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ficsforgaza · 20 days ago

Text

I'll Show You How It's Done

relationship: akatsuki!Kakashi x fem!Reader x jōnin!Obito

warnings: explicit/mdni - smut, porn with plot, threesome, frottage, oral sex (all receiving), orgasm denial (sorry obito), vaginal sex, anal sex (male receiving), cum & spit as lube, multiple orgasms for everybody, creampie, cum eating, light degradation, use of pet names (sweetheart/princess), praise kink, uchiha breeding kink, POV reader

word count: 7.9k

summary: On the hunt for a member of the infamous Akatsuki, you and your teammate Obito find far more than either of you expected.

author's note: this work was written in collaboration with @ficsforgaza's "sponsor a wip" campaign. thank you to @delirious-donna for making a donation <3

Read on AO3

“This way.��

Though Obito whispered the command, you stayed right by his side as he followed the target through the forest. His eye was fixed on one of the signature black and red cloaks worn by the Akatsuki, flashing from tree to tree. The rogue ninja was easily a hundred meters ahead of you, but there were only a handful of shinobi in history who could escape the Sharingan of the Uchiha clan.

Your goal was to tail the Akatsuki member and find their hideout. If possible, you would bring the criminal back to the Leaf for questioning. If not, you were to gather as much intel as you could. Most of the shinobi who made up the Akatsuki were unknowns, so getting information on their identities and abilities was crucial.

“This guy sure is fast,” you noted. The trees were getting more and more dense, so maneuvering through them was getting more difficult. “Should we split up?”

“No,” Obito answered. “We don’t know what we’re up against if he catches onto us. Stay close.”

“Right.”

Obito had always acted responsible for you—even before you were put on the same genin team together—but his protectiveness surged after the third member of your squad, Kakashi Hatake, was killed on a mission. Obito had stayed behind in the Leaf, recovering from the mission at Kannabi bridge that left the right side of his body mangled. In enemy territory, you and Kakashi were overwhelmed by ninja from the Hidden Stone. He ordered you run while he bought you time to escape, and as your captain, his word was law.

You waited as long as your denial would allow before you returned to the village alone and in tears. Obito was furious that you and Kakashi had been sent on that mission without him; sure that if he’d been there, all three of you would have made it home.

For the rest of his recovery, you stayed in the village honing your medical ninjutsu so that you wouldn’t have to go on any missions without him. And when he was fully recovered, Obito vowed that he would never let you return home alone again.

You continued to pursue the rogue ninja from a safe distance, wondering how much further he could be going. The landscape narrowed as the beginnings of a cliff-face began to rise on either side of you. Just as you started to suspect he might be leading you on some wild goose chase, you heard the ear-splitting sound of electricity cutting through wood.

“Look out!” Obito lunged toward you and tackled you out of the way of the falling tree limbs. You both quickly got to your feet. “Shit, he spotted us.”

You looked up and saw the Akatsuki shinobi had stopped not too far ahead, like he was waiting for you to make a move. He was crouched on a tree branch, lightning still glowing in his hand. The dense foliage threw a shadow over his features, but the electricity made his hair look snow-white.

“So much for stealth,” Obito conceded. “Guess we’re in for a fight.”

“What’s the plan?”

“We know he’s a lightning-style user, so fire won’t be too effective, but maybe if I can surprise him, it—”

The Akatsuki’s low, unconcerned voice rumbled through the ravine like thunder. “You aren’t seriously going to use a fireball, are you?”

The hair on the back of your neck stood up. You knew that voice.

Paralyzed, you watched as the enemy cut off his jutsu and took a step forward, emerging from the shadows. He wore a tight mask over his lower face, blending into a black compression shirt under the Akatsuki cloak. Silver hair fell carelessly over his forehead. His right eye was charcoal-black; his left, a Sharingan, the skin around it bisected by a familiar vertical scar.

“Ka…” His name was stuck in your throat. It wasn’t possible. Despite the hair, the Sharingan, the chidori you’d seen crackling in his palm. It wasn’t possible. “K-Kakashi?”

“No way,” Obito breathed. “It’s some kind of trick. Genjutsu, transformation… something.”

The rogue ninja scoffed. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”

The two men sized each other up, twin Sharingans swirling and dilating. Obito suddenly stepped back, trembling. “No way…”

“Shouldn’t you two be trying to kill me or something?”

“How?!” Obito shouted. “How are you alive?” His voice cracked on the last word. You looked over and saw tears brimming in his eye. “Why didn’t you come home?”

Kakashi sighed like someone who’d already told his story a thousand times. “Home?” he scoffed. “The Leaf treated us like dirt. What point was there in going back?”

“I thought you were dead!” you shouted. “I thought it was my fault!”

His expression seemed to soften. “You shouldn’t carry the blame. None of it would have happened if we hadn’t been sent on that mission. I only understood too late.”

“So you just left?” Obito tightened his fists and shook with rage. “What happened to all that talk about how shinobi who abandon their mission are scum?”

“All shinobi are scum,” Kakashi spat. “It’s their arrogance and their need for power that put the three of us in the middle of a war when we were barely teenagers. They relied on us too much, and look how it left us.”

Kakashi jumped down and landed directly in front of you and Obito. The way he moved was fluid and unnerving. You had no hint as to what he would do next, and it scared you.

But up close, you could see him so much better; the man he’d grown into in all the years he’d spent away. He was maybe an inch taller than Obito—a little leaner, but clearly stronger than he looked. The angles of his face were more defined; his jaw and cheekbones sharp even hidden under his mask. And his eyes…

You hadn’t had enough time to get used to Obito’s eye on Kakashi’s face before he was gone. But his right was as dark and focused and intent as it has always been.

Your heart clenched. You couldn’t let him disappear again.

“Come back with us,” you begged. “Whatever you’ve done, we’ll help you explain—we’ll make them understand!”

Kakashi peered down his nose at you, seeming curious at best. As if to wonder, is that the best you’ve got?

Obito had another offer.

“Either that, or we kill you. Here and now.”

You whipped your head around to face your partner. “Obito!”

He didn’t face you, keeping his eye on the perceived threat. “He’s a rogue ninja, Y/N. I don’t like it any more than you do, but if he doesn’t cooperate, we can’t just let him go.”

“Let me go?” Kakashi repeated with a laugh. “You think just because you grew up and started wearing that vest that anything’s changed? You still don’t stand a chance against me.”

Obito fumed. “What?!”

“They probably only promoted you to replace me. Surprised they didn’t spit on my grave while they were at it.”

“Kakashi stop!” you shouted. “Obito, you know that isn’t true. Don’t let him get under your skin.”

Kakashi’s gaze shifted to you for a moment before moving back to Obito. Then he smiled, clasping his hands behind his back as he started to pace. “Look at this; you and I bickering while Y/N tries to keep the peace. I guess some things will never change.” He abruptly paused in front of you, both eyes staring directly into you. “Then again, you’ve come a long way: Y/N the jōnin. Great job, sweetheart.”

Obito bristled in place. “D-don’t call her sweetheart!!”

“Why not? One of us ought to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“You really want me to say it?” Kakashi challenged with a grin. “All this time and you still haven’t told her. You’re the same pathetic crybaby you’ve always been.”

“HEY!”

“But Y/N…”

Kakashi’s mismatched eyes scanned your body from head to toe and back up again. Obito’s face grew somehow more flushed. “Quit looking at her like that!”

“What’s he talking about?” you asked, turning to the Uchiha. “What haven’t you told me?”

Obito stalled, but Kakashi didn’t give him time to regroup. “That he’s pathetically in love with you, of course,” the rogue ninja sneered. “He has been since we were kids.”

You stared at your teammate. “Obito? Is that true?”

It would be a lie to say that you hadn’t felt some romantic feelings for Obito. He was the type that snuck up on you; funny and sweet and dependable, easy to be comfortable around, so friendship quietly starts looking like something more. Your feelings for him teeter-tottered over the years, but nothing ever happened between you. He gave off the impression that he was just like that with everyone, so you didn’t take anything as any type of signal.

The Uchiha stammered, growing redder with every attempt to respond. “T-that’s… I…”

Kakashi brought one hand to his mouth in a stage whisper. “I think your crush on me sort of got in his way.”

You stiffened in place. Sure, you knew in hindsight that your childhood crush on Kakashi was obvious, but it was too much to have it laid out so plainly by the man himself, returned from the apparent dead.

“But it’s been what… fifteen years?” Kakashi laughed. “Honestly Obito, what’s taking you so long? Still can’t figure out how to do something unless I do it first?”

Before you knew it, Kakashi was directly behind you; close enough that you could feel the heat emanating from his body. He pressed his chest against your back, his fingers deftly unzipping your flak vest and grabbing at your breasts through your shirt.

“Wh-what are you doing?!” The Uchiha’s face was bright red. “Get your hands off her!”

“It’s called foreplay, Obito.” Kakashi’s smooth voice was right by your ear. You shivered as you felt his now-naked mouth draw down your neck. “See? Her heart is racing and her face is pink. She’s getting excited already.”

“Or you’re freaking her out!!” Obito squawked. “Seriously, quit it!”

“Mahhhh, but we could share.” Kakashi slipped one hand up your shirt and the other down your pants, chuckling before nibbling your earlobe. “She always wanted us to get along. And what would be better proof than sharing?”

“ARE YOU NUTS?!! That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said!! There’s no way she… wants…”

Obito trailed off, his Sharingan whirling as he watched Kakashi touch you. You were already shamefully wet, squirming on the rogue ninja’s fingers like you couldn’t get enough. He was barely where you needed him; close enough to drive you out of your mind long before you would ever find relief.

And with that eye, Obito could see it written plainly across your face.

“Go on, sweetheart,” Kakashi teased in hot breaths against your neck. “Tell him what you want.”

You looked at Obito through dewy lashes. His jaw hung open—seemingly unaware of the tent growing in his lap—and his eye was glued to you, taking in every movement that Kakashi made. Under their twin gaze, you felt like a butterfly pinned to a board; locked down to be selfishly admired by the two men.

Kakashi fit himself closer against you, the bulge between his legs making you gasp as it pressed into your ass. “If you want me to stop, better say so before we make Obito cum in his pants.”

You let out a needy whine and tossed your head back on Kakashi’s shoulder. “Don’t stop,” you begged. “Want you. Want you both.”

Kakashi grinned against your throat. “Hear that, Obito? She wants us both. Think you can keep up with me?”

Obito only stammered, his mouth gaping open with tiny false starts.

“Come on,” Kakashi purred. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

He took his hands away and began tugging the clothes from your torso, letting your flak vest drop unceremoniously from your body. Distantly you could hear his cloak fluttering to the ground beside it. His fingers danced at the hem of your shirt, pulling both it and your protective underlayer away. When he returned, you could feel his naked chest against your bare back.

“Aren’t you pretty?” Kakashi purred in your ear, continuing to kiss and nip at the flesh. “I’m gonna make you cum until you black out. And I’m gonna let Obito help me.”

Your eyes found Obito again. He had barely moved, except to hide one hand in his pocket and absentmindedly stroke himself through the fabric. Kakashi pawed at your breasts again, toying with them to prolong your anticipation.

“Finish undressing us, Obito,” Kakashi smoothly requested. “Yourself, too.”

Obito snapped into action without question, starting with his own clothes. Although he was moving quickly and rather haphazardly, you still felt your body react to the show he was inadvertently putting on. Obito’s skin was tan and thick, his entire right side covered in twisted scars from that terrible mission all those years ago. Ordinarily, you knew he was self-conscious about it. You hadn’t seen more of the scarred flesh than what he wore on his face or maybe his forearm in years. So seeing him now… you roughly swallowed.

This cut and toned statue of a man was your teammate?

His body was a canvas of gnarled swirls that you wanted to trace with your tongue. The muscles of his arms were sculpted to perfection, his thighs carved to match. Prominent veins ran up and down the length of his limbs, pulling your attention to his wide chest, broad shoulders, defined abs. Dark hair dusted his chest, gathering into a thick happy trail that was lost in the nest of curls between his legs. His half-hard cock bobbed up from the center, thick and flushed and vascular.

And the whole time he was undressing, red heat simmering in his cheeks, he stared at you like you were the only thing worth looking at.

A feeling that was so deeply reciprocated; for a second, you forgot Kakashi was even there.

“Like what you see, princess?” Kakashi crooned.

You nodded, your eyes still following Obito as he carefully approached, like he might scare you off. The Uchiha took a shaky breath before licking his lips. He gently put his hands on your waist, rubbing his thumb over the smooth skin as he dropped to his knees in front of you.

Obito slid your pants down your legs while Kakashi made quick work of your bra, the two men leaving you bare and vulnerable between them. Kakashi hummed as he rolled your nipples between his fingers. You rubbed your thighs together, bringing Obito’s gaze right to your apex, glistening with arousal.

His tongue peeked out to lick his lips again.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Kakashi warned the Uchiha. “You still have work to do.”

Obito flashed an impatient look up at Kakashi, but ultimately he did as he was told, reaching behind you to tug Kakashi’s pants down. Though you could tell he just wanted to get it over with, you caught the way Obito’s eye widened as he looked Kakashi over.

“Hmmmmm, maybe Obito and I can do more than just share.” The silver-haired ninja nuzzled into your neck to softly speak into your ear. “Maybe Obito should make us both cum? How does that sound?”

Obito quickly looked back at you. “W-wait… I—”

“Yeah I know,” Kakashi grunted. “We’ll do plenty to her. But we should get reacquainted as well.”

He stepped back and your body instinctively turned to follow him. No wonder Obito was staring. Kakashi was a sight himself; paler and leaner than Obito but just as strong, with a smaller waist and a wispy trail of silver hair that drew your attention straight to his groin. His cock was longer if not as thick, with a flared head that was starkly contrasted against the pale shaft.

Kakashi also had scars, but his were isolated incidents; lucky breaks that were likely the last bit of luck his opponents had. They had healed the hard way—you knew just from a glance that he’d been the only one seriously looking after himself all these years. But he was just as beautiful as you always imagined he’d be.

He sat on the ground, beckoning you over before lying flat on his back, his legs comfortably spread so you could continue to stare at him. “Sit on my face, Y/N,” he said. “Gotta give Obito a proper demonstration.”

“Sh-shut up…” Obito blushed.

“You waited this long,” Kakashi deadpanned. “Another ten minutes won’t kill you.”

“Fuck you, Bakashi.”

“Yeah?” Kakashi sighed as he positioned you to hover over his mouth, facing his feet. “I suppose you can hump my leg if you really need to, but pay attention.”

He was so nonchalant and dismissive about it—which in some ways felt impossibly false, and in others; was exactly the way you would have expected him to act. You only caught a glimpse of Obito’s shocked face before Kakashi gripped your hips and licked a wide stripe down the length of your sex, tasting the mess that had been building since he first touched you.

“Aaaah!” You tried to shift your weight but Kakashi held you still, beginning to suck targeted kisses along your folds.

“Mmmmmm.” His pleasured groan vibrated against your skin. “Already so wet.”

Kakashi pulled you down to sit flush on his face, expertly working his lips and tongue through your folds. You cried out and closed your eyes, rocking against him in a mindless show of submission. His name settled on your lips on repeat. “Kakashi… Kakashi—!”

Your hands grasped all over his torso, blindly searching for purchase. Kakashi groaned into your core as he ran the rough surface of his tongue over your clit, taking direct advantage of your most vulnerable spot. Your eyes fluttered open to find Obito right in front of you, kneeling between Kakashi’s legs and watching you with his Sharingan spinning. His eye was roaming; like he couldn’t choose whether he wanted to watch Kakashi eat you out or watch the faces you were making in response.

“O-Obito…”

He lunged forward, cupping the back of your head and pulling you into a harsh kiss. You squeaked against his lips and caught yourself on Obito’s chest, arching your back to give both men better angles. Kakashi grunted and held you down, continuing to unravel you with the precise motions of his skilled tongue while Obito sighed into you and tried to pull you further into his orbit. You let your tongue run along Obito’s lower lip, coaxing him to open for you. The inside of his mouth was sweet with the taste of the candies he always carried. You smiled as your tongue found his, winning a pained whine from the Uchiha.

Suddenly the men both shuddered at once. You peeked one eye open and looked down to see Obito’s fat dick wedged between Kakashi’s legs, pressed into the other man’s cock and rubbing against him. Precum was already beading on Obito’s tip, a wet glob leaking onto Kakashi’s shaft. The dripping fluid smeared between them and lubricated their movements. They were both so pretty; shiny and twitchy and needy.

Your head swam, dizzy with want as you watched their cocks rub together in a fight for dominance. Acting on pure lustful instinct, you reached out and wrapped a hand halfway around their combined girth to give them some semblance of a hole to fuck—something they both instantly took full advantage of. Their hips worked together to rut into your hand, their velvety cockheads taking shaky turns pushing past your curved fingers in a greedy rhythm. You would have wrapped your other hand around them to close the circle if you thought you had any hope of staying upright.

As they pistoned back and forth, Obito panted against your lips, muttering half-curses and incoherent sounds. Kakashi snaked his tongue into your cunt, making you moan and break away from Obito’s mouth. The heavy breaths passing through your lips turned into embarrassingly high-pitched whines when Kakashi reached his tongue forward to lap at your sensitive clit over and over.

A shock ripped its way through your body as he pulled you over the edge. “Aaah! K-KAKASHI!!!” Your back arched in an effort to grind against his tongue and ride out the high as long as you could.

Obito let out a desperate little cry and rutted into Kakashi with fervor, his eyes starting to roll back in pleasure. Kakashi tore your hand away from them both before pushing Obito back with both hands, denying him his orgasm.

You blushed as you came down and fought to catch your breath. Kakashi gripped your hips and lifted you off his face, sitting you on the ground above his head. “There,” he announced as he sat up to face Obito, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “Got all that?”

“Wh-why did you…”

“Don’t be selfish,” the rogue ninja snipped. “You haven’t made her cum yet.”

A fresh tint of red swelled in Obito’s cheeks. He was lost for words as Kakashi pushed him flat on his back, then knelt down to address him.

“Well? Think you can handle it?”

“Uh-huh,” he dazedly nodded.

“Good.” Kakashi then stood and faced you; his presence looming and dark and dangerous from your position on the ground. “You can give us another one, right princess?”

Your incoherence mirrored Obito’s; your head nodding in dumb acceptance.

“Atta’girl. Now climb on Obito’s face for me.”

With legs like gelatin buckling beneath you, you crawled the few feet to where the Uchiha was waiting. You prowled your way up his body clumsily, but he didn’t seem to mind, instead looking at you with wonder as your body lined up with his.

“C’mon. Up.”

You dazedly did as you were told, glancing down at Obito as you got in position just out of reach of his mouth. His hair was mussed, his lips were swollen and kiss-stained, and his face was nearly as red as his eye. Your heart pounded as his Sharingan locked onto you. Something about the look in it was like he would die if you strayed even an inch from him.

Kakashi clicked his tongue. “Not like that.” With two fingers under your chin, he pulled your gaze from the man beneath you. “He gets you the same way I did. Turn.”

With a self-conscious blush you glanced back down at Obito, biting your lip as you shuffled around to face his feet. Obito gently put his hands on your hips to help support you. His fingers gripped possessively into your flesh.

Kakashi stood beside you, admiring the lewd tableau. “Isn’t she pretty, Obito?”

“Yes…”

“You want to taste her?”

“Fuck yes…”

“Go on then,” Kakashi smirked, pushing you down with a firm grip on your shoulder. “Let’s see what you can do.”

His comment was lost the second Obito’s mouth made contact with your cunt. Your teammate groaned against your lower lips, his fingers tightening into your flesh while his tongue lapped clumsily through your folds with loud, messy slurps. You yelped and arched your back to press your pussy further onto his enthusiastic mouth.

“Ohh-Obito!”

The sound of his name on your lips turned the Uchiha feral. He groaned and started sucking on your skin, kissing all over your core while you ground your hips down onto him. He fumbled his way around until his tongue incidentally swiped over your clit, making you gasp and clutch at his chest for stability.

“That’s a good girl.” Kakashi stepped forward with his cock in his hand. “Let me borrow that mouth.”

He cupped your jaw with his free hand and brought your mouth to his cock, pushing his way in like he owned it. You made a surprised sound but didn’t protest, welcoming the weight of his cock on your tongue. The salty taste of his skin filled your mouth and you moaned around him as you started sucking.

“Mmmm Y/N…” he groaned. “That’s right. Just like that.”

You grabbed onto Kakashi’s thighs to hold yourself up as you began massaging his sensitive underside with your tongue, licking around the crown of him. He tangled his long fingers into the roots of your hair to guide you up and down the length of his cock, holding eye contact with you all the while.

“Hmmmm,” he grinned, “that’s my girl.”

Obito grunted in response, his brow furrowed as he tightened his grip and pulled you down to smother his face. You shivered when his wicked tongue lapped back and forth over your entire core, his saliva mixing with your arousal only to be slurped back into the Uchiha’s mouth.

“He’s sloppy,” Kakashi muttered to himself. His head tilted for a better view. “He’s eating you like a rabid dog.”

Obito’s hand left your thigh for only a second to flash his middle finger up at Kakashi.

“That’s not how I showed you. You’ll never make her cum like that.”

The man below you completely ignored Kakashi’s criticisms, happily burying his tongue in your cunt. You squirmed, and Kakashi used his grip on your hair to guide you back to a steady pace.

Giving him proper attention was next to impossible with the uncoordinated way Obito was trying to devour you. Not that he was doing a bad job; in fact, it was the opposite. He definitely had the stamina and enthusiasm to get you off, but he just wouldn’t stay in one place long enough to get you any further than the first stirrings of pleasure, and you couldn’t follow his patterns well enough to chase him.

It wasn’t long before Kakashi intervened.

“That’s enough,” Kakashi spat, tugging you off the Uchiha’s face. Obito pouted and tried to pull you back down but he was too dazed by lust to overcome Kakashi’s strength.

“Seriously, give it a rest.” He pulled himself out of your mouth with a sigh, cradling your jaw with his free hand and scrubbing his thumb down your plump lower lip. “Sorry Y/N; looks like Obito just isn’t up to the task.”

“Says who??”

“You were getting nowhere,” Kakashi said. “It’s embarrassing.”

Before the Uchiha could respond, Kakashi gathered your hair in his fist and yanked to bend you forward. You braced yourself on your elbows and found your face only an inch away from Obito’s weeping cockhead. The heady scent of him made your mouth water. Without thinking, you stretched your tongue forward to lick up the dripping trail of precum.

Obito shuddered beneath you and grasped at your back. A breathless sound of euphoria passed through his lips.

“Not so fast, sweetheart,” Kakashi smirked, grabbing you by the back of the neck to keep you from making contact again. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Please…” Obito sounded nearly broken as he begged, his needy cock twitching for more of your attention. “Fucking hell Kakashi please.”

The look in Kakashi’s eyes made it clear that you were to stay still. He released your neck and walked behind you. Obito’s hot breath fanned over your core, his hands shifting to hold you by the waist. You felt Kakashi settle on his knees behind you, his hands joining Obito’s and shifting your hips just so.

“Fuck, look at that.”

Two of Kakashi’s long digits waded through your folds, collecting your arousal until it coated his fingers. You felt Obito slide one hand toward your center, but Kakashi quickly slapped it away.

“Ah-ah. Watch.”

Your position of course meant the command was only for Obito, but what you couldn’t see was a nonissue; feeling the blunt pressure of Kakashi’s cockhead splitting your entrance. The stretch burned despite all the attention they’d given you. You couldn’t help the strangled cry that flew from your lips as he eagerly sank deeper.

“Slow down!” Obito scrambled, reaching back to halt the rogue ninja’s movements. “You’re gonna hurt her!”

“She can take it,” Kakashi confidently grinned. “Can’t you, princess?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded furiously. Yes it was a tight fit, but it felt so good. And this was only a taste of what he could do; there was no way you were gonna let him stop now.

“See, Obito? Don’t underestimate her. She was made for this.”

Kakashi gripped Obito’s wrist and brought the other man’s hand to your stuffed cunt, letting him feel the way your pussy stretched to accommodate him. “Feel that?”

An audible gulp rose from Obito’s throat. “Yeah…”

Kakashi plunged deeper, burying his cock and drawing a moan from deep in your chest. The overwhelming sensation of being full would have knocked you over if not for both men’s hands on you.

“That’s our girl,” Kakashi groaned, beginning to work his hips back and forth in search of his own pleasure. Your jaw hung open and your eyes rolled back, your wet tongue lolling out of your mouth as you let him fuck you like an animal in heat.

“You can suck him now, sweetheart.”

Beyond your half-closed eyelids you saw Obito’s cock positively throbbing; clear fluid oozing from his flushed, angry tip. All you could think of was how solid he felt under your fingertips and how cute he was shuddering under one lick from your tongue. Of course you wanted to suck him. You wanted to make him do it again; make him shudder and whine and beg.

You wanted to turn Obito Uchiha into a whimpering mess.

Though you could barely hold yourself up, you lifted one hand and guided him to your mouth. You couldn’t resist leaving a few messy kisses on him before wrapping your lips around his bulbous cockhead.

“Aaah-haaaaaahhhgnhhh!” Obito immediately started rolling his hips in a greedy show of desperation.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Kakashi smirked. “You’ve been waiting a long time for her to touch you.”

“Just shut up…” Obito moaned, his jaw slack. “Y/N… oh shit…”

Kakashi barked a laugh. “You’re not gonna cum yet are you?”

Obito didn’t answer; he just groaned deep sounds of pleasure as you bobbed your head up and down his length, swallowing as much of him as you could handle while Kakashi continued his onanistic strokes from behind.

“Do that thing with your tongue,” Kakashi directed. You blushed before swirling your tongue around Obito’s tip the way you had with Kakashi, feeling the girth of his tip and wondering how the feeling would differ if he were the one tunneling toward your cervix.

Obito shook with pleasure and dug his fingers into your hips. “Ohhhhh fuck fuck fuck Y/N please—!”

“Touch her here.” Kakashi moved Obito’s hand again, this time guiding his fingers to stroke your clit. He found your swollen nub this time easier than you expected, taking you by surprise when he started rubbing directly over it and causing you to clench around Kakashi.

“Fuck, she liked that,” Kakashi exhaled. “Keep going—exactly like that.”

The Uchiha followed that instruction to the letter. Between his rough fingers working you over and Kakashi’s cock filling you perfectly, you felt yourself go completely brainless.

Obito gasped; you had him right on the edge; his cock twitching in your eager mouth. “I wanna make her cum…” His voice was absolutely wrecked. “What else can I do?”

“She likes to be praised,” Kakashi noted. “Tell her how good her pussy tastes. Tell her how good she is at sucking your cock.”

“Gods you’re so fucking good Y/N, so fucking good.” Obito sounded possessed with lust. “Feels even better than I ever imag—”

His praises stuttered as he seemed to worry he’d said too much, and you whined; ready to beg him to finish the thought.

“She’s close,” Kakashi panted. “Keep going. Tell her how you think of her when you touch yourself.”

“I-I…” You could hear Obito take a nervous gulp. “I always imagine you,” he admitted, words beginning to tumble out as his thumb continued those maddening circles. “I picture you lying on your back in my bed and how pretty your face would look if I could bury my dick in you and it makes me—”

His thigh tensed, the muscle tightening as his thumb moved at a more insistent pace. “Fuck, Y/N please cum, please you gotta cum before I…”

You moaned his name around his cock, grinding against his digit to get that perfect pressure. Bright sparks finally burst across your vision as you reached your peak, your cunt spasming around Kakashi’s dick.

“That’s it,” Kakashi growled. “See that, Obito?”

Whether he did see or he didn’t, you had no clue. All you knew was that one second you were riding out your high, the next Obito had his hand on the back of your head, holding you down as his cock pulsed hot cum down your throat. It was all you could do in your post-orgasm haze to not let it drip right past your lips and back onto his lap.

He groaned a low, sustained note of male satisfaction that made your skin simmer with warmth and affection. It spurred you on to lick him over and over, letting him enjoy himself just a little longer while he skated his plush mouth dotingly over your calf.

Kakashi held still inside you, his cock buried deep while you and Obito both came down. “How’s he taste?” the rogue ninja asked. “Did you swallow it all? Let’s see your tongue.”

You slowly pulled away from Obito with a pop, noting how his cock was still half-swollen like it wanted more. As best you could, you turned and stuck out your tongue to show Kakashi.

“Good girl,” he purred. “Worth the wait, Obito?”

The Uchiha still seemed incapable of speech, but he managed to hum his agreement as he steadily continued to kiss every bit of your skin that he could reach.

“Good. Now get out of the way.” Kakashi pulled out, holding one palm flat on the small of your back. “It’s my turn.”

Kakashi rolled you off of Obito and onto your back, folding your legs backward to present your puffy cunt to him. He didn’t say a word before stuffing his dick back inside and quickly working back to a rough pace. His palms held your legs back in an iron grip while he pumped back and forth greedily; his eyes focused on the place where you took him in over and over and over again. Your sensitive walls clung to him with every thrust—it was like your body wanted to give him every reason to never leave again.

Beside you, Obito was still catching his breath, his cock twitching in a mixture of exhaustion and interest while he watched Kakashi jackhammer into you. He got up on wobbly knees, scooting to Kakashi’s side to watch the rogue ninja take you like he knew he had every right to.

Kakashi tossed his head back with a growl, and suddenly you felt him cum; thick warmth pumping into you and spreading through your lower body. He kept fucking you through it, wringing every ounce of pleasure from you that he could until his chest was heaving and his cheeks were red.

“Fuck,” he gasped as he pulled out with a wet squelch. “That’s a good girl.”

As Kakashi sat back on his heels, Obito leaned closer, staring between your legs at the sticky abused mess Kakashi left behind.

“Eat my cum out of her pussy,” Kakashi smirked. “I know you’re dying to.”

Without giving him a chance to take back the offer, Obito eagerly slid into position, wrapping his arms around your legs and pulling you forward until your back was propped up on his thighs. A mesmerized look came over his features, his Sharingan spinning wildly and his mouth watering as he curled your knees further into your chest.

He leaned in and licked a long, wide stripe up the full length of your cunt, his groan of pleasure tingling its way through you. Finishing with a kiss to your clit, Obito lifted his face just enough for you to see the gooey white cream cloying his mouth.

“Still taste so good,” he muttered. “Most perfect pussy…”

He worked so much differently than he had before; lapping at you slowly like you were some delicacy to be savored instead of the frenzied way he was devouring you earlier. He left wet kisses along your folds before sucking your clit into his mouth almost teasingly. You grasped at the ground beneath you, wriggling under his adoring treatment.

“I want this to be my cum,” he groaned drunkenly, words vibrating against your lower lips. “Wanna cum in your pussy.”

“Then do it,” Kakashi said. “I got her more than ready for you.”

Obito lifted his head; lips and chin shiny with a mixture of fluids. “Can I?”

He looked so needy and reverent—somehow making you feel delicate and precious, despite the way you’d been passed between the two of them like a rag doll. You bit your bottom lip and nodded, flames of bashfulness licking your cheeks. A huge, giddy smile broke across his face as he let you relax your legs, prowling between them and resting his dense cock against your pussy lips.

“Thank you.” He held eye contact for a beat like there was more he wanted to say. Instead, he glanced away and reached between you, guiding his tip to your entrance and pushing inside.

“Oh shit—!” he gasped, letting his head hang limp as he pressed deeper. “Oh shit shit shit shit…”

You reached forward and brushed your fingers back through his dark hair. His scalp was greasy with sweat. “O-Obito,” you moaned.

“Does it hurt? Did I do something wrong?”

“You’ve barely done anything,” Kakashi deadpanned.

“Just shut it, Bakashi!”

You tugged on his hair so he made eye contact with you again. “Come here,” you breathed, pulling him down for a kiss.

Obito moaned against your mouth, his hands grasping all over your sides as he started fucking you in earnest. Spurred on by your affectionate gesture, Obito let himself loose; drawing his hips back to thrust into you with deep plap plap plap sounds of his balls bouncing off your thighs. You peeked one eye open and were treated with the sight of his warm pink face, smiling in ecstasy as he sloppily followed his body’s instinct. His fat cock stretched you just a little more than Kakashi did, and the inexpert way he used it was adorably charming.

He broke away for air; mouth hanging open in a greedy maw; eye rolling back and a moan rumbling from deep in his chest. His hips worked at an erratic pace, bumping into you awkwardly, but judging from the look on his face; he couldn’t care less.

Obito Uchiha was in absolute bliss.

“Aaaaaaahhhhhaahahahh feels so so so good…”

Kakashi positioned himself behind Obito, straddling the broader man and pressing his chest into Obito’s back. “As good as her mouth?” Kakashi taunted.

“Better,” the dark-haired man gasped indulgently. “S-so fucking good…”

“She sounds so wet…” Kakashi reached between you and Obito, gathering the thick layer of creamy arousal that had built at the base of his cock. A shaky breath escaped Obito’s mouth in response to the other man’s touch. Kakashi hummed and pulled his hand away, admiring the way the strands webbed between his fingers before he reached down.

Obito jumped—his body suddenly held taut; his cock frozen halfway inside you. “What are you—”

“Shhhh,” Kakashi whispered. You could see his bicep flex while Obito’s face twisted in apprehension, and your cunt clenched down when you registered where that hand went. “Trust me.”

The layers of irony to his statement were not lost on you, but from your position on your back—two orgasms deep—you had no authority to point it out, and Obito’s silence proved he felt the same.

Besides, your desire to see just what he would do was stronger than any need you’d ever felt before.

“Let him, Obito,” you begged. “Please.”

“Wh-while I’m—haaa!?”

His question slurred into a harsh yelp. You craned your neck to see Kakashi now had two fingers inside Obito’s ass, carefully pumping in and out only an inch.

“You’re too tense,” Kakashi tutted as he worked to coax Obito open. “Relax; keep kissing Y/N or something.”

The Uchiha still looked unsure; both anxious and excited. His eye rolled back into his skull when Kakashi must have brushed against the right spot. It was so fucking dirty and hot, thinking of them getting each other off. The memory of their cocks rubbing together rose to mind, making your pussy clench.

You reached up, your lips parted and begging to be kissed. “Keep going,” you pleaded. “Want you— please, Obito.”

He let out a breath before sharing a look with you that made your heart swell. He swiftly leaned forward to cover your body with his, scooping you into his grasp to keep from pressing you into the solid ground. “-’ve wanted you forever,” he rasped in your ear, voice breaking as his hips renewed their efforts. “No way I’m gonna stop.”

Obito panted heavy breaths into your neck as he moved inside you with controlled strokes. His plump mouth latched onto you for barely a second at a time, always breaking away with a gasp or a curse; an awestruck moan of your name. Behind his back, Kakashi removed his hand, only to spit a wet glob of saliva into his palm that he spread over his hard cock.

“That’s right,” he smirked, grabbing Obito’s hips and spreading him open with his thumbs. He spit again, letting the fluid land directly on Obito’s puckered hole. “Fuck her good.”

Kakashi timed it perfectly; lining his cock up with Obito’s entrance and pulling him in as he was rearing back for another thrust. Both men grunted, Obito’s movements stuttering when Kakashi bullied an extra inch past the second ring of muscle. His back arched, giving you a clear view of his handsome face twisted in hesitant pleasure.

“Bakashi…”

The rogue ninja smirked and tightened his grip. Obito slid forward when Kakashi went further, forcing him deeper into your cunt. As Kakashi pulled back, Obito tensed and balled his hand into a tight fist.

“Damn it…” he panted.

Kakashi bent forward to look at Obito, his eyes half-lidded. “I can just pull out if—”

“Don’t you dare.”

“No?” he grinned. “Good boy.”

Thrusting back into Obito, Kakashi moved his hands to the back of your thighs; his long fingers gripping harshly enough that you knew he would leave marks behind. He bent you backward as he set the pace, the impact of his thrusts forcing Obito’s cock in and out of you at the rogue ninja’s will.

“Obito…” you whined, reaching out to tilt his face to yours. “Fuck… feels s’good.”

He answered with his own call of your name; a desperate, winded sound. Without warning he collapsed down on you, his hands tucked under your ass to tilt you to a deeper angle. The ridge of his cockhead brushed over your g-spot, causing you to let out a surprised squeal.

Obito aimed for that spot over and over as his mouth claimed yours. His kisses were hurried and messy; hungry little things that were just one more way to take and take pleasure from you. The rough surface of his scarred chest felt incredible rubbing over your stiff nipples. You squeezed your thighs into his sides to keep him close, your hands tugging on his hair.

Kakashi folded himself down over Obito’s back, sucking hickeys into the other man’s shoulder blade. The shift in his angle caused Obito to batter against the spongy area behind your clit every time he bottomed out. Crying out, you tossed your head back and gasped for breath. Obito tucked his face into your neck, regaining a little control over his own thrusts, fucking both you and Kakashi in turn.

“Wanna fill you up…” Obito mumbled into your throat. “Cum so deep, get you pregnant…”

“What is it with your clan and breeding?” Kakashi laughed. “That all the Uchiha know how to do?”

Obito huffed like he wanted to respond, but nothing came out.

“Go on,” he dared. “Breed her like an animal. Fuck her full of your little Uchiha babies. Make her yours.”

He repeated Kakashi’s words in a trance. “Mine… mine…”

“Just make her cum and she will be,” Kakashi promised.

“Kakashi… I don’t… don’t think I can before I—!” Obito bit down on his lip.

“Maaaa, do I have to do everything for you?” Kakashi reached between you and started rubbing demanding circles into your clit. “Cum for us, sweetheart,” he huffed. “Cum all over Obito’s cock. Give him what he’s been waiting years for.”

Their combined assault left you no room to fight the building climax even if you wanted to. You grasped at them as the pressure inside you snapped for a third time; this one tearing through you almost violently.

“Kakashi!! O-Obito!!!”

Obito dropped his head on your shoulder, overtaken by the dual stimulation of your cunt milking his cock and Kakashi’s dick massaging his prostate. He shouted, throwing a fist outward and banging it into the ground. “Fuuuuuuuck oh fuck shit FUCK!”

His thrusts went shaky as you felt his cum gush out of him, flooding deep inside you just like he wanted. The muscles in the small of his back flexed with every pulse. Kakashi let out a grunt and bit down hard enough on Obito’s shoulder to leave the imprint of his teeth. You watched his mismatched eyes screw shut and his chest heave. Obito made a strangled sound beside your ear, shivering as the rogue ninja pumped his own load into your partner while your pussy continued to milk him.

Kakashi cupped the back of your head and pulled your mouth within reach of his, moaning against your lips. He parted your mouth and nipped at your lower lip before licking at the tiny wound. You grabbed for him and sighed into his kiss, tangling your tongue against his. A still-panting Obito turned his head and sucked open-mouth kisses along your neck.

The three of you stayed like that for what felt like hours; kissing and catching your breath and basking in the afterglow of what was—for you at least—the best orgasm of your life. You were parched and exhausted and your back would be killing you tomorrow, but you still would have chosen to lay beneath their combined weight forever, if it meant your team was whole again.

Kakashi was the first to move, pulling away and leaving Obito shivering at the sudden emptiness. You turned to kiss Obito’s cheek, winning you a warm, content sigh.

When you looked back only a few seconds later, you found Kakashi already dressed; a strange vortex emanating from his Sharingan. The edges of his body looked warped; circling toward his eye like water down a drain.

He was disappearing. Again.

“Wait—” Your throat was scratchy and the command came out in a whispered croak.

Obito hardly shifted, still lost in his post-orgasm haze. But Kakashi smirked, winking his dark eye as his lower half was completely lost. “Take good care of him.” He waved a hand just before it too was lost.

“See you around, sweetheart.”

» masterlist

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ficsforgaza · 22 days ago

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A Heartfelt Plea: Help me get my mother and brothers out as we have no shelter left🚨❤️

We were even searching for water and it was no longer there 💔😔

Our lives have become like a fantasy, everything is dark 💔

The simplest necessities of life no longer exist 💔😔

I really need your assistance urgently.

Both my physical and mental health are declining, and I can't continue to spread the word alone.

I implore you, please share and reblog this to reach as many individuals as possible.

Please Share & Donate 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Even a $1 contribution can have a significant impact ⚠️⚠️⚠️

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Shared by @90-ghost link , and @a-shade-of-blue link

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ficsforgaza · 22 days ago

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A Heartfelt Plea: Help me get my mother and brothers out as we have no shelter left🚨❤️

Dear friends

After all we've been through, even our house is now in ruins and uninhabitable.

I am reaching out to you because I need your help and I thank everyone who stands with us and supports us in these difficult circumstances.

I trust you my friends and consider you my family

Your support will mean the world to us

If you can’t donate, sharing this with others who might be able to help would also make a huge difference.

vetted by @nabulsi link

Shared by @90-ghost link , and @a-shade-of-blue link

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

@sar-soor @plomegranate @nabulsi @sayruq @palipunk-blog @communistkenobi-archive @bluebellsinthedells @rizzyluke @kordeliiius @self-hating-zionist @raelyn-dreams @unfortunatelyuncreative @licencetokrill-blog @jezebelgoldstone @ramelcandy @labum @sammywo @autistwithattitude-blog

@tortiefrancis @sparklinpixiedust @feluka @revcuse @golvio @leftism @star-the-gremlin

@space-ace-studies @marscodes @annoyingloudmicrowavecultist @boyvander

@the-bastard-king @ammonitetheseaserpent @girlinafairytale-blog @timetravellingkitty @applebunch @applejupiter @bruisedprincess999 @malcriada @retvolution @deansmultitudes @deviloftheparadise @heritageposts @wellwaterhysteria @dykesbat @gorbling @gorbling @half-empty-orbitals @seasnipper

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ficsforgaza · 23 days ago

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FILLING IN | BAKUGOU x READER ˖˚˳⊹

summary: A production assistant for an erotic arts studio, you think you've seen every ridiculous plot line under the sun. But not even porn tropes can compare to the absurd reality you find yourself in when the on-screen talent drops out, and you're asked to fill in opposite the studio's number one star Bakugou Katsuki. contents: The classic oh-no-the-porn-talent-has-gone-missing-let's-sub-a-rando-in trope, no quirks au, pornstar Bakugou, soft dom Bakugou, gn + afab reader, unrequited-requited crush, slight bondage, descriptions of afab genitalia, nipple sucking, cunnilingus, piv sex, pet names used: angel and sweetheart, porn with surprise feelings, 18+, 8.2k words notes: This is my Bakugou x Reader commitment for @ficsforgaza, and I am sorry it is late enough to also count for Valentine's Day (but also Happy Valentine's Day!!) Additionally, a special thank you to my angel princess @ofmermaidstories for handing me the nerd + pornstar combo when I was worried about Bakugou's characterization. I think this is the only way I could have ever written a pornstar Bakugou that felt right to me. Love you, Mermie.

The studio was churning in chaos by the time you arrived.

The first sign that things weren’t right was Komori, one of your fellow production assistants, propped against the wall outside. Her cellphone was pressed against her ear, and she looked nervous, her foot tapping a thousand miles a minute. She had a thumbnail pressed to her mouth and was chewing steadily through the nail like a rabbit through a lettuce leaf.

You didn’t want to disturb her, so you buzzed inside the studio, only to find the hallways filled with an equally nervous energy. Yaoyorozu, one of the production managers, hovered in the doorway of a dressing room. She looked to be arguing with someone, her normally sweet expression pinched in profile. A small circle of people took up the hallway behind her, shifting apprehensively.

A shrill voice filtered out of the dressing room as you tried to wedge yourself by. “I said I’m not doing it. We’re getting married and we agreed I wouldn’t do this anymore.”

“Bibimi—” Yaoyorozu started.

“Effective immediately. Find someone else,” Bibimi’s voice replied.

You stopped in your tracks, blinking as you turned back to the doorway, peering over Sato’s shoulder.

Bibimi Kenranzaki was one of the studio’s top actresses, the very performer scheduled to shoot the production you were working on this afternoon. The shoot was a Valentine’s Day special, and had already been delayed at Bibimi’s request several times. If you’d understood Yaoyorozu’s previous concerns correctly, today was the last possible day to shoot it with enough time for it to make it through editing to post on Valentine’s.

This was not good.

“Bibimi, of course we would never force you to do something you did not consent to,” Yaoyorozu said patiently. “But you can see how having delayed this shoot many times already puts us in danger of not delivering on our commitments.”

You heard a dismissive snort issue from the room, and peered over one of Yaoyorozu’s slender shoulders. Bibimi lounged across one of the waiting room couches, arms crossed over her chest. An enormous diamond ring you’d never seen before glinted from one of her fingers, clearly the source of today’s change of heart.

Oh, production was not going to be happy.

You winced as you ducked out from behind Yaoyorozu, heading back down the hall to stuff your things into one of the vacant lockers. It was a struggle to fit everything in as today you’d come directly from a lecture—two textbooks the size and weight of cinderblocks choking up all the space in your bag. You would have thought that, considering that a wide swath of the production staff were college students—including several of the performers themselves—the studio would have had a better set up. But it was often a fight to the death to even find an open locker amongst the many other bookbags, and an equally Sisyphean struggle to get the door shut on the tiny cubbies.

Once you finally managed to finagle the door shut on your backpack, you made a beeline for the supply room. Typically, your first task of any shoot was acquisition of about a million pounds of baby wipes and lube, though you wondered if they would be needed today, given the scene with Bibimi you’d just witnessed.

You checked the film schedule posted in the staff entry to find the allotted set room. Then you made your way down the twisting maze halls carpeted with ancient olefin to the set for You Cumplete Me, the obnoxious working title Kaminari had come up with for this particular Valentine’s Day project.

The room was set up like some generic apartment, a large bed with a wire-framed headboard dominating the majority of the space. A cherry wood nightstand cluttered with fake knick knacks stood diligently at the bedside, and two fake windows with their curtains drawn shut overlooked the whole affair, red dressings fluttering slightly in the breeze from a fan.

Most of the production staff was already inside the room, the cameramen and director huddled together in the corner, whispering nervously. You spotted Mina, the wardrobe coordinator and makeup artist, fussing with her phone in the other corner, her various products and brushes spread out across a plastic folding table, looking put out.

“You know if we’re going to be able to sub anyone in for Bibimi?” you asked as you approached her, flopping down in one of the chairs set up at her makeshift dressing table. You arrayed your armful of lube and plastic packs of wipes at the corner so as not to disturb her arrangement.

Mina’s eyes flicked up to yours and she grinned, the upturn of her mouth accented with perfectly-applied hot pink lipstick.

“Komori’s called like ten other actresses so far and can’t get anyone,” Mina answered. “And Shiozaki and Kendo are in-studio but both just got off another shoot so we contractually can’t use them. I think Yaomomo is ready to start shaking people down.”

You winced. Yaoyorozu never lost her cool, but the pressure must be mounting. You knew marketing materials had already been put out on the studio’s website, specifically promising the return of the studio’s highest-grossing star—Bakugou Katsuki—opposite Bibimi.

While Bibimi might be the highest paid actress, Bakugou was the real draw of UA Productions. UA churned out projects that were largely targeted towards less traditional markets—largely women—porn that was often of higher production value, higher quality scripting, and careful coordination showcasing enthusiasm and consent. It also subsequently employed more than its fair share of beautiful men.

And Bakugou Katsuki crowned that pile of performers. Though foul-mouthed and often irascible, he was undeniably breathtaking to behold, both on screen and in person. He was the typical blend of tall, strong, and well-muscled that most UA actors were. But he moved with a singular precision and intention that drove fans wild, and came equipped with bed-rumpled blond hair, mile-long lashes, a surly, pouty mouth, and a facial symmetry that Euclid himself would have wept over.

He was also nearing the end of his doctoral and would not be filming for much longer, you were given to understand. So the studio stood to lose a significant amount of audience trust and money, should this production fall through.

As if on cue, Bakugou Katsuki himself stomped through the doorway. The expression on his face told you he was already well-aware of what was happening with Bibimi, and he was getting annoyed with the hold up. He set a direct line for you and Mina, mouth twisted in dissatisfaction.

Your ears promptly went hot, the way they always did when Bakugou was in your line of vision.

You’d unfortunately had something of a crush on him from the minute you’d become a production assistant at UA, your third year of college. Funds were tight and your masters program loomed large in front of you, its meager stipend like a slap in the face. You’d needed something else flexible, and you’d found UA through the friend of a friend—its proximity to the university, and ever changing schedule of ongoing productions offering the perfect amount of flexibility for your situation.

Bakugou had been there that first day as Yaoyorozu gave you the tour, too. He’d been tucked up on the couch of the waiting room as you passed through, blonde hair rumpled, someone’s lip gloss still smeared at the corner of his jaw. He looked like a soft, relaxed mess—clothes askew like he’d pulled them back on after a shoot and immediately migrated to the couch—though his scarlet eyes tracked intently across the page of an enormous engineering text spread across his thighs. His long fingers twirled a pen absently, tapping against a notebook peeking out from just under the textbook, headphones jammed over his ears.

He did not look up as you made your way inside, but your stomach had flared to life with a sudden flutter of butterflies. You were startled by the pretty set of his mouth, the long lashes that swept over his cheeks as he read, the flex of those long, beautiful fingers on his pen. You had never seen a person so perfect in real life, and the effect was dumbing.

“That’s Bakugou, one of our performers,” Yaoyorozu had told you, leading you through the room. She did not stop to introduce you. “He’s working on a PhD in chemical engineering, and performs once every couple of months for us. He’s—erm—not quite friendly, so we’ll skip the introduction today.”

You’d followed her, nodding obediently, leaving Bakugou behind. You’d dutifully concluded your tour and signed all the paperwork, and met several other members of the staff. It was only when you’d been released from your onboarding obligations that you saw Bakugou again, as you ran out into the parking lot to start your car.

It was raining out, a torrential downpour much worse than when you’d arrived that came down in thick, pelting sheets. Visibility was bad enough that you almost missed the tuft of blonde hair across the parking lot, ducking under the awning of the nearby bus stop.

You knew the route headed back towards your university, and subsequently your apartment, and it dawned on you that Bakugou’s would most likely be attaining his cited PhD at your same college. You felt your mouth twist, impressed. PhD tracks were notoriously difficult to attain at Musutafu University—no wonder Bakugou needed a job that was, for lack of better phrasing, quick and dirty. He probably was drowning in post-grad labs and dissertation materials.

The memory of those long fingers tapping at the edge of his text suddenly flickered again in your brain, and something possessed you as you started up your engine. Before you knew what you were doing, you had pulled your car around into the bus stop bay, leaning out to call out to him.

“Hey—Bakugou, right?” you said, watching as scarlet eyes found yours, narrowing suspiciously. His pretty mouth lifted in an immediate, reflexive snarl, and those broad shoulders squared off, like he was getting ready for trouble.

You cut in, quickly explaining yourself when you realized he had no context for the rando hanging out of their car window at him. “I’m Yaoyorozu’s new production staff. Just joined today. Are you headed towards Musutafu U and do you want a ride?”

A blonde eyebrow lifted. “You’re with UA?” he asked. His voice was a kind of low growl, not unlike the thunder suddenly echoing overhead, and the sound shot through you like a bolt of lightning.

“I—yeah. Just signed the paperwork this afternoon.”

Several spatters of rain dampened your cheeks where you had your head poked out of the window, and Bakugou’s eyes tracked them closely as he leaned in. “Then let’s get one thing straight right off the bat—I don’t fuck coworkers off the clock.”

You recoiled, horrified at the conclusion he’d immediately brought himself to. “No! That’s not what I—I didn’t mean like—! I just thought because it’s raining out, you might want—”

“I want you to fuck right off, is what I want,” Bakugou said, crossing his arms over his chest. He made a show of leaning back against the glass wall of the bus stop, its interior papered over with moldering ads. It was a clear dismissal.

You blinked at him stupidly for a moment, mind reeling that your gesture had been received so poorly. But then you realized he hadn’t seen you, in your trek through the staff room during your afternoon tour. You’d only just seen him, and you hadn’t spoken to him besides. Despite your immediate interest in and respect for him, he knew nothing about you.

And he was a pornstar, come to think of it. He probably had had a fair number of creeps proposition him out of the blue. Enough that he was suspicious now, as you might have been, were you in his position.

Your cheeks heated, suddenly ashamed. You nodded, gritting your teeth as you ducked back inside your car.

“Right, fucking off, as requested,” you said, turning your blinker on to move back out into the road. “Sorry to scare you. See you, um—see you at work sometime.”

“Oi—I ain’t fuckin’ scared,” you heard him growl, but then you were turning back out into the street. You rolled your window back up as you sped up, resisting the urge to look back at Bakugou in the rearview.

What a humiliating first impression that had been.

You'd fretted about it for another week before your first official day at UA, and for several weeks more when you didn’t immediately run into Bakugou. When you’d finally met him properly, however, Bakugou acted like he’d never even seen you before in his life, and you somewhat gratefully followed his lead. He treated you like anyone else, with the same kind of universal severity he turned on the other production staff. You discovered very quickly that he was impatient, brusque, no-nonsense. He stalked onto every set with all the latent energy of a nuclear missile strike, and never softened until after the shoot was over.

His general attitude, and your humiliating first encounter should have been enough to turn you off of him. But the occasional glimpse of him after a shoot—rumpled, relaxed, open in a way he normally wasn’t, in the way that you'd first seen him—was unfortunately enough to keep those initial butterflies aflutter.

The fact that he was smart—and annoyingly adept in the bedroom, considering the number of reshoots his costars often needed after they accidently came too early—did not help matters.

“Where the fuck is Yaoyorozu?” he demanded of you and Mina, as he approached you in the set room now.

You met his scarlet gaze, holding very still under his regard.

“She was negotiating with Bibimi just now when I came in,” you told him, cheeks heating as his eyes flicked over you. He had a very direct way of evaluating people, and rarely missed a detail. You hoped your makeup wasn’t smudged from where you’d had your head propped up in your hand, valiantly resisting falling asleep in your earlier lecture.

“Bibimi’s a waste of fuckin’ time,” Bakugou growled.

You rolled your eyes. He couldn’t very well act opposite his own hand, so someone was going to have to fill in.

“Well Mina says we’re not having luck finding anyone else either so Bibimi is your best bet,” you told him.

Bakugou looked down his perfect nose at you. “Anyone in this damn studio could do better than she does.”

You felt your eyebrows raise. Bibimi was popular with a variety of audiences for her exaggeratedly dollish features—you doubted just anyone could fill in for her and look as good. You said as much to Bakugou, and he scoffed.

“‘S not about looking good, it’s about showing that you’re feeling good,” he said plainly, igniting a wave of fire across your cheeks. The flames worsened when he crossed his arms over his chest and you had occasion to notice he was in nothing but a workout tank, his bare biceps flexing enticingly in the studio lighting.

You were thankfully spared from having to form a coherent response by Yaoyorozu stepping into the room. She was tailed by Komori, and wore a troubled expression. She waved an elegant hand that encompassed both your camp in the corner and the directors on the other side of the room.

“Bibimi is unfortunately out. And we cannot use Shiozaki or Kendo. I am afraid we may have to call off the shoot this afternoon,” she said.

“So get someone else in,” Bakugou said, with his usual brisk directness. He turned to face her. You caught the whiff of something light and clean on him as he did so, laundry detergent and recently-applied shampoo.

Yaoyorozu fixed him with an expectant look. “We’ve unfortunately worked our way through the roster of available performers. Unless you know someone else?”

Bakugou stared back at her evenly, arching a blonde brow. “There’re a bunch of extras already here, aren’t there?”

A little shock went through you. Extras. As in the…people in the room right now? Did he really mean the production staff?

Yaoyorozu blinked, apparently taken aback. Then her gaze slid thoughtfully between Komori, Mina, and you. Another little thrill raced through you, like you’d suddenly missed a step. Surely they both could not actually be considering that.

“I’m a hoe but I’m a loyal hoe,” Mina said from next to you, immediately putting up a rosy palm. “Eiji is my one and only, sorry babes.”

Yaoyorozu nodded. “Of course, I would not expect you to violate any commitments you already had to a significant other.”

“I am also seeing someone,” Komori volunteered, a shy little blush sweeping across her cheeks. You smiled a bit at her obvious regard for whoever it was—until you sensed a dozen pairs of eyes suddenly turning to you.

Your stomach dropped—less of a missed step then and more of a sudden push off a cliff.

Worst of all was the pair of scarlet eyes suddenly burning with undue regard in your direction. You stared straight at Yaoyorozu, unable to meet Bakugou’s gaze. You still felt like you might burn up under his scrutiny, like an ant under a magnifying glass.

“I—uh—” you said dumbly, floundering for the right set of words to explain yourself. “Uhh.”

“You seeing anybody?” Bakugou prodded, prompting a fresh wave of heat to your cheeks.

“Well—no—”

“You clean?” he asked.

Your face burned hotter. “Yes, if you must know—-but uh—”

“Then what?” he prompted.

“Is it that easy for you? To just switch partners like that?” you asked. You weren’t exactly a blushing virgin but you still had only slept with partners you had cared for. Bakugou had worked with you for years and never signaled anything beyond dismissal and semi-professionalism—so it wasn’t like he had that same level of interest in you, despite your enormous crush on him. How could he just switch, just like that?

Bakugou uncrossed his arms to settle his hands on slim hips instead, and he gave you another evaluating once over. “Something the matter with you?” he asked. You noticed he did not ask if you thought something was the matter with him. You wondered if your crush on him was that apparent.

“No,” you said defensively. “Just—I don’t know that I’d be any good on camera.”

“You’ve been in videos before,” Mina pointed out, tugging playfully on your belt loop. “You were in Bibimi’s Christmas special a couple years ago.”

“That was different,” you said, staring at her. “I was her evil coworker who sent her running into Tetsutetsu’s muscular arms. I didn’t have to get naked.”

“We can give you time to get prepared,” Yaoyorozu promised kindly. “If you wanted to um, clean up or trim—”

“It’s not that!” you said quickly, waving your arms. Your ears burned. “I just mean I would be shy.”

Bakugou watched you silently for another long moment, his full mouth pursed in thought. His gaze dragged down your body and then back up to your face, and you felt it like a physical touch.

“Then if you forgot you were on camera?” he asked, a rasp in his tone.

You blinked at him dumbly. “If I—forgot?”

“If I made you forget,” he said, flashing a sharp smirk. The arrogance looked so good on him, zinging through your veins like an electric current. Your cheeks and ears flared even hotter, until you thought you might actually be emitting smoke from them.

You tried to form words but seemed to have trouble shaping the proper ones with your tongue, making a series of choking noises before you managed. “There is no way you could—you’re not that good.”

Something hot flared to life behind Bakugou’s eyes, and his smirk curled even sharper. “We’ll see about that.”

“What if Bakugou helps you get over your nerves, and we just try it and see how you do.” Yaoyorozu prompted gently. “Is that something you would be willing to do? Of course we won’t pressure you.”

Your gaze jerked back to her as you startled. For just a second you’d sort of forgotten there was anyone in the room but Bakugou.

“I sort of doubt—but if you really need—I mean I could—try…” you fumbled out.

Yaoyorozu nodded gratefully, looking pleased again. “Alright, then let’s at least try it. Mina please find proper costuming and help get Y/N ready. I will draw up a short contract with the same terms we promise all our on camera talent for you to look over when you’re done.”

You nodded, a little dazed. Had you really just agreed to—?

But then Mina was laughing, grabbing you by the elbow and drawing you out of the room. She marched you towards the back of the studio building where she’d amassed a respectable wardrobe, racks upon racks of clothes. “Alright, this is going to be so fun! I love dressing new talent! It’s always fun to work out what’s going to work with your coloring and style on screen.”

The mention of you doing anything on screen had all the blood draining from your veins, but Mina didn’t seem to mind. She kept up a stream of happy, easy chatter as she pecked around in the racks like a chicken hunting a grasshopper. Eventually she emerged with a robe in a deep pink, slippery and silky and glistening faintly under the overheads.

“Okay so you’re supposed to be a loving couple celebrating your anniversary and looking for ways to spice things up,” she said. “So you’ll be waiting for him to come home, looking delicious in this little slip of a thing. He can unwrap you like a V-Day present!”

Her callback to the plot of the shoot suddenly made you realize there were way more things involved in the project than just being pawed at on screen—and you did not know any of Bibimi’s lines. How the hell were you supposed to deliver any kind of performance?

“Don’t worry about it, I assure you the gears are already churning in Momo’s big brain,” Mina said when you asked as much. She peeled you out of your sweater and jeans, and ushered you into the robe. Cheeks burning, you let her look you over to make sure you were properly groomed for the camera.

Then before you could get cold feet, she bundled you up and shepherded you back into the set room and set to work on you with her various pots of paint and ointments. She worked a couple things into your hair, applied something glossy and sticky to your mouth, and adjusted the fit of your robe to her liking until she pronounced you ready.

Yaoyorozu was already leaning over you by the time Mina released you, laying out a packet of sheets in front of you. She detailed the terms to you in the professional, clipped tone you’d heard her conduct business in before, and soon enough you were penning in your own name in a shaky hand. The strokes looked almost foreign on the page, and you felt a little more than lightheaded thinking about what you’d just signed yourself into.

“So—what am I supposed to do about Bibimi’s lines?” you asked, your voice coming out kind of dry and crackly.

“We’re going to improvise,” Yaoyorozu said. “Bakugou will guide you. Try to respond as best you can to what he says, along the framework of being a couple celebrating their anniversary. It’s most important to capture your intimacy, however, so we can always come back and reshoot any dialog as needed after. You can call him Katsuki, there are no aliases for this shoot.”

You nodded, feeling even more nervous now that all the prerequisites had been completed.

That left Komori waiting for you. She was apparently assuming the duties you’d abandoned by becoming the star of this absurd alternate dimension. She led you over to what had been meant to be Bibimi’s starting mark on the bed and helped you spread your pink robe out enticingly. You almost laughed as you helped her, feeling foolish and distinctly unsexy for the deliberateness of it all.

There was nothing less romantic than half a dozen other people in the room with you, cameras and hot lights trained on you like you were an escaped convict under a helicopter floodlight. You got the impression that it was going to be a monumental task to work up the nerve to even loosen the tie on your robe, nevermind remove it.

Except then Bakugou walked in.

He’d changed, sometime in the half hour or so Mina had had you in her clutches. He prowled into the room in a dark charcoal suit, the consummate businessman home from his generic businessman job.

He looked unfairly good in it too—the close cut of it highlighted how his broad shoulders slashed inwards into a trim waist, and his pants showcased the flex of a strong, hard thigh. He’d acquired a chunky wristwatch in a dark metal, and it glinted dully under the overhead lights.

He looked sleek and dangerous, even though you’d just seen him stomping around in sweatpants not thirty minutes prior. You felt your breath escape you in a whoosh, your heartbeat kicking up as he prowled closer.

“I’m home, angel,” he said, a smoky rasp curling on the end of his voice. Despite the pet name, he sounded enough like his usual self that you almost answered him in turn.

You vaguely remembered you were obliged to playact with him, and you summoned up your nerve. “Hi, Katsuki,” you said. You hoped your voice did not sound too shaky. “Happy Anniversary.”

Bakugou’s scarlet eyes dipped down to your robe, fastening to the spot where it gaped open suggestively over one thigh. Your skin buzzed like a hive of bees was trapped beneath it.

“This my present?” he asked, stalking closer. He snagged the tie of your robe in his long fingers, toying with it speculatively.

“It should be easy to open,” you joked, then almost cringed.

Sexy. You were supposed to be sexy, not goofy as hell. And what happened when he really did try to open it?

A small amount of panic crept up your spine again, seeping into your veins. You did not feel ready to be naked before all of the eyes in this room, nevermind the roving gaze of the internet. What had you been thinking, signing up for this?

Your hand came up defensively to tug the robe tie back out of Bakugou’s hand, only for it to be captured too. Bakugou tugged you up and to him, and your face broke out in another sweeping wave of flame as you felt the hard planes of him against you. He was so warm, and smelled so good up close and you could not even begin to know what to do or where to put your hands—

Before you could ask him what the heck he was doing, however, he brought your captured hand to his mouth. You almost leapt out of your skin when you felt the gentle press of his lips on the inside of your wrist, the careful flicker of a tongue. Those scarlet eyes slid over you knowingly, near enough that you could see tiny flecks of deep purple in them.

His other hand came up to take your chin, his thumb stroking over the side of your jaw. The feeling made you shiver slightly, and it must have been clearly visible because the corner of Bakugou's mouth lifted into a smirk against your wrist. Your heart hammered against your ribcage, every inch of your skin thrilling with the feeling of your longtime crush doing something this to you.

“Think I’m gonna enjoying opening you alright,” Bakugou intoned.

You struggled to remember what he was talking about, giving up almost immediately as his mouth trailed along the inside of your arm. It traced up and up and up, until he was hovering dangerously close to your face. His fingers tightened on your chin, tilting your face up to his.

And then he bent his head, and crushed his mouth to yours.

Immediately, everything else disappeared.

Kissing Bakugou was three thousand zillion times hotter than you could have ever even imagined. You’d sort of imagined that with an attitude like his, he would be all power and impatience. And the power was there, but leashed, somehow. His mouth was hot and shockingly sweet on yours, and his fingers cupped your face to his, holding you there like he planned to kiss you for hours yet.

Your head was spinning by the time he let your mouth free, and the dip of his blonde lashes as he looked you over was extraordinarily self-satisfied.

His hand on your chin went to your robe instead, pulling the collar wide so that he could lower his mouth inside instead, kissing over your throat. You seized fistfuls of his suit, clinging to him, as he mapped a hot path across your shoulder and collarbone, one of his hands coming up to up your chest.

You heard yourself let out a soft hiss as his thumb pressed over your nipple through the silky fabric. Bakugou sucked a careful bruise into the side of your neck as he did it again, letting out a barely audible snort when you jerked in his hold, unconsciously arching into his hand.

“So sensitive for me, angel,” he drawled as his other hand came up to carefully pinch your other nipple.

You heard yourself make a small, choked off noise like a whine, and you could feel Bakugou’s lips pull into an answering smirk against your throat. You didn’t think you had been quite this responsive to a partner before—but something about the careful, purposeful way he was touching you had your blood running quicker in your veins.

Bakugou’s thumbs traced slow, deliberate circles over your nipples with just the right amount of pressure to make you groan. He teased you again and again as his mouth traced higher on your neck.

Within minutes you were panting, a slow, syrupy pleasure dripping down into your core.

Bakugou tugged your robe wider, then bent his head. You felt the tickle of his hair against your collarbone, softer than you would have thought, as his mouth closed over the point of one nipple. The draw of his mouth had you arching up into him immediately, pleasure zinging through your veins.

“Oh my god,” you said, seizing a fistful of that blonde hair.

Bakugou’s tongue teased at the nipple, and you writhed in his hold. Then he did the same to your other one, and you thought you might die. He hadn’t even touched you yet and you already wanted to crawl out of your skin with impatience.

“Katsuki—please,” you heard yourself say, almost distantly. “Katsuki—oh!”

“Please what, angel?” he said into the skin of your chest, before laying his mouth back over your nipple and giving a sweet suck.

“Oh my god—please!” you said, stupidly. Not an answer to his question but you’d forgotten how to string words together, your brain-to-mouth connection running on autopilot.

“Gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart,” Bakugou said, and you heard the relish in it. Your face burned, and you yanked his hair a little more firmly. He just groaned, and then sucked you a little harder.

“Touch me! Please—Katsuki,” you panted out, hips flexing unconsciously with the pull of your nipple.

“Thought this was my gift, angel. I can’t enjoy it how I want?” he asked.

You considered his words muzzily, having no idea what he was talking about. Gift? What gift was he talking about?

Bakugou’s scarlet eyes flicked up to yours, and something in your expression must have told him you had no idea what he was on about. His mouth pulled up into a self-satisfied grin, and he leaned up to kiss you again.

You flattened yourself out against his chest, all but velcroing yourself to him. You wanted to feel every inch of that hard body against you, wanted to climb as far into him as you could. Something gratifyingly hard pressed against your stomach as you kissed him, and he grunted, locking you to him with a muscled arm across your back.

“Want me to touch you, angel?” he asked.

You nodded. A smile played across his lips.

“Get on the bed for me then, sweetheart.”

It took a minute for you to process but then you were scrambling to obey, scrabbling your way onto the bed, turning and watching as Bakugou stepped nearer.

He shed his jacket as he approached, yanking off his tie too and flinging it somewhere behind him. Then he crawled over you, his fingers seizing the ties of your robe as he did. He pulled it open gently, then yanked a little harder until the silk tie slid free.

His eyes picked over it speculatively, then flashed back up to you. A look of intent interest settled over his features.

“You ever been tied up before, angel?” he asked.

You shook your head, even as it swam with the implication. Your skin prickled, somehow growing even hotter. He didn’t mean to…?

“You gonna let me?” he asked.

You rather thought you would let him do anything he wanted with you. The question was barely out of his mouth before you were nodding hurriedly. A shocked laugh punched out of him, and he gathered up your wrists, scooting you backwards until they pressed against the headboard.

He looped the silk around your wrists, gathering it into a series of complicated knots. He moved with a purpose and precision, his movements sure and practiced. You tested the give of the ties when he sat back on his haunches, finding that they held firm, even when you put a little more muscle into it.

Bakugou’s gaze blazed over you, hot like coals. His eyes traced over your body, spread out under him now, your silk robe pooling at either side of you in a pink puddle.

He bent his head and kissed you again, until you were fuzzy with the feeling once more. Then he worked his way downwards, softly biting your shoulder, licking over one nipple, pressing deep kisses into your belly and then indent of your left hip.

A shock of pleasure raced through you when you realized where he was going with this, and you let out an involuntarily little gasp as he hooked your thighs over his broad shoulders.

“Katsuki,” you began, though you had no idea what you meant to follow it up with. Bakugou didn’t wait for you to finish, ducking his head and licking a hot stripe up the cleft of you.

Immediately you arched, thighs flexing under his hands. Your face heated when he laughed again, but any embarrassment was instantly forgotten when he licked over you again, slower and more deliberate this time.

“Oh my god,” you said again, biting off into a groan when his tongue dipped deeper between your folds, flicking up over your clit.

“Yeah, angel?” Bakugou asked, his voice a heady rasp. “You like that?” He layered another open mouthed kiss over you, slow and thorough, until you were arching up into his mouth again.

It would have been evident to anyone on earth how much you liked it from the noises you made, the way you kicked and squirmed with the movement of his mouth. He sucked your clit gently into his mouth, then laved over it firmly as he pressed his fingers to you, the pads of his index and middle slowly sinking into you.

Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head when he gave another slow suck, the feeling almost too much. His fingers pressed deeper into you, easily slipping in with how comically wet you were for him. The gentle suction of his mouth made everything a million times better, everything a million times worse, as he carefully curled his fingers within you. He seemed to immediately find a spot within you that felt like he was touching your clit from the other side too, and the feeling was immediately far too much.

“Holy shit,” you heard yourself say, cutting off into an honest to god whine when his tongue swirled around your clit, just as he teased a finger along you from the inside too. “Katsuki—oh! Katsuki please! Please oh my god oh my god.”

Bakugou’s ministrations grew a fraction firmer, and you heard him groan too as he kissed you messily.

“So fucking hot for me, sweetheart. So sweet,” he said, then sucked again, a tiny bit harder this time. His fingers stroked you from the inside, a firm, deliberate rhythm that had you turning your face and muffling a keen into the meat of your arm.

Your hips flexed against his face, wild and uncontrolled, wanting less, more, not enough, too much, oh my god—

“Katsuki!” you cried, as you suddenly hit the crest of your pleasure. Your wrists pulled against their bonds, and the feeling of helpless restraint suddenly made everything feel a thousand times more intense. Every single nerve ending in your body felt like it was on fire, so that even the air of the room seemed too harsh on your skin. You screamed as you rode out your pleasure against Bakugou’s face.

He worked you through it diligently, licking and sucking until you collapsed back to the mattress, panting like you’d just run a marathon.

“Good, angel?” Bakugou asked.

You nodded breathlessly, turning your face to his when he crawled up your body to kiss you again. The taste of yourself on him was both embarrassing and thrilling, but Bakugou didn’t give you much leeway to consider it, kissing you into a stupid, pliant little puddle against the mattress.

You could feel him hard and hot against your hip as he did so, but he didn’t make any move to get inside you yet. Instead, his hands moved over you, slowly teasing you from satiation back into want. His fingers played with your nipples again, pinching them softly and rolling them. It felt like he'd rigged up some kind of wire, leading from your nipples right to your core, that lit the pilot flame of your interest again.

A couple minutes of diligent teasing, and easy, unhurried kisses had you wiggling under him again soon enough. It was only then, when you realized you were unconsciously rocking your hips against Bakugou’s, that he finally sat back to shuck off his shirt and pants.

He was so unfairly beautiful, bared in the bright light of the room. You’d known he was gorgeous, of course, but up close he was something else entirely. He was chiseled with thick muscle, his chest and arms hard and glowing faintly with perspiration. The light and the shadows of the room played over the divots of his muscles with a deliberate care, like he was a painting instead of a man, highlighting him in loving shades. A set of perfect abs trailed down into the hard jut of hip bones over his pelvis, and his cock was just as upsettingly gorgeous as the rest of him. It was thick and full and flush with his arousal, and he wasted no time crawling back between your thighs.

“You ready for me, sweetheart?” he asked. His voice had gone even more gravelly than usual, and it plucked at your core like a string.

“Please, Katsuki,” you said, your voice embarrassingly breathy. You couldn’t help yourself though, couldn’t be ashamed with the easy way your thighs fell apart for him. Your ankles hooked across his back, trying to pull him closer still.

He groaned and surged up over you to grab a condom off the nightstand. He quickly rolled it onto himself in one practiced movement, before immediately pressing himself into you.

He sank in mortifyingly easily, you already half out of your mind with want. He didn’t seem to mind, though—you heard the soft, sibilant hiss of his own pleasure as he filled you, and your robe tugged the skin of your shoulder as he fisted a hand in it, just beside your head.

“Been dying to fuck you, angel,” he said. “Thinking about how hot and tight and sweet you would be for me. Been thinking about it nonstop.”

You made a vague noise of agreement, moving your hips with his as he drew back and pressed inside of you again. The slide of him inside you was mind-numbingly good, the pressure against your stomach as he pressed back in almost sparking stars in your vision. The flex of his abs between your thighs as he found his pace was almost immediately too much for you, and you had to turn your face away. You tilted your face up to his, watching him as he watched you.

Bakugou seemed to read your expression easily, finding the angle and pace you liked incredibly quickly. He slid an arm under the small of your back to angle your hips up into him, yanking you up like you were nothing, and the show of easy strength had your toes flexing and curling against his back.

He kissed you again, catching the sounds of your pleasure in his mouth as he rocked into you. You moved against him, hips bucking, delirious with the feeling of him. Eventually he freed his arm from under you, pressing his thumb to your slit again with deadly precision.

“Oh fuck,” you moaned into his mouth, legs tightening on him as he played with your clit. The almost-too-gentle sensation of his thumb on your clit, coupled with the relentless drive of him inside you had your vision sparking and greying at the edges. His face swam in front of yours, and all of your limbs began to feel shivery, almost too weak to lift yourself into him the way you needed, to rock against him and find relief from the friction.

Bakugou continued to tease at you, carefully pinching and petting. His hips drove into you tirelessly, slapping the bottoms of your thighs, as you strained in your silk bonds, wanting to grab him, pull him even harder into you.

“Katsuki, please please please,” you heard yourself begging. You felt him smile against your mouth, tasted his reply more than heard it.

“You want me to let you cum, angel?” he asked, doing something with his fingers that made your breath catch in your lungs.

“Unhh, yes—please!” you cried, desperation coming over you in a white haze.

You had never—never—been so desperate for anything in your entire life. You didn’t know how Bakugou was doing it, why his touch felt like so much more than anything else you’d ever felt in your life. If he didn’t let you cum you were certain you were going to die, right here and right now.

“You gonna scream for me, sweetheart?” Bakugou asked, his voice raspier than you’d ever heard it. He grit the words out, like he too was on the edge of his own climax, barely staving it off.

“Anything, I will do anything,” you babbled senselessly. “Yes—going to scream for you—Katsuki!”

Bakugou’s gaze was hotter than you’d ever seen it, scarlet eyes clouded with pleasure, glowing like banked coals. “Then you can come for me, angel. Come on, sweetheart.”

“Oh!” you cried in answer, your feet planting themselves on the bed to jut your hips up hard. Bakugou’s thumb pressed hard against your clit, then, firm and merciless, and he fucked into you harder, his pace growing faster, furious.

Your second orgasm hit you like a truck, snapping your spine into alignment, locking all your limbs up as if in rigor mortis.

“Katsuki!” you wailed as you writhed against him, clenching and fluttering around him as you sobbed.

“Oh fuck,” you heard him say, and his hips stuttered. You realized he was coming too, fucking into you sloppily and disjointedly as he rode out his own pleasure. You arched and spasmed with him, clawing uselessly at the silk that bound you, twisting in blissful agony.

When you finally came back to yourself you found yourself slumped on the bed, Bakugou’s weight pinning you down into the mattress. His chest was slicked to yours with sweat, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of it against you as he caught his breath.

“That good, angel?” he asked, his voice heady with satisfaction.

You nodded, absently turning your face back up to his for a kiss. He granted it, kissing you almost possessively. He looked soft and rumpled, just the way you'd always liked him, and something in you purred with satisfaction at finally getting to have him like this for you.

Gradually, you became aware of other sounds in the room as you came down from your high. Quiet murmuring and the sounds of shuffling met your ears, the shutter click of a camera lens slicing through the atmosphere like a knife.

A sudden shock raced through you when you realized you and Bakugou were not alone—and you were on the set of a porn film, half a dozen eyes glued to you just over one of Bakugou’s thick shoulders.

A porn film. You had been shooting a porn film!

“And cut!” you heard the director’s voice ring out, like a bucket of water dumped over your head.

You tensed up beneath Bakugou, mind racing. Holy shit, he had actually managed to make you forget, exactly the way he'd promised.

You could tell Bakugou was thinking the same thing as he went to untie you, looking extremely satisfied with himself.

“Told you, angel,” he said, flashing something of a feral grin. You hated how good the self-conceit looked on him.

You went to draw your wrists back to yourself as he let them free. But Bakugou caught them instead, carefully massaging the skin there as if to make sure things were circulating properly. It was a startling note of unexpected care, as was the way he drew your robe closed around you again against the sudden chill of the room.

You found yourself saying wonderingly, “Wow. It was just that easy for you to switch partners like that.”

The thought somehow stung, even though you’d known going into this what you were getting yourself into. Somehow, the latent care and intention with which Bakugou had fucked you had addled your brain, made you think your connection had been something more. He had felt like he had feelings, beyond those mimed for the camera.

But here was evidence to the contrary, plain and simple. There literally was a camera.

Except then Bakugou looked down at you, a frown marring his pouty mouth. “Well yeah. ‘Course it was gonna be that easy when it’s you we’re talking about.”

You blinked at him, not understanding what he was saying. “Uh. When it’s—me?”

A crease came in between Bakugou’s blonde brows. “I said it, didn’t I? While we were fucking? Wanted to fuck you for a long time. Of course it was easy.”

Your stomach dropped, like a rug had just been yanked out from beneath you. “You—have? What? Since when?” you demanded.

Bakugou leveled you with an unimpressed stare. “Since the second time we met,” he said, and your mind flashed back to the way he’d seemed not to recognize you, that second time you'd spoken to him. “Once I realized you did work for UA and weren’t actually a little fucking creep trying to lure me into your car.”

You felt your eyebrows shoot towards your hairline. “Then—? For years? You cannot be serious. You never acted like we were anything other than coworkers!”

Bakugou scoffed. “We fucking were coworkers. And I told you, I don’t fuck coworkers off the clock.”

You blinked again, startled by the level of professionalism couched in the crassess of his statement. It made sense, you supposed, for a pornstar of Bakugou’s caliber to have put boundaries like that in place. Probably everyone in the world would just be dying for a shot at him.

“Wow,” you said, almost to yourself. You didn’t know what to do with this new information, wondered how it was going to be possible to behave professionally with Bakugou at all going forward. It was probably obvious to him how big your crush on him was, given that he’d known all along he could make you forget you were on camera. Given the way you reacted to him embarrassingly easily.

Except then Bakugou leaned forward, putting his face startlingly close to yours. “Emphasis on were, since this is my last shoot,” he said.

You stared at him, wondering if you were interpreting the implication correctly. There was no way he meant—?

“Uhhhh, meaning what, exactly?” you prompted, heart beating just a little bit quicker despite yourself.

Bakugou’s mouth turned up into a gorgeous smirk, and he ducked his head even closer, voice going softer.

“Meaning you’re going to get dressed and I’m going to take us to get something to eat,” he said, fingers playing at the edge of your robe. “And then you’re going to give me that ride home in your car after all. And we are going to do this all over again.”

Flames erupted across your face, sweeping across your cheeks. And you were up out of the bed before you even realized what you were doing, catching yourself on the bedside table as you stumbled.

Bakugou’s laugh chased out of the set room as you raced towards the wardrobe again. But you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, this time.

Not when your heart felt like it was going to beat right out of your chest. You smothered a smile as you ran down the hallway.

Much like Bakugou had just done to you—it looked like your hopes and dreams were finally lining themselves up and filling themselves in.

#creator works

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ficsforgaza · 30 days ago

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what could be better on a lazy sunday than to cuddle up and read that dirty book of yours together? i love to get lost in the sound of your voice...

this beautiful art was done by @/haio_won on twitter as part of the art raffle put on by @ficsforgaza. thank you to ffg for organizing such a great event to support fundraising efforts!

#omg this came out SO pretty!!! ty for supporting ffg!!#creator works

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ficsforgaza · 1 month ago

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The Ballad of the Dragon and the Phoenix Chapter Two: A Disharmonious Accord Rating: Mature Fandom: Naruto Pairing: GaaLee, NejiTen Warnings: past child abuse, canon typical violence, parent death Word Count: 6,373 Summary:

Rock Lee was stubborn. He'd had to be in order to become a shinobi. He was stubborn, obstinate, hard-headed, and utterly determined to funnel every ounce of that into ignoring Gaara of the Desert's demands as he prepared to be uprooted from the life he'd always known.

A/N:

Finally, an update! This fills a donation request made by none other than @shukakumoodboard because of course this is the fic she'd request! Either way, very huge shout-out to her for donating to help Nour and her family and I hope everyone enjoys this chapter!

Nour recently celebrated her 13th birthday at the start of January, so if anyone would like to donate to her to help her celebrate that would be amazing! The current 'ceasefire' is not the end of the accelerated genocide or the end of occupation, and every family in Gaza is still in need of help--they need to rebuild, they still need food and other basic necessities, and many are still hoping to evacuate. If you do donate to Nour, I am also still taking requests for donations, just bear in mind that all updates will be slow due to my health and personal life. @ficsforgaza

Speaking of, I am extremely behind on filling requests due to a sudden and rash decision to go back to school while also dealing with my health and working full-time. I also learned to drive recently and got my license! It's been a wild last six months, so I'm glad I was able to knock out one of the requests I have before school starts up again (tomorrow, actually!)

At the moment, I have 5 more updates to make--the last three chapters of Unspoken Rules and not one but TWO Absolution chapters--but as long as people don't mind the slow pace I get these out, I would be very grateful for any requests as it means families are being helped. It's even more important to me to keep pushing for this method of fundraising, as I have had to step back from Instagram due to my health.

Thanks to everyone for reading this! Hope you enjoy!

CLICK TO READ!

#creator works

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ficsforgaza · 2 months ago

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Palestinian girls and women are forced to use tents as pads. People boost. Donate if you can

#donation links

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ficsforgaza · 2 months ago

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“just one more, katsu!”

“tch, fine.”

i received this adorable chibi art by @yandereshingeki as a prize for winning one of the @ficsforgaza giveaways! thank you for organizing this event to help donate to children and those in need 💕

#thank you for joining the raffle!!#creator works #💗

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ficsforgaza · 2 months ago

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Famous Last Words (An Ode To Eaters)

synopsis: Nyra feels that swell of love, feels it as keenly as she feels the pain blooming in her entire body. She screams.

a/n: Finally, I'm done with this! It has been such a rollercoaster writing this project and it probably would never have been finished if i never put it up as part of the @ficsforgaza initiative. Thank you for everyone who donated and sponsored this work, and for those that haven't, I really suggest heading over to the FFG page and checking them out. There are so many wonderful people doing such a wonderful thing.

masterlist | warnings on ao3 | read on ao3 | divider by @/cafekitsune

In some backwater town, Nyra’s feet start to bleed inside her shoes. She hasn’t been able to hitch a ride. A part of her wonders whether or not the whole world is privy to what she’s done. The wind kicks up dust—the distant odor of cow shit along with it. She scrunches her nose. Decides she needs to get indoors.

Stepping onto the store’s cracked linoleum feels familiar but Nyra knows she’s never been here before. She has seen it though; in dreams and in flashes as she rips flesh from bone. She’s supposed to be here. She shivers and scrapes at the blood stuck underneath her nails. A cashier looks up at her from behind the register. Nyra tucks her hands into her pockets and disappears into the aisles.

Her bag is heavy on her shoulder. Drags her down as she tries to look at the low shelf. She can’t afford any of it and all she has left in her stomach is the acid inside it churning angrily, begging for something, anything to consume. And she understands it, in a way. Brings her hand to it and pats it once, softly—barely. I’m sorry, she thinks, as if the organ is sentient enough to resent her. Really it should be her resenting it. That body a few days ago should have been enough.

But it's never enough.

In the stuffy, recycled air of the grocery store, she feels something—smells something. Something not entirely new that makes the little hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. Nyra stuffs 99 cent cans of food into her bag. She doesn’t really know why. Already has her next meal in her sights.

She takes a can of tomato soup up to the cashier from before. Nyra can’t shake it—that scent in the air. She looks around wildly to see if she can find the source while the cashier scans her can. And then she sees it, a shock of white hair being shoved through the aisle and towards the entrance. Getting escorted out. It's coming from him.

Nyra turns back to the cashier, breathing a little uneasy, “When do you get off?”

With the sun sinking below the horizon, Nyra kicks a rock back and forth in the parking lot, eyes always darting back to the entrance of the store. Waiting.

When the cashier emerges she feels nothing—not even the violent uproar of her hungry stomach. It almost feels like it's turning, actually. Upwind she still smells it. Smells him. Nyra tenses when the cashier flashes his teeth at her. A perfect smile. She wants to see it ruined.

So she looks at him through her lashes and he does the rest of her work for it. Easy. Always so fucking easy.

In his shitty little car, he puts his hand on her thigh. Turns the radio off. And she smiles because this is what she’s supposed to do, she thinks. She’s so good at it, after all. It's all too easy to tell what he really wants behind that sweet smile he’s giving her. Nyra puts her hand atop his. “Not here,” she whispers, leaning into his ear and gesturing out the windshield to the soccer moms loading up their trunks after a last minute grocery run. “Too many people.”

Flesh rips and splits between her teeth as blood rushes out of him. He grapples at her at first. Tries to pry her off; scratches and claws at her so hard she bleeds. But Nyra does not relent. She bites harder, keeps him down with her entire weight until he stops. Goes limp and the gurgling in his throat quiets down. It's so much easier once they’re dead. She can take her time—really savor it.

She doesn’t ever cry about it anymore.

Then she smells it again. The scent from the store. She looks down at the cashier as if he could have an answer for her but his eyes have rolled back into his head.

Barefoot and bloodsoaked, she follows it. She doesn’t ever meet other eaters, almost can’t believe there’s one so close by. She opens the door.

And then there he is.

In the street light, feet unmoving but she knows what he wants. Nyra bites her lip. She doesn’t ever meet other eaters but she steps out onto the porch not caring about who can see her.

“When was the last time you fed?” Her nails chip at the wood on the door frame. A piece goes in too far—drives itself under her nail. She can’t take her eyes off him. He looks like he’s been starved. His clothes hang off him in a way that makes her uncomfortable. It stings under her nail. The wood splinters itself in further and further. Nyra wants to close the door. Get back to the cashier before he goes cold. But she can’t, or maybe she won’t. The stinging turns into burning.

He stares up at her with unsure, glassed over eyes. The air is thick with iron. With death. Then the uncertainty is replaced with something else entirely. Confidence, maybe. “Darling, I don’t need to.”

“We all need to. You’re not special.” Nyra takes a step back inside then stops. “Come inside before he gets cold. They’re no good when they’re cold.” She doesn’t know why she says it. She doesn’t share. Ever.

He opens his mouth, as if to say something else. She disappears into the house with a roll of her eyes and she can hear his footsteps start behind her.

They tear into the cashier in tandem. The squelching of flesh and their hungered breaths reverberate through the room. She looks up from her feasting at the stranger. All that white hair and pale skin drenched in red like paint on a canvas. She feels something, looking at him like this, something akin to admiration. Religion. Nyra stares unashamedly. He glances at her. Once. Twice. His red irises burning into her own. Then she goes back to eating. It's not in her nature to waste food.

He darts out into the bathroom when she starts to rifle through the cashier’s wallet, staining dollar bills with her bloody hands. He didn’t have much cash on him; Nyra only comes away with eight bucks but it's better than nothing. She listens to the pipes creak as the shower starts to run. Imagines all the blood circling the drain but never the stranger himself in the shower. She sighs. Knows she’ll need to scrub it all clean before she leaves. For now, she sits criss-cross in front of the TV and lets infomercials play.

It takes three 30 minute specials for her to see the stranger again. Clean and in the cashier’s clothes. They cling to him more than his own did and, honestly, they just make him look worse. More sickly, more starved. They cling onto his body; every jutting, sharp edge of bone visible. It makes her skin crawl, looking at him. He’s emaciated. Positively fucking emaciated. She’s never met another eater that looked like this. Nyra’s brow furrows. She finds it hard to really look at him.

He's a little different now, though. Doesn’t look so gaunt in the face—actually looks a little refreshed if you ask her. He’d almost look like a person if it weren’t for everything else about him.

Nyra stares at the infomercials again, sighs because she can’t remember the last time she felt pity and it's killing her, “Still sure you don’t need to, darling?”

“If you would have let me explain myself, you’d see that wasn’t what I meant.”

“So what did you mean?”

The stranger smirks, out of the corner of her eye, Nyra can see him gesture vaguely. “I fear we may have skipped a few steps,” he holds his hand out to the side of her face. She just looks at it. Then him. There’s still dried blood in the grooves of his palm. “I’m Astarion.” His name rings loud in her head. She bites her tongue, lets it go, then bites it again. The hand just hovers there between them. She finally lets it go, for real this time.

Under her nail stings when she takes his hand in hers. “Nyra. You’re welcome, by the way.” If she squeezes hard enough, she imagines in her mind’s eye as he’s looking straight down at her, she’ll draw blood. A rivulet of crimson sliding down in between their grasp and onto the hardwood. She can’t have that. She lets go. He rolls his eyes.

When Astarion sits next to her, she nearly jumps out of her skin. Nyra never talks to anyone after—isn’t ever around anyone after. It spooks her in a way she can’t quite place. She watches him.

There’s a dramatic confidence to him that makes her wonder, for a fraction of a second, if he was telling the truth at all when she found him outside. If, maybe, he isn’t as pathetic as she thinks. As needy as she sort of wants him to be. A steak sizzles in a grill-slash-sandwich press on TV. It's the sort of thing her mom would’ve bought and forgotten about until it showed up at their door. So incredibly handy she can just forget it in a cabinet somewhere deep in the house and never think about it ever again.

On the ceiling there’s exactly twenty-four cracks. Nyra knows this because Astarion is laying back flush to the hardwood, whispering the numbers so quietly she never actually sees his lips move. She can’t really stand it anymore. The keys to the cashier’s shitty little truck are weighing down her pocket. If she sits here any longer, she fears they may drag her into the floor. Into the earth.

Nyra gets up, leaves Astarion there as he starts to count the twenty-four cracks all over again.

She hoses herself off in someone’s backyard twenty miles outside of town. Her clothes are ruined, soaked through and through with the cashier’s blood. But Nyra couldn’t take another round of listening to Astarion’s barely audible counting of the cracks on the ceiling. She’d lose her mind, she thinks, if she stayed. Can’t really stand the repetitiveness of it.

When she settles in the peeling back seat for the night in some field, she sees visions of him in the dark. Outside the windows, in the roof of the car, behind her eyelids. Nowhere is safe from him and it makes her skin crawl. Nyra picks at the scabs on the deep scratches the cashier left behind. She feels the warmth of blood running down. Tries to find comfort in the scent of it. He never really leaves her mind but she makes due with the fleeting flashes of home, the sound of the TV in the living room whining. She can almost hear it now.

But then she hears him.

Ripping and tearing at flesh. His hungered, desperate breaths. She hears them in every gust of wind, every rattling of the car’s rickety windows. Nyra turns onto her stomach. Looks out the window and sees nothing. Just the endless expanse of the field. There’s no one else for miles, the next town is hours away—Astarion is hours away.

And that’s what gets her.

She doesn’t share, not with anyone, not ever. But something compelled her to show him that kindness and she feels something in the pit of her stomach now. It feels like guilt. Nyra presses her forehead against the glass, keeps it there until it goes warm. Astarion is hours away and Nyra crawls into the driver seat.

She goes in the opposite direction.

The car has half a tank of gas left. It has half a tank left when it craps out on her. She’s on an empty stretch of road, the sun cooking her through the windshield. Nothing but crackly radio sermons to fill the silence. And then it all just stops.

Dead in the middle of the road, she panics. Tries the ignition once. Then again and again desperately until she crumples onto the steering wheel with a sigh.

“Fuck, this can’t be happening.”

Her clothes are still stained. She’ll never hitch a ride like this. Not unless it's to the county jail. Heart hammering inside her chest, Nyra blindly fumbles around the back seat for something, anything.

And her fingertips graze fabric. Fleece. She pulls the dirty, questionably stained thing across her lap and steps out of the car. Grimaces as she wraps it around herself. She’s never felt dirtier. Wants so desperately to be rid of the feeling the blanket gives her that she’d be cleaner rolling in dirt, she thinks.

Thumb out on the side of the road, she gets passed again and again. Semi trucks and station wagons alike speed past her, making her wrap the blanket tighter around herself. She should have packed clothes before she left. Shouldn’t have really left at all but she can’t do anything about it now. Hindsight and all that.

Nyra’s melting out here, the blanket trapping the heat of the sun in her skin. Squinting, she tries to look out into the horizon for a sign of life—anything, really because she’s never felt this desperate and it's starting to get to her. She’s seconds away from shedding the blanket and running out into the nothing on either side of the road. She’ll go anywhere but she’s starting to think she’ll die here instead.

But the sound of tires treading on asphalt makes her perk up and she almost cries out in joy when this beater of a truck stops beside her. Blue, save for the rusted hood and singular cream colored door. She can’t see inside, the window’s too old, too foggy. But there’s a figure inside that reaches over. Cranks the window down some.

“Well you must be dying out here in this heat.” She's human, older, with a lit cigarette hanging precariously between her lips. One wrong move and the whole truck’s up in flames. “You having car troubles, sweetheart?”

She looks back at the cashier’s good for nothing car, looks back at the woman, “You could say that, yeah.”

“That’s a real shame, blue.” she stares Nyra right in the eyes like she’s expecting her to do something. Say something. The lady raises a brow. Nyra can smell the cigarette smoke from here. It smells like home. She smiles at the nickname.

“Think I could hitch a ride with you?”

The woman goes quiet, looks out the windshield, takes the cigarette out from between her lips. Looks real pensive, like something out of a movie. Then she reaches over, cigarette still between her fingers now. Nyra hears the door click, hears the woman grunt a little as she pushes it open from the inside.

There’s a second—a beat of silence where she looks at Nyra and Nyra looks at her. Neither of them move or say a word. Her teeth start to ache; Nyra bites her tongue. Not this one. Not now.

“Let’s go, blue. I don’t have all day.”

The inside of the truck’s hot—near stifling, save for the cracked windows. Nyra puts her face to the gap, feels the draft coming in and breathes deep. She keeps the blanket wrapped tightly around herself. Doesn’t really look at the woman as they drive down this never ending stretch of road. On the radio, Absolutist sermon drones on. There’s a sense of comfort, she thinks. In the way the radio crackles just a little, making the preacher’s voice feel more and more far away the further they get from the signal. Nyra closes her eyes.

“So you got a name,” Nyra rolls her head across the headrest to look at the woman. Watches her glance at her on and off as she tries to keep her eyes on the road. “Or do I just have to call you blue?”

“It’s kind of rude, don’t you think?”

“What?”

“Calling me blue ‘cause I’m blue.”

The woman shakes her head, staring straight out at the road. “Could’ve called you a million worse things.” And Nyra knows what she’s trying to say. Is a little grateful that she didn’t focus on the horns on her head or the tail she has wrapped around herself tighter than the blanket. “Didn’t mean nothing by it.” Her knuckles go white on the steering wheel. “All the more reason for you to tell me your name.”

Her hands. Nyra can’t stop gazing at her hands. They’re cracked and wrinkled from the years. And they’re beautiful—so oddly beautiful that she doesn’t even imagine them between her teeth, though she knows the feeling, and the crunch of them, so intimately.

“My name is Nyra.” She’s fixed on her pointer finger in a near daze. “What about yours?” Her eyes flick up to the woman's face.

“It's Lyanna. Nothing special.”

“No, it's pretty—I think your name is really pretty.”

“You’re a real charmer, aren’t you?”

“Not even a little bit.”

She doesn’t know what to expect when Lyanna unlocks the door to the motel room. Supposes she’d imagined it to be crawling with vermin and falling apart but when she peeks over Lyanna’s shoulder, it's nothing short of normal. Painfully normal. Pretty clean too, as far as Nyra can tell.

Lyanna tosses her bag on the bed and starts to rifle through it while Nyra hangs in the doorway. Watching. She turns to Nyra with a pile of clothes in her hands.

“Get out of all that mess. You’re filthy, I can tell”

And Nyra swears she could cry as she takes them; “Why are you doing this?” Being so kind, she means. So selfless to a complete stranger. A stranger who’d eat her given the chance. Hells, she still isn’t sure whether she will or not right now even in the face of her kindness.

“Don’t worry about all that, just go.” Lyanna dismisses her with a wave and Nyra heads straight for the bathroom—blanket doing a miraculous job of keeping the pungent stench of blood from permeating the air.

In the mirror, she doesn’t really recognize the person looking back at her. She knows it's her, knows those horns, those dark curls streaked with premature grays, deep red eyes of hers more intimately than anything and yet it seems like another person entirely. She’s changed. Something deep within her—at her very core— has changed. There’s a pit deep in her chest, she supposes. More akin to a gaping, dirty ditch than anything.

Under the, once again, scalding stream of the shower, she smells him.

It's faint, really. Barely there, but it makes her head spin. She’s never met the same eater twice. The unspoken rule is to stay away from each other. Makes for less hassle. But here he is again—somewhere. Nyra can’t exactly tell where, just knows he’s close. She’s sick to her stomach. Stumbles out of the shower, slipping on the cracked tile as she lurches for the toilet bowl. Other eaters make her nervous. Terribly nervous.

She lays in bed, watching the ceiling fan spin while Lyanna sleeps beside her. Nyra doesn’t really know what comes after this; after the sun rises and they check out of the room. There was talk of Baldur’s Gate, of a bus station a few days out with no real certainty. But her fingers twitch. She gazes at Lyanna. Feels sick again at the thought of taking her kindness and devouring her anyway. For the first time in her life, she simply doesn’t want to eat. Doesn’t want to rely on instinct. But instinct calls to her. Nyra can still smell Astarion somewhere nearby. It's driving her mad, not investigating it.

So she decides she’s had enough. She gets up, slowly, from bed and Lyanna stirs but doesn’t wake. Even with the door open a crack, Nyra can hear the crickets chirping, can feel the humid breeze coming through. She steps out, barefoot into the night. She follows her nose.

In Baldur’s Gate, it's almost as if the stars don’t exist. Light pollution, she thinks it's called. But here, by the highway out on the edge of some town Nyra doubts is even on any map, she can see them all speckling the night sky when she looks out over the railing.

He has to be here, though Nyra doesn’t know exactly why. Something deep down in her gut is telling her. Making her seek him out so that she may find him. But she doesn’t want to. Closeness to another eater is not a thing she’s ever desired—ever imagined, even. But here she is, walking down the steps, feeling soot and dirt adhere to the bottoms of her feet. Filth clings to her no matter what, it seems.

The scent of him is coming from a room, tucked away and obscured by an old vending machine. Lights dim and flickering. Calling to her. There’s something strange mingling in the air. An odd thing that Nyra can’t quite place. Her stomach churns, her steps are more like a drag now. Wonders if this is a mistake. She’s always been wary of other eaters. Always. She knows what they’re capable of.

It's unlocked. The door is unlocked and that’s the first thing she notices. The acrid odor of old, dried blood comes next. Some fresh in there too.

She’s wary, stepping in. The carpet swallows the sound of her steps. Nyra gets the feeling that she knows she isn’t supposed to be here. Isn’t supposed to be looking for Astarion in the dead of night. But she is anyway. The carpet squelches as she comes to the bathroom door. It's drenched and dark and Nyra knows a blood stained carpet when she sees one. Knows the particular discomfort of stepping in it. He’s in there—in the bathroom and all that blood is making her nervous. It smells like him. It’s his.

Her hand rests on the wood. Nails lightly scrape it as she forms a fist. Knocks once, twice. There’s no answer and her heart begins to pound like, for some reason, she wouldn’t want to see him dead.

“Astarion,” she tries—barely above a whisper. The knob won’t turn. “Astarion.” Nyra’s rattling the door now, desperate. So blindly desperate and for what, another eater? She’s deluding herself now. Has to be. But she knocks again. Harder.

A strangled sounding groan comes from the other side. Nyra’s hands shake. She grips the doorknob harder than she knows she should. Waiting.

When the lock clicks, she flinches. Lets go.

Astarion opens it from the inside with a shove and, for a second, Nyra isn’t really sure what she’s looking at. It’s hard to tell with all the blood and the skin sloughing off his wrist and forearm, just hanging there. He’s drenched in crimson and, she was right, it's his blood. She follows the trail of it down from his mutilated wrist and up his shirt to his mouth. Nyra’s blood goes cold. Hasn’t ever imagined anything like this. She steps to him and he winces. Scoots himself back further into the bathroom with what little strength he has. So she kneels down on both knees and doesn’t dare get an inch closer. She can see his veins.

Is this what it feels like for non eaters?

Nyra wants to gag. Just stares at him wide-eyed for a moment. Watches him go in and out of consciousness for far too long before she processes the fact that she’s watching him die and suddenly she’s alive again. Adrenaline coursing through every vein of hers, she gets up, scrambles for a towel—anything, really. Anything to stop the bleed. To stop Astarion from fading. She can see it in the way his eyes glaze over. It strikes fear into her.

“Who did this?” She asks it in vain, she knows. Isn’t the smartest but she’s never pegged herself as an idiot.

“I did.” weak, and barely there he croaks out the two words.

Nyra tries again, “Who made you?” Because she cannot fathom ever doing this to herself. It's a hunger completely unknown to her. One she never wants to face. But she’s facing it now, isn’t she? Staring it right in the face. Watching it drain Astarion of everything that is him. Then again, she doesn’t really know him, but she knows that look, she supposes. The fading of light from the eyes, the gradual slack of the jaw as all his muscles give up. He’s dying. Won’t even answer her.

There’s jack shit in the cabinets under the sink. No towels, no washcloths. They’re barren. Empty. Nyra runs out of the bathroom, trips over her own feet and falls onto the scratchy carpet. It burns her palms but she rises again as quickly as her body will let her and rips open the closet door. White unsoiled towels appear before her, a saving grace.

She falls to her knees in front of Astarion, pressing the cotton to his open wrist, she watches the crimson soil the white. Nyra presses down as hard as she can. These kinds of things need pressure, she swears she’d heard once and so pressure she will apply. He winces under the force of her touch, wrenches away from her but she holds him there. She keeps him in place because she doesn’t know how she’ll feel if he dies and that almost terrifies her more than the death itself.

“You’re going to be okay,” she mutters to herself, really, “You’re going to be okay.” Nyra wills herself up on aching joints and pulls Astarion up with her. He whimpers in pain first, then almost guttural cries as she drags him along with her, step after step.

“It hurts,” he says, “It hurts.”

The nurses in the emergency room all look at her sideways. A dog did this, she’d insisted when they asked and Astarion parroted it even through his exsanguinated daze when they refused to let her in the room with him at first. She wants to believe that she couldn’t have done this but she knows what she’s capable of and there’s no use in pretending otherwise.

Nyra watches as they stitch him up. Watches the needle go in and out with precision she can hardly fathom. And Astarion just looks off into nothing. He can feel all of it, according to the nurse they didn’t have time to waste numbing him, but he takes it. Like each pinprick dragging through his raw flesh hurts less than whatever he did to himself. She believes it.

“Some dog that did this,” the nurse says idly, “I’d hate to know what you did to piss him off that bad.” She ties off the stitch, wraps gauze around his wrist and smiles observing her work. Then she gazes at Nyra sidelong. “You’re lucky he didn’t get you by the throat.” She watches her leave. Grimaces at her back.

Then she looks back at Astarion, “What a bitch.” the quip comes out on its own, mindlessly, and a corner of his mouth quirks up. He huffs amusedly out of his nose—he’s coming back into himself. Nyra bites the inside of her cheek. “Astarion, what in the hells were you doing in there?”

“Oh, I was having the time of my life darling, couldn’t you tell?” He won’t look at her.

Nyra rolls her eyes, sinks further into the uncomfortable vinyl of the chair, everything’s so sterile here. It makes her hairs stand on end. “When I told you we all have to eat, I never said you had to start with yourself.”

“Silly me, I suppose.” It’s so humorless, so dry.

“Why?”

And when he doesn’t answer, she fears he might have had enough. That he’s grown tired of all her questions and he’ll tell her to go fuck herself the next time words spill from his mouth, but instead, “Because I don’t know how.”

“You—you don’t know how to eat?” Nyra tries for the gentlest way to put the words together but all she can form are unsure stutters before she lets her mind speak for her anyway. “But you ate. With me, at the house in the other town, you ate. I shared with you, Astarion, don’t tell me you don’t know how.”

“Well obviously I know how to eat!” Astarion raises his voice and she flinches. “What I meant was, I don’t know what comes before that. I’ve never been allowed.”

She doesn’t exactly know what to say to that. It stalls her. “I’m—I don’t…”

“You’re not the first eater I’ve met.”

The words weigh heavily in the space between them. Nyra doesn’t dare speak. Instead she watches him, her gaze unflinching. Intense. She’s waiting for him to continue, to sate her curiosity.

“Before you, there was—there was Cazador.” She can feel the venom, the fear, lurching its way out of his throat as he says it. Astarion won’t look at her now. He’s focused on the box TV mounted up on the corner. Nothing is playing. “He didn’t much like sharing. No, he wanted all that lovely meat to himself. He would actually make me go and lure people back for him. They never said no to a pretty face.”

It rings a bell. A terrifying, bone-chilling bell. Cazador. She’d never heard his name, only ever heard him described. A sort of boogey-man among eaters that were perfectly fine keeping to themselves. The thing with Cazador was, he got his claws into you; made you do his bidding. And you’d be happy to do it because it was better than the alternative. Nyra steels herself, swallows hard.

“I think I’ve heard about this guy. You weren’t the only one.”

“After I met you, after I got a taste of what eating was like—well, I never went back. You said it yourself: we all have to eat.” He picks at the bandages and Nyra wants so badly to grab his wrist and stop him. She stays where she is. Doesn’t even twitch. “He wasn’t too happy about that, though. Found me himself and locked me in there.”

“So why didn’t you leave? The walls are paper thin, someone would’ve heard you.”

“Because I was terrified, Nyra! I thought he was still there. And I got hungry. Really fucking hungry. Didn’t care to think whether or not it would kill me, I just needed to eat.”

Astarion takes a sharp breath. Nyra doesn’t breathe at all. In all her years of life, she’s never felt a hunger that strong. Can’t really imagine it, no matter how hungry she’s gone. He had to have been in there for days, maybe weeks. All this time she thought she was getting away from Astarion when really, she was following his scent the entire time. She feels a phantom crawl on her skin.

Fear of Cazador made him cannibalize himself.

So really, what comes next feels like the obvious choice. “Come with me to Baldur’s Gate.” He looks at her, finally, and does so like she’s grown a spare head. “Put some distance between you and him.”

“Why bother—you’ll just run off again like you did last time.”

“I mean, maybe. But it wouldn’t hurt to have someone watching your back out on the road, now would it.” she shrugs. “I’m only trying to help, no one’s forcing you.”

There’s a knock on the door, the same nurse from before pokes her head in.

“I’m sorry, miss, could you step out again for a moment?”

In the motel’s parking lot, she finds Lyanna hauling her bag into the back seat of that miserable looking truck, Astarion right on Nyra’s heels with his arms crossed. Hiding the bandages. The sun’s just peeking over the horizon now, coming up above the motel itself ever so slightly. Nyra feels a little warmth as she walks in its rays. Welcomes it after the sterile cold of the hospital.

Lyanna waves them down, a bit of a squint in her eye. “Who the hell is that, blue?”

“Friend of mine,” Nyra glances over her shoulder at Astarion. Gives him a look. And he looks down at her with a little bit of annoyance. Even rolls his eyes, just barely perceptible. “Had an accident last night. Needed my help.”

“Help.” It's doubtful, suspicious, the way she parrots it back. The word feels so charged now. Nyra doesn’t like it but she walks right up to Lyanna anyway. She looks a lot less weary in the morning light. A little younger. “Right. Well, I’m heading out. Don’t really know what you plan to do but that bus station’s two days out at least and it’ll be miserable on foot. You can hitch another ride if you want it. Both of you.”

Astarion tugs at the back of her shirt; she looks back over her shoulder and up a little. He’s right behind her—so little space left between the two of them, like he’s scared to be any further away. He whispers her own name to her. A warning. She only reaches back and brings his hand down back to his side. Lyanna’s kindness is unprecedented. Unprecedented in the way that Nyra has never let someone so kind live this long.

Maybe it's a mistake.

But this mistake put a roof over her head for one night. What’s one more?

Every time Nyra looks in the rearview, she’s met with Astarion’s wary gaze. He doesn’t like this. Really, really doesn’t like this. And she can’t blame him. Kindness is rare for people like them. Kindness is usually a ploy; usually leads you to people like Cazador and they both know all too well now how that turned out.

She tries her best to reassure him. Give him a look that says I know. It’ll be fine. But she knows he can’t read her mind. Knows it wouldn’t settle him one bit even if he could. Nyra bites her lip. Debates sinking her teeth into Lyanna right here and now. Taking the truck and fucking off straight to Baldur’s Gate; with Astarion though? She's not sure. Maybe he’s the bad idea, the fatal mistake.

But she lets Lyanna keep going on, making turns and driving down dirt roads that seem like they go on forever. Twisting and turning. Like they’re in one big spiral. The uneven ground of them jostles the truck. Has Nyra hanging on to the roof handle as Astarion braces himself with one hand against the door—steady, ready to jump ship.

Lyanna is at ease, though. Probably knows these roads better than anything else and takes each bump with grace. They’re in the middle of nowhere. A thought that hits Nyra so suddenly, she barely registers the pothole that has Lyanna cursing and praying for her bumper in the same breath.

“Where are we going?” There’s nothing but a thick brush of trees on either side of the road. She grips the handle tighter. “The bus station—you said we could hitch a ride.”

And Lyanna shrugs—doesn’t so much as look at Nyra. “Relax. You’ll get your ride, I just have somewhere to be tonight. Didn’t think you two’d be in much of a rush.”

In the rear-view, Astarion mouths I told you so. Her heart beats fast. She can smell blood.

Before the trees clear, there’s a gate.

A dinky little rusted gate that Nyra could easily clear, she thinks. Private Property. No Trespassing. Lyanna rolls the truck to a stop, hops out and leaves the door open. It takes an effort for her to get the gate open, her boots sinking into the dirt as she uses all her weight to force it. And it works. Eventually. Gives way with a shrill creak and some groans. To Nyra’s amusement, Lyanna kicks the “fucking thing” before she starts back for the truck. She laughs a little—stops suddenly when she feels Astarion’s glare burning into the back of her head.

Dinner. They’re having dinner in the middle of fucking nowhere with Lyanna’s family. They’re humble folks, by the looks of them. Cattle farmers. Been saddled with this land for generations and in no rush to leave it. The house is old, reeks of mildew and there’s mold growing at the edges of the baseboards. Still it has its charm, she supposes. Never been one for the whole farmhouse vibe, though. Surrounded by old shag and wood paneling is where she feels the most comfortable. Most at home.

Astarion picks at the thick steak on his plate with a fork. Meandering around actually eating the damn thing as if he isn’t starving and Nyra is too. Analyzing the grill marks and the way the fat marbles within the meat. It smells off. Nyra’s shaking her leg over and over. Repeated quick up and down movements, keeps locking eyes with Lyanna’s dad from across the table. There’s something strange in that gaze of his—manic, feral almost. It's deeply familiar. Familiar like the meat on her plate. It doesn’t smell like any animal meat she’s ever had, doesn’t give the same way. She pokes it, just barely, with a point of her fork. Her mind is wandering, making connections—assumptions, really. It almost smells like—

“So, Baldur’s Gate. What’s there for you two?”

Nyra shrugs, stares down at her plate. Maybe she’s wrong about it—the meat, David. “Family.” Lyanna’s dad—David—stays quiet. Expects a little more than that from the strangers eating at his table, Nyra thinks. “We, uh, have to be in town for a wedding. Thought we’d hitch a ride together. Cheaper, you know.”

Lyanna raises a brow, “You two weren’t together when I picked you up, though.”

“We had a fight,” Astarion only nods meekly, wordlessly carrying the lie on his shoulders as well. She’s grateful. “Split up for a little bit. Just to cool off.”

“It's real good you two figured things out,” he says so earnestly that, just for a fraction of a second, Nyra rethinks the vibe she’s been getting from him. But then he takes a bite out of his steak—a real big hunk of it, still bleeding on the inside, she notices now. Bleeding like most of her dinners do. It hits her keenly in that moment that she’s not wrong at all. “No sense in fighting on the way to a celebration, now is there?” There’s still some in his mouth as he speaks. Blood all in his smile. Nyra shivers.

All she can do is smile politely. “My thoughts exactly, sir.”

David doesn’t stop looking at her while he takes another bloody, oozing bite. She takes the inside of her cheek between her teeth, white-knuckles the fork in her hand. She knows

She feels like an animal, feral and backed against a wall. There’s that sort of ferocity brewing inside her after dinner that she seldom ever feels outside of hunting. Eating—tearing flesh apart with her bare hands. Usually it's combined with an indescribable euphoria but now? Now it's fear. Roiling in her gut as she leans on the bannister of the old wrap-around porch, grooves and sharp edges of the decaying wood painted over but even that’s wasting away too. Disintegrating under the weight of her arms and the warmth of her palm.

The screen door swings open, hinges surely on their last legs too. Nyra freezes, stops picking at the paint like she’s been caught.

“Nyra,” her shoulders slump immediately at the sound of Astarion’s voice. She can even feel her heart slow a little. “We need to go.”

She whips around, “Why—what happened?”

“Nothing. No, not nothing, these people are odd. Unsettling. I don’t trust them.”

“They were nice enough to feed us, they let us stay here.” And even as she says it, she doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t know why she’s trying to justify staying here. Why she isn’t trusting her gut, her senses. Supposes that she just wants to be wrong.

He looks so sure as he stares into her eyes. Makes her wonder if he put the same pieces together or if he came about it differently. “Oh yes, they fed us. And you didn’t eat a bit of it. That’s quite disrespectful, darling.”

“Yeah, okay. Sure.” Nyra snorts, ignores the way the tips of her ears go warm when he calls her darling. “Like you ate any.”

“Because I don’t trust them and, clearly, you don’t either.”

“Good on you, detective. Saw right through me.” Her arms are crossed lazily around her middle, a loose way of hugging herself and she’s wearing the biggest smirk because Astarion losing his mind about these people is awfully amusing. If she’s wrong about this, about them, she’ll be busting his balls about it for the rest of the night.

He’s dead serious, Nyra sees it in the grave sternness of his sanguine eyes, the way his brows pull together ever so slightly and his lips stretch into a tight frown. She chuckles, unable to help it—it's a short, choked thing, cut by Astarion’s stride towards her. He takes her hand in both of his, grips it tight, keeps her helplessly stuck in this moment. Astarion opens his mouth to speak, features even more troubled as if that were even possible—

The screen door swings open again.

David’s holding them hostage on the porch. Not literally, of course, but his presence is disconcerting enough that the two of them feel effectively trapped—Nyra still against the bannister, white knuckling it, digging a splinter further and further into the heel of her palm and Astarion sitting on the steps, looking out at the dark expanse of the driveway that goes far past the tree line. They wouldn’t be able to make a run for it in any way that matters. Nyra looks to her right, sees the barn and it looks like it's weeping with dirt. Something tells her that’s where David would look first if they did dare to run. She can see it now, her brain machinating—scheming—against her, showing her stalked and hunted, trying to find safety within the dark corners of the barn—all in vain. She understands how they felt now; the Sharran girl whose goddess looked on in judgment as she sank her teeth into her flesh, the cashier in the last town over, guilty only of smiling at her, and all the countless ones before. Nyra gets it more than she wants to, more she should. She always thought there was an inherent disconnect between prey and predator. Now she understands they’re one and the same at some point or another. Keenly feels like prey now as David stares at her sidelong.

The cigarette between his stained fingers is on the verge of burning out, a pile of ash on the waterlogged planks below. He rocks back and forth on the rocking chair—the only well cared for piece on the porch. It looks brand new, save for a few scratches and some wear on the legs. She’d almost think it treasured. A whistling breeze passes through, sets a chill running up her spine.

He’s looking at her like the cat that ate the god damned canary and it's making her skin crawl. Thousands of bugs—millions—and their tiny little legs scurrying across her muscles, digging through the fibers of them into her bones. She feels a phantom bite in the pit of her elbow, a tearing, really. Feels a warm trickling down to her fingertips. When she glances down there’s nothing.

Cicadas. She can hear cicadas buzz and whine in the trees; she’s always liked the sound of them. Used to hear them every night from outside her bedroom window as a kid and, now that she really thinks about it, hasn’t just sat and delighted in their noise for years. When did that stop? She almost thinks but she knows very well when it stopped. When the longing for blood first took over all her senses and she smells it now, the blood. Coming from the barn far off to her right on the other end of the property, coming from the dirt under David’s nails—at least she thought it to be dirt at dinner but now she’s really focusing, smelling the familiar stink of dried up blood. Human blood. But sees no old cuts on his hands or arms, no scrapes. She glances over at the barn again.

It feels wrong, the way his smile grows impossibly wide when she sets her eyes back onto him. Nyra can’t hear the cicadas anymore.

“You smell it now, don’t you?” David sounds so incredibly fucking delighted when he says it. Like he’s been waiting anxiously for them to catch on—to finally lean into their senses. Surely, had they eaten anything, they’d have caught on sooner.

Blood rushes to her head, she can hear her heart thumping in her ears—quicker by the second. “Don’t go on and get scared now,” he holds a hand out. Her heart beats faster. “It's a rare thing to meet another eater, let alone two.” Nyra glances now to Astarion, standing, one foot on the top step like he’s frozen.

“But I couldn’t—I figured it out but, I couldn’t smell it. You.”

He rises from the rocking chair with a sigh, “Not everyone can. Takes a while to train yourself, gotta know what you’re looking for.” brushing past Astarion and making his way down the steps, he beckons them to follow.

And they do. Scared and complacent, they follow him right out to the barn, dry grass crunching under their feet. The breeze is gone—an oppressive humidity in its place. Nyra can hardly breathe, it feels like. She wants her legs to stop, to turn around and run but they keep moving, keep following. They are completely independent of her and ignore every cry of protest that swirls in her mind.

Astarion is picking at his bandages again. She glances over and focuses on his fingers digging at the gauze, scraping his flesh, because she cannot stare at David’s back any longer as the barn grows closer and closer. Nyra knows, in her head, what’s in there—doesn’t mean she wants to see it. Her heart’s hammering against her rib cage now and she’d almost be happy if it stopped completely. If she dropped dead right here. The smell of Astarion’s blood hits her like a slap across the face.

Nyra can’t die, she thinks, she still has to get him away from Cazador. To Baldur’s Gate.

The barn doors are chained shut and locked with an old padlock, more rust than anything now and David has to hold the lock and key in two very specific ways to get to unlock. It falls with a fat thud onto the grass and the chains follow after, rattling as he unravels them. She feels sick. The sort of sick where your mouth waters and you can feel the bile right in your throat. Isn’t really breathing either as she watches the doors open to nothing but darkness within the barn.

But she can smell the blood stronger than ever now.

In the dark, she follows the scent. Lets her eyes adjust to the dark and finds the barn empty. Cattle, Lyanna had said. They were just supposed to be a bunch of simple fucking farmers.

She swallows, “So that cattle farmer thing, that was just bullshit?”

“No, we do keep cattle. Just not here. Haven’t in years.” They’re at the very back of it now, staring down at where their dinner came from. One human woman and a man, naked, chunks carved from their bodies with precision. With care. One crater for each steak on their plates that night, Lyanna and her mother’s included. There’s a second woman in the corner, alive, Nyra realizes. A Gith, raving and mad, shakily breathing from her nose, arms and legs tied. She screams—or tries to, can’t really scream with her mouth taped shut—and looks at Nyra and Astarion with an ire unlike anything she’s ever seen. There’s fear in there too, just a hint of it. “This here’s where I like to have my fun.”

“Your wife and daughter, do they know? Are they…”

David laughs, seems like it's more to himself than anyone, like some kind of inside joke. “Those two? Perfectly fucking normal. Haven’t got a clue.”

Nyra’s blood runs cold. She looks to Astarion who stares at David, wide-eyed, unable to believe what he’s hearing and she can’t either.

“It’ll change though, I’ve been getting them used to it—the meat. They like it better than any of that other shit now. You know, animals, cattle, the boring meat.” he continues, “After they have their full-bones, we’ll be the same, I’m hoping.”

“Full-bones?”

“When you eat the whole thing, darling,” and it isn’t lost on her just how much hearing that word from his mouth makes her want to puke at his feet. “Bones and all. Ain’t nothing like it. No ma’am, nothing at all.” Astarion’s been standing away from them both, staring at the Gith. Hanging onto David’s every word. “That one there is tomorrow’s dinner. They’re something special when they’re angry. Makes for tough meat but that’s nothing a stew can’t fix.”

Astarion flinches—he and Nyra both.

David has them put up in the living room, on the pullout couch that squeals under the slightest bit of weight and neither of them are laying on it. They’re sitting, the both of them, awkwardly at the edges of the bed. Watching the stairs. Waiting—though for what, they don’t rightfully know. Nyra supposes she’s waiting for a monster; for David. Thinks that, maybe, Astarion’s waiting for the same thing. That maybe Astarion’s waiting for his monster instead. For Cazador. Her skin itches, she can feel the bugs in her gums now, skittering in between her teeth, all up and down her face. Feels them weigh down their eyelashes. She makes to pick them off. There’s nothing there.

She feels restless again. Wouldn’t be able to sleep if she tried, so Nyra gets up. Wanders around the living room—prowls it, really. Only exits are the windows, those and the front door through the hall and past the stairs. Tip-toeing on the creaky, splintering wood floors, she makes her way just in front of those stairs. Leans on the post and stares up into the darkness. It’s quiet, still. Not a thump to be heard and it makes her heart race. Has her body feeling like it's seconds away from breaking out into a sprint.

Running won’t get them very far, though.

Astarion has been watching her keenly. Hasn’t moved from his spot at the edge of the bed but he’s making connections in his mind, too. Calculating a swift exit, she’s sure.

Through the tiny slits of glass encircling the front door, she can see Lyanna’s truck. Granted, only if she squints, but she sees it now like a boon. A miracle. Nyra’s eyes flit to the hooks on the wall. To the set of keys on them—Lyanna’s keys.

Nyra backs into the living room, as if she would make the keys disappear by taking her eyes off of them. Whispers, “Get your shit, we’re out of here.”

They climb into the truck silently, gently. Left the front door open so as to not alert David. To give themselves a fighting chance at getting past that treeline and out on the road. And then it shuts. A rogue gust of wind acting against them slams the door—Nyra can feel the way it rattles the house from here. Winces, lets out a quick fuck as she sees the lights flick on. She jabs the key into the ignition, turns the engine over and her blood runs cold when it won’t go.

“Nyra.”

She tries it again. Nothing.

“Nyra.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Still nothing.

“Nyra!” He’s got his upper arm in a vice grip and she looks out the back window. The whole family’s out on the porch. David’s loading a shotgun. She fumbles for the keys again, hands shaking now.

A shot rings out. A warning, maybe, because it doesn’t hit them. The engine sputters now. Warming up like it's just about to get going, then dies. David shoots again. Hollering out into the night, Nyra can’t make out a word of it.

The back window shatters. They both scream.

The engine turns over.

Nyra puts her full weight on the gas pedal. Sends the truck careening down the miles-long stretch of driveway. Hears one, two, three more shots before they’re past the tree line. Barrels right through that gate from before.

The farm’s still in the rearview, just barely, when she feels that tinge of pain. Looks down and sees blood trickling from where Astarion was holding her before. From where the bullet got her square in the arm. Too scared to stop the truck, she looks to Astarion. Helpless. Like a child—like he had looked at her when she found him in that motel bathroom. He scrambles for his bag as she drives, eyes dead set on the road because the sight of her own blood makes her woozy. In any other moment, she’d remark on the irony of it. Find it deeply hilarious.

He presses a shirt to the open wound. Nostrils flaring at the scent of her blood. Turns his face away from it—from her—but keeps the pressure like her life depends on it and it might. Neither of them know jack shit about gun wounds. He presses down harder, so hard he’s half-shoving her against the door.

Emergency rooms in the middle of nowhere feel like slipping through the fabric of time itself. They found it just a few miles outside Waterdeep, a rural offshoot long forgotten by the city proper, stuck staunchly in the sixties with the wood paneled walls of the waiting room. Makes Nyra think of home—of what was once home a long, long time ago.

She’s holding the shirt to her arm all by herself now. Astarion’s got a heavy hand and she could feel the bullet wriggling around wherever he focused the most pressure. He’s beside her though, waiting. Didn’t have to; Nyra told him he could just wait in the truck, but he shrugged her off.

Buck hunting gone wrong’s their story this time around. A shitty one considering it’s not hunting season but she’s playing it like they’re dumb kids that don’t know any better. And it seems like that’s common around these parts because the nurse at the front desk bought it like she’s heard it a million times before. Beats the nurses that wouldn’t believe her dog story, even if that one was a much better lie.

There’s a storm brewing outside, Nyra can tell by the thick gray of the clouds snuffing out the sunlight. Can sees flashes of lightning that dash the sky if she focuses really hard.

“It’s going to rain,” She says to no one, really. But Astarion perks up beside her. Takes his eyes off the floor and glances at her, at the window, then back at her. “Gonna suck without that window.”

“The window is the least of our worries right now.”

Nyra shrugs, “It’s still a pretty big one.”

“Like the hole in your arm.”

“I’ve had bigger holes in me.” She muses.

“What?”

“I don’t know. My fucking head hurts.”

“You’ll be alright.” He says it like he’s trying to reassure himself more than her. Like it’s all he has to hang on to. Nyra turns to him, looks him in the eye for the first time in hours. “We’ll be in Baldur’s Gate before we know it.”

“If they stop taking forever. There’s literally no one else here.”

“Well, that’s just the nature of waiting rooms, darling. You have to wait.”

“They didn’t make you wait this long.”

“I was bleeding out.”

“And I’m not?”

The nurse at the front desk slides the partition open, stares down at her clipboard like the words on it are written in Infernal. “Nyra T—Tayvar?”

She sighs, shakes her head. All of a sudden has vivid memories of grade school. “T’avar.”

“Sure.” The nurse shrugs, indifferent to her correction. “This way.”

It takes twenty-seven stitches to close the wound and what feels like a million pieces of ruined gauze. Astarion doesn’t follow her into the room, doesn’t stay with her and it hurts. A small twinge in her chest that she can’t quite understand. The thought of him occupying the chair in the corner of the small triage floods her mind’s eye. She wanted him there. Wanted him there and she doesn’t know why.

They send her out with two prescriptions—one for antibiotics, the other for painkillers—that she’ll never pick up. Rattled off her childhood pharmacy in Menzoberranzan when they’d asked her. It rolled so easily off her tongue. Made her feel weepy, a strange overwhelming longing for the Underdark. Doesn’t miss the stares she’d get, eyes lingering on her tail and her horns, so different from the Drow around her, but she misses the place itself. The place never did her any wrong.

He’s outside in the waiting room when they discharge her. Unmoved. Right where she left him. The storm outside is in full swing; rain battering the windows, thunder clapping a little ways away. Getting louder and louder.

The back of her neck is drenched. They fly down the interstate, less than nine miles outside of Waterdeep proper. Nyra spots a building among the rolling fields and nothingness. A trucker’s chapel, seen so many of them Nyra barely blinks at it. Small, but the lights are on. Warm. The House of Our Dark Lady, the sign outside says. Sharran. Her skin starts to burn.

Nyra had never been to Waterdeep. Never had much of a reason to. It’s different than she thought it would be. Always imagined most major cities as never-sleeping, always teeming with life. Waterdeep is sleepy, right on the coast and a dense fog is falling upon them as they roll into town. There’s a university here, prestigious, very liberal-artsy. Nyra’s eaten quite a few students here and there from what she remembers. They were always so content with being home from school—she hopes they at least died content that she killed them somewhere so familiar. Not here, not thousands of miles from home.

If she were to die the way they did, she thinks, she wouldn’t mind it being in Menzoberranzan. No, not at all. She looks to Astarion, wonders if he feels the same about Baldur’s Gate. If he feels that same longing for home or if it's just another city to him. Just like all the others.

His flesh is prickled in goosebumps. The chill of the rain and the fog setting into his bones just like it set into hers. They can’t sleep in the truck, not tonight. At a stoplight, she ransacks the glove compartment. Finds jack shit, save for a twenty. She tosses it in the cup holder. It won’t get them a room, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt to keep it around. Just in case.

His hand grazes hers as the light turns green, a brief, fleeting warmth before she gets her hand back on the wheel. Nyra looks to him like she has time and again. Sees something different there in his gaze. Sees want itself as a tangible, visible thing.

It isn’t all that difficult to crack a motel window open and slip into a vacant room. Nyra does it with an ease and precision that has Astarion cocking a brow at her before following her into the room. The room isn’t nice by any account, but the guy in the lobby is asleep at his desk and it’s so shabby, she assumes he won’t really care if there’s another room taken. Maybe he’d think he forgot to log a check-in. She hates banking on people’s incompetence like this but it's cold and humid and she needs a shower.

“Don’t turn on the lights. The TV’s fine but don’t turn on anything else. Last thing I want is to get arrested tonight.”

Astarion’s hanging back. Quiet. No quips, no verbal confirmation of anything she says. No calling her darling. It makes her unsure—uncomfortable, even. She swallows hard and stares at him. Waits for him to do something. Anything. He reaches for her again, fingers dancing gently on her wrist, slides them down to grab her hand while his other comes up to the side of her face.

She’s played this game before. Never ends well, this, and still, she lets him. Gazes into the red of his eyes as he leans in. Kisses her. He’s so fucking gentle. Her teeth scream, want to dig into the flesh of his lips; tear at his face and yet she finds herself doing the unimaginable. She kisses back. No bite, no mal intent in the way her lips glide against his. Nyra is keenly aware of what he’s doing, why he’s doing it. But she’s never gotten to just do this. To enjoy it.

He lays her down on the bed and it squeals under their combined weight. The sheets feel pilly. Like polyester washed too many times over. He kisses just underneath her jaw and her whole body feels alight with flame. Nyra has to focus, really focus, to not give into the twitch of her fingers. To keep them from clawing into his skin. She thinks hard now and cannot remember a single time she has fucked someone without eating them. Hopes, more than anything, that this ends differently.

Astarion is pulling her flush against his face by the hips, working his tongue against her clit like a man starved. Moans are dying in her throat just before they emerge—it hits her then that she hasn’t ever earnestly moaned before. At least, not that she can remember. Instead, her moans resemble strangled cries, far from erotic and yet, they seem to encourage Astarion. Nyra can feel the shifts in the mattress as he grinds into it every so often, groans into her cunt in a way that makes her want to squeeze her legs shut, the feeling of it too much to bear. She digs into the stitches with each wave of pleasure as she gets closer to the brink. The pain helps. Keeps her from biting.

She’s at the precipice of complete, all-encompassing bliss when he pulls away. Stares up at her with a darkened gaze and there it is again. That want. Desire in its purest form. Even in the dark, she can see it better than anything else. Can feel it, too. Bubbling in her chest. Wants more.

He holds her tight as he fucks into her like she’s the last real, solid thing on this earth. Fingers digging into the meat of her sides, no nails though. No real danger to the grip. Just pure, raw desperation. Nyra wonders, through all the feelings as foreign to her as the act of regular, normal, sex itself, if that’s what she feels. Not hunger, just desperation. Desire.

Wonders if she finally feels normal about something.

They’re in the tub, face to face, water sloshing around them as Nyra pulls her knees to her chest. She can’t stop staring at him. Is sort of in awe at the fact that he’s still here in front of her. Breathing and in one piece. And he’s staring at her, too. Nervous, expectant of something.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

Astarion cocks his head to the side, narrows his eyes. “Do what?”

“Fuck me to get me to stay. Told you I’d get you to Baldur’s Gate. I’m not going to ditch you.” She shrugs.

“You have before.”

“That was different. I didn’t know you—didn’t care.”

This kind of desperation is different, not born of desire but of fear. It looks terrible on him. “And you care? Now?”

Nyra shrugs again, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. I cared before you fucked me though.”

“And who's to say I didn’t just do that because I wanted to?”

“Call it an educated guess.”

“An educated guess based on?”

“On the fact that we don’t get to have sex because we want to. Ever. Have to do it to get what we want.”

He leans back, flush against the cold, dingy tile. “The most unfortunate fact of our existence.”

Nodding, she glances up at him through wet curls. Maybe it doesn’t have to be. “It was nice with you. Don’t do it again if you’re just doing it to make me stay, though. Please. Makes me feel like shit.”

“I’ll try my best.”

She smiles. “Thank you.”

Waterdeep is so full in the early morning, it almost makes Nyra want to scream. The diner smells overwhelmingly like cheap, burnt coffee and wet rags. It’s nice, in a way. What isn’t nice is the crowd of college kids nursing their early morning hangovers over bad coffee or finishing up overdue papers. So many smells, so many heartbeats. She stares into the black depths of the mug in front of her, catches glimpses of Astarion in her peripheries fucking up an omelette. It makes her smile. He has a way of doing that, making the corners of her mouth twitch up without doing much of anything at all.

All that’s left on her plate is toast, surprisingly not at all burnt like the coffee. She tears off a corner of it, soaks it in what’s left of the egg yolk. Just drops it. There are too many eyes in here, too many that feel like they’re burning holes into the back of her neck.

Sees eyes on her past Astarion’s shoulder. From a corner booth at the other end of the diner, right up against the windows, there’s a man. Elven. Black, pin-straight hair, long and thinning just barely into a pseudo widow’s-peak. Eyes as red as hers and he stares. Like he recognizes her but cannot place it. Nyra shifts in her seat. White-knuckles the mug’s handle and, just for a second, finds it in her to stare back. A chill runs through her—not fear but foreboding.

She pushes herself up by the edge of the table and takes off to the bathroom. An attempt at avoidance but not a good one. He’s already there in front of the door to the ladies room. Arms crossed, looking her up and down like he’s sizing her up. Smells like dread itself.

“Excuse me,” Nyra tries to brush past but he is solid, in place like a statue.

He smiles, a little wry and all wrong. “No, little lamb, excuse me.” Says it with such phony politeness that it makes the muscles of her mouth twitch up into a grimace. And he lets her through.

She pulls him out of the diner by injured wrist, dropping the twenty on the table with a slam. And he fights her. Unstoppable force, immovable object and all that. Doesn’t quite get Astarion out the door before he’s able to pull his wrist from her grasp, the friction of the bandages burning her a little.

“What in the world has gotten into you?”

Nyra measures herself. Chest heaving, she looks off to the side at the curb. She shakes her head, blinks maybe a little too rapidly. “What did Cazador look like?”

Astarion tenses, Nyra can see the muscles in his neck tighten, can see the strain of his jaw as his teeth grind together.

The truck craps out on them before they manage to get out of Waterdeep proper. Engine dies slow as it rolls them to a stop in the middle of an intersection. The emergency lights won’t even turn on so Nyra has to get out and motion for people to pass while Astarion gets their shit out of the cab. The fog has subsided into a dense humidity, her curls now doubled in size and the sunlight creating a halo with the frizz of them. She catches Astarion staring. Doesn’t at all make her feel like the man from before. Feels butterflies, a faint tingling where she’d felt the bugs before.

That brings on a different dread in and of itself.

There is a singular bus station in Waterdeep, practically deserted this time of year. Nyra sinks into her seat against a wall at the far end of the station. Waits and tries to ignore the fanning of Astarion’s breath against the side of her neck. The weight of his head on her shoulder. She can’t sleep. He couldn’t sleep—not until exhaustion took him anyway. They’re terrified now. Waterdeep is compromised. A vent rattles above her head, comes to life as it lets out a freezing draft. Nyra shivers. Bites into the skin at the side of her thumb.

She watches the very few people that linger in the station, contemplates them because, really, what else is there to do. Contemplates their normalcy, the monotony of it. One of the clerks buys a coffee for a girl alone in the corner, smiles as she blushes at the gesture with rattling teeth. Another man smokes a cigarette just outside the station doors, looks a little too forlorn at the payphone beside him as he takes a drag, breathes out a feathery plume of smoke into the night. She feels a knot in her throat watching them. Wishes that she could have that.

Wishes she could just be a person.

Astarion shifts closer in his sleep, seeking her warmth, surely. She looks down at his hand, hanging limp off the armrest of his seat. Reaches for it. Slides her fingers against his palm and holds it delicately as if too rough of a movement would turn him to sand. Would make him slip through her fingers. Palm flush against palm, her heart swells. Nyra rests her head against his.

“Sometimes I wish we could be like that. Be people,” she whispers to no one. “We don’t have to live like this, you know. Could go anywhere.” No response. “Don’t have to end up like David. Don’t even have to eat—not really. I mean, we’ve gone without it before, it’s not like… not like we can’t do it again.” She’s staring hard now at the back of the chair before her, digging her nails into her palm. “In Baldur’s Gate, we could be people.”

She almost doesn’t feel the way that his hand comes to life, grasps hers back tightly. Rubs his thumb absentmindedly along her skin. “Then let’s be people.”

Baldur’s Gate is sprawling. More life-form than city and it makes Nyra feel raw. Like an open wound. They could disappear here, slip into the unknown corners of the city far from Cazador’s reach. From people like David. The thought makes her giddy. Makes her excited for normalcy.

They find a place in the lower city, an old, crumbling building run by an elderly woman that doesn’t question them nearly as much as she should. Lets them pay up front in cash and doesn’t ask for any identification. Doesn’t ask for anything at all, really. Just their word that they’ll pay up on the first of the month. And they do.

Jobs are harder—come with too many questions and neither of them have much experience anyway. Astarion winds up filing papers at a family-run mortuary, Nyra as a cashier at a vintage shop in the upper city. They fall into this routine of playing at normalcy, play it so well that it actually starts to feel real. Their cramped little apartment littered with knick knacks and traces of them. For once in her life, Nyra feels like it belongs to her. Like she has a home. A tangible, real home. The dishes in the sink, the rumpling of the sheets from where they both lay at night, it’s proof they exist. She often finds herself waking just before dawn, staring at Astarion’s sleeping face in the darkness and feeling that swell in her chest again, the tingling all over. Feels not the need to eat, but something else.

Nyra feels love.

Tonight, they make her close the shop alone. Empty the register, lock up the precious, fragile things. Dust all the shelves and leave everything perfect for the next morning. She calls Astarion quickly from the phone behind the counter, to let him know she won’t be long. Gets a busy signal. The sun’s setting when she finally locks up, bleeding pink and orange into the sky. A breeze passes as she turns the lock and she smells it. Smells him.

Her blood runs cold, she hopes that it’s just a mistake of her senses. Memory of his scent getting confused with the present moment. But she’s smarter than that. Thinks to Astarion in their apartment all alone and she runs.

The door is ajar, just barely and Nyra slips through the crack, careful not to make any noise. Strains her ears for something, anything. There is nothing but silence and it makes her stomach flip. She follows the trail of wet footprints to their bedroom. There’s a silhouette in the corner of her eye as she rounds the corner and comes face to face with their open bedroom door. Sees him—Cazador—atop Astarion, fully flush against him, ear to his chest with a dagger in his hand. Astarion’s eyes flit to her, gaze wild, pleading. She can see the way his chest heaves in fear.

This was a mistake, she realizes. To think that they could stay in one place, to think they could be normal and she could love him. It was always meant to happen this way. There is no other alternative as she rushes to Cazador and pulls him by his shirt off of Astarion. Nails digging at his throat with his back against her chest. His hand, the one holding the dagger, arcs in the air, misses Astarion’s face just barely as the blade sinks into Nyra’s chest. She groans, pain muddled by the adrenaline. Astarion rips Cazador’s arm away and they force him to the ground, her nails breaking skin and clawing into the muscle of his throat. Cazador makes a choked sort of noise, cries out. Astarion grabs him by the wrist, snaps his fingers back and the knife clatters to the ground. Wastes no time in picking it up and sinking it into Cazador’s sternum. Still he struggles. Nyra, with her nails still around his throat, palm constricting his breath entirely, holds him in place as Astarion reaches into his chest. Cazador is screaming now, a sound worse than any she’s ever heard. Astarion pushes further and further past ribs and viscera. Wraps his hand around Cazador’s still beating heart and squeezes.

His struggling ceases completely. Goes limp in Nyra’s hands and as she tries to catch her breath, her lungs feel tight. Waterlogged. They pick him up together, throw him into the tub, lest he bleed more onto their bedroom floor. Nyra only makes it a half-step back into their bedroom before she can’t. Her vision a tunnel that can only focus on Astarion as she crumples against the wall and slides down. Leaves a trail of blood behind her. She hates the look in his eyes when he sees her, the fear. Hates that she can’t seem to force any words out as he falls to his knees beside her. No, no, no, no is all he can seem to say. Her hearing is starting to fade.

“Nyra look at me,” it’s all she can manage to do, the strength leaving her body, and still she looks at him as though he’s a thousand miles away. “Come on, Nyra. Stay awake, darling. It’s alright. We did it, we got rid of him. We can… we can go somewhere else, we can try again. Please.”

She starts to slump to the side and he lays her down onto the hardwood, gently. He’s always so incredibly gentle with her.

“I want…”

“Nyra, please stay awake.”

“I want you to eat first.” He doesn’t seem to hear her as he puts all his weight on the wound. It won’t do anything, she can feel her lungs filling up, drowning her in her own blood. “Astarion, I want you to eat.”

“No, I’m not fucking hungry.”

“Bones and all, I want… want you to.”

“I won’t eat him.”

“I want you to eat me. Eat me, it’s the simplest thing, Astarion.”

“No!”

“Love me and eat.” She uses what little strength she has, wraps her arms around his neck and forces her against him. Makes his hands lose pressure against her wound and he claws at her now, desperate. She can feel his tears soaking whatever parts of her shirt the blood didn’t.

“No, I won’t. We’re going to get out of here, we’ll—fuck!”

“It’s okay,” she whispers, “It’s beautiful. Bones and all, you can do it.” sobs wrack his body, shaking them both. They stay like that, and for a moment, a pang of fear returns to Nyra. The fear that he won’t do as she asks. He stills, holding her tight but no longer sobbing. She can feel him take a breath. Can feel his teeth dig into her shoulder. Rip into the skin and pull away. She’ll be with him now, inside, even now as she lay dying. Will always be beside him—every bit of her. Nyra feels that swell of love, feels it as keenly as she feels the pain blooming in her entire body. She screams.

When the woman comes to collect her rent, she’s greeted by nothing. Just an empty apartment, nothing to give her an idea of what happened to the couple that lived here. What all that commotion was the night before. It smells overwhelmingly of bleach. She walks it, tentatively, as though one of them will jump out and scare her into her grave but there is nothing. Just the sound of her steps in the hardwood.

The bedroom feels off, bed stripped bare of sheets and the dresser drawers left open like they’d left in a rush.

Under the bed, she sees something. Squints. A dark stain in the wood is all that is left of them.

#creator works #bg3

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ficsforgaza · 2 months ago

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Thank you @ficsforgaza and @persicipen for the wonderful fundraising efforts that you organized. I look forward to contributing to the cause to help aid children and people in Gaza.

Loid and I are sharing a dance here. I love him so.

#this is so cute!!!! thank you for your participation!#creator works

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ficsforgaza · 2 months ago

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See below for rules, links, and other pertinent information!

Rules for entry:

The charity we have selected for this event is the Palestinian Children’s Relief Fund, an organization that has been around for over 30 years helping get humanitarian aid to the children of Palestine. One $5 USD donation to PCRF = one entry.

Every $5 USD that you donate will get you one entry. You may make as many entries as you wish during the raffle time frame. (For example, a $20 USD donation will get you four entries.) If you are outside of the US, please donate the amount in your currency that equals $5 USD per entry.

If for some reason you cannot donate to PCRF specifically, but would like to join by donating to another charity or fundraiser, please reach out to us first.

You must be 18+ to enter. We will be checking your blog for a clear age indicator.

To enter, either fill out our form or send an ask directly to our ask box. You must attach proof of donation to your entry. PCRF will send you a donation receipt in your email. This will have the time and date of your donation. Please use that email to screenshot your proof. This screenshot must include the time, date, and amount of donation. We ask for this specifically to prevent people from submitting duplicates. Here is an example of the email, with the time, date, and donation amount highlighted in yellow:

Please submit this proof either via the Google form below, or via our ask box (either off anon or with your blog URL). Please be sure to redact any private information, such as your email address and your name.

There will be a total of 12 winners:

One winner will receive a 2-character half body colored artwork from @/haio_won (Twitter). (The winner for this option will require a Twitter account to communicate with the artist). The art will be in full color, with no background or a simple color background.

One winner will receive a 2-character colored YCH artwork from @bloompompom. See above photo for YCH poses (choice of yellow or pink).

Two winners will receive art from @rossithepixie. One winner will receive a 2-character colored artwork. The other will receive a stylized portrait of 1 character.

Two winners will receive sketches from @persicipen. Each sketch will feature 1-2 characters, either black and white or with minimal color, and no background.

Two winners will receive sketches from @rabbbitseason. Each sketch will feature 1-2 characters, either black and white or with minimal color, and no background.

One winner will receive a sketch from @ruiaes. The sketch will feature 1-2 characters with minimal color and minimal background/props.

Three winners will receive either a chibi artwork or a bust artwork (winner’s choice) from @yandereshingeki. Color optional.

There will be no repeat winners. Winners will be chosen by the ficsforgaza mods via random number generator on December 25.

Winners will be contacted via Tumblr DMs by one of the mods. Please have your DMs open to blogs you don’t follow, and/or your ask box open to anons. If we cannot reach you within a suitable time frame, we will select another winner.

Once you have been selected, you will be responsible for communicating with the artist directly on what you would like to do for your art, including supplying poses, characters, clothing, and other references. The time frame at which the art will be delivered to you is up to the artist’s discretion. Acceptance of the specifics of your request is up to the artist’s discretion (for example: if you request something that they cannot create for you, please work with them to request something else).

When requesting art, please abide by the artists’s individual rules and requests. Do not post artwork without credit/permission from the artist. Do not use their art for commercial purposes or for use with AI/NFTs. Do not claim their art as your own. Above all, please respect the artists who have dedicated their time and efforts to this event.

Prizes for this raffle will be delivered to the winners digitally. There are no physical or monetary prizes to be awarded.

Links:

Palestinian Children’s Relief Fund:

Submission form for the Holiday Raffle:

Link to our ask box for any questions, or for any submissions outside of the Google form:

#RAFFLE IS CLOSING SOON!!#tbd

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ficsforgaza · 2 months ago

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TODAY IS THE LAST DAY TO ENTER!!!

ONE MORE DAY TO ENTER OUR ART RAFFLE!! Donate $5 or more for a chance to win some art from some great people!!

>> LINK

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ficsforgaza · 2 months ago

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ONE MORE DAY TO ENTER OUR ART RAFFLE!! Donate $5 or more for a chance to win some art from some great people!!

>> LINK

#announcements #raffle will close in about 27 hours from now!! be there or be square :)

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ficsforgaza · 2 months ago

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BY THE BOOK : MIDORIYA IZUKU X READER

SUMMARY: When your pro hero boyfriend comes home to find you studying, he suddenly takes a great interest in helping out. You find his methods... questionable. TAGS/WARNINGS: nsft, hysterical literature (reading out loud while sexually stimulated), pro hero deku, deku still has ofa, support tech grad student reader, slight intelligence kink, gn + afab reader, cunnilingus, established relationship, aged up characters, fluff (3k) NOTES: Hi guys! I have been in survival mode as of late and the writing has been slow going; my sincerest apologies for how long it’s taking me to burn down my @ficsforgaza backlog. But I finally had the time & energy on my hands this weekend to work on this one and I had such a blast!! I hope I’m not too rusty–and if I am, I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it regardless lol. Love you and thank you always for your patience. Happy Holidays!!

Sometimes, you thought you could tell your boyfriend was near, even before you heard his key in the lock.

It was something to do with his power, you’d always suspected—as a support engineer unduly interested in other people’s capabilities, you’d spent hundreds of hours turning it over in your head. It was the unnatural immensity of other people’s powers, you thought, pulling and coiling just beneath the surface of Izuku’s skin. In close proximity, after prolonged use, its presence felt like a shiver up the back of your neck.

You felt the barest hint of it now, an unsettled feeling creeping into the marrow of your bones, and you sat up on the couch just as you heard the scratch of Izuku’s keys at the door.

One For All fit cleanly into Izuku’s own unwavering intensity somehow, like the last piece of his puzzle. Though one would certainly never think so looking at him as he spilled through the door, pink-cheeked from the cold, all bright eyes, sweetly angelic features, and a riot of wild green curls. He looked windswept from the biting winter breeze. He also looked too kind to be carrying the sort of power he did—too sweet and eager and lovely.

“Look what the wind blew in,” you grinned at him over the back of the couch, after assessing he was well. Your eyes tracked the sinuous movement of those broad shoulders as he yanked his mouthguard over his head, the flex and pull of his bicep as he hung it beside the door. He was moving without pause, no sign of injury or muscle strain , and his suit was intact. Ordinarily you didn’t mind if there was a bit of shredding about the abs as long as he came back to you whole and hale, but in the winter you didn’t like him wandering about risking the chance of frostbite.

Your heart fluttered when Izuku returned your smile with one of his own, so beautiful and bright, chasing away the cold he’d tracked in like a warm sliver of sun.

“Lots of small, easy fights today?” You guessed, judging from his intact suit but clear whiff of power about him.

Izuku scrubbed a hand through that riot of curls, exposing the reddened shell of a cold ear. “I only had to use blackwhip a couple of times,” he said as he shouldered the door closed behind him, the muscle of his thighs flexing enticingly as he stepped out of his boots.

You gestured at the pot of soup you’d left warming on the stove, and the veritable pile of crusty bread beside it. Warmth and carbs, exactly what you would have wanted if you were a pro hero fresh off a long day of patrolling in the snow.

Izuku’s eyes fixed on it with an obliging amount of interest, and he almost tripped over himself in the genkan in his haste to get to the kitchen. “I love you,” you heard him say, muffled through a mouthful of bread, heard the clatter of the silverware drawer and a bowl being placed on the counter.

You smiled and turned back to the book in your lap, a particularly dry, knotty text on robotic imitation learning that had had your eyes drifting closed for the better part of an hour. It was the last you’d need to get through for your Wearable Technologies graduate course, and something you were deeply interested in incorporating into your design practice. You could train a piece of equipment on how an individual pro hero moved and deployed their quirk, and use predictive modeling to deploy assistance functionalities within milliseconds if you got it right—such as immediate cooling in pro hero Shouto’s temperature vest the moment he ignited an arm.

The implementation was going to be so cool—but the theory was so mind numbing.

You felt the couch sink in beside your feet, and Izuku peered interestedly at the title in your lap.

“Introduction to Robotic Imitation Learning,” he echoed, and you could hear the note of excitement in his voice. You suppressed a fond smile, knowing he was already thinking through the same applications you had—he was just as much of a nerd as you were.

“Introduction to Snoozing and Napping,” you grumbled, turning back to your page. “There are only so many words on the Kalman filter framework a brain can handle before the human mind shuts itself down.”

Izuku hummed in interest around a spoonful of soup, propping himself up against your leg. The exterior of his suit was still cool from the outside, and he groaned with relief from the warmth of your skin, even as you hissed at the chill.

You knew he wanted you to go on, so you generalized for him. “It’s an algorithm used for robotic motion planning—you not only take measurements of the thing you want to model but you account for uncertainties to predict the probability that something is going to happen.”

Izuku nodded, taking another spoonful of soup, gesturing for you to go on.

You summoned up the willpower to explain joint probability distribution, pleased when Izuku easily managed to follow—he’d always been a quick study, especially of anything that could be employed in the service of heroics. You’d long thought if he hadn’t been gifted his quirk, he would be an insane support engineer.

He managed to finish his entire bowl of soup in the time it took you to explain, and housed another two slices of buttered bread with the sort of alacrity you’d only ever seen in pro heroes and professional athletes, making you smile while you spoke.

His spoon clinked softly against the edge of the bowl as he set them aside on the coffee table, and he hooked his chin over your knees as you finished explaining. In the setting sun from your windows he looked especially lovely, the kind, angular planes of his face brushed in gold, softening the spots of his freckles.

His eyes were especially bright, the way they always were when something in particular had caught his interest, and he smiled at you again over the tops of your knee caps.

“I admire how smart you are,” he told you, in the simple, straightforward way he always gave out compliments. It was like a shot to the heart every time, and you could feel your face warm with the praise even after years of receiving similar compliments.

You reflexively flapped a dismissive hand. “Not smart enough to have internalized it all! I have mostly been falling asleep to it,” you promised him.

He tilted his head, a green curl falling into his eyes. “I know you won’t have a problem when you’re awake.”

You shifted your legs with embarrassment, and a long fingered hand came up to cup the front of your thigh, as Izuku turned more fully towards you. You could feel the warm, hard planes of his chest against your shins, the line of his jumpsuit’s zipper pressing insistently just below your knee.

“Gotta try to impress you somehow,” you joked, your skin prickling as Izuku’s fingers absent-mindedly drew a pattern across your thigh. You could feel the heat of his hand through the thin material of the leggings you’d lounged around in all day, the chill finally chased away from his skin now that he’d come inside and warmed up.

“You do impress me,” he said in his soft, gentle tone. Which made your cheeks and nose burn hotter.

You knew you did, and the steady faith Izuku had in the people around him was one of your favorite things about him. It still made you feel like a middle schooler with a crush to think about, though, the intensity of your feelings too much for one body to handle.

“I will study hard to live up to your faith in me,” you promised, unable to help the goofy smile you knew you were giving him.

Izuku’s chin shifted against the tops of your knees, and he pressed his mouth to the knob of your left one, leaving a smiling kiss. “Tell me more?” he asked, fingers still sliding softly over your thigh.

“I’ll read it to you as I go, then,” you said, turning back to the brick of a tome, propping it up more firmly on your stomach as you adjusted yourself against the couch arm. Izuku’s eyes watched you over the top of the pages, that emerald gaze tracking your face closely.

“‘The algorithm works via a two-phase process: a prediction phase and an update phase’,” you began, trying to turn your attention away from Izuku and back to the text. “‘In the prediction phase, the Kalman filter produces estimates of the current state variables, including their uncertainties. Once the outcome of the next measurement (necessarily corrupted with some error, including random noise) is observed, these estimates are updated using a weighted average, with more weight given to estimates with greater certainty.’”

Izuku’s long fingers traced firmer lines across your thighs, almost like he was taking notes. He layered another kiss along the line of your knee, eyes glittering at you as you read.

“‘The algorithm is recursive,’” you continued, “‘It can operate in real time, using only the present input measurements and the state calculated previously and its uncertainty matrix; no additional past information is required.’”

You almost jumped as Izuku’s mouth trailed lower, into the space between your knees, leaving kisses along your inner thigh. His fingers gently pulled one thigh away to make space for him in between, and you cleared your throat, trying to return to the text at hand.

“‘Optimality of Kalman filtering assumes that errors have a normal–that is, Gaussian–distribution,’” you read on. “‘The following assumptions are made about random processes: Physical random phenomena may be thought of as due to primary random sources exciting dynamic systems. The primary sources are assumed to be independent gaussian random processes with zero mean; the dynamic systems will be linear.’”

Izuku let out a soft breath, insinuating himself further between your thighs. Your own breath came out a little uneven as he bent over you, mouth tracking dangerously towards the inseam of your leggings.

You paused, but Izuku fixed you with a look of his slightly-darkened eyes. “Please—keep reading,” he said, his tone a little lower than it had been a minute ago.

You swallowed in shocked understanding, skin tingling. You felt yourself nod, as Izuku’s fingers strayed to the waist of your pants, dipping below the band.

You let him slowly peel your leggings down, your underwear with them, adjusting as needed to make it easy for him, even as you tried to return your attention to your textbook.

“‘Regardless of Gaussianity, however, if the process and measurement covariances are known, then the Kalman filter is the best possible linear estimator in the minimum mean-square-error sense,’” you quoted, nearly squeaking when Izuku pressed his mouth to your hip, his curls tickling the skin of your belly. His hands gripped either side of your thighs, palms square and rough against your skin, and you tried not to shiver with the feeling.

“Um—‘Although there may be better nonlinear estimators’,” you said, then nearly jumped out of your skin when Izuku pressed his mouth to the core of you, only the strength of his grip stopping you from accidentally kicking him in surprise.

“Oh my g—uh! It—um—‘It is a common misconception perpetuated in the literature that the Kalman filter cannot be rigorously applied unless all noise processes are assumed to be Gaussian,’” you managed, before your cut off into a groan as Izuku layered a hot, sweet kiss over you, tongue dipping carefully between your folds. “Ah-–Izuku—”

Izuku petted a thumb gently over the top of your thigh to show he was listening, even as he swiped his tongue over you again, a long, firm stroke that had your thighs flexing in his hold. He laved over your clit, sucking ever so slightly, and your grip almost tore the edge of your textbooks as it tightened.

“Keep going,” he urged briefly, then did it again, punching a groan out of you.

“Extensions—oh—‘Extensions and generalizations of the method have also been developed, such as the extended Kalman filter and the unscented Kalman filter which work on nonlinear systems,’” you read on, voice shooting up nearly into a squeal when two of Izuku’s long, firm fingers pressed into you, as his mouth moved over you again.

“Ah! Oh my god—the—um, the basis—-” you said, breath growing short. Izuku’s fingers unerringly found the spot inside you that made you twist in his grip with the ease of long practice, and his jaw worked as he kissed you so shockingly filthily. You could feel something already starting to build up behind your navel, a fluttery lightness, an insatiable insistence on more.

“‘The basis a hidden Markov model—oh, fuck—such that the state space of the latent variables is continuous and all latent and observed variables have–ah!--Gaussian distributions,’’’ you recited, your voice tripping up further into a register that sounded more like begging than reading.

Izuku’s fingers worked you, long and thick and perfect inside you, as his tongue drew unrelenting circles around your clit. Stars seemed to spark in your vision, and your eyes squeezed shut, losing your place on the page as your hips flexed into his face. You felt suddenly very floaty and lightheaded, and not at all in a position to keep going.

Still, you tried to refocus your attention.

“‘K–Kalman filtering has been used successfully in—oh—multi-sensor fusion—ah, ah!--and distributed sensor networks–fuck, please, Izuku—to develop distributed or consensus Kalman f-filtering,’” you said, your tone nearly a cry.

Izuku groaned softly, sucking gently as his fingers curled inside you. It made your veins spark under your skin, your legs shaking in Izuku’s hands. You abandoned your grip on your book to seize the arm of the couch, clawing desperately at the fabric.

“Please, Izuku,” you cried, hips bucking towards his mouth.

The book tumbled off your stomach but you hardly noticed, gaze refocusing on the way his eyelashes fluttered as he licked you. His fingers played gently within you, a maddening press that was simultaneously too much and not enough, and his other hand came up to slide under your sweater, plucking gently at your nipple.

You lost yourself to the feeling—caught between the mind-melting curl of his fingers, the delicate suction of his mouth, and the careful pinch of your nipple. A delicious heat curled through you, waves of unbearable pleasure, and you could hear yourself babbling nonsense—garbled syllables of Izuku’s name, and every entreaty you could think of, a hundred thousands mores and oh pleases.

Izuku abandoned your nipple to pull you more firmly against him with a strong arm curled under your thigh, pressing you even harder into his mouth.

You muffled a scream in the sleeve of your sweater as he sucked you harder, tongue laving over you in loving strokes. Only his terrible strength held you down as you writhed beneath him, and then his fingers twisted in a way that had your vision whiting out—and you were suddenly thrown out over the edge of your pleasure.

Izuku licked you through it as you squirmed and begged and cried out his name, your climax seeming to last for eons.

You were panting hard when you finally slumped into the cushions of your couch, the ceiling seeming to swim in and out of focus before your eyes. When you gained enough control of your body again you looked down at Izuku, finding him watching you with a satisfied, almost shy curl to his mouth.

“You’re beautiful,” he told you, emerald gaze glittering with sincerity. “You’re so smart.”

Impossibly you felt your heart swell with even more love for him, and you seized his shoulder, dragging him up over you so you could kiss his mouth. The taste of yourself on him was embarrassing yet thrilling, and you petted a pleased hand through Izuku’s wild mess of curls as you kissed him.

“Well you are amazing,” you told him, swiping a thumb over his cheek fondly, smoothing over his freckles. A gorgeous watercolor of pink washed over his cheeks and nose at the proclamation, and you could hear his fingers flex in the cushion beside your head.

The sight of him flushed and waiting over you like another small something inside of you, like a pilot light, and you let your mouth pull into a wry grin.

“I hope you know I learned nothing though,” you said casually, your plan for your next steps already forming in your head. You let a hand trail carefully down Izuku’s flank, tracking towards his waist. “I think maybe I might need a few rounds for it to really sink in.”

Izuku’s ears went red against the green of his hair, and you felt your smile widen. “Maybe you could read it to me this time?” you asked, guiding him to roll under you, retrieving your book from the floor as you did so.

You settled yourself on the tops of Izuku’s thighs, feeling the hard press of him against your core, as you placed your textbook into his waiting hands.

Izuku’s answering smile was all the permission you needed. You directed him to start from the beginning of the chapter, and he did so in that soft, lilting tone of his you so loved. And then your fingers trailed up to the zipper at his collar.

It was time to return the favor—wholeheartedly.

REFERENCES: Kalman Filtering (Wikipedia) I took the passages our Reader recited from here because I do not actually understand Kalman filtering at all and could not organically come up with feasible text for her to read through. Sorry in advance to the author of this page lol.

#mha #creator works

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