#she doesn't seem to be slipping in that way

[drunkinyourbenz]

୨ৎ roommate!billie headcanons

୨ৎ roommate!billie eilish x fem!reader

୨ৎ genre: fluff, smut.

୨ৎ content: sub top billie if u squint. she's a loser in denial. i love her more than anything no one understands. smut only starts near the end you can easily read the first half without any <3 oral (r receiving), fingering (b receiving)

୨ৎ note: i wanted to write more for my girl <3 roommate billie is everything to me. both billie and r are described to be 20 years old. i fear ur girl is a YAPPER bc how did i write this much for what was meant to be short headcanons. not in the same universe as the roommate billie fic i wrote, but similar vibes i think

୨ৎ wc: 2.5k

picture roommate!billie in uni/college—doing a double degree in music and environmental science/conservation. she’s on the basketball team, one of their star players. 

roommate!billie who you have a pretty dry relationship with for the first week or so, both of you unsure how to break the ice. suddenly, it clicks, and one day the two of you just work. you get used to each others routines, and she leaves breakfast out for you when she has an early morning lecture. it just works. 

over time, you and roommate!billie grow closer. a few weeks in, and she’s calling you anything but your name—pretty, love, baby, doll—anything. it’s like a second language to her, it just comes so naturally. she’s not shy about her hookups, simply sending you a small grin when a pretty cheerleader scampers out of her room, simply shrugging with a wink. 

roommate!billie who adores her degrees, and she’s a bit of a nerd—much to your surprise. the first time you realised that was a few weeks into living with her, when you were eating breakfast together and she just talked, and talked, and talked. she’d learnt something particularly interesting in her conservation class, and she wasn’t even entirely aware of the way she was talking—all starry eyed and stumbling over her words. 

it was honestly the most endearing thing, but roommate!billie definitely didn’t think so when she snapped back to reality. cheeks flushed, she pushed her hair behind her ear and looked away.

“sorry,” she’d muttered, fiddling with her hands.

“no, it’s sweet, i love it.” and you did. you loved her excitement, her passion.

those words only made her blush more, and she’d spent that night with her head buried in her hands, wondering why she’d had to make herself look like such a loser in front of you. 

roommate!billie who loses her train of thought the first time you laugh in her presence—a real laugh. not just a chuckle from her teasing, a real laugh. head thrown back, and from the heart. your shoulders shake and your face lights up, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself. she really, really likes the sound. she feels like an infatuated teenager, not a twenty year old university student—and she has no idea why. she’s dated before, and she’s normally the one dragging these reactions out of girls, not the other way around. 

roommate!billie who doesn’t really know how to handle you saying anything remotely like a compliment. she’s not shy, she doesn’t even know what’s come over her around you. when you let a pet name slip, she’ll be laying in bed thinking about it instead of sleeping. usually, she’s the smooth one who flirts with all the girls, but she seems to be stumbling over her words with you.

roommate!billie is just so infatuated with you, she doesn’t know what to do at this point. she doesn't say anything, but it’s translated in the way you often find dinner left out for you when you get home late, and the way she would always consider you when she runs down to the supermarket to get something in the middle of the week.

roommate!billie who knows your cafe order like the back of her hand. one day when she knew you were stressed about your finals, she visited you in the library, your matcha latte and croissant in hand and a cheesy smile playing on her lips. it was the little things with her. she’d always been big on physical touch, and although there wasn’t much of that in your ‘friendship’, she never missed the chance for your fingers to brush when she passed you something like a cup of coffee.  

roommate!billie who meets your family when they come to visit you for a weekend. you watch her with your younger sister, who’s only seven. she crouches down to talk to her, lets her grab onto her hand and lead her around with her childish giggles, and your sister is obsessed with her, she practically has stars in her eyes. for some reason, you can’t tear your eyes away from the sight, of her being so sweet with your family. 

roommate!billie who comes to terms with her feelings horrendously late. she realises why she’s jealous of your hookups, why she remembers every little thing you tell her, why she cares so much. when did the sight of you in one of her baggy t-shirts making breakfast become so normal, so natural? when did the way you hummed along to music in your headphones become so common that she missed it when you weren’t around? why does she spend nights when you’re away visiting your parents tossing and turning, unable to sleep? because she’s hopelessly in love with you, and she only truly realised after half a year of living with you. 

roommate!billie teammates tease her about you ever since one of them grabbed her phone when she snuck it out to text you in the locker rooms, one of them reciting the text she had typed out and adding their own spin to it before sending it. now, whenever she declines a party or has to leave early, they’re sharing grins and flinging an arm around her shoulder.

“oh, miss billie’s gotta get home to lovergirl?”

“shut up!” she’d hiss, as if you were going to hear their teasing and discover her feelings.

“aww, she’s embarrassed.” 

roommate!billie who melts every time you cook her favourite meal, every time you buy her something that “reminds you of her”, every time you watch her games and wait for her afterwards, even after the crowd is gone. you’re so sweet. she doesn’t know why you’re so sweet to her, but she never wants it to end. 

roommate!billie who doesn’t even notice the way her hookups with the girls on the cheerleading team dwindle, going from multiple a week, to one every two weeks, to none. she doesn’t even realise, she’s too engrossed in you. 

roommate!billie who’s never held back with her feelings, not until you. she was always upfront, always the first to confess—because what was the worst that could happen? but she was terrified of losing you, losing your friendship. she took it painstakingly slow, worried she’d scare you away. 

it’s only when your final exams finish that roommate!billie finally makes her move. after a month of both of you studying like crazy, and the late night talks when one of you was super stressed, it was finished. the two of you went out to a party together, billie shouting you a drink or two as her basketball friends giggled to themselves as they watched. billie had no intention of making any move that evening, but you were too perfect. the way your outfit looked, the way you seemed so free, the way your tongue darted out to absentmindedly lick the side of the glass where the drink spilt. she couldn’t take her eyes off you, trying desperately to ignore the twist in her gut and the way her fingers itch to touch you. 

roommate!billie who isn’t that drunk, but drunk enough to lean into you, her head brushing your shoulder as the two of you sat up at the bar. after a minute, wanting something to distract herself from the feelings swirling in the pit of her stomach, her hand took yours, pulling you to your feet and over to where the crowd was dancing. 

roommate!billie, who, in her drunkenness, allows herself to imagine leaning in to kiss you. she imagines how your lips would feel, how you’d lean into the kiss with your hands finding her hair. shaken back to reality, she tries not to groan at the way your body is pressed against hers, the hand on your hip tightening slightly and making you let out a gasp—breathy, barely noticeable, but there. 

roommate!billie who suddenly isn't imagining kissing you anymore, she actually is. your lips are just as soft as she’d always dreamed, and your perfume is even more intoxicating up close. 

roommate!billie who pulls you flush against her when she feels you kiss back, and your fingers tangle in her hair—just like she’d imagined—and she swears she hears you moan into the kiss. a sweet, mind-altering sound that makes her short circuit. she pulls back, and then it clicks. that wasn’t how she wanted it to go. she didn’t want the first kiss between the two of you to be rushed, in a room full of other drunk people. you’re drunk. she doesn’t want to do this with you—not like this. 

pulling away from you fully, roommate!billie doesn’t expect you to follow her once she leaves the club. grabbing at her arm, you stop her, spinning her around. your eyes lock, and she swallows.

“i–shit, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to—you were just so—fuck—”

“billie.”

“you’re– i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have–” 

“billie. stop.”

she hears you this time, eyes darting up, all soft and apologetic, and you almost melt. you faltered, and she continued.

“i’m sorry i kissed you.”

eyebrow raised, you hum. “that’s a shame, was hoping you'd do it again.”

“i—what?”

roommate!billie who truly had no idea of your feelings. she’d told herself time and time again that you were just being friendly, that you were like this with everyone. but you weren’t, and that’s obvious enough when you pull her in for a second kiss. a second kiss that’s just as much, if not more magical than the first. 

hands dipping slightly under your shirt, roommate!billie pulled you closer, deepening the kiss. a moment later, you pull apart—only slightly. “bils, it’s cold.” you murmur, an almost pathetic whine leaving billie’s lips at the loss of contact. “lets go home.”

at that idea, roommate!billie brightens up a bit. she can handle a car ride without her lips on yours if it means the two of you can be alone—and warm, too. admittedly, it is cold outside in the chill of the night air.

“yeah,” she whispered, “yeah, let’s get you home.”

the moment you’re back in your shared apartment, roommate!billie pulls your shirt over your head and unclasps your bra like a second nature. the two of you are stumbling into a room—you’re pretty sure it’s hers—with soft giggles and breathy whines filling the air. you fall back onto the slightly messy blankets on billie’s bed, and billie freezes. looking down at you on her bed, your chest heaving slightly, lipstick smudged, eyes fixed on her like she’s the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen, and she whimpers.

“fuck, you’re so pretty…”

your lips curl up, and you shift backwards slightly on her bed, laying on your back with your elbows propping you up as you look up at her. “oh, you’re the pretty one.” 

roommate!billie can’t take it anymore, and she reaches for the waistband of your pants, looking at you from between your legs with her pleading blue eyes. “can i…?”“go ahead,” you murmur, and billie does exactly that. unbuttoning your jeans, situating herself between your thighs as she stares at your panties.

“a matching set,” she finally murmurs, eyes flickering up to the bra hanging off your shoulders in the same colour. “you plan this?”

“i can’t lie, i had my hopes.”

at that, roommate!billie has pulled your panties down around your ankles, and she revels in the way your hips jolt up to be closer when she finally slides her tongue between your folds. she glances up at you, that cheeky, cocky grin that you know so well plastered on her lips as her eyes watch your face.

clicking your tongue softly, you lean forward, one hand gently on her shoulder as you push her back down. you don’t speak, but she knows what you’re telling her to do—and it’s then that she realises that she kind of adores when you get bossy. it made her melt, and if she were standing, her knees would have probably buckled beneath her. instead, she simply returned to her rightful place between your legs, hands holding your thighs open as she ate you out, occasionally pausing to leave a gentle kiss or a bite on your inner thighs. she notices every little thing, the way your breath catches, the way your head falls back ever so slightly. every reaction, no matter how miniscule, she sees.

roommate!billie who takes her time with you. she’s been waiting for longer than she can possibly say, and she isn’t rushing this. she wants it to be perfect, this isn’t just a usual hookup to her. this is everything she’s wanted, and she can’t help the eye-rolling thought of you the next morning, limbs tangled up with hers, the marks she’s left littered over your skin as a reminder of her. she can’t help but picture you in another one of her hoodies, your soft giggles as the two of you make breakfast together. 

oh, this is so much more than just a hookup to roommate!billie

roommate!billie who’s somehow moaning just as much as you are as she helps you ride through your orgasm, the sight of your head thrown back and your thighs on either side of her face too much for her. if it were a cartoon, she’d have big red hearts shooting out of her eyes, she’s absolutely whipped. she could gladly spend hours between your legs, eating you out until she fell asleep with her head on your chest.

roommate!billie who watches you as you come down from your high, watching your chest rise and fall and your mouth open in a silent gasp. she watches you with nothing but adoration in her eyes, softer than she’s ever looked at anyone before in her life. 

roommate!billie who can’t help but let out a yelp when you flip her over, straddling her waist and pressing your lips to hers. she kisses back, but her mind is still catching up, filled with a sense of awe at the sight of you on top of her. you moan slightly as you taste yourself on her tongue, and your hands rub soft circles onto her hips as you deepen the kiss.

you pull back, taking in the way her mouth is gaped open and her eyes wide, and you can’t stop the grin that appears on your lips.

“what, think i can’t give as good as i get?” 

within seconds, you’ve pulled her jeans off, and roommate!billie is hopelessly moaning as your fingers push past her underwear and curl inside her. leaning down, you press soft kisses against her inner thighs, moving your fingers precisely inside of her as your tongue darts out to lick at her clit. she cums embarrassingly fast, already so worked up from getting you off, and she lets out the sweetest moan as she watches you bring your drenched fingers to your mouth, tasting her.

you watch the totally awestruck look on her face, leaning in to kiss her lips again before pulling back ever so slightly to whisper against her lips, “you’re so pretty.” 

roommate!billie who, after the two of you clean up in the bathroom, tugs you back to her room. passing you one of her oversized t-shirts, she watches as you pull it over your head and her heart skips a beat at how soft you look wearing her clothes. laying in her bed, she pats the spot beside her, and the second you’re close enough she’s pulled you in, snuggled up to you, head buried in your chest. 

roommate!billie who can’t quite believe her luck when the two of you have a conversation the next morning, all sleepy and domestic, and you agree to her suggestion of a date. two weeks later, you’re her girlfriend. her teammates are sick to death of her being so lovesick, the way she’ll bring you up whenever she possibly can, “oh, my girlfriend-” “me and my girlfriend-” but they’re not really as exasperated as they pretend to be. they’d rather have her being utterly obsessed with you than dealing with her months of desperate pining. she brags about you to anyone who will listen, kisses you in front of everyone after all of her games. 

roommate!billie who is totally, madly in love with you.

୨ৎ tags: @47lake @st0nerlesb0 @n0vabug @darkside-0f-the-sun @asterisk-eyes @amara-eilish @dragoneyelashart @greenbttrflyy @bilswifee @tan1shere @asothinking @ilovealiceosemann @chrissv4mp @lovelyy-moonlight @b1lli3sgirl @giababyyyishereee @bitchesbrokenpromises @foliverfalls @cantlandonmyfeet @too-sapphic-to-function @karaaeilish

[secretlysamcro]

You already know I love Jax and Reader in Till It's Gone because I am a sucker for angst 🙃🫶🏻 I'm just over here getting ready for bed and had a thought.

I'm guessing Jax is still sleeping with Tara during all this because she's still his wife, but is Jax ever unsatisfied with the sex that he's over there hiding out in the bathroom getting off thinking about Reader instead? Especially because he just slept with Tara but it was absolutely not as good?

Today’s been hectic. Meetings with pope, trying to keep shaky alliances from falling apart and cleaning up club shit that never seems to end. Jax finally leaves the clubhouse behind, the chaos simmering without him. The guys are either getting high, getting head, or fucking whatever's warm enough to count, could be their hand, could be a crow eater.

But all he can think about, is you. He checks the time on his phone, 2:07am. Late, real late. And he knows you love your sleep, but still, he tries his luck.

JAX: You up?

He swings his leg over his bike, flicking his zippo open to light a smoke as his eyes still linger on the screen, thumb hovering like he's willing your response to make an appearance. But there's nothing, no reply. So he pockets the phone and starts the engine, riding home slow, with the wind biting at his knuckles. The streets of charming mostly dead at this hour, except for the weight in his chest.

The house is quite when he pulls up, that eerie stillness that only comes in the dead of night. He runs a hand over his face, knowing that thankfully the boys, especially Tara, will be out cold by now. So when he steps inside and she's still sitting awake on the couch, he pauses. "Hey" he says, shrugging off his kutte and hanging it up.

Tara looks over from the screen, "Hey..." she echoes, standing to meet him "...You're later than usual" there's no bite in her tone though, just a genuine observation.

Jax rolls his shoulders, stretching out the tension like it's second nature "Yeah, just tryna to set some shit straight" his hands land on his hips, "Boys have a good day?" She steps closer now, and he notices the silk robe she's clutching barely hides anything. "Boys are fine..." she breathes, her tone dipping as she adds "Me...not so much" she lets go of the robe, letting it slip open as she presses her palms flat against his chest, fingers gliding upwards towards his collar bones. Her eyes flicking over his lips suggestively. She presses herself firmly against him, like she's trying to pull him back into something she doesn't even know he's already stepped out of.

He doesn’t stop her though, not because he wants it to happen, but because saying no would mean explaining why, and right now, he's too tired for that lie. So he just stands there, letting her touch him, letting the moment move forward whilst every thought in his head is somewhere else.

He follows her into the bedroom on autopilot. Stripping off his tee, kicking his air forces off, dropping his jeans in silence while she lies back on the bed, naked and waiting for him, completely open.

"Turn round" he mutters, his voice dark.

She smiles softly, trying to turn it playful, but he doesn't smile back.

"Turn. Over." he says, harder than before.

There's a short pause before she nods faintly and rolls onto her stomach, shifting her knees positioning herself the way she thinks he likes it. He steps up behind her, with a blank expression, lining himself up and pushing into her without a sound, no sharp breath, no groan of pleasure, nothing. His hands find her hips because that's what he's supposed to do, because he knows how this goes. But his grip is hollow and his rhythm off.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but not from pleasure, avoidance. And then, there you are. Filling the blank spaces in his mind. The way you kiss him, the way your back arches just right, your breath hitching with the way your body wraps around him. Not like this, not like her.

She shifts beneath him, trying to grind her hips back to meet his thrusts, trying to find some sort of rhythm. But Jax barely reacts. His jaw clenches and his stare fixed on a crack in the wall, nowhere in the moment. And she senses it, the disconnect, the absence.

"Jax?" she pants, breath heavy as she glances over her shoulder.

He doesn't answer, his body just keeps moving, slower now, like he's only just realised this is going nowhere. Like he's finally accepted that no matter how hard he tries to come, he won't.

"Jax?" she repeats, firmer this time.

And that's when he suddenly pulls out, stepping away from the bed, rubbing a hand through his hair. His chest rising and falling with the weight of something he can't say. "Sorry" he speaks quietly, eyes scanning the room like maybe the lie will fall out of the air "I just...club shit. Lot on my mind right now"

Tara then sits up slowly, wrapping the sheets around herself, her brows furrowed in confusion. "Jax, I..."

"I'm gonna take a shower" he cuts her off, voice already distant. He doesn't look at her, doesn't wait for her to speak again, just walks out, still naked, shoulders tense, leaving her sitting there, silent and empty.

The bathroom door shuts with a quiet click, but it sounds louder in the silence of the house.

He steps under the spray, the water pelting his shoulders as he leans forward, both hands braced against the tiles. His breath is shaking, and his heart pounding furiously beneath his Abel tattoo. He closes his eyes for just a second, and all he can fucking see is you.

He lowers one hand, wrapping it around his cock and closes his eyes again. There you are, mouth parted, lashes fluttering as you moan his name with that desperate little gasp he always manages to drag out of you. The sound of your voice breaking as you beg him not to stop fucking you. His hand moves faster now, his grip tightening your voice ringing in his head, clear as anything "Fuck, J..Jax...right...right there..." His head thuds against the tile, his teeth bare, the water cascading over the tight muscles in his back as his whole body tenses, every nerve on fire.

He comes with a muffled groan, his breath stuck in his throat as his free hand shakes before bracing himself properly, the water washing away the evidence before he can even open his eyes. But the guilt? that doesn't wash away. He turns round, sliding down the wall slowly, knees to his chest, arms resting across them with his head bowed under the waterfall. The water drips from his lashes in heavy drops, sliding down his cheeks like tears. It runs off his lips, trails down his chest, over his arms, and off his knuckles, as he tries, really tries to get you out of his fucking head.

TILL ITS GONE SERIES MASTERLIST

[xx-akubara-xx]

ANOTHER AU THAT I HAVE NO TIME FOR: FallingStars

Remember this concept art way back?

I'm going to yap a little about this Bill's backstory.

When he was born, his special eye was seen as more of a blessing than an abnormality. To the point where Bill was hosted as some sort of profit- a god.

According to prophecy, he was to bring the stars to Euclida. And he had every intention to live up to everyone's expectations.

But it didn't work out.

Bill failed as a god and as a son. This event was already devastating him, but things just got worse from here.

See, in this AU, this entire dimension is actively dying. Anything that could go wrong, does.

Time Baby is a geriatric skeletal old man. There is no law and order. There is no chaos. Every world is either actively withering away or is already just gone.

Bill never had a chance to become a problem.

You want to vandalize that bar? It hasn't been open in centuries, but go for it. You want to destroy that planet? Solar flares beat you to it, but have fun.

Bill still collects 'henchmaniacs' but he collects them while acting as a 'God' as that's all he knows. His followers follow him - because what else is there to do?

But none of it mattered. No matter what Bill did -every living thing he comes across dies somehow. He was a god of a dying reality.

Eventually, he comes across Earth... alone at this point in the story.

And Earth seems like a paradise at first. Only at first. Infinite energy, and fantastic technology- but riddled with ever evolving plagues and crippling solar flares that threaten mass extinctions.

Bill finds and becomes Ford's Muse in this world. He encourages him to build a portal to escape from their dying reality.

Stanford isn't as optimistic as Bill. How can he? His brother died years ago, organs harvested for the black market. The remainder of his family has long passed for various reasons. There is no Shermie. There will never be another set of twins.

He doesn't see the point of trying to save humanity or himself.

But he loves this Bill. Worships him.

So he makes the very sane decision to build a doomsday device instead of a portal. And he attempts to take out Bill with him.

Bill survives this —like he somehow survives everything else.

But no Ford. No humans. Nobody left.

Fortunately, reality decays enough for him to slip out into another one. (Or something like that)

Absolutely disillusioned and with the most pessimistic worldview, he ends up somehow adopting Anti-Mabel. Or she adopts him. Hard to tell.

...If you can't tell, this AU is insanely busy and could easily be cut up into 2-3 different storylines on their own. And I don't have the time for any of them.

[cbk1000]

So, Mr. Jenn's grandma is in her 90s, and has been in the early stages of dementia for a while now. She's still coherent, and still able to take care of herself and live independently so far, so there's been no move to put her in an assisted living facility. But this does mean we hear some kind of wild stuff. She has a lot of paranoia and has been complaining about people in her attic (she lives in a one-story apartment), and recently she told my MIL (her daughter) that the people who were out to get her are also after MIL and FIL's new Labrador puppy. The people in her attic have also attacked her with some kind of ray gun? (Not actually sure if that's what she called it, but her descriptions of it basically sound like some kind of sci-fi weapon that they're apparently using to knock her down.)

Anyway, the latest now is that my FIL and I have back-to-back birthdays (me on Monday, him on Tuesday), and we always celebrate together with a dinner on whatever the closest Saturday is when our birthdays fall on weekdays. He called Mr. Jenn today (they talk every day when Mr. Jenn gets off work) and tells him that grandma will not be at the birthday dinner tomorrow, because 'no one loves her.' As a specific example of this, she said 'Jenn hasn't spoken to me in two years.'

We have a family get-together at his parents' (grandma included) for every major holiday, plus every birthday (hers included). She's seen me multiple times in the last few months. She just saw me two weeks ago, for Mr. Jenn's birthday. I remember talking to her at his birthday. My FIL told Mr. Jenn he specifically remembers me talking to her at his birthday.

No idea why she has decided that I specifically have not spoken to her in years (we get on well because she was a bit eccentric even before the dementia, and I go down enough weird rabbit holes that I can hold a conversation on lots of things without judgement because when you've sought out the parts of the internet I've sought out, you can't judge), but dementia is really a bitch if it makes you turn down a free dinner.

[agoldenlily]

She has the thought that he just might pull away from her, that he might set her away because it's too much. Of course it was. Why did she even do it? The feeling sank low inside of her, coursed through her with a steady ache that she can't even understand. The feelings were overwhelming mainly because she didn't even know what any of those feelings meant. They had to mean something but sorting through them almost seemed like far too much of a chore. Sorting through any of them felt like moving at a glacier pace.

Usually she felt like she was entirely grounded. Her thoughts rarely confused her even if it took her awhile to even understand herself. Yet right now she felt like she floundered no matter what step she took or what thought she allowed to come to the forefront of her mind. Her thoughts were all jumbled and she was unsure which ones she was allowed to cling to. The feelings were laced through each thought carefully and that only complicated things further, making it feel more heavy than something like this actually ought to feel.

Maybe it was the warmth of his hands on her or the way that she could feel each breath he took in and let out. The solidness of his body pressed near to her, the tangible being that stood there in front of her. She wanted to know that those breaths were easily coming from him. She wanted to make sure that he wasn't burdened as she felt right then. It was too much for her and to condemn him to feeling this same exact feeling would only be selfish. Yet the thought that he wasn't feeling any of it was something that she didn't think that she could abide.

Almost she pulled away from him even with his hands resting on her, warm scars nearly that she doesn't think that she will ever recover from. It's the knowing that she will have to walk away from this moment and then have to see him again and again afterwards, never knowing what else might stand on the other side of this touch, this nearness. It was almost a burden unto itself to imagine it, a feeling that she couldn't rethink no matter how much she wanted to. Even if he ended up wanting her to forget all of it.

But she doesn't move. She doesn't feel like she could, the closeness sank inside of her and she knew that once he walked away there would be an echo of him left behind. Like the quietest of memories that one wanted to catch onto but they were ever so fleeting, slipping through your fingers. Yet those memories always hit you the hardest when they were recovered. They always clung to you, never allowing a single moment to breathe when you least expected them. She had to wonder if he could even guess that he made her feel that way.

"Stay." She whispered against his back, her eyes closed as her nose brushed the shirt that he wore. It was all warmth and there was the familiar scent of him fluttering in the air that she allowed to ingrain in her senses, every single one of them, settling around her like an after image. He left those traces everywhere. In this room, in the stables, near her throne, outside where they greeted him on ceremony, on the decanter of wine that he carried with him whenever they were together. The neck of it settled there between the ring of his fingers.

That word proved to be a wound that she didn't think that she could quite stitch. Could he? He could. She knew that he could. Were he to turn around now and take her up fully into hi arms, promise her things that made it seem like forever could exist in this world. That would be the healing salve to whatever emptiness and loneliness had eroded into her life. Something as simple as that, existing near to her with the intention of remaining with her no matter what. That would be the decision that she could live with, regardless of the aftermath.

It wasn't only the hope because she was alone though. She had felt a whisper of this before, when he had first started to come here, moments in Ebou Dar when he had saved her life. That relief that she had felt when she had seen his men erected the Seanchan banner, when he had gladly welcomed her back after her men had nearly died on the battlefield. The pride she had felt swell inside of her when he had decided to trust her more than anyone else during the preparations for what might have been the end of the world. All of it had awoken in her a tinge of a color that she couldn't see past.

But none of it was right and none of it was permanent. He was leaving in the morning and his horse would leave with the echo of hooves chasing behind it. He would leave with a rumpled bedroom and a presence in the room that she knew she would be able to feel for days. He would leave and she would have to wonder whether it was memory or experience for him at the other side of the world. That made the difference. Did he think of her in much the same way that she found herself burdened with thinking about him?

Finally she did draw back although she didn't back away. She regretted the loss of his touch but she felt him still against her, ghosting her body as though she had felt it before. "But if you stay…" her voice was small, too small and she was almost ashamed of it. The way that it barely came from her lips, the way that she could barely meet his eyes. What did he think of her then? What could he think of her when she was attempting to cross boundaries that neither of them had discussed but both of them lived by? "…if you stay what happens tomorrow?" Her hands came together, she wanted to capture the feeling of him left there beneath them. She eventually managed to lift her eyes to his, uncertain, smaller than before. She wasn't going to beg but it did feel like a plea. "…what would you end up thinking of me?" That seemed more important than she could even possibly fathom.

what had he expected her to do? maybe just to agree, maybe a goodnight here and there. a touch of her hand there on his arm. a soft press maybe. but nothing more. something that would linger there long after. like so many things that she did. small things, the sound of her laugh, the way she tossed her head back. her curls falling loose. her hand finding his arm. small things. half the time he swears it's just agitation. he just wants to hate her for all of it. she was bloody frustrating. she wanted to be a bother him, didn't she? annoy him, frustrate him to no end. sometimes he wanted to never have to come here again.

but here he was. here he was and he felt terribly defenseless. that was a feeling he had actively fought against. thom had taught him how to carry a knife anywhere he could reach them. always on guard, a reason to look over his shoulder no matter where he went. a weak link in the carefully crafted protection could prove fatal. but here, in a funny sort of way he feels like it's all crumbled. his jacket's been tossed somewhere. but there was no reason to be so armed with elayne. that seems to be a lie now there, a joke really.

he feels her all at once. her arms around him, her chest to his back. her hand on his stomach, burning through the light fabric of his shirt. there's a heat beating on his neck, a light sheen of sweat there from the earlier drinking. he considers untangling her arms from around him. this is now the closest he's ever been to her. he keeps measuring it tonight. and he won't stop to consider why, why it matters. this was all getting out of hand. he was starting to feel like he was playing the fool. standing here like this, thinking that there was more to this than just her - her what? wanting a friend to stay. only that. if he stand it long enough he might actually buy that.

he remembers the fire in her eyes, the feel of her soft skin to his lips, the dizzying smile she gave him. he had been in and out of her court here in andor. she hadn't smiled at any one like that. but those were foolish notions, making him sound like a bloody love sick idiot. something that she would no doubt gloat over! now he's agitated, confused, like maybe she had planned this whole thing just to get under his skin. but something about that didn't sit right with him. because of tonight? because her arms around him made it hard to think straight? a man couldn't be blamed. in spite of who she was elayne had a face that made it hard not to stare. all these careless thoughts, like something had cracked.

as much as he hated it most of the time elayne played her role well. it wasn't even an act, decorum, her head so high up that no one could knock her down. she was a queen and she made sure everyone knew it. which drove him to the wild conclusion that knocked around in his head. that she wouldn't simply toss herself like this for a game, for a little joke. she was doing it because she wanted to? she wanted to slip her arms around him and press close like this? if he let himself he could let his head toss around a million mad ideas about what she might want.

he'd be a light blinded idiot to get caught up in that sort of thinking though. he refuses to. completely rejects it. he knows all the ways to save his skin. he's not going to get drawn into idle thinking. people did stupid things when they were drinking. he had done his fair share. this was not going to be one of them. but he still had to do something about his problem here. find a solution to her hanging onto him like this. like he could somehow find a way of disengaging her arms from around him, disengaging her from inside of him, and forgetting this whole ordeal entirely.

it was starting to feel like that. an ordeal. weighing heavily on his mind. one that he should've sought out the exit for a long time ago. only he can't seem to see beyond this room. there's nothing else in the world tonight. there's only that half gone bottle of wine he wants to blame, him standing there almost awkwardly. his hands half raised to take her off of him. and her, confusing and frustrating as she was. standing there, almost clinging to him. a thought that he had never thought he'd have. and he feels a sense of shock hit him, like something stabbing away at him. he should've left when he had the chance.

"elayne…." and her name feels both foregin and familiar on his tongue. like something forbidden. like something he shouldn't have said. and yet it comes so lightly, as it would a friend. but he knows that he's just lying to himself then. there's too long of a pause. he feels the need to overanalyze it suddenly. to dissect it until some part of it makes some kinda sense to him. he doesn't like being caught off guard. the surprise has struck something inside of him that he can't rightly explain. her name now this pause, it all feels endless. he usually knows what to say. but the words won't come.

finally then his hands come to her arms around him. he's determined to remove her from him. maybe even shake some sense back into her. she had some nerve coming up behind him like this. like she thought he would have no other choice but - but what? and it dawns on him in a moment of aching clarity that maybe she was stuck in the same place he was. but that seemed impossible, he knew that it had to be impossible, he was sure of it. or he could tell himself he was sure of it a million times over until finally it stuck.

only he doesn't take her arms off of him. he simply sets his hands on her arms. it's almost as if he's not even aware he's done it. his hands on her arms, moving gently so that he can settle them over her hands. and it's a dizzying feeling, the contact. "you should." but that's some weak defense now. and his heart races in his chest. the possibilities now are alive and vivid in his head. how the rest of this night could go. what one word could lead to whether right or wrong. but he doesn't move his hands. and he almost sinks into the feeling of her there behind him. "or i could stay."

[scoriarose]

An update on Sakura, who when I first got her would panic and blindly flail (sometimes throwing herself into her water dish or other unpleasant things) now coming to me of her own choice when I talk kindly to her.

This is months of work from both of us. She has worked very hard to be brave, and I've been trying very hard to show her that humans can be kind, safe, and good. This moment means so much to me, at one time I wasn't sure we might ever get here.

I won't deny her sister Scoria helped greatly. I've seen her comfort Sakura when she was scared, and Sakura be infinitely more confident with her sister near. Sakura would watch Scoria and me cuddle, and learn by watching her trusted sister.

I hope that with more patience, and love, and consent based interactions we can form a bond too.

No matter what happens though, I will love her and her sister and do anything to be sure they are happy.

[renegadecreation]

(pulling this over to my sideblog to reply ^^)

i think Ethan's dynamic with Grace is definitely a combination of the two! to me it's also worth looking at how he interacts with Alanna - protective and offensive and defensive by turns, until he settles on being a reluctant possession, but he doesn't move to physical aggression at the club in FO until she rebuffs him a few times - and Paris - he's not aggressive with her, exactly, but he is blunt, and acts in a similar way with Sloane while being more deferent to Neely and Kodiak. i think his more aggressive behavior also shows up with Krieger, Gabriel - men he's more antagonistic with, but not with Hunley - someone he doesn't really seem to like at first but still doesn't lash out at.

imo everything after his initial reaction to Grace is him trying to read her reactions and balance what he needs her to do with what action he thinks will get the best response (plus or minus the weird dip into romance around the decompression chamber and right before he leaves the shootout to chase after Gabriel, where he keeps on cradling her face. i have questions about that). in DR1 he tries to be more empowering to her - bringing her with him to plant the keys on the target she stole half from, assuring her she has the wheel in the car scene, telling her to stop the train, but i think by FR he's realized that she responds better to reassurance/compassion. my favorite example of their dynamic working well is right after the thwarted torture scene, where they're in a hurry and Ethan is obviously eager to leave but stops to reassure Grace because that's what she needs to keep moving. to me his changing behavior with Grace is less about learned traits/instinct and more about him being really good at reading people and inspiring them.

what i do think is most interesting to me about Ethan's instincts is how he decides what his initial approach will be. i'd argue that approaching Grace as a creep in DR1 could well have been intentional! all he knew about her is that she had a long record of crime, and it seems to me that his default approach to people in general - the police officer in FO, the girl in the record store in RN, Briggs, etc. - is kindness, but when approaching someone he knows has criminal involvement or supposes to have some kind of dangerous self interest - Krieger, Nyah, Grace, even Brandt right after the Burj where he realizes he's hiding something - he starts with a more pushy approach that would be off-putting but predictable to them and works from there. even with Ilsa, before he knows she's on his side he starts by making a comment about her shoes that could be read as hitting on her.

which makes the scene with Claire stand out a lot, because he knows her, and he knows she should be on his side! for me it's really hard to tell if that's how he treats Claire because that's how Jim treated her, or if that's his base personality (i don't think so, to me the least filtered version of him we get is him socially with Luther where he's really leaning into following Luther's lead), or maybe his base personality of how he treats just women when he can't be bothered to be nice? or if he's suspicious of her and it's the same brand of aggressive charisma he pulls out on Krieger or Grace, where he almost flattens himself into this insufferable one-note person as a disguise to make them think they understand him fully and then slip up.

(i hope this comes off as a discussion more than me saying i'm right about this - i haven't rewatched the movies in a while, so there could definitely be some points of characterization that i'm missing)

the contrast between these my god--

claire controlling and manipulating and smothering ethan and mi1 and ilsa's quiet dignity towards in the beginning of rogue nation, as she's preparing to torture him. that's not to deny that the claire patdown was gross as fuck, but it's a look into how ethan follows the tone they set for him.

[sunni-stuff]

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Reader who gets pregnant off of a one night stand with some soldier during armed forces day, showing your appreciation for his service a little too well.

You had a support system, friends who joked about you having way too much fun, hence your predicament, others already offering to buy things for the baby and your parents who couldn't be happier to meet their grandchild.

But what about the father?

Well, it's not exactly like you could track him down. Fuck, you didn't even know the man's name, only how he made you feel, his filthy words strumming in your ear, big hands tight around your waist, hips slamming away in a desperate chase.

Let's forget how you leg-locked him.

When your daughter was born, everything changed, and time slowed down. She was a quiet baby, barely crying or having any outbursts like a normal child would but outspoken in her own little way. That chunky thing came out of the womb with a glare. Brown eyes staring down anyone and everyone but you.

That's something she definitely got from her father. You vividly remember how his umber eyes watching you from across the bar. He was like an eagle waiting for the perfect moment to strike his prey. A perfect soldier.

So, you named your daughter Adira in memory of his strength. That's one thing he could have.

Adira loved to be by your side. Her chubby cheeks pressed into the nook of your neck, holding you close with strength of a thousand babies. Your clingy little thing was a koala, always by her mommy's side, never straying far no matter how curious she got. When she learned to walk, her favorite thing became to hug your leg, especially while in stores. She hated people, wearing a tiny scowl whenever customers passed by tucking herself closer to you.

Maybe it was a good thing her father wasn't around. Having to compete for her first words would've been a bloodbath.

You spent two years in bliss. The fact that you were a single mother an afterthought to raising what you considered a blessing.

With Adira's second Christmas coming up, you wanted to do something special. She loved trains and found them absolutely amusing, often mimicking the honk as she ran around your apartment. Thankfully, there was a train ride for kids around the park during this time of year.

Here, you stood in line, bundled up to the nines. Big poofy coat, warm gloves, and fuzzy boots. As the crowd moved, Adira clung close, arms wrapped around your leg, glowering at any passerby with an annoyed look on her rosy cheeks.

That one was new. Maybe something else she got from her father.

The two of you took steps in tow, keeping Adira close and comfortable as the train came into view. Her expression shifted, excitement palpable. "Twain!" She squealed, jumping up and down.

Before you could respond to Adira's childlike joy, a man bumped into you by accident, nearly stumbling over his own feet. He turns to look at you, blue eyes meeting yours, but you were too focused on the weird ass Mohawk on his head.

People wore still those?

"Sorry bout that lass." The man starts to apologize, a Scottish accent lacing his voice.

That breaks your stare, laughing awkwardly to mask your wandering gaze. "Oh no, it's fine. You should be careful. you might slip on ice."

He nods, giving you a kind smile. The Scottish man starts to leave, but the look your kid was giving him sent shivers down his spine.

Little Adira was giving him a fierce stare down from behind your leg before ultimately cutting her eyes at him as if he were merely a nuisance.

"Next in line! Mctavish!"

The man doesn't stay after that. You assume that it was him they were calling with the way he hurried off. Hope he doesn't fall, seemed like a nice guy.

Soap can't help but do a double take when be gets to the front. The little rascal was wearing his Lieutenants face, hawk eyeing anyone who dared got to close. It was like looking in a mirror.

He nudged Gaz, making a gesture to look back without making it obvious. "See the lass and her bairn in line?"

Gaz gives him a raised brow, looking back for a second before turning around. "There's a lot of kids with their mother's, Johnny."

Soap glances back, double checking to make sure you were still in line. “The lass with the wee one—she’s got the same wicked look as Lt. You cannae miss her.”

Gaz rolls his eyes but humors Soap by looking once more, his eyes scanning the crowd until they land on a little girl already mean-mugging him from a distance. He swiftly turns around, blinking in surprise, trying to comprehend what he saw. "Uh..."

Soap only nods in agreement. That was Ghost's face, on a kid no less. He wastes no time, elbowing Roach and getting him to look back as well, leaving the other Sergeant in the same shock as Gaz. "That is not a face a kid should have."

"Agreed." Gaz added, shuddering at the thought.

"Where's the cap?" Soap asks, the train ride no longer feeling like fun now that he’s discovered the jackpot.

"Market place with Lt. for cigs," Gaz knowingly remarked, remembering that Price had run out on their way here.

"Well, let's go show them a Christmas miracle," Soap shot up from his seat all too eagerly.

The sergeants just got their Christmas present.

[madamechrissy]

Lead It Southbound

Pairings - Pornstar! Satoru x F! reader x OF Star! Nanami

Warnings - ridiculously filthy mmkay, cum swallowing (m and f) oral (m and f recieiving) anal, double penetration, a TON of jealousy, possessive as fuck Satoru, yearning and pining Nanami, they're competitive you're their little toy, filming porn, double creampies, porn without plot, they're both so obsessed with you

This is so filthy, an alt universe with reader from Baby You're a Star, with secret Onlyfans star Nanami and Pornstar Satoru. It's not part of the story! But more a WHAT IF situation, where Nanami and Satoru shared you on camera WC- 4.5k

Nanami Kento is gripping your hips, dragging your slick cunt against his face, while Satoru Gojo is kissing your lips, gripping your chin with his slender fingers so tightly, while your cries fill the room and echo, mixing with the squelching of your cunt.

You can't even fathom how you got here

When Nanami’s long tongue flicks up to your clit, you gasp out, whining into Satoru's mouth, tasting the sweetness of his lips, only for him to pull back and pout them then, dilated blue eyes glaring under snowy lashes.

"You better not like that more than my mouth," he huffs, scowling even deeper as Nanami's tongue flicks right on your clit, and he's gripping your chin tighter, all while you're struggling not to scream, already knowing how mad he is. "You don't, do you?"

"Mnh! N-Nanami!" is your weak response, as you can't hear him, body convulsing with Nanami groaning against you, vibrating right on your clit. He's pressing his cock against the mattress, leaking pre while tasting you on his tongue, coating his tastebuds as you grip his sandy blond locks. Nanami's been dreaming of tasting you, so he doesn't miss a single drop from your soppy hole. "Ah!" You cry out again, pretty breasts heaving up and down with your breaths while his tongue dances against your sensitive cunt.

"My turn," Satoru says, glaring down at you again. But Nanami chuckles softly, unmoving, simply slipping a thick digit in your cunt while his sandy blond hair falls over his brow, sweating from the exertion of lapping at you. He raises a thin brow, eyeing Satoru with a devious smirk. Nanami seemed like a gentleman, but he certainly ate pussy like a fiend. "I'll eat her pussy way better than you."

"Huh," Nanami drags his fingers down your waist and hips, pressing kisses up your body. "Doubt that."

Nanami can't help but suck your tiny clit into his mouth again instead of listening, moaning as your cunt gushes down his mouth and even his chin, dripping down his neck as you tug at his hair, and Satoru kisses your lips. "Focus on me," he whispers, and you look up at him, fading in and out, forgetting this is streaming right now. "Off her."

Nanami relents, scowling at Satoru now, yanking you by your chin with his rougher fingers, while Satoru shoves your thighs up, lips glossy as he licks them, salivating at the sight of your pretty pussy spread wide. Kento is kissing you with your sweet arousal all over his tongue, hands drifting to your breasts and twisting a nipple. Satoru slips two long fingers in your cunt then, stretching you out, you feel every ridge of his fingers in your gummy walls when he curls them up and hits just your spot, making you scream out, which earns Nanami's scowl at him.

"My fingers are longer, sorry. Oh, look she loves them." Satoru says with a wicked smirk, curling them again, your cunt drools down his fingers as the pressure hits your tummy, when Nanami wraps a hand around your throat, thumb over your pulse point.

"Mine are thicker, aren't they darling?" Your answer is just a weak whimper, cunt pulsing around Satoru's fingers then, while the two of them scowl at each other but endlessly kiss and bite and suck on your delicate skin.

"She likes mine better, don't you sweets?" Satoru murmurs, while you blink his pretty face into focus, when Satoru laps his long tongue over your slit and hits your twitchy little clit finally, eliciting a loud whine from you that makes Nanami furious.

Satoru and Nanami do not want to share you, even for the camera, even to make bank off it, no they're so greedy, and they both want your pretty pussy to themselves. But for just a moment they work together, Nanami pinching your nipples and gently choking you with a firm grim. Satoru is holding up your hood, long pink tongue slipping into your aching hole. All you can do is grasp at them both, blond hair and silvery locks in your hands, whining out and arching your back as you lose oxygen, making your ears ring.

"That's it darling, make as much noise as you want," Nanami murmurs, while Satoru's stupidly long fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot that makes you blind while the insane stream, full of both of their fans, captures it all, captures you cumming and drenching Satoru's pretty face in it.

All their worship, Satoru's desperate and hungry kisses, Nanami's bites and huffs overwhelm you as he releases your throat now, they move you like you're nothing, their little toy to play with, a toy neither wants to share. Satoru is constantly making sure your eyes are on him, constantly biting you to get your attention when it travels to Nanami's hazel gaze.

"I'm fucking her first," Satoru murmurs huskily, while you're on your hands and knees, fingers gripping the soft silk sheets as Satoru grabs your hips, Nanami chuckles then.

"Gonna stretch her out a bit for me?"

"My cock is way bigger, tell him baby," Satoru bends over you, pulling your hair gently, while the ring lights glow against the three of you, casting shadows of you all along the wall, you're about to have a cock in your mouth and your cunt, something you never thought you'd do. But it's heady, addictive, the shit they're talking only making you more eager to please. "How good do I feel?"

"S'good, Satoru..." You whine out, when his tip leaking as he presses into your cunt, smacking your ass and gripping your hips bruising. You know Satoru's cock, you know how full he stuffs you, how good it feels. The camera knows him fucking you, but Nanami's cock makes you swallow nervously as it's revealed, thick and so heavy it just hangs there. "Oh!"

"Don't get so excited, brat." Satoru smacks your ass again, grinning as he watches his handprints, before shoving his cock deep in one stroke, making you scream out, back arching, while Nanami gently strokes your cheek, chuckling deeply.

"Do you want it in your mouth, love?" you nod eagerly, tongue out and mouth wide, earning the precum to leak out of his reddened tip, while Satoru hisses, feeling you clench for him. "Say please, like a good girl-"

"Oh hell no, she won't say please, psh," he pulls your hair, making your face pull back from the thick, veiny cock, while Satoru's long cock strokes deep and hard, bruising your cervix. "She only says that to me, isn't that right?"

"She can be a good girl for me, she wants to be." Nanami cups your face with two hands, tip brushing precum like a gloss, while you're stuffed so full, looking up at him under your lashes. His heart races at how pretty you are, the only thing that would make this better is if Satoru wasn't here.

He gets it, you're his - for now.

Your tongue slips up his tip while Satoru grips both of your wrists behind you, pinning them and arching your back more for a brutal thrust. "Stop talking shit and caressing her Nanami," he whispers, before whining out as he feels your cunt gripping him like a vise. "It's a shoot, don't get too clingy."

Nanami ignores Satoru completely, opening your mouth with his thumb, pressing it down on your tongue, you suck on his thumb, making Nanami even more sensitive, fuck he's thought of this for so long, even the idiot behind you wasn't ruining it. "Go ahead, darling, tell me what you want."

"Let me suck you, please - ow!" You glare back at Satoru as he smacks your ass hard, slap stinging, and he just grins, before Nanami grips you by your throat, sliding his cock inside your hot mouth, groaning when he feels it enwrapping him. "Mmm..."

"That's it, sweet girl, you're so perfect," Nanami murmurs, feeling the bulge in your throat as you suck him down, while Satoru slams hard into your cunt, tugging at your waist tightly, as if to make sure you don't forget you're his, and that this is for a shoot, but Nanami's just staring at you, murmuring a mix of sweetness and filth that has you breathless, along with Satoru's perfect strokes, knowing just how to roll his hips to make you fall apart.

"Cum for me, sweetheart, huh? Be a good girl," Satoru murmurs, reaching up to spread your cheeks, spitting a sticky, bubbly trail from his mouth to your ass, slipping just his thumb in as Nanami shoves his cock deep, gagging you, while you cum so hard you can't thing, drooling out of your mouth and your cunt while the two men begin to lose themselves, moaning as they fuck your holes.

You didn't add getting spitroasted by two of the most popular Onlyfans stars there were to your bucketlist, you also didn't plan on being Nanami Kento's first debut of his actual face either. But here you are, glasses fogged up, wearing nothing but a pretty glittery body chain, that Satoru uses to tug tighter along your body, while you're twitching, a mess between their huge cocks, their hungry gazes and greedy grips.

The stream is going wild, but none of you seem to remember, the competition ever going as Satoru laughs, beads of sweat dripping down his face onto your spine. "I make her cum so good, don't think you could hit that spot, Nanami."

"Oh, you're right, I'll stretch her out more, it's good you warmed her up for me." His mean little smile is met with him pulling his cock out of your mouth with a suctioned pop, while Satoru scoffs, fucking into you harder. The smacks are echoing in the room as he tugs, bringing you to your knees now, while Nanami kisses his own precum off you, messy and sloppy, his hands possessive on your waist. "You want me to stretch your perfect little cunt, don't you darling?"

"She wants more of my cock, don't you sweets?" Satoru turns your face, tongue devouring your mouth, you gasp when Nanami lifts you up and plants you the opposite direction, now facing Satoru, who's kissing you desperate, whining out when you stroke his cock, slick with your arousal and his precum, he's lost in how gorgeous you look like this, covered in marks, tears in your eyes as he gently takes off your glasses for you. "You good baby?"

"Y-yes, just intense," your whisper doesn't go unnoticed by Nanami, who brushes your hair back, slipping a hand down your spine soothingly, as he presses little kisses on your shoulder blades, and Satoru is standing, his pretty, perfect cock bouncing just slightly, while you lap yourself off him. "Mmm, Toru..."

"You sure you're ready for this, baby?" Satoru murmurs softly, snowy lashes lowered, despite them being filthy, and competitive, they're both attentive to you right now.

"I can eat you out again if you're not ready, I could do it all night, love." Nanami's words make you melt, biting your lip as you look back at him, when Satoru turns your face back to face his glossy cock.

"You won't get to all night, Nanami."

"You're so threatened, you good, Gojo?" Nanami and Satoru scowl over you, and you can't help but giggle, shaking your head at them.

"I'm ready for it," your soft answer draws both their attention, and soon Kento's thick cock presses into you, thank god you were prepared from Satoru - who's longer, and just a little thinner, but how Nanami feels burns in the best way, your moan is drowned out by Satoru's cock, as he shoves in deep right with him. Your thighs shake as he inches in slow, letting you adjust, while he groans out behind you, huge hands gripping your hips.

"F-fuck, you're so tight," Nanami can't stop his groan, while Satoru cries out as your tongue hits the base of his cock, fucking your tight throat while Nanami slips in and out of your cunt, slapping his heavy cock on your ass and moaning as he watches the precum decorate your skin, before easing back in, exhaling. "Feel so good, fuck..."

"Doesn't she?" Satoru smiles, lovingly gripping that chain, pressing it up around your throat, the metal digging in while he thrusts his narrow hips, and Nanami bottoms out, making you tremble as you try to take him, his tip pressing into a sore cervix. Your hands cling to Satoru's thighs, looking up at his pretty blue eyes while he wrecks your esophogus, caressing you with his free hand. Nanami thrusts sharply then, balls slapping against you, making your eyes roll back. "Fuck, look at you," he murmurs, watching as you fall apart.

The comments and tips are insane, fans watching Nanami Kento fuck for the first time and with the Satoru Gojo and his favorite co-star, what they don't know is how long and how badly Nanami's wanted you. Craved you, and fuck you're better than he could have pictured, wetter, the snuggest fucking fit for his girth, and when he reaches around to find your clit, bending over you, rough pads of his fingers moving in circles, your tummy clenches. You feel it, an orgasm about to hit hard, while the two men fuck into you, Satoru gripping your face in place while your tongue slips across the ridge of his cock before slipping into your throat.

The stream is a mix of women dying to be you right now, and men dying to be inside of you, a heady mix while Nanami makes you cum all over his cock, squirting down the bed, earning his surprised, pleased groan. Satoru's eyes flutter shut as you do, feeling your throat close on his cock as you're choking on him, muffling all your moans while you soak the sheets with all your cum.

"Look, you're cumming so much, for me aren't you?" Satoru glares again over your body, bent over on all fours for them.

"It's because she loves feeling me down her throat, isn't that right baby?"

You're expected to talk!?

There's no talking as you're dripping down Nanami's cock and fingers, slobbering all over Satoru's length, entire body shaking while your nails press into the pale skin on Satoru's strong thighs, feeling the force of Nanami's thrust.

"God, you're making such a mess, love," Nanami's words are followed by him sucking your juices off his thick digits, easing back and slipping out, you feel so empty for just a moment, until Satoru's flipped it all around, he's letting you kiss and ride Nanami's cock, his hands slipping up your waist, while Satoru is sinking two fingers in your other hole again, stretching you out, while you're riding him, moreso he is holding you up, shoving his cock up inside, skin slapping while Satoru wraps an arm around your waist, lips against your ear, tickling your skin.

"Mine," Satoru murmurs in your ear, sinking those fingers so deep while Nanami slams you down his length, fucking mean up into you while you're gasping for a breath, feeling so full. "All mine, hmm?"

His words are quiet, you're nodding weakly, on another video you two had shared your girl friend, Jenna, and Satoru and her had competed on just who could eat your pussy better - but this competition was beyond what you were comprehending. When Satoru has his fingers curling in your puckered little hole, and it feels so good, rubbing against where Nanami's veiny cock was pressing, feeling their eyes and hands all over your body, now covered in a sheen of sweat.

"Riding cock so perfect, fucking look at you, baby." Satoru urges you on, you're crying out weakly, head falling back against his collar bone, while he sinks his teeth into your neck. Nanami wants your attention, however, thrusting up deep enough to knock your head forward, and your dilated eyes look at him, intoxicated and perfect.

"You're doing so good for me," Nanami whispers, finding your clit as Satoru grips your breasts that bounce gently as you ride Nanami, the sensations of being touched everywhere making you listless and weak, you weren't putting in any movements for the camera, no the two men moved you, up and down, gliding on Nanami's cock, as Satoru presses on your other hole, splitting you apart so good you're trembling trying to take them both.

"God, your ass is so tight, fuck baby," Satoru's whining as he stretches out your tight ass inch by inch, being so careful with you, while you lay forward on Nanami, kissing him again, feeling the pressure of both of them in both your holes, so intense you can barely make any of those sexy moans, just gasping. "You good, sweets?"

"Are you all right, love?" Nanami and Satoru ask at the same time, scowling at each other even now, as you breathlessly whine out, nodding.

"S'good, it's... you're both so big I..."

The stream is losing it collectively at the Double Penetration scene in front of them, getting a view of Satoru stretching your ass inch by inch, while Nanami thrusts up into your cunt, moaning and tugging you back down, kissing you again. You whine out into his lips, just to have your hair pulled, Satoru fucking his long, thick cock further in your ass, so much pressure as their cocks rub between your thin layer separating them, stretching and filling you to the brim. "Ah!"

"Look at me," Satoru kisses you again, cupping your face, sliding out of your ass that's so lubed up with his spit, shoving in deeper until you scream, and he has a devious white grin. "Good girl, got your attention, huh?"

You nod weakly, when Nanami shoves his cock fully in, until you're close to cumming again, while he works your clit in methodical circles, earning your weak, lidded gaze, Nanami can't stop looking at your fucked out face, feeling your cunt soaking and milking him. Only, Satoru needs to look at your face too, to watch your mouth part in that slutty O, when he spits right inside your mouth, murmuring - 'swallow, pretty'

Nanami keeps dragging you down on him, while Satoru yanks you up, both fucking in tandem, Satoru's hands on your waist, Nanami's on your ass, spreading you even wider for Satoru's cock. They're whispering, murmuring, fucking wet and loud, smacks and squelching echoing for the camera, their moans husky - mixed with Satoru's whimpers he can't control.

"God, baby, wanna fill you up here, c-can I?" Gone is notorious Pornstar Satoru, replaced is whiny, needy Satoru, the boyish pout as he begs to cum in you there, you heat up to the touch, flustered and blushing, your hair falling across your face, which he brushes back. You try to find the energy to answer, to speak, while the pleasure is overwhelming and blinding.

"Y-yes, if you want to, Toru," your whisper ends him, he moans, biting your shoulder, tearing the skin and leaving his mark, while Nanami slips a hand up between your breasts, going to choke you only for Satoru's hand to slip around your throat, under your chin, until both of their hands wrap your throat, sucking the last bit of oxygen from your lungs, making you feel fucking high as they both bottom out at once and you're about to fall off the edge.

You weakly cling to Satoru's arms with one hand, the other on Nanami's thick, muscled chest, feeling the strength as the two huge, strong men fuck you and choke you, the chains falling against your skin, scraping softly, leaving marks as you're pressed between them.

"Wanna fill your perfect pussy so full." Nanami's words barely register, but Satoru scowls at him.

"Nuh uh." Nanami scowls back, while they loosen their grip, giving you just a breath before their cocks move out and back in, different timing, in and out, in and out, so fucking good you're shuddering, blinded by pleasure, you can't remember your own fucking name until they're both whispering it.

"Lemme cum inside her, fuck... double creampie - you know f-for the cameras..." now Nanami's voice is desperate, you swear you hear him whimper. Satoru scoffs, slamming his length hard inside you, making you jolt, while he's pulsing, so close he can't take it.

"Baby, only if you push all his cum out after," you nod weakly at Satoru's whisper, and he pulls out his entire length, only to shove it all back in, so deep you feel him everywhere, while Nanami eyes the bulge of his cock in your stomach, feeling so feral and possessive.

"Want my cum inside you, love? Look, already fucking filling you up," his husky depraved whisper is nothing like you thought he would be, gentlemanly sweet Nanami at work - and here he is now, palm flat on the bulge his cock is making, pressing against your soft tummy as he throbs in your gummy walls, fluttering around him. "Then say please-"

"She sure won't, she'll only beg for me, tell him pookie," Satoru whispers, how the man is cute with nine fucking inches stuck up your little hole, you can't compute. You just whine, whispering his name, earning his satisfied smirk. But, Nanami isn't quite done yet, picking your hips up and slamming his cock deep, groaning as he grips you, making you clench Satoru's cock harder, until he feels himself ready to bust. "F-fuck, baby..."

"God, you feel so - f-fuck..." Nanami's leaned up and sitting now, kissing up one side of your neck, gripping one breast, while Satoru bites the other side of your neck, groaning as he grips your other breasts. They're squeezing you, pulsing inside you so deep, while you weakly rock your hips, orgasm ripping through your entire body, you're trembling and shaking as it hits, blinded and floating when the two men can't take how good your orgasm feels, both busting at the same fucking time.

They're groaning and gripping you so tightly you can barely breathe, you feel Nanami's thick, girthy cock pouring inside your sore, slutty little cunt, while Satoru's painting your other hole full, hot spurts filling you so intimately, while he possessively bites your neck again, while white ropes pump you full, you're leaking it right down Nanami and Satoru's cock as the pull out, and you almost collapse if not for the two of them catching you.

"Darling, are you okay?" Nanami murmurs, brushing your cheek back carefully, like he hadn't meanly been pumping his length inside you, you nod weakly, while Satoru eases out of you with a hiss, turning your body toward him.

"Baby, you feel good?" You nod again, swallowing with a dry throat while he exhales, pressing a heated kiss on your lips. "You good doing this shot? We don't have to."

"I'm good, j-just... how do I push it out?" You whisper, they both chuckle a bit, earning your own glare. "Don't you two Pros make fun of me for not knowing!"

"No, you're just cute. C'mere." Satoru bends you over the bed, Nanami gently presses a little kiss on your head, murmuring in your ear now.

"Just press a bit, here," he whispers, pressing on your lower tummy with his big hand. You moan softly, nodding, Satoru's on his knees, sinking into the plush carpet as he gets the perfect angle, hands gripping your ass and lifting it, showcasing the white creamy cum oozing from both your beat up holes.

"Fucking look at all of it, you took so much baby." Satoru murmurs, toying with his own cum that's dripping from your hole, while Nanami keeps sneaking kisses while Satoru is focused, your little giggle makes him realize, ending the stream and standing. "Excuse me, no more. Ah- ah." He smacks at Nanami's hand, reaching for your pussy again.

"How'd we do, Toru?" You ask softly, while Nanami eases you up, brushing your hair back and just staring at you with those hazel, lidded eyes, lips parted while Satoru peers at the numbers, whistling softly.

"Holy fuck. Look." You peer and your eyes go wide, it's more than even Satoru and you make, but Nanami doesn't bother looking at it, he's too enraptured with his cum leaking from your pretty pussy, fingering the sticky substance slowly. You squeak a bit at it, Satoru sets the phone down, shoving at the big hulk of a man lapping his own cum off his finger. "Stream is over, Nanami."

"Shouldn't we help clean her up, Gojo?" Nanami flicks his tongue on your overstimulated clit, tasting the mix of you and moaning.

Satoru sighs then. "Bend over, sweetheart."

Satoru's words surprise you, soon you're being eaten out by both of them, lapping their own cum out of your holes off camera, messy and fucking filthy, cum dripping out of their mouths as they moan, while you're pushing more of their cum, rocking back and forth on their mouths, gripping each of their napes of their neck and fucking their faces.

"What about something... off set?" Nanami whispers, teeth nipping your clit, Satoru moans, cock ready to go again, feeling your body tremble between the two of them. "If you want, darling."

"Your choice, baby." Your hips jerk as Satoru touches you, your thighs trembling.

"Yes, please," You kiss the cum off Nanami's lips, before kissing Satoru, cum swapping between the three of your mouths, before their fingers are both inside your sore little cunt at once, the money wracks up as the threesome goes wild, but the two men clearly aren't done fighting for who can make you cum harder, and you can't complain as you're dazed, fucked out and drooling on both of them.

Satoru is sure he's won, but Nanami thinks he just might have a chance with you, when you're squirting all over him again, he could swear he made you cum more than Satoru, but he'll keep it to himself.

For now.

Hope you enjoyed the fucking filth ahahah <3

perm tagsss- @alt--er--love @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @indiewritesxoxo @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoao-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff @ibreathesmut @s777athv @twinklywinkly @akiii143 @squeezyvalkyrie @cookielovesbook-akie @oinksa @grignardsreagent @shokosbunny

[yeyinde]

caging a wolfdog

Simon Riley x Babysitter!Reader

18+ | groping. dubcon. infidelity. blue-collar Simon in a loveless marriage finds another way to entertain himself when his wife is too busy fucking her Pilates instructor to come home. victim blaming. future wife grooming. breeding. implied contraceptive tampering. spitting/spit kink. gross/mean Simon.

It's something to mend the gap between paying for college tuition, and surviving on more than air and the stale crackers they give out at the food bank. A job that takes up less space in your calendar than studying for finals or finishing up last-minute projects due before the end of the term.

And, in all honesty, the kid makes it easy.

Tommy doesn't fuss like most his age. He sits on the couch with his iPad perched on his knees, watching grown men scream in front of a camera for hours. Sometimes he stirs, asks for snacks. Something to drink. But mostly, he just scrolls YouTube Shorts, and puffs out peals of childish laughter at whatever he finds amusing.

It's the easiest job you'd ever had, really. He has no complaints about eating chicken nuggets and Kraft dinner on the nights when you stay later and have to cook something for him. Even when you try to make it healthier by chopping up celery with homemade ranch on the side, it barely makes him whine.

He eats. Scrolls. Pouts about his bath. Negotiates bedtime for ten more minutes with his iPad. And then he's sleeping by ten, hugging the device tight to his chest as a man hollers about Minecraft beneath him.

And that's the extent of it.

An easy job. An easy kid.

The problem, really, is his father.

And more specifically, the way he can't seem to stop touching you.

You're not sure why it happens, just that it does. Becomes some strange staple in this arrangement where you never leave his house without having his hands on you at some point.

But maybe the writing was always on the walls because even as he was showing you Tommy's bedroom, he folds himself over you, spine pressed against his chest, and murmurs in your ear about bedtimes and baths and all the things a babysitter is meant to hear—

But not with the hard, firm outline of their employers cock against their ass.

You should have said something then. Put your foot down. Rained hellfire and retribution over this man and his gross, foul perversions.

Should have done a lot of things, probably. But in the end, the span of his hand over your belly, so wide it threatened to swallow you up, kept you quiet. Docile as he shifted his hips—wife down the hall, flatly informing him she has a class tonight and probably won't be home, so don't bother waiting up, Simon—and rubbed his cock against you, grunting in your ear about how pretty you are. Such a sweet girl, too.

So good for his baby boy.

Keeping quiet seems to spur him on. Spreading the thick, heavy length of his body against your spine isn't enough to quench whatever sticky, awful desire brims in his chest. Insatiable now that he's had a little taste, he gorges himself on what he can get away with.

What you let him get away with.

(if you didn't want this, pretty thing, you'd have said so, wouldn't you? big, strong girl like you. you can 'andle yourself. but you ain't because you want this—)

Broad hands cupping your breasts as he leans over your shoulder and pretends to instruct you on how Tommy likes his lunches. Little more, he rasps, calloused fingers slipping under the band of your bra, and pinching your stiffening peaks between a too-big thumb and forefinger. The rough, dry graze of his scarred skin was some awful amalgamation of stinging, abrasive pain and pleasure. Likes his sandwiches cut up jus' like tha'—

Grabs a handful of your asscheek on the way out the door, pinching the flesh so hard, it aches when you sit down. Rutting into you like a beast when he comes home, and Tommy's already in bed. C'mon, he grunts, hefting you up from the couch. Gotta go an' check on 'im. But it's just an excuse to bend you over banister as you peer into Tommy's room, groaning as he shoves his clothed cock against the cleft of your ass.

Husks in your ear about how good you are for him. He and Tommy both. Such a good girl, ain't you?

It's strange. All of it. And maybe that's why you let it carry on. Continue even though you know he's married, and has a child. And—

He's odd. Intense. Weird.

Looms in the corners of the room sometimes, content to just watch you. Eyes dark, endlessly black. Fixed on every move you make. A wolf wearing a man's skin. A monster in faded blue jeans and black steel-toed boots.

Uncanny.

Scary.

Massive in a way that stole your breath the moment you laid eyes on him. A full body bloom of dread at the scale, the size, of him. Like staring at the face of a mountain, mind reeling over the incomprehensible height of it. Vertiginous. Dizzying.

Thinking about him always makes you feel a little bit sick. Lying on your back and staring up at the sky. Cosmic quasiness. Unease that trickles down from your ancestors and fills your pores with the bitter, acrid tang of fear.

But between the noxious, rolling worry—the unmistakable feeling of a starving man staring at you like you're nothing but a scrap of tender, fresh meat—is a heavy, sick sort of heat congealing in your belly.

It was easier, at first, to lie and say you stayed for the money. Broke college student with a sinkhole of debts already growing on the periphery, biding its time before it sucks you into an unfathomable, inescapable chasm. Bled dry. Used up. It'll crush you.

But this—

Simon works around your schedule. He's gone for most of the day—pulls twelve-hour shifts Monday to Saturday at the oilfield—and is fairly lenient when you have a test, sending Tommy to his uncle's instead. Staying the night is an unorthodox arrangement, you're sure, but it works itself out in the end. Being here to take Tommy to school before heading to your morning classes (the rest all available online), and then free to pick him up after and wait for Simon to come home eases the stress of a long commute to your dorm and then here, to the dorm and then back again. A small respite, sure.

And if he pushed, insistent, that you sleepover, well—

You can hide it behind a wall. Pretend he's just looking out for his son even if you have to lock the door in the spare bedroom at night, and wake up sometime to the sound of the knob rattling.

He lets you use his spare truck whenever you need it. There's always a pot of coffee waiting for you in the morning. He keeps a tidy house and a strict schedule, but money is always in your bank account or tucked into an envelope on the counter a day ahead of when you agreed he'd pay you.

But living on top of each other like this is almost unbearable.

You see more of Simon than you do your own family. Friends. Even his wife. A woman made of contradictions, it seems. Dutiful mother, but only when it matters—parent teacher conferences booked in advance, the darling starlet of his birthday party that passed—and you try to keep out of her way. Shame, maybe.

Do you know what Simon does to me when you're in the next room? Do you know what he says when you're bent into downward dog as your Pilates instructor fucks you on the matt?

Or just the knowledge that both of you, in your own way, are adulterers.

But having something in common with the woman who is more of a guest in her own home, her child's life, than you are is a sickening thought. So you squash it. Ignore it.

All of it—

His hands on you, rough and proprietary. The foul, dirty things he whispers in your ear—Tommy's been askin' for a baby brother, 'bout time we gave 'im one, don't you think? Spread your pretty pussy around my cock and keep ya nice an' plugged until it fuckin' takes—when no one is around. How these incidents keep getting progressively closer to his bedroom door, his marital bed, and one day, you think he might drag you in there and not let you out again until those promises he forced from your lips are fulfilled.

You bite your tongue. Taste blood between your teeth hours after he leaves for work, and curl into the couch as the minutes tick by until Simon's supposed to come home. Trying to distract yourself as much as you can, but there's no escape from it. From the way there was something different about him this morning. Something heady. He didn't touch you, but just quietly observed you with those strange, unfathomable eyes of his. Sinkholes wanting to swallow you down.

Hungry.

And when you asked him if he wanted breakfast, he'd just said, oh, I'll eat, birdie. You can bet on that, and then left out the door without another word.

It takes you until noon to unravel the knots in his expression, and what you find makes your heart jump like a trapped rabbit in a snare.

Possessiveness. Want. Hunger.

But most damning of all—

Anticipation.

In the room over, Tommy giggles, high and shrill, at a video. The noise jars you back into reality. A car drives down the lonely street. The timer on the oven dings. Tommy gurgles again, the sound pasted over a loud, pitchy shout that rankles down your spine. Slowly, achingly, you unfurl your body from the tense crouch you collapsed into, head thick. Underwater. In a fog. Thoughts dripping down the sides of your skull in a slow, syrupy crawl.

Your eyes dart to the clock. Three hours.

oh, I'll eat, birdie.

"Come on, Tommy," you warble out, gingerly moving towards the kitchen. Three hours. There's a buzzing inside your head that grows louder, more restless with every step. "The pizzas done."

On the fridge, a neon pink post-it note mocks you. PILATES TONIGHT AND DRINKS WITH THE GIRLS!!!! DON'T WAIT UP!!

Three hours.

You lick the blood off your teeth.

oh, I'll eat, birdie—

He doesn't bother cleaning up before he goes home.

Caked in grime, sweat, dust from the fields, crudeoil glued under his nails—a walking biohazard of filth, but he lumbers into his truck the moment he's finished, cock already thickening, straining against the harsh fabric of his jeans. Sticky on his thigh where it lays, twitching at the thought of his little birdie sucking his dirty fingers clean.

And you'll do it. He knows you will.

You've been so good for him, haven't you? Sweet little thing.

He scrapes the top of his tongue against his teeth, pulling up the taste of stale, bitter coffee. It's acrid, sour in his mouth. Swallowing around it, he grips the wheel tightly and sifts through the multitude of things he wants to do to you as he navigates the familiar path home. Muscle memory, but there's an emptiness in his belly. An itch under his skin. If fizzles, cracks; want and desire thick in his throat.

He's been thinking about this all day. You—laid out on his bed, fingers gripping the sheets tight as he folds you in half, kneecaps to your ears. Feet kicking out behind the heft of his shoulder. Bearing all his weight down on you. Crushing you.

Pumping you so full of his cock, his cum, that you whine afterwards—too empty, Mr Riley—and he has to stuff you full again just to shut you up.

Whiny little thing, he'll coo, nasty and mean as he fucks you again and again and again—

Another scrape. Tongue against teeth pulling over tastebuds. Sourness in the back of his throat. So bitter, so nauseating, he can't wait to make you swallow it down and beg for more as you try not to dry heave all over his dirty boots and onto the clean floor.

More, please, more even as you gag.

He's too hyperaware for the drive to pass in a blur—it's all startling present, each second ticking down in technicolour—but when he finally slows to crawl in front of his house, he has everything he wants to do to you laid out in a neat, concise list. Left you a defiled mess in his head, leaking cum and begging for more.

Anticipation is a maw in his gut that growls and snaps its jaws, too eager to sink inside the pretty thing that's been playing House in his mind. In his home.

He left it unfed for too long.

And now, it's time to eat.

You're not in the living room when he enters.

It's silent. The idling television paints the room in a pale, neon pink.

The clink of his keys, the thud of his boots, are the only sounds popcorning through the dim, quiet room. He casts his gaze towards the stairs to the left, sees light spilling out from Tommy's room down the hall. The nightlight burning away.

He shifts on the balls of his feet, hums something under his breath. A relic from a bygone era when the man Tommy was named after might have pulled him aside and said man, this isn't you.

Simon keeps his boots on as he trudges through the still, winter night of the house, eyes shifting past each corner, every crevasse. More muscle memory he can't shake. All filed away. Catalogued. Meticulously scoured as he shifts through the hall, pausing only to crack Tommy's door open and steal a glance of his son. Knows he won't be able to sleep without it.

He finds him tucked safe and sound in his bed. iPad on the floor connected to the charger. The screen is frozen with the image of some brightly coloured game that'll hold his interest for another day before it becomes yet another thing Simon packs away. More memories on shelves. Something to feel scraped out, hollowed, when he grows another inch and Simon starts to see more of Tommy in him than he can stomach.

The air stings his nostrils when he breathes in. The burn gives him time to shift around the potent ache of fatherly affection he never thought he'd feel back into the guarded lockbox he keeps it in whenever Tommy isn't in view. With it tucked back in, safe and sound, he lets the thrill of the pursuit fill him again.

Another hum. He peels away from the door.

"Hidin' on me, birdie?"

He knows you're here. Your boots are still drying by the front door. The air still clogged with your scent. He follows it like a bloodhound until he reaches his bedroom door where he finds you on the bed. Waiting. Uncertainty clinging to you like a second skin he can't wait to peel off, run his fingers through the bloody mess until you're raw and aching; shiny new toy stripped bare just for him.

Your mouth pops open. The inside a pretty ring of pink. He thinks about it, about sinking inside that soft little hole, making you gag around the thick of him as he feeds you his cock.

Clean it up f'me, birdie

But it's clear from the way you flit nervously on the comforter that he'll have to work you up to that.

Slow and steady. It's not his usual approach—he's in the habit of taking what he wants. Still. He slows. Glacial. Notches his shoulder against the doorframe, staring. Waiting. Waiting—

And finally:

A shift. You tense. "Mr Riley—"

"Take your clothes off."

Your throat shifts when you swallow. "Mr—"

If you didn't want it, he reasons, you wouldn't be in his bed. Waiting for him.

"Now, birdie."

There's that pause he expects. The hesitation as you stare, searchingly (pleadingly), at him, trying to take a measurement of just how serious he is about this. But he knows he gives nothing away. Just stares with streaks of dirt on his brow, washed down by thick trickles of sweat. Eyes lazy, lidded. Mouth flat. Even.

You demure after a moment. Hands falling shakily to the hem of your sweater, curling beneath the fabric. Gaze downcast, staring wide-eyed at the curve of your jean-clad knees. Bemused, maybe, that it got this far. That you let it get this far.

He doesn't give you time to think about it. Cocks his head to the side, puffs out an impatient breath. "Hurry up. Ain't got much time before my wife comes back."

It's a low blow. He feels it skim his knuckles, a sucker-punch.

You suck in a sharp breath. He wonders if you'll make things difficult now. Fight back. This isn't right. What you're doing to me isn't right. We should stop, Mr Riley—

Instead, you peel the sweater off.

It's artless. Clumsy. Each movement wracked with nerves, uncertainty. There's no coyness to the action. It's not even sexy, or coquettish; nothing about it is done to entice, to seduce. This is an action completed twice a day, every day. Routine. It's mundane, perfunctory.

And yet—

"Fuckin' hell, birdie—"

Something about the latent unwillingness of it all chokes the air from his lungs.

Cock thick in his trousers, throbbing like a wound, he steps into the bedroom, making his way towards you in nothing short of a prowl. It's been building up since you first appeared at his doorstep, eyes wide and bright and scooped Tommy up into your arms until he squealed with laughter.

"I got him," you chirped when he reached out reflexively, dancing artlessly out of the way of his snatching claws. "Don't worry. He's fine with me."

This is your fault, of course. For looking the way that you do. For burrowing under his skin like a parasite. A festering itch. Being close to you always felt like a toothache. Dry socket. Something that made his head split.

"On the bed, birdie," he grunts, hands falling to his belt with a urgency he hasn't felt since he was a clumsy, knobby-kneed teenager. "An' spread your legs f'me."

You give a startled gasp that makes his cock throb, and he groans low in his throat at the waxen look in your eye, the slight quiver to your lip. You look queasy—torn between disgust and fear, eyes slipping to the scarred hands that yank hard on his zipper, cup the bulge that splits through the spread seam, dirty fingers gripping himself tight—and he has to roll his head back to keep from snapping at you to roll over.

A noise does spill out—an impatient rumble gnashing between jagged teeth—when you sit there, bared from the waist up, and watch him with wide eyes. Making no move to show him that pretty pussy he cupped in his palm before. That soft, wet heat in his hand that felt too delicate, too sweet, to be touched with his dirty fingers. Something that rankled down his spine, buzzed in the back of his head when he pulled them free—stained, nails blackened with dirt, crude oil, and glistening in the low light of the kitchen.

He wants it again—on his cock this time. Wants to see that soft pussy get him all wet as he ruins it. As he peels back, sitting on his haunches, and takes in the awful mess he left you in. Poor cunt swollen and abused from from being forced to take the full, fat length of him as he bullies it inside over and over again; puffy lips all sticky with his cum. Sore and stretched and used. Raw after such a vicious pounding—

"Pants off, birdie," he bites out, yanking his jeans down beneath his aching balls. "Ain't gonna like what 'appens next if I 'ave to ask again—"

You give a startled gasp at the rough, callous growl hewing his words, and he wonders if anyone has ever spoken to you like this before. So demanding. With an edge of cruelty slithering out. Demeaning—

No. No one but him, he decides, stroking his cock as he watches you clumsily kick out of your pants, demurring in a faux show of bashfulness as your fingers skim the hem of your panties. The picture of coy shyness as you drop your chin to hide the wobble in your lower lip, the glistening wetness in your eyes as you grapple with indecision. Child's play of modesty.

A farce.

Just the mangled growl of your name is all it takes for those trembling fingers to inch into the hem of your panties, tugging them clumsily down your thighs.

He could come, he thinks, to just that. This. The bloom of fear etching across your brow, panties tangled against the knob of your knees. Unwilling to bend down and push them off the rest of the way. Scared to, maybe.

It buzzes in the back of his head. The idea of paralysing you with nothing more than a sharp bark and crook of his finger; your fear as delectable as that little sliver of skin he can see peaking out at him.

"ain't go' all night," he cuts in with only a quarter of the ice he uses on the field, and feels a deep thrum of satisfaction purr through his chest when you squeak, flinching at his rough, brassy tone.

Your panties fall to the floor in a rumpled pile between your feet, toes curling into the carpet as you try to close your knees as tightly together as you can get them to hide yourself from his heavy-lidded gaze. A last play at modesty. Gaze inward, nervous. A skittish little rabbit with nowhere else to run.

The way you stand before him on shaking knees, trembling like a leaf, makes him want to sink his teeth into you and shake. Little virginal offering to a rapacious god. A feast all for himself. He wants to chew you up. Eat you alive.

But he opts, instead, to bite his tongue until he tastes blood, and bark at you to get on the bed as it oozes between his teeth. Feels something animal split open inside his chest when your eyes widen as he steps into the room, a slow pursuit, a prowl, and has to bite down on the urge to give chase when you flinch, backing away from him quickly. Naked and scared. Running from him with a nervous tremor, but he doesn't miss the way you make, quietly, for his bed.

Eager. Obedient. Fleeing from him like a scared little animal unaware of just how enticing you are.

"Good girl, birdie."

It takes three fingers to open you up, but even that doesn't feel like it's enough.

Not when he knocks your knees apart, wedging his too big, too thick body between them (and then stares, and stares, and stares at your bare cunt, slick and sticky from his hand; flesh left swollen from the brutal spear of three thick, dirty fingers shoving inside—less of a stretch and more a carve: he carved you open) and spits.

You weren't expecting it. Nothing could have prepared you for the suddenness of this degrading act—the nasty, demeaning way he spits on your pussy, and huffs, amused, when the foamy mess slides down your swollen clit to pool between your folds. His finger chases it, rubbing it into your skin, pushing it into your hole.

Ain't got lube, he says, words bordering on a strange equinox of bluntly nonchalant and utterly caustic. Should be thankful m'doin' this much.

Thankful.

Your fingers curl into the sheets, and you try not look at his cock again when he grips himself tight in his big, dirty hand.

He's too big. Too fat. It makes you a little nauseous to stare at it, him—his cock. Marbled like a bruise. Thicker at the base. Veiny. The head is swollen. The tip is soaked in a thick, paste-like spill of precum, and for a horrible second, you almost thought he would make you lick it off.

(later fills the empty space in your head, and you try to mould yourself around the idea until you can decide whether or not the feeling that blooms in the pit of your belly is really dread.)

His hands were rough. Scarred. Dirty. Caked in oil. Stained. He didn't even bother to clean up before he lumbered onto the sheets behind you, one hand falling to grip his cock through his dusty pants, the other heavy on your neck, pushing you down into the mattress that reeks of fabric softener and stale cigarette smoke. Old sweat.

He doesn't need to tell you that she doesn't sleep in this bed anymore, but the idea of it prickles in the back of your head as he pushes you against the sheets and undoes his jeans with an ease that's more muscle memory than thought. Practiced.

You don't have the right to be jealous, but it hums through you like a sickness when you think of him doing this to her. His wife, you add, just to make it hurt. A knife in your gut that aches when you breathe—

"keep breathin', birdie," he grunts, spreading his fingers wide apart inside of you. "Don't get all tense on me now, or I'll have to start over."

You're not sure what that means, but you think you know better than to test his tenuous patience anymore than you have, and so you still. Go quiet. Breathe as he spears you deep, deeper still, and carves a space for that monstrous looking cock to fit—

where it belongs, he'd said, hunched over you like a nightmare in the daytime. All shadow and sinew. Stitched from broken daydreams of a brassy voice in your ear murmuring soon, birdie as his wife pretended to pack a lunch in the kitchen and he rubbed your nipple through your shirt before he slipped off to work.

But it's over too soon. His dirty, stained fingers slipping free from your aching, sopping cunt, leaving you empty—bereft—for a moment as he shuffles up the bed, splitting your knees wide apart to make room for the asburd width of him to fit.

An impossibility, really, but as Mr Riley—call me Simon—is wont to do, he makes it so. Wedges his wide thighs beneath yours until your hips tilt up in his lap, opening you wide. Obscenely so. And—

A grunt.

He stared. And stared. And stared.

Just looked at the split of your cunt sitting invitingly in his lap, wet and messy from his fingers, the cruel push of his palm against your clit. Swollen. Aching already—

"Want it, huh, birdie?"

The words I'm not so sure anymore hitch in the back of your throat, rearing up as he reaches between your legs to grip himself tight, too tight, until he turns a sickly shade of purple around the head that looks wider than anything you'd ever had inside of you before. But he doesn't give you a second to think before notching himself against you, giving a little push that forces the swollen head to sink inside of you—

Just the tip, really, and it already hurts. Stings like a papercut as he stretches your cunt around him, sharp and sudden.

"Too big—" you whimper, tossing your head to the side, breathing in the tang of fresh linen and musk as he grunts above you, pushing and pushing—

Something has to give.

It doesn't surprise you much when it ends up being you.

"Tha's it, birdie. Open up f'me."

It's not so much an opening as it is a siege. A conquest. And with him perched above you, heaving like bull and bathed in shadows that glue alone the mismatched asymmetry of his face, making him look less like a man and more like a figment, a statue—this Stygian being that swoops down and presses his palm against your throat, the other digging into the pillow beside your head, grunting—you feel ever bit of the battered receptacle he turns you into.

Forcing himself into you with a rough grunt, a brutal shove that—for one dizzying, awful moment—you swear you can feel inside your throat, taste on the back of your tongue. Choking on it. But then he's sinking in. Splitting you apart with brute force and that little bit of slick that you know must be stained pink—

"Good girl," he's grunting again, shoving another inch into a space much too small for him to fit. Savouring it. Relishing in the whimpers, the hiccups punched out of you with every flex of his hips. Eyes rolling a little, just a touch, when you feel something warm tickling your cheek and realise you're crying. Shush, birdie, he says, a quiet coo, but he looked delighted. Don't cry. Not yet—

another flex. two more inches. it feels like being speared open; flayed alive. it hurts. it hurts so much, you can't even begin to think through the pain, but he's huffing. groaning low in his throat as he adds:

"—'cause m'not even halfway in yet, pup."

The admission shocks you so much, you barely notice him spreading his knees beneath yours, squaring his stance, until it's too late.

"Wait—!"

If it weren't for his hand tightening around your throat before he speared the last several inches into you, you're sure the wail you might have let out would have woken Tommy. A good thing, you think, dazed, still soundlessly howling around the burning ache of him using his absurd weight to drive into you (balls deep, birdie, he grunts, and sounds so ridiculously proud, you nearly preen—), making you take every last inch. Selfishly carving more space for himself inside of you. Hollowing you out until his whole cock is drenched in your pink-stained slick—

"Makin' me all pretty, aren't you?" Huh, birdie? Nice and fuckin' pink.

A sob bubbles up beneath his palm, and he coos when he feels it, shushing you with a groan as he keeps an awful rhythm, flexing into you. Grinding deep. Carving and cutting and hollowing you out—

"Tha's it, pup," he grunts, eyes masting in leonine pleasure as he bucks into you without respite, taking his bliss from the burning stretch of your cunt. And stupidly, you think about preening. Smiling wide and big and lying to yourself about how bad you want this, him, even as the tears dribble down your chin.

Siphoned satisfaction, maybe. Or just the press of his fingers against that little thing inside of you that made you turn your cheek to his touches. Letting a married man shove his hands down your pants while you made breakfast for his kid and his wife called out to him from the next room about not waiting up for her too late.

Giving in.

That's what this feels like. A slow corrosion from the moment you knocked on his door and said you were here to help him with Tommy to now, buried under his bulk as he batters into your aching cunt, splitting you apart.

Sweat drips down his nape, pours off his face, and when it hits your skin, it feels like battery acid against your cheeks. But with his hand still lodged around your neck, there isn't much you can do except take it. Like his cock, his spit, his sweat. Let him ply you with all of it, every inch, until your body becomes accustomed to the ache.

"Fuckin' stranglin' me."

His cock hits something inside of you, and it isn't really pleasure that blooms in the pit of your belly, but something like a panacea. A wound that's soothed through touch.

Like a knife that hurts more coming out than it does stuffed inside.

But it' saws and it splits. Tears flesh. Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him, throbbing like bruise against the thick of his cock. A tight fuckin' fit, he says, and inches his fingers up to grab your cheeks. Squeezing until your mouth pops open, mewling at the deep, aching pain, and then he spits.

You don't need him to tell you what to do this time. You just close your mouth and swallow what he gives you, whimpering around the sudden ruck of his hips, a harsh jerk that slides his cockhead against the seal of your womb, dredging up a wave of pain that's soothed by the kiss of that fattened tip pressing against the sting once more. Soothed by touch. By the flood of endorphins.

Fitting, you suppose, since it feels a little bit like being eaten alive when he fucks you, grunting and snarling like a beast as he pounds into you, half-mad and starved, and you remember reading somewhere that people rarely experience any pain when they're bitten by a shark.

An oddly serene experience, out of body almost, as they're taken apart by razor-sharp teeth.

That's how you feel looking up at him, feeling the drip, drip, drip of his sweat splat on your cheeks. Warm, milky breath ghosting over your forehead. A barely there kiss when he bends down, growling into your hairline that he's gonna fill you up, pup; that Tommy's been begging for a little brother, 'asn't he? and ain't it time we gave 'im one?

You think no and don't. please don't, please, but your hands stayed curled into the duvet instead of reaching up to push him away. Knees dropping further apart as he bends down with a brassy grunt that you feel in your belly, between your hips, like molten lead. A pulsing flutter—sore muscles gripping tighter and tighter as he grunts again, and tells you to keep opening that pretty cunt up for him, birdie. Let him get even deeper.

The collar of his shirt dips low, unveiling a mass of moulted flesh suffused together in a pink ribbon array of crisscrossing scar tissue and burns. It's an odd time to notice that he hasn't bothered to undress, just shoved his jeans down his thighs and pulled his—monstrous, ugly—cock out, and forced it into you. But you do. And you feel it so acutely in your chest that even without his hand on your throat, you doubt you'd have been able to breathe. It just—

It says something, you think. Means something.

And maybe it hits you like a fist, too. A bludgeon to that little thing in the back of your head that keeps reminding you this isn't okay. That you're not supposed to be in this bed, with this man.

Marital vows, it says, all wrapped up in the scent of stale sweat and detergent. A whisper of Candy Kiss peppering the room when you arrive; a sweet sillage that tickles your nose whenever he leans down, cupping your breast in the palm of his hand. The flash of metal sitting snug on his thick ring finger. Cold and dry against your damp skin.

It crumbles under the sway of his big, thick body sawing away between your hips; turns to dust, dissolving into soot as the growls spilling out his chest tremble through your bones. The ring doesn't matter. It never did.

Not when he's decorating the space he hollowed out inside of you with these dizzying daydreams—weaving a damning tapestry with fingers bleeding from cuts made by the knife of his own artifice. Staining it red.

Pretty pink.

And eventually the ring warms between his hand and your heated skin until you can't tell the difference between metal and flesh.

(but in the smeared residuum of ash and rust, something stirs, asks if you ever really could at all—)

"Gonna make me a dad again, ain't you, pup?" Huh? He growls, rough and mean. Gonna have t'start callin' me daddy soon—

You're not sure when it started building, but the edge is suddenly there. Within reach. And he tells you in rasping groans that he feels it too. Gonna cum, biride, he says, and it sounds like a threat. A warning. It's a razor scraping against your nerves, pooling heat between your hips.

No, you think again, but your hips roll as much as they can with him bearing down above you, cradled between your slick, damp thighs—roughened up, chafed by the repeated scrape of denim. Eager for it. Hungry. Like you're starving.

And what did he say before? Oh, yeah—

Oh, I'll eat, birdie.

You feel that gnawing, gaping emptiness in your belly as he huffs, breath sticky and warm, glueing to your skin as he pants his desire over your flesh, inside your body. Pace stuttering on his next exhale, morphing into a choppy, clumsy grind—just the desperate, furious graze of his cockhead digging into that bruised, tender spot inside of you where pleasure and pain suture themselves together until one is almost indistinguishable from the other. Fear and desire warping around the edges until you're trembling from the urge to flee, but bearing your neck at the vicious spread of teeth gaping open above your caught jugular.

Simon presses his face against the side of yours, smearing sweat and spit over your heated, damp skin from where a cut in his upper lip leaves his teeth in a constant snarl, bared to the world in a vicious, brutal display of aggression, and the nudge of it against the softened, ripe apple of your cheek is what sends you over the edge before you're ready.

It's mean. A nasty, ugly climax that throbs more like a wound than a satisfying end; pulsing and spitting fire as you yowl into the bubble bulging along his ear, clawing at the duvet, and bringing your other hand up to twist into the wet fabric clinging to his broad back. Needing to hold on. To find purchase as he grunts into your skin with each brutal plunge of his hips, and then sinks his teeth into your pulse, drawing blood—

You're still clenching around him, throbbing like an infected wound, when he lifts his pinked up muzzle, bearing his crooked, bloodied teeth, and grunts with his release. Filling you with a burning, stinging heat. Painting the tapestry he hung on chiselled flesh. A home of his own making. The apex of your being is a crevasse for him to sink his desire inside until something grows.

Tommy wants a baby brother, he'd said, and as you knot your hand tighter around his sweaty shirt, you wonder if maybe you should have paid more attention to the pills you shoved into your mouth each morning, making sure they all looked exactly the same—

"Fuck, birdie," he snarls into your neck as he throbs inside of you, cock jerking until it lodges against the battered, bruised seal of your womb—soothing the ache, you think, giving a weak pulse, a little, desperate clench around him—grunting like this is all your fault.

And maybe it is. But he doesn't give you much of a choice when he ruts into you still in rolling, feverish humps that knock your teeth together each time you unhinge your jaw to tell him to stop.

(But you won't, of course—)

His hands are hot against your clammy skin, searing and rough as he pulls you back into his chest with a grunt, mumbling something about a cigarette as you pant into the sweat-slicked nook of his arm, trying to make sense of what happens next.

You should leave. And really—you're a little surprised he hadn't kicked you out already. Shoved you off of him, told you to pack your things. He'll call when he needs you next because with this burning desire of his sated, what else does he need you in bed for?

But he tightens his grip when you try to wiggle away from him with a salt-crusted, sleep-drenched noise of dissent.

He isn't done with you, he mumbles, pawing at the end table for the carton of cigarettes he left there this morning. Blue Zippo still tucked neatly inside.

It's something you'd noticed during the first week when you opened a drawer looking for Tommy's iPad charger and found his hidden stash—along with the rest. Little clues that piled up until the pieces fell, and you realised this was a strange, habitual thing of his where he needs to leave things lying around the house—a carton of cigarettes with a lighter; a duffle bag full of clothes for him and Tommy. Non-perishable food stuffed inside a rucksack. Cash. Knives. All within reach.

Most people live in their homes. Clothes in the drawers. Shoes on a rack or piled by the front food. Food in the cabinets. They carry their smokes with them or keep them in a convenient place for whenever they need them next. But Simon seems keen to uproot himself at a moment's notice. Bags within reach. Necessities all packed by the front door, ready to go. Each room has a satchel hidden somewhere. A carton of smokes. A lighter.

It means something, you're sure. Nestled between the layers of a restless, caged tiger circling its iron-barred domicile for the first chance at escape is a travesty written in spoiled ink. Chiselled into the bars, imprinted there like braille for you to run your fingers over until pockmarks make sense.

Like why Candy Kiss is left on the vanity, sitting atop a drawerful of untouched clothes. The smell of fresh linen. Pilates on a weekly basis. Don't wait up peppering the air; a soft echo cradled in the harsh snap of a door closing. Eyes barely blinking away from the flashing screen.

Or—why your clothes disappear each time you do the laundry. Lace panties and satin bras first—an almost banal perversion that barely made a gurn at. Then tights. Sweaters. Shirts. Jeans. All missing with a nonchalant shrug of a massive shoulder, and a stare that didn't much pin as it skewered. Flayed. A flat, even dunno, birdie. Maybe the ghost knicked it.

Tightly wound artifice you'll never make sense of beyond the bags and the cigarettes. The stares that make the hair on your neck stand on end—

"Fuckin' hell, pup," he grunts suddenly, pinching the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as the other slides down your curved spine, grabbing a handful of your asscheek in his palm, giving a vicious, painful squeeze. "Can feel your little cunt leakin' all over my leg—"

He slips the filter between his teeth with an appreciative hum when you jerk, a mocking huff spilling out when you try to clamp your legs shut around the thick split of his hip wedged between them. You can feel it, too—the thick, sticky ooze of him leaking out of your sore cunt, smearing pink-tinged cum all over his jeans. He hadn't let you get up after rolling off of you—just barked at you to leave it. Keep it, birdie. Gotta take, don't it?

A barb you hadn't said anything to, opting to ignore that, like everything else he does. Did.

Will do because you can tell, even beneath all those hidden layers, that this isn't a one-time thing. No. This isn't just a man stuck in a bad marriage fucking the nanny because he can. It's deeper. Worse, somehow, than a gross older man with a fetish for younger women he can financially control. Another pervert slaking his lust on whatever artless little thing falls into his web.

No. No—

This is missing clothes stuffed inside bags kept around the house. Pills that leave a strange aftertaste on your tongue of something a shade too sweet—

You think about running. Slipping out of his hands, this bed that reeks of stale sweat and sex, putting on your clothes, and leaving this house. Burying yourself in debt again, schoolwork, and limping (with your tail between your aching thighs) back to your landlord. Never looking twice at an ad for a babysitter in your life.

—and maybe spend your whole life wondering why people mix wolves and dogs to create something that never truly feels at home in the patchwork skin it wears; pieces of ancestors it can't relate to;

But you don't.

(—you never do.)

You lie there and take it. Like the leers he aimed at you when you first showed up on his doorstep, reeking of financial desperation and swallowed down the litany of things he said to you under his breath with a wobbly grin and your eyes fixed on the tile, convincing yourself it would pass. That you were more than just a pretty face he couldn't wait to cover in his cum. A soft ass he wanted to sink his teeth into before getting his cock in there next. Tight little pussy he was so eager to break in. Pantin' like a bitch in heat, ain't you, pup? can hear you gaggin' for it a mile away—

Biting your lip so hard it bled. Blood between your teeth. Your hands curling into the coarse, starchy fabric of his work shirt when he leaned down, permanent snarl on his face from the manmade cleftlip, and reached down to grab a handful of it. Testin' the merchandise, he cooed, low and mean and ugly. Words wrapped up tight in barbed wire. Brassbound. Said nothing as he pinched your nipples through your shirt, or when he shoved his hand beneath the hem and groaned at how soft you were.

Dirty hands leaving stains all over your skin you couldn't see, but felt like a fresh, weeping tattoo. Pulsing with infection.

(Such a needy little thing he trusts with his son while his wife is gettin' railed by 'er Pilates instructor, huh? But that's fine, ain't it? Need another one, anyway. A better influence for Tommy. Someone who'll give him that little brother he's been buggin' for—)

And so, you slacken your jaw when he grunts, barking at you to open up. Say nothing when he drags his hand back up your body to grip your jaw tight in his palm, squeezing your cheeks until they pop open. Let him spit in your mouth, and swallow down the foul, stale tobacco taste of him on your tongue.

Nod, like an obedient little pup, when he says good, ain't it? and let him roll you onto your back again, wrenching your thighs apart so he can see for himself the mess he made. The one you let spill all over his jeans.

Good ones, too, he huffs, eyelids slicing over the jaded edge of obsidian into a derisive pantomime of a contented cat squinting to show affection. Half-mast in pleasure as he says he'll wear them again tomorrow an' let all the boys see what a mess you make of me—

His gaze drills into the wet, slick seam of your puffy, bruised cunt, grip tightening—vicious, possessive—until his blunt nails sink into your skin. Branding. Bruising. His fingers clench down until it almost feels like he'll break through muscle to touch bone, but just when it starts to really hurt, pushing past that strange equinoctial point where pleasure and pain wrap around each other on a razor's edge, he peels back with a grunt. Leans over you to spit in your mouth again, a wet, foamy glob that hits your bottom lip before it oozes into your mouth, tasting of stale smoke and bitter tobacco. A flavour that reeks of permanence, and smells of an incipient wolfpack—all animal musk and wildness brimming up against stale sweat, laundry detergent, cigarette smoke, and sex.

Cruel, almost, like the gurns etched into his face by the missing chunk of flesh on his upper lip. Snarled and deadly. Mocking in a certain light. Like a constant sneer. Derisive and dangerous.

But not nearly as terrifying when he lists forward, dropping down to catch your jaw in his hand, the other planting itself in musty pillow beside your head, caging you in, and says:

"—and now you're makin' me a daddy again, birdie."

There's a taste in the back of your throat that's much too sweet for the dirty, oil-stained fingers he slips between your slack lips, scratching over your tongue. It reminds you of a spoonful of sugar. Grape-flavoured medicine poured over the top. And you wonder how quickly the pills you have been taking would dissolve in water when you sprinkled the white granules down the drain.

Something else you won't mention even as this house he burrowed inside changes shape—clothes in drawers, bags in the closet; the lingering scent of Candy Kiss a spoiled, stale sillage hidden under the smell of newborn and warm milk. Crushed animal crackers and Nicorette. The sound of a gaping, newly formed maw yowling for attention clashing sharply against the exaggerated screams of a grown man howling about a video game on Tommy's iPad.

thanks for hiring me and don't worry, Mr Riley, I can manage him morphing into a new sound, a continual echo of welcome home, and she called again asking about custody, daddy.

Something that throbs like a fresh wound before knitting itself together again into a thin, pink line; skin all shiny and new. Pulsing with the echoes of everything you dipped your chin again, mumbling around the malformed words of please, and don't, and now,

don't stop, please don't stop

What else are you supposed to do, really, other than lettingnhim slake the remnants of his lust between your sore, slick-stained thighs until he grunts, coming inside of you again to the damning symphony of a creaking bed, heels against the floorboards, and the sizzle of a cigarette burning away in an ashtray.

"Wait—" swallowed down by a mangled mouth. A hooked, crooked nose slides along your sweaty cheek as he all but purrs in satisfaction.

All his, he says.

And you don't fight it even as the blood pools between your teeth because you knew that from the start.

[stvrkeysgal]

casual enough? — rafe cameron

— what happens behind closed doors after rafe sees you hanging out with a different boy? with no exclusivity, what you had with rafe cameron was an absolute blur. until tonight.

warnings: smut! (piv, rafe does it ROUGHHHH) squirting, swearing, "slut" mention

you knew better than to mess with rafe. you were well aware of his jealous tendencies, anger issues, and how he acts when you so as much look at another guy when he's around.

but he's been testing your patience way too much for your liking as of the moment.

he had one arm wrapped around a blonde, smiling at what she said but clearly wasn't interested in what she was saying. you knew rafe—you had him wrapped around your finger, but the idea of him actually hanging around with a different girl (when he himself doesn't want you doing the same) had you seething mad.

so here you were, skin-to-skin against jj motherfucking maybank. his hands on your waist and your hips swaying to the beat of the music that traveled across the whole bar. you laugh at what jj says, and all that could rafe do is watch as you had fun with someone—someone that wasn't him.

rafe and you were nothing exclusive, that he always made sure of. but he could feel that deal slowly slipping away each time he sees you with anyone else. it was getting hard for him to ignore the pang in his chest every time the idea of you getting with someone crosses his mind.

tonight was no different.

rafe did his best to keep his cool, ignore the way you were pressed against jj's body, the two of you so close that your ass grinded against his fucking crotch every time your hips so much as swayed. rafe could see that clearly, and it was killing him.

the final straw, though, was when jj's hand snaked from your waist to your chest and then to your neck. he held you there for a few seconds, which had you turning back to him with a smirk. the original plan was to make rafe jealous, see how much it takes until he finally cracks. you decided to go along with jj since you knew how much the two despised each other. and judging by the way rafe's eyes bounced back from you and jj, a scowl present on his face, you knew the plan was working.

though, what you didn't expect was for rafe to walk towards you and jj, the blonde girl previously in his arms now forgotten. "i need to talk to you, right now." rafe says, standing in front of you and jj. you smirked instead, dancing once again. "sorry, cameron. i'm clearly busy here."

rafe scoffs then pulls you away from jj rather harshly, which had you glaring at him. "not a fucking fan of repeating myself, baby. either you come with me or i fuck you in front of everyone—including your boy right here." rafe had you pressed against him, his lips against your ear as he whispered.

he had you so speechless, that you just blinked at him slowly. your heart thumps against your chest rapidly, which has you sweating underneath his gaze. you look back at jj, but he already understands what you meant. he just winks at you before walking away with a smirk.

rafe seems to be satisfied by that, which brought him to grip your arm a little bit tighter. "if you know what's best for maybank, you're coming home with me."

✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

"please, rafe. just give me a second." you were choking on your spit at this point, as rafe fucked you to the point of overstimulation. his hips slapped against the back of your thigh rather harshly, the skin already turning red due to his movements.

"you just don't want to admit it, but you know you love this dick too much to get me to fucking stop." rafe had your face buried in his pillows as he fucked you mercilessly from behind. he was proven right when you clench around his length, his words running through your mind.

"and i was right. got so fucking tight the moment i said that. you love this, don't you, baby?" you were a gasping, moaning mess underneath rafe. and all you could do was take his harsh thrusts.

your eyes rolled back, tears spilled from them as he kept the same pace while he fucked you through yet another orgasm. his thumb was hooked into the side of your mouth, the action keeping your head in place as he kept on thrusting into you.

you could only moan pathetically in response, eyes rolling back into your head while his cock practically tore you in half. rafe wasn't quite pleased though—he wanted to hear you talk, not moan. "i asked you a goddamn question, didn't i?" a spank landed on your ass then, which earned him a mewl instead. "you better fucking answer when i talk to you," he leans down then, mouth leveled with your ear as he spoke. "just a simple yes, slut. that's all i'm asking."

your hands gripped the sheets beneath you as you fought the urge to make a mess and squirt all over the sheets. but rafe had other plans. he flipped you over so you laid on your back, your eyes immediately meeting his. "fuck, yes! i love it, rafe. i love it so much." you managed to breathe out in between sighs and gasps, which had him smirking. "that's about right."

he could feel you clenching around his length once more, which he hissed softly. "shit, you gonna cum again? that's three times in a row, baby." his fingers moved to your clit then, rubbing the sensitive bud in fast, and hard circles. "come on, cum for me. wanna see you make a mess all over this dick."

after three particular thrusts, you gushed all over rafe's length, making a mess on the sheets and his stomach. "that's it, baby," he leans down until he was in level with your neck, in which he kissed and sucked slowly. "love it when you squirt all over me."

you could tell rafe was close, judging by the way his hips seemed to lose rhythm by the minute. "gonna fucking cum inside you, baby. gonna fill this pussy up." rafe fucks you through another orgasm, his mouth latched onto your neck while he did so.

what you don't expect are the words that come out of his mouth next. "don't want anyone having you like this, you get that? i'm fucking yours. i was always yours." rafe says through gritted teeth, while you stared at him with wide and teary eyes.

"fuck, i'm gonna cum." rafe finishes inside you after he says it, and he pulls away to watch him drip out of you slowly.

"in case it's not clear yet, i fucking love you so much. seeing you with jj like that killed me earlier. i want you all for myself, baby." rafe lays beside you, chest heaving up and down as he caught his breath.

"i love you too, rafe. you're it for me."

first actual rafe smut i wrote??? holy shit

drew / rafe's masterlist

[apatheticsunday]

Manifesting Destiny

AKA "Danny knows about Bruce Wayne's little adoption habit, so he actively fights back by making digs at the older man's age. He doesn't realize he essentially adopted himself by calling Bruce 'grandpa'!" prompt idea!!

Okay, so 19-year-old Jazz moves to Gotham because Arkham has an psychiatrist internship that guarantees a job after graduation from Gotham-U. She takes a 12-13 year old Danny with because the "ghost attacks" (i.e., her parents are getting very obsessed with dissecting Phantom and it's genuinely worrying) are getting worse. Now Danny's in Gotham Prep... along with Damian Wayne.

They do not get along.

Damian stabs Danny with a pencil, Danny bites Damian so hard that he needs stitches, and the detentions only increase their bloodthirst because, "He started it!!" It comes to a head when Damian shoves Danny down the stairs (he wasn't really meaning to, he just pushed too hard), and Danny goes down hard. As in not-getting-back-up kind of hard. And Damian realizes he just killed a civilian. He's running through contingency plans, trying to figure out whether he can hide the body or if he should confess to Father, when the Fenton boy's broken neck... becomes un-broken?? And he sits up??

So, 13-year-old Damian makes a logical decision. Daniel Fenton is clearly his Arch Nemesis. He's undeniably a meta (perhaps with super-healing abilities?) so he can withstand Damian's too-enthusiastic violence. And Danny's like, this fucker just killed me. I'm going to beat his ass. Except Damian has a really high pain tolerance and is literally the heir to the League of Assassins. Long story short, Damian and Danny have "play dates" where they spend the entire time trying to kill/beat each other up. Jazz is just happy that Danny seems to have made a friend.

Bruce, on the other hand, takes one look at a scrawny, black-haired, blue-eyed kid who clearly has some childhood trauma, and mentally becomes Bat Dad. He tried to approach the subject once. Bruce carefully, tentatively asked, "Do you have a place to stay, son? We have plenty of rooms." To which Danny replied, "I'm not your son, I have a dad!! Why don't you go sit down before you break a hip, grandpa!!" (Tim choked on his tea, Damian nearly climbed across the table to strangle Danny, and Dick - who doesn't even live at the manor, he was just dropping off a case from Bludhaven PD - laughed so hard he cried.)

Except... Danny keeps coming over to the Wayne Manor (since Damian refuses to 'spar' at Jazz's one bedroom apartment, as it lacks a personal gymnasium). And Bruce is still kind, no matter how many times Danny makes fun of him for wearing bifocals or turtlenecks, or when he just straight up calls Bruce an old man. Plus, Damian's kind of mellowed out, too. He's teaching Danny actual sparring techniques, hand-to-hand combat, and explains different types of weapons/how to use them. Alfred brings the boys snacks. Occasionally Dick and Jason will visit for dinner, ruffling the boy's hair and joking about something or another. He's even introduced to Steph, Cass, and Barbara.

It dawns on Danny one evening, when Alfred is readying the car to take him back to his and Jazz's apartment. Bruce is scraping leftovers into a plastic container for Jazz to re-heat when he gets home and Danny's debating quietly with Damian about whether octopi are smarter than Superman. (Damian says yes, octopi are definitely smarter; he's seen Superman mutter to himself "lefty loosey, righty tighty" when trying to unscrew a water bottle cap.)

Then Bruce is handing Danny the leftovers, and Danny distractedly gives Bruce a side-hug, saying, "Thanks, grandpa."

Totally unironically. Danny's internal monologue is just what the fuck did I just say as Bruce slips him a $20 ("For a treat on the way home.") and escorts him to the front door. He thinks about it as Alfred drives him home. Thinks about it when he and Jazz curl up to watch a movie that night. Danny belatedly realizes that he's been unintentionally thinking of Bruce "Serial Adopter" Wayne as his grandfather??? For months now?? How could this happen??

Back at the Wayne Manor, Bruce is still in the kitchen, listening to Damian continue to debate Superman's intelligence while Tim scrolls on his work tablet. He'll probably take the kids, including the newest edition to the family, to the zoo this weekend.

[burgojo]

27 CLUB. GETO / M!READER / GOJO

summary. satoru's crushing on suguru but finds out he's got a boyfriend! you are, however, equally dreamy, and if satoru was capable of such introspection, he might realise he has a type...

wc. 9.7k

tags. smut | dom top reader, switch bottom geto, sub bottom gojo; established geto/reader. non-sorcerer + rock/metal musician reader, reader is described as a big guy. skinny gojo supremacy, geto with piercings. somno, riding, doggystyle, exhibitionism, dub-con, degradation/praise, daddy kink (once; r. receiving), humiliation, gojo's a crybaby, edging, frotting, choking, overstimulation, gojo gets passed between reader + geto for a bit

"You brought me to a dive bar? Lame."

Suguru's brow twitches, but he says nothing – outwardly. "You were the one begging me to let you come with. Pick a side."

"I'm on the side of good music. I don't want to hear screeching kids out past their bedtimes."

"You think that's the sort of thing I listen to?"

"I mean," Satoru waves a hand in Suguru's general direction, eyeing his choice of clothes, "your outfit has so many holes in it. You could pass as a rebellious delinquent. Like one of them gyarus."

"I do not—" Suguru inhales, shaking his head; leave it to Satoru to think fishnets and cropped shirts count as clothes full of holes. His bangs sway over his eyes; for the first time in perhaps forever, his hair is loose. Satoru can't take his eyes off it when it shines blue-black under the street's neon lights. "I'm not falling for that again. Now, stop dragging your feet. We're here."

They halt in front of a big, dark block of cement. Its windows are blacked out with curtains, and years' worth of posters pasted to the walls overlap, flaking and peeling until only the fuzzy back sliver of the paper remains. The dates on the posters keep changing – the oldest one is from 1998. The ones on top are advertising weeks in the future, up to a month, and the shitty photo-editing reeks of their garage-band histories and amateurish natures.

One of the posters catches Satoru's attention. A young, attractive woman with dark hair and very few clothes on smoulders at him.

With a question on the tip of his tongue, Suguru approaches his side and follows his gaze questioningly. The eye-roll he gives is so quick it's almost pre-emptive. With a hand draped in black and silver jewellery, he grabs the back of Satoru's collar and hauls him away, almost lifting him clean off his feet. "Goodness, Satoru... Have some decency for once in your life."

"Hey! I thought you'd appreciate me taking an interest in your hobbies. And be gentle with that! It's designer!"

Suguru only lets go at the bottom of the stairs, where the evening light abruptly dims and every surface becomes twenty per cent stickier. Satoru grimaces at the palm of his hand, having caught himself against the wall when Suguru tossed him into the dingy basement like a sack of potatoes.

"This place is a real trash heap," he complains – or shouts, rather. The bass in the music rattles his bones like maracas. The place is less like a bar and more like a club. His sunglasses slip down his nose from the vibrations alone, and he pushes them up with a disapproving sniff. "Why couldn't we stay above ground? There seemed to be a perfectly okay bar up on the roof. Looked real nice and moody, too – good for dates."

"Because up there, they have to actually believe your ID," he says in a tone that adds the 'stupid' at the end for him. Without waiting for a response, Suguru pushes his hands into his pockets and leads the way into the bar. He waltzes up to the bartender, who seems to be between patrons. She dries a rocks glass in her hands. Her head bobs loosely to the beat of the live music.

He lifts two fingers. "Beer, please. Whatever's cheapest."

Satoru makes a noise at the back of his throat.

"It's not for you. Geez, Satoru, the world doesn't always revolve around you," he sighs exaggeratedly and flicks his bangs out of his eyes to meet Satoru's gaze. He smirks. "You want something to drink?" He points at the tiny backboard propped up beside him on the countertop, detailing a range of drinks and their prices. "Here are their non-alcoholics. If it won't make you sick, I recommend the raspberry float."

"Then I'll get that." Satoru leans against the bar in the space between Suguru's stool and the next. He shifts, trying to appear natural, and he places his other hand in the pocket of his jacket. He really doesn't need it in this cramped bar – not with the number of people crowding around, driving up the heat.

At the other end of the room, a large group stands at the base of a raised stage. The trio upon it complete sturdy rock covers of popular songs on the radio. They make for exciting listening, though their sound isn't what Satoru usually goes for.

Suguru flags down the bartender for Satoru's bright pink sugar abomination, and she drops off his two beers with a nod. Satoru doesn't have the time to wonder about them further before Suguru turns to him with a wry smirk.

"Sit down, greenie. You look like an idiot."

"And you don't?" he retorts, but hops up on a stool anyway. He prods the glistening mug of beer closest to him, inspecting the amber liquid within, and lifts his eyes.

What surprises him is that Suguru isn't looking at him – or at his drinks, either. Isn't one of the first rules of going to a bar ensuring one's drinks are always within sight?

He tilts his head, a light crease marring his brow. "Suguru? What're you looking at? Pay attention to me. I'm bored."

"I'm looking for someone," he replies coolly, scanning the crowds near the stage. With a sigh and a slump of the shoulders, he glances over at Satoru with a small smile, resting his elbow on the bar. "Sorry. I'm a little distracted. I haven't come here in a while, you see."

Satoru doesn't see – which is ironic – and wants to ask. But asking means he'll look his way, and that means Satoru won't be able to admire Suguru's pretty feline features for as long as he'd like. He'd get all embarrassed about it and growl at him.

Propping his chin on his knuckles, Satoru traces each curve and plane of Suguru's features with his eyes, committing every line to memory. Suguru won't always be this young, and the dim neon lighting is so nice on his skin, cutting deep shadows across the soft fantasy of his face.

Purple and green. Fitting, for a place called the Viper Lounge.

"Satoru. Your drink is here."

With a blink, he straightens up, and the pretty bartender lady shoots a knowing wink his way. The tall pink drink almost glows under the lights, and the float bobs with the tiny streams of fizzing soda bubbles that rise to the top.

Smiling to himself, Suguru glances back at the stage as Satoru's unyielding attention averts to the bartender, bothering her for a matching pink drink umbrella. The room is painted black, like a secret born to the night, and the stage matches the paint job. It makes its users seem to float several feet off the ground.

He taps his cheek with a soft sigh, fiddling with his brow piercing. His hair catches on it sometimes, but that's the price he must pay.

He watches Satoru absently. Where were you? Had your schedule changed in the weeks he'd been busy?

Then, with the faint echo of the microphone, an all-too familiar voice:

"One! Two! Three! Four!"

The leap from silence into rapid metal is violent. The drums beat lifeblood through veins. Steel shreds the guitar. Bass peels flesh from bone and snaps it back together.

Suguru's reverie shatters like glass.

There you are. Tall with confidence, clad in leather and denim. Your hair's shorter than he last remembers, but wilder, already-damp strands of hair sticking to your temples as if fresh from a romp in the sheets. Jewellery glints under the moody stage lights, and it's hypnotic, the way you charge up the crowd with your voice and your guitar. The amp by your feet is beat-up and worn, having played stepping stool to leather boots too many times, but it explodes with sound. Your sound.

You've got a quartet for a band, all faces made familiar through his connections with you. His heart flutters at the memory of your arm slung around his waist, pulling him into your side as you laugh at something your drummer said.

Satoru's head tilts as Suguru slides off the seat and grabs the two beers. "Suguru? Hey! Where are you going?"

It's too loud to hear him, what with the singing and the screaming and the heavy thump-thump-thump of drunken dancers jumping around. Suguru weaves through the crowd of crying fans – mostly girls; your bassist is your only female member – and it's easy to recognise him, his physical training and broad body letting him part the drunken gaggle just by walking forward and keeping balance.

He reaches the front of the crowd and lifts his face to you, a little smile playing at the corners of his lips. His dark eyes are endless in the shadowy room, and the way he raises the mug of beer feels like the hand of the devil. His tongue toys with his snakebite piercings, the soft pink of it peeking past his lips like a taunt.

During the lull of the song's vocals, you crouch down, avoiding the stares and grabbing hands of dozens of fans. You grip the beer – Suguru's smile widens – and rise to your feet. The rim's already at your lips, and rapid bob of your Adam's apple as you swallow invokes a wave of screams and a chant of "Chug! Chug! Chug!" that fills the bar.

Droplets run down your throat and soak into the collar of your shirt. Your skin glistens. Sweat dampens your throat and the furrow of your brow.

As the melody builds to a crescendo, you slam down the empty mug and launch into the song's chorus, the rough metal gravel of your voice sending more than one fan into hysterics.

Suguru watches the way your fingers fly over the guitar neck with impossible ease, smiling into his beer at the memories of those same fingers wrapped around his neck, his hips, his—

An arm falls over his shoulders. "Suguru! Don't run off like that again! Where you go, I go."

He glances over his shoulder. Satoru's almost shouting in his ear, and some ways behind him, he spots at the bar the empty glass with the pink umbrella balanced recklessly on the rim.

"Sorry," he shouts back, a sheepish, apologetic grin on his lips. "Got carried away. Did you like your drink?"

"Yeah," he says above the noise. "C'mon, hard to talk here! Let's find a booth."

Satoru slips in on one side, and Suguru takes the other. The deep red leather of the seats feels decadent in the low lighting, the same way velvet and jewels go together. Satoru peers over his glasses at Suguru with a shit-eating grin.

"Not gonna lie to you," he begins. "I'm pretty sure that normie over there was eyeing you up like a piece of candy."

There's a twang to his words, and Suguru smiles behind his glass of beer, leaning in and peering at Satoru closely. Nearly imperceptibly, Satoru leans away.

He straightens. "Are you jealous?" he says, almost in disbelief. "No way."

A pause.

"What?" he laughs, waving a hand as if to disperse the very thought from the air. "Jealous? Me? Of him? Don't make me laugh, Suguru. I'm way cooler! And better-looking."

"I'm not sure," Suguru hums, sparing a glance at the fans trying their damndest to touch the singer's steel-capped boots. "For starters, he drinks well."

"Don't say 'for starters' like you're about to dive into a list of compliments." Satoru pouts, crossing his arms. "Is he the person you were looking for earlier?"

"Mmh. He's got a good voice, doesn't he?"

"He sounds like he smokes three packs a day. But you don't care what I think, do you? You've already made up your mind."

Suguru chuckles, vanishing about half of his drink in two gulps. It's rather impressive. "That sound is raw talent and cultivated skill. You sound like you hate him."

"Nah, you're just trying too hard for a guy in some no-name garage band. Did you see his clothes?" He peers over his glasses at his friend. "They're western brands. Not cheap here. He's a total poser."

"But he looks good in them, right?"

"Eh. So-so."

"I bought them for him."

"I mean, they fit well on him. And they match the whole 'rockerboy' thing, but that's more because of you than him."

He hides his grin behind his beer, sipping on what remains to nurse it until your gig ends. Satoru's too predictable.

—

Later, Suguru ventures into the staff lounge with Satoru on his heels. Pleasantly warm with alcohol, he finds you alone by the couch, one boot kicked up on the footstool and an arm thrown over your eyes. Your chest rises and falls slowly with your breaths, and Suguru quietly slips around the furniture to take a seat next to you. He grasps your forearm and lowers it.

Satoru stares.

You're handsome. He gets it now.

One eye cracks open. Your hazy eyes pass over Satoru as if he's not even there – how annoying – and land on Suguru. Your gaze brightens and you sit up, lowering your boots to the ground.

"Oh, it's you!"

Your voice is surprisingly mellow, low and smooth like caramel. Despite your neutral affect – and the fact that you're not even addressing him – Satoru's cheeks warm.

"It's me." Suguru's voice is soft.

You gaze at him a while longer, the pause filled with your bright, contradicting smile. Then you grunt and sit forward with your elbows on your knees, your leather jacket creaking quietly. "My favourite man. What can I do you for?"

"You're too sweet, YN," he says, a flicker of shyness crossing his features. "Haven't seen you in a while."

Your brow furrows and you sigh, glancing aside. "I know, I'm sorry, doll. It's been difficult trying to adjust to my new job – just been dead tired all the time. Anyway – what is this, an interrogation? You gonna introduce me to your buddy or what?"

You cock your head up at Satoru, who stands in front of you with his hands in his pockets. With Suguru to your side and the corner of the room on the other, you have nowhere to go.

Suguru spares a glance at his friend. "Satoru, sit down." He turns back to you. "He wanted to come and I couldn't stop him. Just ignore him. I wanted to talk to you."

"Sure. What about?"

He places a hand on your knee. His nails are painted black. "I really wanna stay at your place."

If Satoru wasn't watching closely, he would've missed the way your eyes widened the slightest bit. He has to commend you – you smother it quickly.

"Tonight?"

"Mhm." He shuffles closer to you. His fingers twitch as he glances down at your hand, as if he has to suppress the urge to take it in his own. "Thought we could catch up a bit – braid each other's hair, do our nails, the whole nine yards."

You blink. "That's... awfully forward of you. You usually dance around these things until I finally figure it out."

His lips twitch up. "I can be direct when I want to be."

"Oh, so you just enjoy riling me up."

"I like what comes after."

Suguru's head tilts slightly, and your faces are an inch apart. His eyes flicker to your lips.

"Of course you can stay, Suguru," you murmur, your expression softening. "I'm glad you came here."

"Even though I'm breaking the rules?"

"My whole shtick is being counter-culture. That includes disobeying rules when they're stupid."

"When they're stupid," he echoes. He smiles, his dimples losing him his tough-guy persona. He bumps your shoulder with his, tucking his loose hair behind his ear. "Are you staying here for any reason?"

You shake your head. "Been paid and everything. I'm just abusing the couch for an air-conditioned nap. The others are going clubbing in a few hours if you want to meet up with 'em and say hi."

"Did you want to go?"

"Nah. I had a killer headache last night and don't want it coming back. Mostly, I planned to bake something."

Satoru can't hold it in any longer. "You bake?"

Two sets of eyes swivel to him where he stands by the fridge, checking out its contents.

"Uh, yeah." You turn to Suguru and stretch, resting an arm over the backrest behind his shoulders. A classic, almost dorky move, and one you do all the time, but Suguru's heart still flutters. "Who is this guy, by the way? Why's he wearing sunglasses inside? You're not cool, dude."

"I have sensitive eyes," he declares, pointing overhead at the bright, artificial white lights. "Name's Satoru."

You raise a brow. "I think you've been mentioned once. Last name?"

"Need-to-know basis."

You narrow your eyes at him.

Suguru interrupts the staring contest, shoving himself into your line of sight. "You said you had a headache. Are you okay?"

You drop the glare and smile at Suguru, squeezing his shoulder. "Mm, don't worry about it, baby. Nothing a few painkillers can't solve."

He lifts a hand to your face, tracing the shape of your cheek with his knuckles. His touch is so light it almost tickles. "If you say so. Don't forget to sleep more. It's not good for your skin."

You offer a fond smile. While swiping a few chocolates from the bowl on the table, Satoru notices how Suguru leans into your touch and how he presses his side into yours as much as he can, thighs and shoulders brushing. He didn't know he was... that sort of person.

Rather vacantly, Satoru thinks he should be more upset right now. After all, he's been pining after Suguru for the past year, and now he finds out that Suguru's got some normie with tight leather pants falling into his bed? He was planning on confessing after Suguru's birthday, but he supposes he should trash that plan.

Fuck. Awkward.

"Hey, Satoru." Suguru's soft voice draws him out of his thoughts. "YN wants to try a new recipe. Wanna come with?"

"You're gonna be my guinea pigs," you agree. Your heavy gaze rakes Satoru's body, and he suppresses a warm shiver. "Or my little white mouse."

Satoru tries to ignore his blush. He straightens, pocketing another chocolate. "You don't care about inviting a stranger to your house?"

"Any friend of Suguru's is a friend of mine." You stand and stretch with a pleased groan that feels far too intimate. "I don't have shit worth stealing, anyway, unless you count my banged-up guitar. It's, like, twenty years old."

"Not old enough to be vintage, too young to be seriously desirable." Suguru sighs, slumping against your side dramatically as you pass through the door together. "Story of my life."

"Ew. Don't joke about that." You glance past Suguru – Satoru's eyes, you notice past the glasses, are an unexpected shade of cornflower blue. "Hey, Baby Blues. How'd you two meet?"

"Hm? Oh, high school."

"Ah, you two are the same age?"

"Same class and everything," Suguru says as you wander towards your car, the keys jingling in your pocket as you try to find the correct one by touch alone. There's a shadow of a guitar case in the back of the car. "Can't get rid of him anymore."

"That just means you always have someone to shout you a drink or two." You pull open the door for Suguru and draw a vaguely round shape in the air with a finger. "Karma's a circle."

"Yeah? And where are you in that circle?"

Swiftly, you shut the door and turn to Satoru, nodding your head in the direction of the car. "Hop in, Blue! You'll be glad you came when you try my tiramisu."

—

Some time later, Satoru finds himself on your soft leather couch, nursing a very flushed Suguru on his left and a less-flushed you on his right. You cackle at his attempts to take the game controller off Suguru, and when Suguru gets touchier in order to body-block him, you can tell from his flustered expression that he doesn't really know how to deal with it when you're right there.

"I'm fine," Suguru sighs, batting Satoru's hands off. He leans in further, trying to push him back, when he persists. "Satoru, you're blocking my view with your big head! It's your fault if I die."

You own a PS2 with a pretty neat collection of games. Suguru is doing less than well with Metal Gear Solid 3.

"Let me have a turn," Satoru pleads, pouting when Suguru expertly weaves the controller away from him. He's had years of practice with it. "I'm so good at stealth games! Lemme try, I wanna go—"

"Just say you wanna impress YN. It's less desperate, man."

Satoru's jaw snaps shut with an audible click. His eyes are so blue that Suguru can see the shine of them behind his almost-opaque glasses.

Suguru smirks and shifts on the couch, tossing his legs over Satoru's lap victoriously. He settles comfortably among the pillows and returns his attention to the television.

"W-What?" he stutters. Did he hear that right? Was he drunk on the tiramisu's brandy?

"It's okay," Suguru says, sneaking past a guard successfully. He smiles victoriously, lip piercings glinting in the light. "I wouldn't mind sharing if it was you. Have you seen the size of him? I can't eat all that by myself."

You chuckle, one arm slung over the back of the couch. In your other hand is a brandy glass, the dark amber alcohol you used in the tiramisu sparkling under the light as you gesture with the glass. "Dunno 'bout that last bit. You try pretty hard to."

"I don't like leaving my meals half-finished. I'm also generous to those less fortunate – Satoru's never dated anyone, you know? I wouldn't want him getting hurt by some selfish asshole because he doesn't know any better. That's why I think you'd be good for him."

The colour of Satoru's face rivals Suguru's. He rubs his cheeks, sinking into the couch. "Stop telling him my life story! You're making me sound really uncool. You're so wasted, Suguru – is this what you're like outside of school?"

"I'm not that far gone," Suguru groans, controller going limp in his hand. He reaches around Satoru to give it to you, which you accept – you immediately start blitzing through the in-game building, attention now completely elsewhere. He levels him with an unimpressed stare. "I could probably take you right now."

"You want to fight me in your boyfriend's apartment?" Satoru squawks. "He made food for you! Control yourself. Gosh..."

"'Control thine emotions'," he mocks. "I'm perfectly in control. You need to admit that you like my boyfriend."

"I don't." Panic drips from his voice.

"You totally do. It's cute – I've never seen you with a crush on anyone. A rich boy liking an underground rockstar? Embarrassing. I've read that manga before."

"No, I don't – I'm not a manga protag—" He cuts himself off, jabbing a finger into Suguru's chest. "I just have eyes, okay? I can tell when someone's, like, visually appealing. You're visually appealing. Doesn't mean I'm going goo-goo over you."

With a roll of his neck, Suguru leans in, propping his elbow on his shoulder. He levels his gaze at him, blinking slowly.

He sucks in a breath. He can smell his honey-scented shampoo. He's holding on by the skin of his teeth.

"A-And," Satoru continues, shifting in his seat. How incredibly unfortunate it is that he's sitting between you and Suguru. Why is that, anyway? Weren't you the ones dating? "You're being weird. Who the fuck talks about this? Like, seriously."

"YN and I talk like this all the time. You're just a prude." He sticks out his tongue, and the flash of a silver piercing studded into his tongue leaves Satoru breathless and shocked. He scrambles forward, reaching towards him, and pinches Suguru's jaw with one hand.

"What the hell is that?" he exclaims, brows furrowing. Memories of the previous conversation are all but gone.

Suguru lifts an eyebrow, glancing aside. He'd almost forgotten how strong Satoru can be. "What's what?"

"That." He shifts his grip, forcing Suguru's lips to part. His tongue flicks against his front teeth, and the little silver ball catches the light.

"A pierthing," he replies, muffled. He lets Satoru, alarmed at their sudden closeness, pull away first with a scandalised blush. Suguru rubs his cheeks and lets his tongue loll out of his mouth, showing it off with a glint in his dark eyes.

Satoru stares. How is his tongue so long?

"Cool, right? I wanted to match YN's look. It makes us look ten times better than the next couple."

He blinks himself out of his daze. "Did it hurt?"

"Not as much as you'd think. I had to get used to talking with it, though – I was lisping like crazy while it healed. I was thinking of getting a septum piercing to balance it out – or just more on the ears."

"You never tell me anything." He pouts. "How'd I never notice it...?"

"You think I don't tell you things? Fine. How about this?" Suguru shuffles forward and drapes an arm over Satoru's shoulders. He offers a lazy smirk and cups a hand by Satoru's ear. "It makes guys feel great."

His heartbeat pounds in his skull. He swears Suguru glances down at his lips – but that could be his woozy double vision. His hair looks so soft...

"Done," you announce, setting the controller in Satoru's lap – he picks it up hastily before Suguru can nab it. He huffs and crosses his arms, empty-handed. "Your turn, Blue. I wanna see some slick action, or we both get to watch Suguru struggle with holding people up."

"I am not that bad!" he snaps. "The controller buttons are sticky."

"A bad workman blames his tools," Satoru says automatically.

He immediately begins to argue.

Hm. You can see why Suguru's so endeared with the white-haired man, especially when he takes off his glasses to blink his huge, glossy blue eyes up at him. He's pouting, Suguru's waving his arms around, and you're certain you've got enough room in your bed for three.

—

In the darkness of your bedroom, you're slowly dragged from the depths of sleep by a weight above you. Your brow furrows, a little grumble falling from your lips, as hands trail down the sides of your face and play with your hair.

"YN."

You release a soft breath.

"YN. Wake up."

Your eyes crack open, and you find yourself frowning up at Suguru's shadowy figure. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, but when they do, you notice that he's not wearing any pants.

He shifts on your lap, face inches from yours. His long hair is swept over his shoulder, slightly messy with sleep. His eyes, however, are perfectly awake, staring down at you with an animal hunger.

"Hey, you," he whispers fondly, barely a breath. He lowers his body over yours even further until your chests press together. You wrap a lazy arm around his waist. "Need you, baby."

"Suguru," you whisper back, only just now noticing the state of your boxers. They're slick and sticky, and you know for certain not all of it is because of you. "How long have you been at this?"

"Five, ten minutes. I don't know. I got impatient." He ghosts his lips over yours, tucking his hair over his ear before he cups your face. "Need you so bad. Need you right now."

"Fuck, seriously?" you huff, shifting slightly so you can rest back on an elbow. "Damn nymphomaniac..."

A body beside you rolls over. You freeze.

Shit. You'd forgotten he was here. Satoru had been insistent on taking the couch, but Suguru's large brown eyes and sweet words had worn him down. When you chimed in to express your agreement with your boyfriend, he'd broken fully, and accepted.

"I've already prepped myself," Suguru breathes, pressing his bare cock against the front of your boxers. He rolls his hips slowly, kissing you equally torturously. "Please, baby? Needa come so bad."

His words are slurring. Usually so put-together, Suguru grinds against your growing bulge with a soft whimper, eyes fluttering shut as his cockhead catches on the cloth.

He's going to be the death of you.

You place your hands on his waist, lifting him just enough to reach your waistband and free yourself from your boxers. Suguru sighs shakily and tucks the band below your balls, batting away your hand to be able to hold it himself. You roll your eyes at his attitude but allow him to admire your cock. He nibbles on his lower lip as he rakes its length with his heavy gaze.

"You're already hard," he teases under his breath, closing his fist around it and stroking it from tip to base and back again in one rough motion. You jump slightly, a hiss slipping out between your teeth. Suguru silences you with a hot kiss, his tongue pushing into your mouth as he strokes you and swallows your sounds.

He shifts cautiously on his knees, mindful of Satoru's still body next to him, and opens his hand to slot his cock against yours. He purrs as he tugs them both, head falling against your shoulder as he rocks back and forth atop your lap.

"So good," he whispers into your skin, his hot breath fanning your neck. You can feel him tremble – with excitement, with exertion. His breaths are shaky as he quickens his fist, rutting against you.

He's dripping. Your shared arousal slicks up your cocks, and Suguru's wet palm squelches quietly with every stroke. He shudders out a soft moan, nails digging into the pillow beneath your head.

"Is this what you wanted?" you growl under your breath, hands pressing firmly against his waist and forcing him to grind harder into your cock. His hips stutter. "Fuckin' whore, doing this when your best friend's a foot away from you..."

He swallows a moan as you dig your thumb into his leaky slit. "Y-Yes – yes, I wanted this. 'M sorry for being such a slut," he whines softly, his thick thighs tensing atop yours. His cock jumps as Satoru shifts in his sleep. "Oh, fuuuck..."

You chuckle breathlessly as Suguru leans into you, his slick fist squelching louder as he grinds more desperately into you. You hold your hand in place, formed into a loose circle, and allow Suguru to fuck into it as his tip catches on the ridge of your glans with every thrust.

"G-Gonna come," he whispers against your jawline, free hand tangling in your hair. His little moans feel so much louder right by your ear, and your heart races whenever it pitches that much higher. "Ohh, god..."

"Yeah," you pant, wrapping your arms around his waist and holding him close. You press your palm against his shoulder – his heart pounds through his back. "That's right, dollface. Don't hold back. I wanna see my pretty slut come for me, alright? Wanna have your come all over me."

His rushed, shallow little humps rock the mattress dangerously. You grip the shelf of his hips in warning, slowing him down. He whimpers like an injured animal, pleading.

Swallowing roughly, you wrap one hand around his cock and use the other to grip his plush ass beneath his oversized t-shirt, your fingers digging into the soft skin. He gasps softly and presses into your touch, humming gratefully as you jerk him off, your thumb swiping over his swollen tip.

With an arch of his spine, his arms tightening around you, he comes, his pants and sighs soft and breathy against your skin. He presses his hips against yours, coating your cock and stomach with spurts of hot come.

Your head falls back against the pillow, an exhale escaping your lips as your eyes flutter shut. Suguru collapses on top of you, hips still jerking intermittently, and you can feel his sticky pleasure dripping down your sides in rivulets. Fuck.

Suguru tucks his head under your chin, dragging a thumb down your side and smearing his pearly release over your warm skin. Your stomach tenses under his touch and he smiles, tongue running over his piercings.

"I want yours inside me," he declares, leaving no room for argument. "Don't waste it."

"Waste it?" you breathe. "Waste it for what? You want kids or something?"

His lashes flutter as his gaze lifts to yours, dark and smoky. "Something like that."

He picks himself up and positions himself upright on your lap, shifting on his knees to better balance his weight. He glances at Satoru's curled body and mop of messy white hair, almost glowing in the darkness. Heat swirls in his stomach as he notices how tightly Satoru's gripping his pillow. A wicked grin tugs at his lips.

Suguru grinds his ass against your cock, one hand reaching back to rub the tip and press it against his fluttering hole. He lets the tip catch against his rim, throwing his head backwards and scattering long locks of hair in a cascade down his back. His hole clenches around nothing.

"Feels like you're about to burst," he teases softly, continuing to rub against the shaft. "Your balls are so heavy, too... Please let me have your come, daddy. I want it all inside me."

"Dirty little thing. If you can stay quiet, I'll let you have it," you mutter, bending one knee to give him some support. He grips it, lifting his hips, and slowly sinks down on your thick cock, hole clenching and fluttering around you at the stretch.

"I can, I promise." He exhales shakily, expression twisted with pleasure and pain. "Fuck."

"Take it easy," you murmur, eyes flashing with concern.

He chuckles, breathy. "What if I said I liked it?"

"I'd call you a whore."

"And I'll prove it." With a sharp inhale, his hole swallows the rest of your cock in a single gulp. His thighs quiver, his mouth falling open in a silent moan. His cock throbs, hot against his skin.

"Holy shit," you exhale, eyes wide as he trembles around your dick, his long hair flowing over his shoulders as he stares down at the join of your bodies, fascinated by his own capacity. You can feel every pulse of his heartbeat, every ripple of his silken insides. He's tight as a vice, gripping your cock, and he moans softly as a spurt of precome makes the fit a little easier.

He grins, eyes dazed but focussed solely on you. He moans when you wrap your fingers around his cock, wet and hot, and begins to rock his hips, fucking into your grasp.

"Hard already," you note in an almost condescending tone of voice, twisting your fist and making him suck in a sharp breath. "You're such a pervert, aren't you, Suguru? Touching your boyfriend when he's sleeping, riding him where your best friend could wake up and see how shameful you are... I bet you'd fuckin' come if he watched you like this."

A hand shoots up to muffle his cry. Your cock nudges his prostate and he presses into it, but you keep shifting your damn hips to avoid knocking into it directly.

He's helpless. Why did you know him so well? Why was he cursed to suffer at the hands of a sadist?

"Quiet," you whisper warningly, grip tightening on his hips and forcing him to keep moving. You experiment with a few upward thrusts, meeting his bounces halfway with meaty smacks that feel far too loud in the silence of the room.

"I can't keep quiet if you're fucking my brains out," he hisses, but his aggression melts away the moment you crush his prostate head-on. Briefly, his eyes roll back to show their whites, and he shudders out a broken, muffled moan.

You pat the side of his ass, making him flinch at the sound. "Relax," you huff offhandedly, "I'm not even doing all that much. You're just too much of a slut to notice the difference – a cock inside you, and all your thoughts fly right out the window. You're so pretty, doll. Stop thinking so hard."

"Asshole," he grunts, but doesn't stop bouncing. He throws his head back. "Ohh, fuck me, your cock is so damn good..."

"That's right, baby. Just like that," you groan, his tight slick hole dragging with every lift of his hips. His pace grows unsteady, messy, a creamy white ring forming around the base of your shaft. You quicken your strokes, matching Suguru's shallow bounces, and he gasps your name, cock spurting precome that you smear over his shaft to make the glide easier – filthier.

"Fuck me," he curses, his voice growing dangerously whiny. "Why are you holding back? Just come! Come inside, please, I-I'm so close, wanna come with you—"

You thrust into him roughly and squeeze his cock. He chokes out a sharp gasp, far too loud, as thick come paints his insides white. He spills into your hand, his creamy release running over your knuckles and down his swollen, pulsing shaft. He grips your shoulders, nails digging into your skin, and his sides tighten as his movements slow, each bounce long and slow as he grinds down as deep as possible.

His muscles loosen as he pants, slumping down on top of you as he dips his tongue between your lips. You groan lazily as his piercing bumps your teeth and rolls against your tongue. You squeeze his hip, smoothing your palm over the generous curve of his ass. Your lips smack softly and he shivers, his cock giving one more valiant throb.

In the corner of his vision – the peripherals of his senses – Satoru twitches.

Suguru sits up immediately, to your confusion.

"Baby?"

He hushes you, not sparing you a glance. His gaze bores into his friend's back.

"Satoru?" he whispers.

Like clockwork, he stiffens.

A grin tugs at Suguru's lips. You stare up at him, propped up on an elbow. You don't have his sorcery-enhanced sensitivities – you don't notice that the white-haired figure next to you is breathing harder than usual, or that he's shifting far too much for sleep.

"Satoru," he hums, soft and coaxing. "I know you're awake."

Your heart drops like a stone. Suguru, however, smiles wider.

"Not moving won't do anything, you know."

Then—

Slowly, he sits up. His hair is more of a mess than it usually is. His oversized white shirt has risen slightly and shows off a sliver of pale skin.

Suguru is going to kill him. He's sure of it. His voice is soft and dangerous.

"How long were you awake?"

His head feels foggy, still reeling from shock. "Uh..."

Suguru lifts a hand to his mouth, eyes crinkling with a little titter. He points down at Satoru. "Long enough, I'd wager."

He looks down. His face explodes with heat.

The hard-on strains at the front of his shorts. A dark spot mars the cloth where his tip would be.

Shit. Fuck. He'd borrowed your clothes – so had Suguru – and here he was, soiling them with his envy and desperation. He was such a freak.

"I-I can explain," he stammers, and you can't help admiring the way he seems to swim in your clothes. The elastic in the shorts had to be pulled as tight as possible for it to stay up without help, and even then, they sat teasingly low, showing off his delicate hipbones whenever he stretched.

Smirking, Suguru gradually lifts his hips, eyes fluttering as he pulls off of your cock. Satoru's ocean eyes widen at the sight of it resting on your stomach.

"No need," he says evenly. Satoru doesn't need his Six Eyes to catch the drop of pearly liquid rolling down the inside of his thigh as he leans over to turn on the lamp on the bedside table. It douses the room in a faint golden glow. He bites back a whine as Suguru continues, as if nothing's wrong. "Come here, Satoru."

When he extends his hand, it's like salvation. Satoru stares at his kind, open palm.

He takes it. Suguru's slender fingers wrap around his, tugging him closer. He coaxes him nearer, the way one would with a frightened animal.

You're looking at him. You're both looking at him. Something sick and twisted in him likes it.

"Do you want us?" Suguru says softly. "Or have I read you wrong?"

Satoru swallows around the dry lump in his throat. His lips part. "I... I thought you wouldn't like me that way."

"Oh, Satoru," Suguru croons, lifting a hand to brush his white bangs out of his eyes. "Always so perceptive about everything but yourself."

Satoru's eyes dart away and amongst his jittering nerves, he latches onto the steadiness of your gaze, trained on him. He flushes when you smirk, your bare upper body displayed like a piece of art beneath his stare.

"Who do you want first?" you ask, and Suguru presses himself into your side. You level your gazes at him, and he stutters out some nonsense before falling quiet, pinned beneath your attention. "Suguru's already prepped, if you swing that way."

Suguru rolls his eyes at your choice of words, though he smiles fondly. "Surely he wants you, rockerboy. You're new – a novelty."

"And you're something familiar in an unfamiliar situation. Why wouldn't he choose you?"

"Can't I have both?" Satoru says quietly, though he blanches when your shared attention turns to him. "U-Uh, I mean—"

Suguru turns to you thoughtfully. "Hm?"

Your eyes glitter. "Hm."

—

"That's it, sugar," you chuckle, sliding a warm palm up Satoru's side to wrap around his throat. He gasps as you grip his jaw, forcing his lips to part, and maybe you're stronger than he'd like to admit – one hand on his shoulder, one around his throat, and that's all you need to lift him plain off the bed. His fingers scrabble at the sheets, barely brushing, and in his desperation, he grips your waist. The position only has him arching even further, your cock slamming into his bruised and sensitive prostate.

"Ah, ah, ah," he moans, eyes fluttering and silvery hair sticking to his damp temples. "Ah – Suguru, d-don't watch...!"

You wrench his head up, forcing a cry from his throat. You click your tongue, shaking your head. "Tsk tsk tsk. Look at him. Look, Satoru."

He mewls and obeys despite the hot shame and arousal crawling around his guts. The way you say his name makes him dizzy – not soft and purring like Suguru, not reverential or tense like other sorcerers. To you, he's just a brat, and you're firm with him in a way that nobody else has ever been. Not cruel – just firm.

When Satoru lifts his watery gaze to Suguru, he finds him staring down at the length swinging between his legs. His hole clenches as his thighs attempt to close – to hide himself away. You hiss in pleasure, knocking his knees apart with your own.

"Fuck," you rasp, stroking his lean hip and admiring the way bruises bloom red on his pale skin. "Look him in the eye, Satoru. You wanna make him come, right? We're doing this for Suguru. Don't be so selfish that you forget who you're serving."

"S-Sorry," he hiccups, shakily arching his back and exposing his bare, leaking cock, deep red with want. His gasps and moans are loud, echoing off the walls, almost drowning out the sound of your thighs smacking his ass. "Ah—! S-Slow down, I – nngh!"

Satoru's cock throbs painfully. The cockring you'd placed on him strangles his base, and his heartbeat pulses in his dick. He wants to come really bad.

"Are you sure that's what you want?" Suguru's foot nudges his pulsating cock, pressing roughly against it. A teasing smile plays at his lips and he hums as Satoru chases the friction with a miserable, choked noise, whimpering when you drag him back towards you.

"I-I – it feels—" He can't think straight, head spinning like he's been slammed against concrete one too many times. His breath snags on the thick air as your fingers dig into his jaw. Your dick punches the breath from his lungs, dragging the painful pleasure up from deep in his belly. He sniffles softly, hazy eyes welling with crystal tears. "Ahn – Suguru," he sobs, so weak and pathetic even to his own ears that it makes his cock swell within its cage, its tip drooling incessantly.

How cute – begging his best friend for help. As if he'd listen.

"Don't slow down," whispers Suguru, voice like silk. "He can take it. He's the strongest."

That means nothing to you, but Satoru's gut clenches violently. Humiliation curls around his thoughts, burning the fringes of his mind with an electrifying shame.

Suguru slinks forward, sliding his thigh between yours in the mess of legs. His touch flutters over Satoru's warm cheeks and he presses close. You slow your pace to a snail's crawl, dragging against and kissing Satoru's swollen gummy prostate.

"I can't," Satoru whimpers, weak in your hold. He leans into Suguru's gentler touch. "I can't do it. I can't. It's too much."

"No, it's not. Don't be silly," Suguru hums, taking his cock in his hand and making Satoru sob and jerk. He aligns it with his, rutting against it lazily. God, he's got another fucking piercing right beneath the glans of his dick – it catches, smooth and hard, on the ridge of Satoru's tip. His bright eyes lose their focus and his hips twitch. "I'm not letting you go until I think you're done. Just try not to pass out, okay?"

"He won't. He's a good bitch – barely needs any training. He takes me like a fuckin' champ." Your cock punches into his guts and he squeals, his cries high and melodic even as he falls limp in your hands, his fingers scrabbling at your hips and thighs. Suguru moans at the contact, his fist wrapped around both his and Satoru's lengths. "F-Fuck – you're both so damn pretty like this."

Satoru gasps as Suguru smiles and leans over his shoulder to kiss you. Pressed between your bodies, Satoru can hear every wet smack and soft moan of your kisses right in his ear. His cock throbs violently, leaking a constant stream of pre.

Suguru's hands rest on his hips, gently guiding him back and forth between your cock and his. His cock is warm and velvety, and Satoru whimpers as Suguru presses further into him to kiss you deeper with a pleased sigh. Your grip tightens on Satoru's jaw, pulling him into your chest, and he mewls, squeaky little moans falling from his lips as your cock fills him up over and over again, fucking him like he made you angry.

"S-Suguru—!" He can't get the rest of his sentence out before two thick fingers shove into his mouth. His yelp melts into a moan as they press down on his tongue, silencing him.

"Hot," Suguru observes, parting from you to catch his breath and watch the way his friend sucks and drools on your fingers, his cerulean eyes dazed and glossy. "Kiss me again."

You oblige, twisting your hand in his long, loose hair and pulling him towards you. His lips are warm and plush, and his breath hitches as your tongue rolls across his, flicking the silver piercing there. You pull back for air but he doesn't let you, yanking you back in and tracing the length of your tongue with a debauched moan.

Satoru can hear it all. He can't watch – no, not with your firm grip on his jaw – but not being able to see makes everything ten times worse. He feels like a toy, his high withheld and his sight limited. For all his gifts, he still has to fucking turn to see things, and he wishes really, really badly that he knew what it looks like.

He can imagine it clearly. Your faces flushed, your hair mussed. Suguru's delicate features relaxed into a wanton expression, his piercings glinting in the low light as his tongue twists with yours. Your brow furrowed, your lips swollen, as you suck on his tongue.

Desperately, with tears in his eyes, he slobbers around your fingers, gripping your wrist in both hands. Saliva runs down your knuckles and Satoru chokes as you push your fingers deeper, sliding over his tongue possessively. He adapts quickly, muffled moans high and needy as your cock slams into his guts.

He swears you can't be a non-sorcerer. How else could you ruin him so easily? How else are you tracking every little twitch that gives away his most sensitive places? How else are you still going?

You've backed off now, instead staring at Satoru and the way his lips close around your fingers like they're a cock. Suguru, equally mesmerised, licks his lips.

As if you're one being, you remove your fingers from Satoru's slick mouth, and Suguru cups his face and kisses him.

Kisses him.

Kisses him.

He can't think. His body moves on instinct, his teeth clashing with Suguru's in a messy and uncoordinated manner, but he is kind, and he coaxes control from him to teach him how to kiss. Blue eyes made even bluer with the red ringing his lashline, Satoru moans and scratches at Suguru's shoulders, cock throbbing as the ring bites into his raw shaft. Suguru's fingers brush against his tight, aching balls and he blubbers like he's going to die.

"Please," he manages to choke out, gasping and jerking as Suguru scrapes his nails down his dark red length. "P-Please..."

He doesn't even know what he's begging for. More? Less? For Suguru to stop looking at him as if he'd hung the stars? He's a sinful, degenerate mess, he knows it – far from the perfect and powerful sorcerer the world expects. The Gojo clan heir, ruined on something so obscene and mortal as a big, thick cock.

You turn his face towards you, watching the tears fall over the flushed apples of his cheeks. He's so pale that every little touch burns him with lust, and his embarrassment spreads from his cheeks to his chest and down his shoulder blades.

You press your lips against his and he whimpers, a hand shooting up to grip your hair. He kisses back, moaning as you swipe your tongue over his lower lip, and the slick sounds of your lips smacking makes his walls flutter and clench around you.

He's clumsy, but eager. He whines like a puppy, bouncing on your cock, and leans into your touch when your hand smooths over his stomach, shiny and slick with his pre. He pants into your mouth. You swallow his moans.

Firm and swift, Suguru snatches Satoru's chin and pulls his face towards his. He makes an ugly sound as Suguru wraps his hand back around their cocks, forming a loose hole for them to fuck into – Suguru's release is thick and creamy, and it feels filthy when he smears it over both their cocks.

He came! He came, he realises joyfully, relief and arousal flooding his veins in equal parts – he came because of him! Satoru melts into the kiss, lips slick and parted as they pant and moan, sharing hot breaths between them. The air is muggy. Suguru licks into his mouth, hardly human, and tears stream down Satoru's cheeks, his brain so mushy he can't tell your limbs from Suguru's, or his own from the bedsheets.

Barely letting him breathe, you grab Satoru's face and stick your tongue down his throat. He hiccups, eyes rolling back as you grind into his ass and come with a grunt in hot, thick spurts. His toes curl and his lips pout pathetically, chasing yours when you pull back to check on Suguru. He whines and tugs your hair to make you turn those pretty eyes back to him again, your warmth spilling into him and making him yours. You allow it, your tongue running over the slick nubs of his teeth.

Suguru scrapes his canines over Satoru's pale throat, only marred by his blush. That won't do. He drags his pierced tongue down his jugular and across his Adam's apple, made more pronounced by the angle of his neck – Satoru sobs into your mouth, chest heaving as he grips Suguru's hair and feels the sting of hickeys bitten into his fair skin.

Through his tears and dizzy pleasure, he's given back to Suguru, who coos at him and kisses him sweetly – no tongue this time, just their swollen lips moulded together as if they belong right there and nowhere else. He twitches as your teeth sink into his shoulder, decorating his other side with love bites. He's never gonna be able to hide them all.

Passed around like a cigarette, like a whore, Satoru barely realises it when Suguru slips off the cockring – with some difficulty, as his cock, stomach, and thighs are so wet with pre that it makes everything feel like a damn waterslide. The moment it scrapes over his swollen tip, he's crying out and tensing, sobbing as heavy spurts of sticky come spray Suguru's stomach and thighs.

He tries to say their names – because they're so kind, so good to him, he has to say thank you and be grateful because they could've left him there all by himself – but the first syllables of their names devolve into relieved, babbling moans. Suguru strokes his hair, holding him close, as you help him ride out his bliss, your pace gradually slowing as he twitches and jolts in your hands.

As his high peters out, he slumps into Suguru's arms, whining shakily as you pull out with a slick pop. He clenches around nothing, his hole gaping and abused, and clutches Suguru like a lifeline.

You hum, pressing a thumb against Satoru's dark puffy hole and pulling gently. Feebly, it clamps around nothing, and a dribble of thick white come leaks out, joining the mess between his legs.

Man, those legs. He could be a model with a body like that. Despite being taller, Satoru's slimmer than Suguru, and he feels tiny and fragile in your palms, shuddering and trembling. You squeeze his slim thighs, watching his fair skin dimple under your touch like marble, and his muscles twitch, unsure whether to pull away or press into you. He decides on the latter, moaning softly when you grab his ass appreciatively.

"Such a darling," Suguru hums, voice light and adoring as he brushes the tears from Satoru's warm red cheeks with his thumb. "You did well, Satoru."

Giggling dreamily, he nibbles on his lower lip, pushing his cheek against Suguru's shoulder. He reaches blindly behind him, and when he finds your hand, he pulls you in behind him, forcing your arm to wrap around his little waist. He purrs, perfectly pleased now that he's squished between two big, warm bodies. "Yeah...?"

Suguru nods, his long hair falling over Satoru's shoulder too. "Yeah."

Eyelids half-closed and nose buried in Suguru's neck, Satoru follows easily as you lead them to lay down on the bed. When your arm loosens around his waist, however, his hand shoots out with startling speed and accuracy.

"W-Where are you going?"

If you didn't know any better, you'd think he sounded afraid.

"Bathroom. Gotta get you two cleaned up before it gets gross," you reply gently. He has Suguru to ground him. That doesn't seem like enough, though, because his large blue eyes well up again and his lower lip trembles. His grip tightens around your wrist and you're surprised when it almost begins to hurt.

"Stay," he whispers, slender pale neck craned to look you in the eye. It's covered in bruises and bite marks.

"I'm not leaving," you chuckle, stroking his inner wrist with your thumb. "You're in my bedroom. Nowhere else for me to go."

He shakes his head, stubborn – they're both like that. "Don't care," he whimpers, tugging insistently. "Come back. Clean later."

"But you're the messiest one here, Satoru," you point out, amused, and you don't miss the way he shivers when you say his name. "Surely you don't want to stay that way?"

"Don't care," he repeats in a mumble. He hums as you obey his iron grip and return to the bed, lying down in front of him. He snuggles into your chest, sighing soft and content as Suguru shuffles closer behind him. He feels your arm join Suguru's, resting over his waist. The heavy weight of them combined and the radiating warmth from your chests fade his thoughts into pleasant nothingness.

"Suguru?" you murmur.

"Hm?" His chest rumbles delightfully against Satoru's back.

"I've got him. You can get washed up if you like."

"It's alright. He'll pull me back down, just like you. It doesn't feel bad – I sorta like it. I've been covered in worse, anyway."

You curse under your breath, arm shifting around Satoru. "Do I wanna know?"

"No."

You chuckle lightly, and your next words are soft and teasing. Suguru responds in kind. Satoru's eyes flutter closed, the rest of your quiet conversation becoming hazy background noise as it lulls him to sleep.

Surrounded by warmth – a very human warmth that Satoru's been chasing for years – he can't help curling up like a cat, breathing soft and even as your rumbling voices pass over his head. Yours is deeper than Suguru's smooth, easy cadence, something of your musical talents emerging in the depths of your voice. It makes it easy for his subconscious to follow – at least for a while, before they blend into one lilting track.

Dreams come easy to him. How could they not when this pretty fantasy of his has just come true, tucked in the arms of Suguru and his dreamboat of a boyfriend?

Well, it's like Suguru said: can't get rid of him. He's yours, now – no takesies backsies.

[waves-against-a-cliff]

Simon Riley who after coming back to his flat (courtesy of the government) from his first deployment as 'Ghost', finds a momma cat yowling and crying. She's hurt and has four kittens tucked into her side. Simon takes them to the vet only to be informed that only one kitten survived and the momma is dead.

So he raises the kitten. Bhe bottle feeds it every two hours, keeps it warm and safe inside a box with a heating pad and a hoodie of his. He's sure that it'll die but he keeps trying anyways with the heart wrenching hope that he's wrong.

The kitten pulls through.

Now six years later, he has a sassy sphynx cat who cries and meows whenever she isn't fed on time. When his usual pet sitter bails on him just days before his next deployment, he scrambles. He never knows how long he'll be gone and that's an issue with pet hotels. He has to find someone trust worthy and capable of caring for his darling pet.

Then he meets you by pure coincidence. Ruthie had slipped between his legs on his way out to grab some more of the wet cat food she liked then made a bee line right towards you. She meowed and meowed until you crouched down to pet her. Simon swears he had never heard her purr that loudly before.

You smile up at him and comment on how he has a sweet cat (he doesn't. Ruthie knocks everything over and has broken so many mugs, plates and cracked so many screens he owns plastic versions of everything plus keeps his phone on him at all times). Simon says something about trying to find a pet sitter to you and immediately realizes what he said when you smile. "I can keep an eye on her for you. She seems like a sweetie." You coo and gently scratch under her chin. Traitor, it took him weeks to get her to let him do that. But how can he say no when she's already taken a liking to you.

[midniqhtt]

જ⁀➴ robert ‘bob’ reynolds

masterlist • marvel • 05/29/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs

𑣲 xerox pt2 pt3 I @ichorai

you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?

𑣲 the fling I @sacredsorceress

bob finds out that you had a one night stand with bucky a few years earlier and feelings bubble to the surface.

𑣲 therapy I @/sacredsorceress

𑣲 mocha I @/sacredsorceress

yelena decides to make it her mission to set up bob with her close friend.

𑣲 lifeline I @/sacredsorceress

When you sleep, the Void visits you. This time, you can't hold your worries in and Bob is there to save the day.

𑣲 let go I @sunskisser

bob avoided you, and you had no idea why — till the night you help him out of a frenzy.

𑣲 the woes of bowties and missing puzzle pieces I @websterss

One day Bob having a rough day and void jumps out, creating quite a chaos. She tries to talk him through it but void being void thinking she’s a liability for them, he “consumed” her. Few moments after that he turns back into Bob & other people came back from void but not her.

𑣲 the hand that’s forced pt2 I @/websterss

You hadn't meant to get attached to Bob, much less fall in love with him. You hadn't meant for things to slip out right from underneath your grasp. Out of your control, much like Valentina holding your love for one another over your heads.

𑣲 i see you I @cocastyle

𑣲 sneaking around I @callsign-swan

Bob doesn't mean to be sneaking around. But he can't help it. He's got a secret, and he wants to keep it that way. Too bad he's best friends with Yelena Belova.

𑣲 alone together I @/callsign-swan

For the last few years, Tony's daughter has been living out in the tower basement. She doesn't realise when Valentina buys the tower, not until she's being choked out by Sentry (turns out Sentry is a really sweet guy called Bob, who knew?)

𑣲 picnic day I @roanofarcc

when rain threatens a thunderbolts team bonding outing, per the request of Alexei, they turn to their resident weather-controlling team member to save their plans. 

𑣲 a bunch of teenagers I @mallory524

Bob has really started to like you, but he assumes you don’t feel the same way about him. You do though, and everyone seems to know that except Bob… and apparently also Walker, who really thought he had a chance

𑣲 going out I @/mallory524

You and Bob finally spend some time together one morning, but you find yourself rushing to defend him when he gets overwhelmed and people aren’t kind to him.

𑣲 in my arms I @woantohae

The Thunderbolts are constantly on missions, busy trying to do good and save whoever they can. One of them was Bob Reynolds, the defenseless yet powerful man who is part of this team and family. However, he doesn't participate in these missions so he can continue practicing controlling his powers. Despite telling them he's capable, the team prefers to give him more time to get used to them, until one mission, when a member of the team is injured. And all Bob can think about is the fury he feels when he hears Y/N being hurt. And how much he wants revenge on whoever did it.

𑣲 shadow I @/woantohae

Y/N loved the darkness because she could see the stars better. Void does everything in his power to make sure she can gaze at the starry sky, even if it means turning everything into darkness.

𑣲 only you I @/woantohae

Bob's dark, evil entity, The Void, appears when you least expect it. The rest of the team must be prepared to confront him and his prevailing malice. However, there is only one person on the team with whom he has a soft spot. And it's her.

𑣲 like real people do I @froggibus

Bob seeks you out following a bad dream

𑣲 misunderstanding I @strkly

you and bob were inseparable. until he begins to ignore you and you have no clue why. when you’re injured after a mission gone wrong you’re finally able to find out why.

𑣲 darling I @fireinmoonshot

You always call Bob darling in private... until you accidentally slip up and use the nickname in front of the rest of the Thunderbolts.

𑣲 unreal I @/fireinmoonshot

Bob offers for you to share his room while your room in the Watch Tower gets renovated... there's just one problem – he didn't think about the fact that he'd have to share a bed with you.

𑣲 control I @/fireinmoonshot

Bob always waits for you to come back from missions, but when you don't come back one day, his powers start to get a little out of hand.

𑣲 lethal touch I @hearts4johnwick

while training, all goes well until a move bob makes changes your concentration as you begin to relive your worst memory.

𑣲 stay with me pt2 I @scarletmika

Bob wants to feel useful, to truly be part of the team, but the others don't think he's ready. You take it upon yourself to teach him control, to guide him through. But mistakes will be made, and it might not be possible to keep the darkness from creeping back in once more.

𑣲 destiny or not I @/scarletmika

As The Darkhold foretold Wanda Maximoff's destiny, The Book of Vishanti foretold your own. You just didn't know how much of that destiny was intertwined with Bob Reynolds, until the day you met him in the vault.

𑣲 peace and quiet I @/scarletmika

Sometimes the tower is too loud, and Bob can feel himself getting overwhelmed. He's always found comfort with you, in your room, where he can find peace and quiet whenever he needs it. And you'll never turn him away, finding the same comfort in him.

𑣲 request I @lovebugism

you like taking care of bob on his bad days. he isn't quite sure why

𑣲 stitches I @skeltnwrites

Bob learns how to stitch a wound

𑣲 plainclothes man pt2 I @em1i2a3

Everyone at the compound knows Bob has a massive crush on you–except you.

𑣲 carry the zero I @/em1i2a3

You and Bob are sharing a room while the Avengers Compound is under renovations, which brings on a slew of new things to learn about one another.

𑣲 cherry waves I @/em1i2a3

You’ve been sick for a few days, so while the rest of the team goes out to do a recon mission, you’re on your own watching over Bob. One morning he comes to your room with a weird request.

𑣲 sailor song pt2 pt3 I @/em1i2a3

Bob is in love with you, but you can’t be what he wants.

𑣲 i wanna get lost with you I @/em1i2a3

After a rough night, you find yourself with a rare day off–the one that you take on the same day every year in memoriam for the fallen. So you head into the city to spend your feelings away on the only thing that makes sense to you: gifts for your favourite team of scrappy anti-heros…And Bob.

𑣲 it’s you i’m thinking of I @/em1i2a3

Valentina organizes a PR event for the Thunderbolts and during the event Bob realizes that he may want more out of life than just saving the world.

𑣲 signs I @/em1i2a3

You haven’t been able to sleep for the past four days, you’ve tried everything in the book, but tonight Bob has come to your room to offer you some help.

𑣲 the greatest light is the greatest shade I @/em1i2a3

You return back to the compound a week early from an initial two week-long mission, only to find Bob asleep in your bed.

𑣲 test drive pt2 I @/em1i2a3

You have a late night encounter with The Void

𑣲 a little bit of jam I @violetrainbow412-blog

𑣲 archives room I @owastie

you’re tasked with searching through the archives room to find some information on a new threat

𑣲 oh, scaling all your shadows I @swordgrace

plagued by nightmares, bob takes comfort in the one person who’s pulled him from the shadows time and time again — you.

𑣲 so high school I @pagesfromthevoid

𑣲 walk through darkness I @/pagesfromthevoid

𑣲 unfamiliar feeling I @ang3ltine

Bob was asleep for God knows how long, now that he has the chance at a better life. Who better to show him than you?

𑣲 admiration I @/ang3ltine

Being recruited by Valentina as part of the new Avengers (z) team was never part of your list of agendas. Yet here you were, doting on an awkward brunette.

𑣲 look what the cat dragged in I @eyelessfaces

you get bob a cat for emotional support; the cat adopts you as parents and is undeniably bound to bring the two of you closer.

𑣲 how to kiss I @worstghost

teaching bob how to kiss and accidentally slipping into a 20 minute makeout session

𑣲 the good side I @cosmictheo

bob loves you so much that he slowly begins to transform into a house-husband for you. and he loves it.

𑣲 heavenly I @/cosmictheo

it's the first time you're wearing your new suit as an official (new) avenger and bob is a little too excited about it.

𑣲 fur-evermore I @ofstarsandvibranium

Because you're Bucky's assistant, you, and your service dog, Juniper, head to the tower to give him some files as well as meet the rest of his new team...including a very cute and slightly awkward, Bob.

𑣲 mr. oblivious I @/ofstarsandvibranium

Bob is sometimes oblivious to the fact that people find him attractive and/or like him. One of those people includes you.

𑣲 i dream of you even when awake I @deakyjoe

Your gift makes sleep difficult. Luckily, Bob is there to guide you through it.

𑣲 something special I @blank-potato

You’ve been the live-in doctor at Avengers Tower for a year, and Bob wants to get you something special to celebrate. Unbeknownst to him, that something special turns out to be a sex plant. 

𑣲 loving you is easy I @/blank-potato

You and Bob are indifferent to each other, never seeming to mesh. But when you lose your memory, something new blooms between the two of you.

𑣲 drabble I @undyingdecay

𑣲 peace in the darkness pt2 I @theonewiththefanfics

Bob knows Y/N isn't one to go back on her words. So when she doesn't show up to go through with their plans, he starts to worry. Luckily for him, Yelena knows how to break-and-enter. And doesn't mind invading her personal space.

𑣲 the ghost i left behind pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 I @brookghaib-blog

Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

𑣲 a pleasant inconvenience I @little-miss-dilf-lover

your cat likes to run out of your apartment when you return home. today she makes it further than usual but is luckily stopped by a stranger.

𑣲 run hot I @moon-fics

The heating in the tower has broken in the middle of winter. This leaves everyone trying to find warmth any way possible.

𑣲 accident I @upl0aded

you and bob had always been perfect, you kept him happy and he kept you satisfied. but what happens when a buried memory accidentally gets revived?

𑣲 truth will set you free I @sergeantbuckybarnes

You are injected with a truth serum during a mission, and when you return to the Watchtower, you must avoid Bob in order not to spill your feelings for him, but this causes Bob to believe he has done something to upset you.

𑣲 gladiator I @trainer-from-unova

welcome to the party, say hi to everybody. you're valentina's daughter and you're late to the party in honour of her new puppet.

𑣲 i can’t have what i want (but neither can you) I @honeyatsu

You don't know how to explain the feeling when you see Bob and Yelena together. You don't understand it, and you don't like it. You think maybe you're not a people person, maybe you're better off being on your own. You take matters to solve this problem your own way, but everyone doesn't agree with your logic.

𑣲 i like it better I @sl-ut

every member of the thunderbolts* are struggling with having friends for the first time in… ever, for the most part. the team is shocked to find out that, for some reason, bob is having the easiest time with it. aka, four times the team notices a budding romance, and one time they all realize they’re late to the conclusion.

𑣲 the complete knock I @sunsburns

you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

𑣲 second nature I @bruisedboys

bob tells you he’s never been kissed. you decide to change that.

𑣲 request I @gay-dorito-dust

𑣲 charcoal smudges I @cryptidcasanova

Bob thinks he's in control. At least…until you get involved. 

𑣲 short circuit I @honeybadgerwritings

Bob helps Y/N train to control her powers under pressure. But when frustration gets the better of her, their sparring session turns tense.

[specsthesecond]

Being a waitress/bottle girl at a club that caters to monsters.

While serving a table of orcs their drinks you hear whistling from behind you and turn towards the table of werewolves calling you over,

"C'mere Doll, why don't you spend some time with us? It'd be better than looking at those ugly green faces."

The rest of the table barks out laughter and all you do is look back at the table of orcs to gauge their reactions, just incase you have to call the bouncer to stop another brawl.

"Aw yeah? Cus your slobbering snout's much more attractive, ain't it?"

One orc yells and the others hurl their chosen insults across the table as well. The werewolves grumble and snarl insults back and you just stand in the middle of this, trying to think of an escape.

"Maybe she ain't at your table for a reason!"

One of the orcs claims boldly and all the other orcs voice their agreement while the wolves clearly disagree.

"Why don't we let the lady decide." A wolf with greying fur suggests with a smirk and both tables seem to agree on this being just a wonderful idea.

"Well love? Who's better then? Us or the mutts?"

"Aye! The real question is who can treat her better, isn't that right, Doll?"

The attention of the two tables are now on you, waiting for your answer with baited breaths and half hard cocks probably.

"....I prefer minotaurs."

This deadpan response takes a few seconds to sink in before a chorus of disagreements and further arguing commences, but you're already making your way back towards the bar, you're sure they don't mind watching your tiny skirt bounce as you walk away.

That answer wasn't random, it's actually been the only thing you could think of all day. Your Minotaur coworkers cock reaching deep into your stomach while he pounds you into next week. That might be why so many customers have been extra forward with you today, maybe they can smell the need on you.

You finally make it back to the bar, getting ready to end your shift and finally get some relief.

"You causing trouble?"

You whip around to meet just the monster you were so desperate to see. He stands at the edge of the bar in his bouncer uniform, his sleeves hug his biceps very nicely and you nearly purr imagining what that arm would feel like around your throat, while he pounds you from behind. He gazes down at you with a knowing look.

"Me? Oh, I would never."

You look up at him and play with the collar of your shirt, successfully drawing his eyes to the generous amount of cleavage your uniform provides.

He huffs in amusement.

"They don't seem to think so."

He tilts his head and massive horns towards the two tables you just left where the occupants are all peering over one another to see the interaction between you and the bovine beast in front of you.

You scoff, take his arm and turn him around so that he's only focusing on you.

"I'm off. You're off in 15...maybe you could come by my place again....or something?"

You nervously bite your lip and he doesn't know why you're getting nervous.

You weren't nervous when you sent him that video of your stuffed cunt clenching around the Minotaur themed dildo you've had since before you were seeing eachother. You definitely weren't nervous when you sent him another video 6 hours ago of you stuffing said dildo into your perfect pussy in the employee bathrooms before slipping your tiny panties on over it, keeping the silicone deep in your cunt.

He pulls out his keys and leans down closer to you,

"Be ready when I get to the car."

You nearly squeal in excitement as you grab the keys and reach up to kiss his cheek. As you skip out the door to his car he looks back at the two tables just to revel a little in the disappointed grumbles and huffs emitting from the two groups as they go back to their drinks.

𓄀