

Then he leans forward before you can react, pressing a searing kiss under your jaw.

A quick whisper in your ear. “Just aware.”

He releases you carefully, doing everything not to let your feet hit the ground at once, but also finding any excuse to feel you up for a while longer, even making a show out of pulling your shirt down.

He only stops when he notices you staring at him. Never one to back down, just like you.

You want him, even more than you wanted him back at Haibara's. Something that you didn’t think was possible. This time, you’re sure you’ll have him.

Eventually, somehow. It's a matter of time.

Not right now. No matter how much you miss his touch and the powerful, hard feeling of his body against you. Maybe some of that nonsense about patience is finally rubbing off on you.

You step closer and press into him, anchoring your finger in the waistband of his pants, resting your chin up on his chest. You feel him, the hard, massive ridge pressing against your stomach. The pressure is light, but it's enough to make him inhale sharply.

You think briefly of what he said, something about fitting alright. It's your time to smile in triumph. He can throw all the threats he wants at you. You play the game quietly, and you win every time. Just like your brother taught you.

"Consider me aware."

And right when he tries to push you again, you pull away and grab your helmet, hitting the button to let the doors open.

Much to your surprise, you’re already in the parking lot.

You see his hands reaching for you in the reflection, and slip from his grasp for a second time. It brings you great satisfaction to beat him at something twice in a row. He mutters something under his breath, but he follows you nonetheless, hands shoved inside his pockets.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me.” he groans, eyeing it with resentment. Sleek. All black. High top speed. Some might say too heavy for the city, but you handle her alright.

You laugh, pulling your leather gloves from your pockets, doing everything you can to pretend you’re not seriously thinking about pushing him back into the elevator and inside your apartment.

“What?”

“This is yours?” he asks, stepping closer. You swing your leg over it, and you usually love the feeling of settling on the seat, but this time it makes you think about his waist between your thighs.

You pat your butt for a second time and remember. “Phone.”

He wordlessly pulls it out of his back pocket, putting it on your open palm, eyes stuck on your bike.

“You ride this thing?”

“Jealous, officer?”

He scoffs, but the way he's eyeing it tells another story.

“Are you aware of the statistics of motorcycle fatalities?”

Your snort echoes around the empty parking lot. Your father's men are probably gawking at you two from a shadowy corner.

“Don't smother me, old man.”

He gears up a nasty and mean comeback, but you rev the engine before he can get it out. The way he flinches is a trophy in your books. He runs his palm over his mouth and closes his eyes tightly, making amends with himself.

“What’s your schedule looking like?” he asks suddenly, like it pains him to ask.

"Why? Want me to take you for a ride?"

He rolls his eyes.

“If you get a call from us, would you pick up?”

“Us?”

“The company,” he explains, gaze fixed on your thighs, on your hand gripping the handle. Two fingers come up to brush over his lips, you know what's running through his mind, and hope it'll haunt him in the days to come. “And me.”

“Wouldn’t you need my number for that?”

“I’ll find it.”

Toji drops his head over the wheel.

Visions of you taking off, speeding up the ramp, away from his eager hands, flash through his closed lids. The crease of your hips and thighs as you sat comfortably on that death machine. Your hot little mouth, pliant when he kissed you, running restlessly every time he let you pull back.

Did you crawl back expecting me to be nice?

He wouldn’t have you any other way. Even if it’s driving him insane, and letting you walk away after he had you where he’s been wanting took a biblical amount of restraint.

His phone starts ringing again. This time, the screen says Haibara. He picks up without a second thought.

“I think I found what you were looking for.”

He stops.

“Think we can meet? I don’t think this should be discussed over the phone.”

He looks at the time.

“Half an hour sounds good to you?”

“Sure. I’m in the studio if you want to drop by.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you there. Thanks, man.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We need to talk first.”

#toji fushiguro fanfiction #toji fanfiction #jjk fanfiction #toji x reader #toji fushiguro angst #toji fushiguro fluff #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction

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voraciousvore · 6 months ago

Text

The Tiny (Chapter 8)

Chapter 1 | Previous (7) | Next (9)

Content Warning: NSFW/18+! Nudity, macro/micro sex, sexual mouthplay with vore themes

Word Count: 3.5k

------ Chapter 8: Second Helpings ------

I’m getting way too stoked about eating again. The prospect of having Jackie inside my mouth is too enticing, too alluring, to ignore. I start making dinner as soon as I get home. Jackie observes me with a hint of uneasiness from the countertop as I expertly peel and chop carrots. I know the knife I'm using is big and scary to her, but my intent is not to distress her, but rather to desensitize her to being in the kitchen. I hope to prove to her that she is safe, and that I can control my compulsive eating. It’s easier to hold out, after all, with the knowledge that I may have the opportunity to indulge in her later.

I hum an upbeat tune as I toss the carrots, along with celery, potatoes, and cubed meat, into a simmering pot of beef broth. I season the mixture with salt and pepper and plenty of other spices. A hearty stew sounds appetizing—particularly if I’m able to throw in a little extra human meat later. I inhale a whiff and imagine how Jackie will taste drenched in stew as I roll her around on my tongue. My mouth waters in anticipation.

I cover the concoction and sweep Jackie into my hand, then go into my study to get some writing done. I’m behind on my work, since I spent the majority of my time yesterday jerking off. I turn on my computer and start hammering away at the keyboard. Jackie explores the surface of my desk for a while, fooling around with the oversized office supplies. I watch her with fascination out of the corner of my eye.

“Chester?” she pipes up. “Can you open up one of those books for me so I can read?”

“It’d be my pleasure, darling,” I reply, eager to please. She points to one of my history books, and a trickle of unease drains into my entrails. I know what that text contains. It tells of our bloody past, our shared history with humans when we at one time inhabited their world. It details the war between humans and giants that led to our banishment to a different realm, now referred to as the Land of Giants.

I suppose it would benefit her to understand the intricacies of giant-human relations. Perhaps she’ll understand me better, why I’m... the way that I am, around her. I obediently open the book for her and let her read while I continue to type, occasionally turning a page for her. The tome is so large compared to her, she has to journey from one side to the other as she pores over the giant pages. It’s endearing, how she’s so focused, her brows pinched together in deep contemplation.

“Chester?” she asks after a long period of quiet. “What do you know about magic?”

I pause to think. “Not much,” I admit. “Giants aren’t able to use magic, only humans are. I’ve never seen it used in my lifetime, so I don’t know.”

“Oh.” She sounds disappointed. I go back to my typing, but I ruminate over her question with disquiet. The humans used magic as a powerful weapon against giants in the war: I hope she’s not asking because she wishes to break free of my control and hurt me. That implication saddens me deeply. However, I’m being honest with her when I say I really don’t know much about the subject.

“Sorry, I wish I could tell you more. Perhaps sometime we can go to a library and read up on it. Although, that wouldn’t be safe for you, being around other giants and all.” I switch off my computer. My stomach is whining with hunger. “Dinner should be ready by now.”

I offer my hand, and Jackie readily jumps into my palm. I take her into the kitchen and serve up dinner, spooning drops of mashed-up stew into a bottle cap for my miniature lady. I fill up a bowl for myself, pour a glass of wine, and sit at the table.

I drink my wine more than I eat, despite my prodigal appetite. I sip the smallest portions of stew, swirling the warm mixture in my mouth before swallowing. I allow Jackie the time to finish her meal first. She glances up at me with increasing anxiety. I lean over her, cupping my chin in my hand while I absently stir my stew with my spoon. I don’t say anything, but my belly speaks for me, babbling noisily beneath the table. I don’t wish to impose my will upon her. She knows what I desire: I’m hoping she’ll volunteer.

She releases a nervous cough. “Do you want me to…?” The sentence dies on her lips. I cock a brow expectantly. Trembling, she points timidly to my bowl. I nod with measured tilts of my head, flashing my teeth in a substantial grin. She flinches ever so slightly, retracting her hand to clench it closer to her fragile body. Her features twist up as she avoids my gaze, opting to examine her clothes instead.

“I should probably change into the clothes I wore yesterday so this outfit won’t get ruined,” she states.

I’m more than happy to aid her in whatever she needs. “I’ll go grab them for you,” I proclaim, hopping out of my chair and nearly stumbling over my feet in my enthusiastic rush.

“Wait.” I halt my progress, straightening into a stable stance. I stand over her, concealing my annoyance. I’ve been holding back all day. If she backs out now…

Respect her wishes.

I bite my lip, silently chastising my selfishness. I can’t blame her for being scared of me. However, I notice something that piques my interest. She’s having trouble speaking again, but not from fear. There’s an intensity to her stare, a bright gleam, that stops me in my tracks. I slowly return to my seat, looking at her curiously.

“I could just…” She fumbles with her hands in that distinct idiosyncrasy of hers that I find so charming. “I mean… I don’t really need clothes at all, right? If they’ll just get messed up anyway.”

My eyebrows shoot up almost to my hairline. “That’s… that’s true.” I leer over her delicious little body, envisioning how she would taste without clothes. I swallow as I begin to fantasize about running my tongue over every inch of her exposed skin. The flesh beneath my belt awakens with lust. I grin with unbridled voracity. “You’ll taste a lot better too.”

She blushes, and I melt. She’s so cute, I could just eat her up. I settle into my chair, leaning back, and cross my arms over my chest to keep my hands from drifting to other places. Jackie bends over to remove her shoes and socks. My heartrate quickens as my blood pumps through my veins, pooling in my loins. I restrain my urge to fidget in my seat as my pants get tight. She crumples inward as she shyly stands on the table with her bare feet.

“Go on,” I coo. She slowly strips off her shirt, followed by her pants, until she’s in nothing but a bra and panties. After a moment of hesitation, she unhooks her bra and tosses it away with a dramatic flourish, swiftly followed by her underwear. She poses in all her naked glory, showing off her natural beauty.

My jaw unhinges into a dull gape of awe. I loom over her, ravishing her sleek curves with my greedy eyes. My body prickles all over with wild concupiscence, to the point where I want to rip off my own clothes, snatch her up, and acquaint her intimately with my manhood. Her tiny size is all the more appealing, as I imagine how powerful and dominant and strong and manly I must appear by comparison. I want to touch her and rub her and kiss her and nibble on her and lick her and devour her and-

My hand surges forward to seize her, but I can’t help but notice how she cowers and covers her breasts with her arms, as if embarrassed by her nudity. I stop, my fingers arcing around her without actually making contact. I’m abruptly mortified by my filthy thoughts. She never gave me permission to do such things to her, as much as I may crave her flesh.

“May I…?” I query with a sheepish wince.

“Yes,” she answers softly. I understand I need to be gentle with her. I hunch forward, holding my face level with her so I can admire all her intricate details. Her figure is full and voluptuous, plushy and feminine. I gingerly run the tip of my finger down her side, reveling in the feeling. She’s wonderfully soft, her skin smooth and warm. Her fragrance is overpowering, an irresistible ambrosia to all my senses.

My heart pounds and my breathing deepens with heavy arousal. My stomach growls and my maw floods with saliva. I’m brimming with desire, but above all I’m starving. I want her inside my mouth, NOW. I curl my fingers around her and cautiously release her into my bowl of stew, allowing her to climb in herself. It’s cooled down enough in the interim that it won’t be unpleasantly hot for her.

Her face is flushed as I eat around her, teasing her playfully with my spoon. I’m not sure if she’s reacting that way because of her stripping or because of the heat, but either way it gets me more and more impassioned. I want her badly, not merely her physical body but her spiritual core. She fits neatly into my spoon as I lift her to my lips.

My heart palpitates fast, close to bursting, as I behold her naked body slathered in stew, encompassed by my spoon. My skin burns for her touch; my tongue flexes in a lake of drool, yearning for her essence. I purse my lips, as if to blow on the spoonful to cool it. I pause, full of longing.

I take the plunge. I press my lips to her in a full-bodied, sensual kiss. My sensitive nerves light up with a magical flame that warms me all the way to my toes. She’s beautiful, superlative, sublime. The effect is magnified hundredfold when she returns my affection, planting a kiss on my lower lip. I overflow with joy.

I part my lips to display to her my mouth’s interior. She doesn’t retreat, fearlessly maintaining her grip on the shelf of my lip with her diminutive hands. Carefully, I guide her over the threshold of my teeth, until she lands on my tongue.

Her lively taste never ceases to amaze me. She rivals the daintiest confections, the richest desserts, the best cuts of meat, the most gourmet cuisine in the fanciest restaurants. They’re all put to shame by her raw, unaltered flavor. I’m a decent cook, but my stew is total slop by comparison. The lack of clothing to interfere greatly intensifies her delectable zestiness, to the point where I feel like I’ll climax from her piquancy alone.

My salivary glands pump my mouth full of slobber. I moan with pure pleasure, the vocalization rumbling deep in my throat. I energetically caress her body with my tongue, rotating her to sample and savor every detail, every crevasse, while I rub her along the inside of my mouth. Her shape is delightful, her texture as luxurious as velvet. My lascivious appetite waxes to an unbearable degree. Before I know it, my hand is in my pants. I stroke myself as tenderly as I stroke her tiny figure with my tongue.

I eat my dinner with minimal chewing, so Jackie doesn’t get jostled about more than necessary. I want to take my time and savor it all, but my hunger interferes and I eat too fast. Regardless, I treat my love with the upmost care, wrapping her in the protective muscle of my tongue to protect her from my crushing molars. I drink hefty swigs of wine and slosh her in a mini whirlpool to bring out the lush notes, before gulping the mixture down. I'm captivated and obsessed, drunk more on Jackie’s gratifying body than the alcohol. She’s divine, like a tiny goddess in my mouth.

I want to do more with her. She’s already in my mouth, naked—why not? With my dinner complete, I want to eat one last thing. Gently, so as not to bruise her tender flesh, I balance her upright against my front row of teeth, pushing her back to my incisors. Her teeny feet sink into the hot meat at the base of my jaw, bouncing with my rapid pulse. She doesn’t resist, so I persist, licking her shoulders and perky breasts. I move my tongue down to her belly, then lower, to her plush thighs. I force the tip between her legs and apply pressure upward.

She tenses, and I can almost hear her gasp in shock, but she doesn’t fight back. Encouraged, I continue, stimulating her using my rough carpet of taste buds. She’s too small for me to target a specific point with any precision, so I take a heavy-handed approach—heavy-tongued?—licking her pussy with reckless abandon. I’m rewarded with a juicy, salty burst that makes me drool and whine.

She spreads her legs wider, and I dig in deeper, lifting her off her feet so she’s balanced on the tip of my tongue. I fear I’ll drown her in my spit, but I can’t stop. My strokes get sloppier and more vigorous as my erotic pleasure rises. I masturbate aggressively, throbbing and breathing hard. I’m laser-focused on this minutest pinpoint of venereal gratification, yet her most delicious feminine feature eclipses my whole world as I lose awareness of the rest of my massive body. My tongue strains to crawl up inside her, to ascend into heaven.

Another burst of tangy liquid on my tongue, and she slackens. She pushes me back, and I reluctantly obey. I don’t want to smother her, even if I desire more. I use my spoon to remove her from my mouth. As expected, she’s soaked, with her hair a wild mess. Her eyes are sparkling and her cheeks are flushed like roses.

She’s not alone, as my face heats with a violent blush. I gulp, fearing I may have overstepped my bounds. Her libidinous juices linger within me, permeating my senses like an aphrodisiac. “That... wasn’t too much for you, was it?” I stammer.

To my relief, she giggles. “Not at all! Though it certainly caught me by surprise.” She smirks at me coyly, nibbling her lip. “Now it’s my turn, right?” She rises to her feet, perched precariously on the lip of the spoon. I cock a brow. I’m puzzled, yet aroused.

She glances down over the edge, as if gauging something. Without warning, she leaps off. I’m so stunned I fail to catch her; I clumsily drop my spoon on the table and swipe my hands through the air, to no effect. Fortunately, she lands safely in my lap—too close to my crotch, perhaps, but at least she isn’t hurt.

“What are you-” I begin, but the words hardly escape my lips before she’s slithering under my waistband into my pants. This tiny woman has already surprised me many times before, with her boldness and exceedingly generous willingness to forgive, but I never expected her to initiate this!

My cock is still rock-hard, tenting my underwear. I’m already close to bursting when her wet body contacts my sensitive sex organ, sending a cascade of pleasure through my nerves. She plants her butt in a patch of pubic hair and stretches apart her legs to straddle the thick base as much as possible. She’s too small to wrap her arms all the way around my penis, but I can tell she’s putting her full strength into jacking me off as her limbs ripple up and down my shaft.

The intense waves of carnal passion swell into an insurmountable tsunami. I can’t sit still or stay quiet as I shift in my seat and moan with unfiltered rapture. She shakes as her muscles strain to cover the vast canvas of skin in my erogenous zone. I don’t last long, since I was already on the cusp of orgasming. My meat bulges until I explode, my testicles pumping out a creamy mess into my underwear. Gasping for breath, I rescue Jackie from my pants before she gets soaked in cum along with all my sweat and saliva.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” I pant. My heart is still galloping. “But I must say, well done.”

“You did get me turned on,” she chuckles.

“I think we both need to get cleaned up now,” I comment with a grin. I bring her into the bathroom, massaging her in my hand as I weigh my options. There’s no point in putting her in the sink by herself when I need to bathe as well, is there?

“Would you like to... take a bath with me?” I ask.

“Sure.” Even though she’s been inside my mouth and my pants, she still reddens. Awww. I set her on the countertop. It occurs to me that she hasn’t seen me fully naked yet. Since she was daring enough to undress in front of me earlier, I feel comfortable shedding my shirt, pants, and underwear.

She gawks with unreserved wonder. Her eyes boggle as they travel up and down my hulking figure, pausing in the spiciest places. I’m very flattered, though I suppose it’s easy for me to look magnificent and imposing to a human, when I’m so much larger. I’m not exceptional, really—if anything, I’m a bit short for a giant man, especially compared to someone like my father. I’m not muscular either, just broad in the shoulders. Oh well.

I take her in my hand and set her on the side of the tub. Forgive my arrogance, but I can’t resist glutting myself with the adoration in her gaze as I effortlessly step over her into the water. I’ve never had a woman look up to me with such admiration. My stomach flutters. I... I like the feeling. Being big. Powerful. In control. So different from how I normally feel, when I’m usually looked down on by the other giants in my life, as soft and wimpy.

I settle into the water. Jackie, true to her character, dives in without waiting for my assistance. My body is like an island as she swims in the sloshing sea around me and surfaces on the shore of my abdomen. She scales my mountainous frame, clinging to my body hair like brush on a cliffside as she makes her way up. I revel in her every touch, as she intertwines her fingers in tufts of my hair and slides her slippery body against mine. She ascends the bulge of my pectoral and clambers up to the top of my shoulder, raising her arms in triumph when she finally conquers me.

Smiling, I begin to wash, soaping up my arms and torso. Jackie seizes the opportunity and takes a wild plunge down my arm like a waterslide. She falls into the water, but before she can swim to the surface I reach in and grab her. She erupts into a fit of giggles as I squeeze and tickle her all over with my fingers, lathering her up in soap in the process. I bring her close to my face to study her and she rubs soap onto the bridge of my nose and flicks water at me. I’m in a playful mood, so I throw her up into the air. She shrieks before dunking back into the water unharmed.

I snatch her up again and perch her on my knee. I put a drop of shampoo on the tip of my finger and pat her head so she can wash her hair, while I wash my own ruddy locks. She uses my leg as a slide again and splashes into the bath to rinse off. I let her explore my body and climb all over me as I finish cleaning myself. Eventually, she tires out and floats on her back, staring up at me with starry eyes. I’m in love.

Once we’re done, I scoop her up into my hand and emerge from the water with waterfalls flowing down my back and arms. Her bewitching gaze never leaves me, even as I wrap her up in a washcloth and we dry off and dress in our sleepwear. My heart feels full as we retire to my bedroom, and she falls asleep on my bare chest. It’s been a good day.

Chapter 9

#g/t vore #mouthplay #macro/micro #vore story

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