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trixy812 · 1 day ago

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⋆｡‧˚ʚ You have all my support ɞ˚‧｡⋆ pt 2

{Nanami Kento x reader}

ִֶָ࣪☾. Content: kento nanami x reader, just fluff, comfort, friends to lovers, nightmare, digimon mentioned!, i really think nanami looks at memes like parents look at memes xdxd (don't forget we are in year 2007ish)

ִֶָ࣪☾. Summary: It was inevitable. Kento Nanami and you became friends.

ִֶָ࣪☾. AN: Hello! I bring you guys part two, I took longer than I expected. Yesterday, I had a very calm nightshift and decided to finally write this second part, i really liked how it turn out. I really want to encourage you all to leave comments because that would help me a lot now that I'm just starting to write! extra: i really want to thank my twiniieee @totallygyomeiswife because she helped to organize my thought and how i want this fic to keep going.

pt. 1 - pt. 2

It’s been several months since Haibara’s death, and while Nanami remains the serious, reserved man everyone knows, something has subtly changed in him. In these past months, he’s allowed himself to trust you, finding quiet comfort in your friendship. You've always been there for him, offering support without demands or expectations. Yet Haibara’s memory still casts a long shadow, and sometimes his dreams dredge up painful scenes, reminding him of everything he's lost.

One night, after an especially vivid nightmare where he relives those haunting images of Haibara, Nanami wakes up, gasping for air. Without thinking, he picks up his phone and sends you a message:

Are you awake?

Your response comes almost immediately.

Of course! I’m always awake. You couldn’t sleep again, could you?

Despite the lingering weight of his nightmare, Nanami can’t help but smile slightly.

Do you ever actually sleep?

It’s my superpower! you reply, adding a sunglasses emoji.

Just as he’s about to put his phone down, he sees a notification from you—an image attachment. Curious, he opens it to see a meme of a concerned-looking dog, accompanied by the huge caption: “Your life is as worrisome as my face!” Nanami frowns, confused by the image.

Whose dog is that? he asks.

That doesn’t matter! Just laugh! It’s funny, right?

It seems we have different definitions of funny, he replies, teasing you. But he’s unable to stop himself from smiling, finding a strange comfort in your lightheartedness, and grateful for the brief escape from his thoughts.

Later that day, the two of you meet up at an arcade. You've set your sights on a claw machine with a Palmon plush, and after several failed attempts, you’re determined to get it. The lights and sounds around you barely register; all your attention is on the machine and on winning that Palmon.

Nanami watches from behind, arms crossed, his expression showing his skepticism. “Are you seriously going to keep going? You’ve already spent 4,500 yen. This is ridiculous.”

Without looking away from the machine, you throw him a quick glance. “Yes! I need it. Palmon is beautiful, and I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t win it.”

Nanami raises an eyebrow, doubtful. “Is it really that important?”

“Obviously!” You pout, looking at him with that mix of determination and stubbornness he’s come to recognize. That blend of energy and defiance stirs something in him, and he blurts out a suggestion he hadn’t even thought through

“Come study with me at Jujutsu High.”

The proposal surprises both of you, and you stop playing for a moment, though you keep your hand firmly on the joystick to hold your spot. Smiling, you look at him with a mix of affection and amusement.

“That’s not going to happen. I’ll never be a sorcerer. Not even you could change my mind, Nanami.”

A faint blush rises to your cheeks as you say his name, wondering if you’ve let slip too much. You seem about to say something more, but he interrupts, his voice soft and sorrowful.

“I’m alone now. I was left alone”

His words strike you, and though you want to tell him how much he means to you, how you've had a crush on him for months now but you know it’s not the right moment. He’s still too vulnerable, and you wouldn’t want to take advantage of that. Instead, you try to lighten the mood.

“My dad always used to say, ‘You go to school to study, not to make friends,’” you say, imitating your father’s voice and holding a finger under your nose as if you had a mustache. Nanami watches, but the sadness doesn’t leave his gaze.

Finally, you look him in the eyes, speaking with quiet sincerity. “You have all my support, Nanami. You know that, right?”

Nanami meets your eyes, and for a moment, his expression softens, the sadness easing a little. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and you notice a hint of peace behind his smile.

“After school, you probably have homework, just like me,” you suggest, taking a breath. “How about I come to your house every day after classes, and we do it together? Studying will be easier if we have each other’s company.”

Nanami looks at you, a bit taken aback by the suggestion, but he finds himself surprisingly comforted by the idea. Even though he knows your schoolwork might be very different from his own, the thought reassures him.

“And what about your hospital volunteering? Don’t you have to go?” he asks, concern creeping into his voice.

You wave his concern off. “I’ll do it on weekends. There are fewer people, and I can hide what I’m doing more easily. Don’t worry.”

Nanami nods, and without another word, he steps toward the claw machine, nudging you aside gently. Reaching into his pocket, he inserts 1,000 yen. And as the good sorcerer he is, it looks like magic, the claw captures the Palmon on the first try.

As soon as you see the plush descending, you let out a shout of pure joy, bouncing with excitement. Nanami pulls it from the machine and hands it to you.

“Thank you so much, Kento!” you exclaim, hugging the plush tightly, and realizing, as your face flushes, that you’ve called him by his first name.

Nanami blinks, surprised, but then he smiles, seeing you so happy. For a moment, he catches a glimpse of Haibara in your lively expression, just like that day when you met, and the thought fills him with an unexpected peace.

“So, what time will you be coming to my house to keep up with your ‘plan’?” he asks, his tone faintly teasing.

Unable to help it, your smile grew even wider, thrilled to have the Palmon in your hands, happy that Nanami won it for you, ecstatic because you know you'll see him more often, just as you've dreamed awake before going to sleep, you respond, “Let’s meet at Akihabara station after school, and then we can go together. Does that sound good?”

Nanami nods, satisfied with the plan. “Perfect.” With a slight blush, he murmurs almost to himself, but just loud enough for you to hear, “Keep calling me Kento.”

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mercillery · 3 days ago

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You already know who this is lmao. Since you wrote Andrew perfectly from IDV I GOTTA see how you write Frederick relationship overview 🙏💕 I love my poor disgruntled ex prodigee French man

WARNINGS: GENDER NOT SPECIFIED + NOT PROOFREAD

NOTES: I’ve got nothing to say about Frederick mains yet because I stopped playing around his release…but i’m sure his mains are fun to play with. I imagine they accidentally pop ciphers a lot too.

At first, Frederick would charm you in a way that feels almost unfair, like he’s playing a game you didn’t know you’d signed up for???

You’d find yourself completely entranced by Frederick—there’s no escaping it. This man doesn’t just walk into a room; he makes an entrance with a grace so smooth it practically slides in on polished shoes. He’s got this natural elegance that makes you wonder if he spends his weekends secretly training under some Victorian-era etiquette coach.

Every word, every subtle movement, is meticulously chosen to leave a lasting impression. You can almost hear a soundtrack playing whenever he talks. His gaze? Oh, it’s not just looking at you; it’s reading your very soul, flipping through your emotional pages like a well-loved book. This guy has the power to sweep any lady off their feet, whether they want to be swept or not. But don’t get too worried—you’re not just anyone to Frederick.

Dating Frederick is like a high-stakes thriller with poetic intermissions. When he’s chosen you as his focus, you’ll know it. He’s as devoted as a knight in shining armor with an artistic twist. Forget flowers—he’s out there composing symphonies that embody the way you laugh or the way you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed.

And yes, he’s that extra. But it’s not all rainbows and heartfelt sonatas. His passion runs as deep as the Mariana Trench, and with that comes a protective streak that would put guard dogs to shame.

His moments of jealousy? Let’s just say he doesn’t do halfway—Frederick only knows extremes. If you so much as wave at your barista a second too long, brace yourself for a brooding soliloquy about loyalty and his existential fear of being forgotten.

See, the man doesn’t just want to be liked or loved; he needs to be your everything. He’s got this internal scoreboard and if he’s not winning the gold medal in your heart, what’s the point? To Frederick, being mediocre is worse than losing—it’s being invisible, and he won’t settle for that. And honestly, why should he?

When it comes to love, Frederick doesn't do simple—no, he composes entire symphonies that could put Hollywood’s most dramatic love themes to shame. His idea of showing affection? It’s nothing short of an epic masterpiece.

You’d find yourself at the center of a grand concerto, where each note is painstakingly crafted to echo the highs, the lows, and those delicious in-betweens of your relationship. And, of course, private performances would become as routine as morning coffee.

Picture this: Frederick seated at a piano, fingers dancing across the keys, eyes darting to your face every other second as if he's trying to capture every flicker of your reaction. Is that awe? Is that admiration? Good. He’ll take that as a win. Your approval? It’s like a five-star review in a world where his love language is measured in crescendos and decrescendos.

But let's not forget—Frederick is a hopeless romantic, the kind who’s read Wuthering Heights one too many times and thought, Yeah, I can top that.

Love letters? Oh, they’re not just notes; they’re beautifully penned, metaphor-laden works of art that could make Shakespeare sit down and take notes. Candlelit concerts? He’s already planned three for next month, complete with a playlist that rivals the greatest romantic ballads in history.

And the surprises don’t stop there; you'll find flowers and little notes tucked into places you'd never expect: your bag, the fridge, maybe even the laundry hamper (don’t ask how they got there).

But for all his flair, Frederick isn’t just about grand gestures. There are those quieter, softer moments that catch you off guard and remind you that his love is as layered as one of his symphonies.

A simple lean of his head on your shoulder while you read, a touch so subtle you almost question if it happened, or that electric, intense gaze from across a crowded room—those moments are like a secret shared between the two of you. It’s like speaking an unspoken language, one where every glance and touch is a verse in an ever-unfolding poem that only the two of you understand.

Frederick’s sensitivity is a double-edged sword in your relationship, like owning a cat that’s both affectionate and completely unpredictable. On one hand, his perceptiveness is unmatched. This man could tell you’re upset from the way you’re stirring your coffee or the subtle shift in your smile.

Before you even have the chance to sigh, he’s there with those eyes full of concern, ready to listen and offer comfort that feels like a warm blanket on a cold day. It’s this deep empathy that forges an almost magical connection between you two, making you feel seen and understood in a way that’s rare. When Frederick’s with you, he’s with you—body, mind, and soul.

But there’s a catch, and it’s a big one.

His own emotions are about as stable as a teetering Jenga tower in the middle of an earthquake. Frederick feels everything on a scale of 1 to 100, with no in-between. Did you forget to say goodnight because you fell asleep? Prepare for an orchestra of internal questioning that could rival Hamlet’s soliloquy. Did you compliment a friend’s new jacket without immediately reassuring him that he still has the best taste in the room? Cue the silent spiral of doubt. He doesn’t just overthink—he over-operas. (Am I funny yet or do I just sound corny?)

Reassurance isn’t just appreciated; it’s essential. A simple “I’m here for you” can turn his internal storm into a calm, clear sky. Without it, his mind becomes a symphony of self-doubt, complete with the tragic overture of “Are they slipping away?”

And while it might sound exhausting, knowing this about Frederick means you’re sharing in something unique: a relationship where vulnerability is met with raw honesty and a commitment to each other’s emotional landscapes. Just be prepared for those moments when your calming words are the only thing standing between him and a full Shakespearean-level existential crisis.

While Frederick effortlessly projects an aura of undeniable charm and sophistication, it’s in those rare, private moments that you get to see beyond the polished exterior. These are the times when the cracks in his armor show, and you catch glimpses of the man behind the grandeur.

He’ll sit beside you, the gleam in his eyes softened, and open up about the disappointments that still gnaw at him. He’ll talk about the aching void left by his estranged family, the times he felt abandoned, and the relentless fear of mediocrity that follows him like a shadow he can’t shake.

It’s then you realize that his vanity isn’t just there to dazzle; it’s a well-crafted shield, desperately protecting the perfection-seeking artist who��s terrified of being truly seen and found wanting. In these moments, your acceptance of him—raw, imperfect, and honest—is worth more than a standing ovation at a sold-out concert.

But, spoiler alert: listening quietly won’t cut it.

He doesn’t just want to see that you’re present; he needs to hear your voice, feel your words like a balm on his frayed nerves. A silent nod isn’t enough when his mind is a cacophony of insecurities. He craves your reassurance like it’s the only song that can drown out the dissonance of self-doubt.

Then there are those times when Frederick’s paranoia takes center stage, and his brain transforms into a crime scene investigator looking for clues of your potential disinterest. Did you pause a beat too long before answering a question? He’ll dissect that silence like a forensic expert, eyes narrowing as if you just handed him the Rosetta Stone of heartbreak.

Even your simplest words or expressions are put under a microscope, magnified until he’s convinced he’s found proof that you’re slipping away. And yes, this can lead to some tension that’ll have you wondering if you’re in a relationship or a 24/7 reality show with constant performance reviews.

But here’s the twist—your patience and understanding are the keys to unlocking the security he craves. Sure, it might feel like you’re on an emotional tightrope at times, but when you take that moment to reassure him, to tell him he’s enough, you’ll see the tension melt away, and the storm in his eyes settle. Your steady, confident love is what helps Frederick silence the relentless chorus of doubt, making him feel seen, cherished, and—finally—secure.

Frederick has an eye for beauty, a radar for aesthetics, and a deep appreciation for life’s most elegant experiences, so if you’re with him, get ready for a whirlwind of high-class romance. Dates with Frederick aren’t just nights out—they’re productions.

Picture this: a night at the opera where he’s reserved the best seats, just for you and him, leaning close to whisper his insights on the music while his fingers absentmindedly trace patterns on your arm. Or an evening spent at a prestigious art gallery where he guides you from piece to piece, sharing stories and perspectives that make the artwork come alive.

Even a simple walk in the park with Frederick is elevated; he’s not just strolling—he’s carefully navigating to the most scenic routes, stopping at every blooming flower and golden-lit pond to take in the view and share a quiet moment of awe with you. He’ll glance at you with that expectant smile, as if to say, Isn’t this incredible?—and yes, he’ll definitely be checking to see if you agree.

And yes, if you’re wondering, he does have standards—expectations, even. Frederick doesn’t want to enjoy these experiences alone; he wants to bask in your shared appreciation, revel in your mutual admiration for art, architecture, and all things exceptional.

He’ll be delighted to show you off to his social circle, introducing you with a certain pride, as if you’re the finest piece in his collection of treasured things. But with that comes an unspoken agreement that you’ll match his refined demeanor and partake in his world of cultured conversation and elegant gestures.

Now, don’t get me wrong, he’s not expecting you to memorize 18th-century sonatas overnight or debate the merits of impressionism versus post-impressionism at every cocktail party. But if he catches even the slightest yawn during a concert or a vague, non-committal “It was fine” when he asks your thoughts on an exhibit—oh boy, brace yourself.

His brows will furrow in a way that says Is this really happening?, and suddenly, the air will feel a bit tense, like you’ve hit a wrong note in the symphony of his evening. He thrives on shared enthusiasm, so when he doesn’t see that spark in your eyes, he’s left wondering if you’re really on the same page or if you’d rather be anywhere else.

The key to navigating these moments? Patience and a touch of reassurance that, yes, you’re in this for the full experience—fancy outfits, whispered critiques at the opera, picturesque paths and all.

One thing about Frederick? He holds mediocrity in absolute contempt. This extends beyond his own aspirations and into the realm of your relationship, which, to him, is just another area where greatness must reign supreme.

If you're with Frederick, get ready for a personal coach, cheerleader, and, occasionally, an overly intense life mentor wrapped into one. He’ll push you to chase your dreams and won’t just clap when you reach a milestone—he’ll give you a standing ovation, complete with dramatic applause.

But with that passionate encouragement comes an edge; Frederick will also be your most unsparing critic, the kind who’ll say, “That was good, but it could be phenomenal,” right when you’re ready to celebrate. It’s motivating, sure, but if you don’t share his relentless pursuit of excellence or just need a break now and then, it might feel like you’re jogging beside someone who’s running an ultra-marathon…

If you really want Frederick to beam like he just won an award, show a genuine love for his craft or nurture a passion of your own. Respect for talent and hard work is practically woven into his DNA, so when he sees that you have your own spark, that’s when you become more than just a partner—you’re his muse, his equal, the one who fuels his artistic spirit.

Conversations with Frederick are not your run-of-the-mill small talk. Forget chatting about the weather or weekend plans; he’s here to unravel the mysteries of the human mind, ponder the nature of ambition, and debate the intricacies of creativity.

His interest in dissecting emotions, motivations, and talent isn’t just a casual hobby; it’s like he’s running a one-man TED Talk every time he opens his mouth.

And you? You’ll probably find yourself nodding along, wide-eyed, captivated by the way he speaks with such eloquence that even the most mundane statement sounds profound.

Honestly, he could say, “An orange is orange,” and you’d be nodding like, “Absolutely, that’s so true,” while trying not to swoon from the sheer brilliance of his delivery.

That said, these conversations aren’t just one-sided lectures. Frederick expects engagement, intellectual back-and-forth, even if it turns into a bit of a debate. And make no mistake—he’s got strong opinions and isn’t afraid to challenge yours, especially when it comes to art and talent.

But here’s the thing: he respects those who can spar with him in these verbal duels. If you stand your ground and hold your own, you’ll earn a rare, approving smile that makes all those philosophical tangents worth it.

Plus, there’s something quite mesmerizing about listening to him—his voice, rich and confident, pulls you in, and you’re left thinking, “Yes, Frederick, tell me more about the complexities of human nature and why oranges are orange,” while internally planning your Nobel Prize acceptance speech for keeping up with him.

Beneath Frederick’s air of grandeur and confident public persona, there’s a side of him that only you get to see—a soft, almost fragile version of himself that craves simple, unguarded intimacy. These are the moments when he lets the mask slip and the weight of being Frederick Kreiburg, the heir, the prodigy, the perfectionist, melts away.

It’s in these quiet interludes that you find him seeking solace, laying his head in your lap as you read, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your knee while he closes his eyes, enjoying the rare sense of peace. He doesn’t need to fill the silence with grand words or impressive declarations. In your shared space, the performance is over; he’s just Frederick, vulnerable and human, grateful that he doesn’t have to strive for perfection in your presence. Your presence alone is enough to soothe the symphony of doubt that usually plays on loop in his mind.

And while he might dazzle the crowds with his musical prowess and philosophical musings, one of his quieter passions is equestrianism—a skill that, unlike many of his pursuits, isn’t about impressing others but about finding a rare moment of freedom. It’s a pastime that lets him shed the pressure and simply enjoy life for what it is, the rhythmic pounding of hooves syncing with his heartbeat as he gallops across open fields, feeling the wind tug at his platinum hair.

When he invites you to join him on horseback rides, it’s more than just an activity; it’s an invitation into this private realm where he feels unburdened and alive. Teaching you to ride? Oh, he’ll approach it with all the patience and joy that he usually reserves for his most cherished pursuits. He’ll guide you with an amused smile as you find your balance, his hand never straying too far from yours, ready to steady you at the slightest wobble.

But nothing makes his heart lift quite like seeing you experience the same exhilaration that riding brings him. That shared thrill—the wind in your hair, the laughter that bubbles up as you both race through sun-dappled trails—is something he treasures. It’s one of the few times where his worries, ambitions, and relentless pursuit of excellence fade into the background, and it’s just the two of you, free and unbound.

And when he looks over at you, eyes bright and a grin cracking through his otherwise composed demeanor, you realize that, yes, this is Frederick at his happiest—not the heir or the virtuoso, but a man who, for once, is simply living in the moment, sharing it with the one person who makes it all more vibrant.

Ah, the shadows of Frederick’s past—a specter that never quite left him, always lingering in the corners of his mind, whispering doubts and sowing restlessness. There are days when this presence looms larger, and he becomes a man consumed by his inner turmoil, pacing like a caged lion or retreating into the sanctuary of his study.

In these moments, it’s like he’s waging a war with his thoughts, wrestling with the frustration of creative blocks or the relentless voice that tells him he’s never enough. He might shut the world out, drowning himself in a storm of music that’s as chaotic as his thoughts, fingers flying over the keys, each note a plea for peace that never quite comes.

It’s during these times that your role is both simple and profound. You may not know it, but your quiet, unwavering presence is the lighthouse guiding him through the storm.

A soft touch, the brush of your hand against his arm as you pass by, or just sitting in the room while he spirals—these things are the lifelines he doesn’t always know how to ask for but desperately needs. And while you might think that just being there isn’t enough, oh, how wrong you’d be.

The truth is, your patience and silent support do more than calm the chaos; they remind him that he isn’t alone in the struggle. Your reassurance is like a hidden chord in his symphony, one he clings to when the rest feels dissonant.

Of course, it’s not always easy. There will be times when the emotional weight feels as if it’s pressing down on you too, and you catch yourself thinking, Is this worth it?

And then you remember—remember the man behind the polished façade, the one who laughs a little too loudly when he’s truly caught off guard, or who looks at you with such raw, unguarded affection that it makes your heart stutter. The one who finds solace in resting his head in your lap and who lights up when he shares the simple joy of a horseback ride. The man who, despite his brilliance and bravado, is just as flawed and human as anyone else.

And in those moments, it doesn’t feel so exhausting. It feels like you’re part of something beautiful and rare—like you’re holding a piece of someone that no one else gets to touch, no matter how flawless his public persona may seem.

You realize that while being with Frederick comes with its trials, it also comes with moments of breathtaking vulnerability and love so consuming that it makes every struggle worth it. Because underneath the charm, the intensity, and the restless ambition is a man who, at the end of the day, needs you more than he’ll ever admit out loud. And that? That makes it all worthwhile.

#frederick kreiburg #Frederick kreiburg x reader #idv x you #idv x reader #identity v x you #identity v x reader #identity v #idv headcanons #identity v headcanons #THIS ONE IS FOR THE FREDERICK LOVERS 🎤🎤🎤

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awkward-fink · 2 days ago

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Crime!AU TF 141

Your mobile phone rings at exactly 23:42 at night, it’s a Wednesday and the day at work had been more than exhausting, so the expletives you murmur as you are dragged out of your restful sleep are more than deserved in your eyes. Your phone is the only source of light around you, illuminating the small, dinky bedroom in a soft sheen of greenish white, making it look a bit bigger than it actually is.

Still cursing, one hand in front of your eyes, you blindly fish for your phone, fingers brushing against it at the third try. It’s a number, no name, no notice on your screen, just a number. But one that had burned itself into your head regardless. You stare at the still ringing phone, a heavy stone sitting in your stomach as you watch as the time turns into 23:43. You know you can’t just ignore this; you had tried it once and the consequences had been… unexpected.

You press the green button instead of the red one you dearly wish you could press. You don’t say your name, you don’t even have the time to do so, because as soon as the call connects an accented voice cheerfully starts to speak, voice happy and awake and loud. You wish you could reach through the phone to strangle him, but sadly such superpowers are beyond you. "Right, this is the reminder call fur Diner fur (D-)One! Yer order o' a dead fiery Pepperoni Pizza will be roond in aboot 20 minutes! The delivery driver’s already got their dosh. Thank ye fur stickin’ wi’ us!" The man booms through your phone, Scottish accent rolling through your hazy mind, summoning the picture of the smirking, mohawked man into your mind. You can just picture him and his stupid smirk and his flexing arms as he twirls the phone in hand, mischief in his eyes.

“Listen here, it is nea-“ – “BeepBeepBeep” – “… Oh, I hate this. I hate him. I hate his stupid smile; I hate his stupid boss and I hate this whole situation!”

You fall back into your bed, pulling your pillow over your face as you scream into the fluffiness you need to leave now, leave behind your rest and your bed and your dog, who is still snoring loudly at the end of your blankets.

20 minutes later on the dot you open the front door, watching as a small delivery car holds in front of your small bungalow and another of the Diner Crew folds himself out of the car, cap firmly sat on top of his head, his smile big as he loped up the short path towards you, his brown eyes warm as he looks you up and down, mustering your work jeans, your too big shirt and the hint of your mismatched socks. “Hey there, Hun. Another late-night delivery for my favorite, hardworking daycare teacher.” His voice is soft and warm like honey, and you can’t believe how pretty that man is. Effortless beauty, your mother would call it. So in contrast to yourself. “Thanks.” You smile tiredly at him, taking the steaming carton into your own hands. The darkskinned pretty man chuckles, tips his cap at you and lopes back towards the car.

You watch him go, going back inside only when his car turns the corner and is out of sight. Then you breath again, your brows furrowed as you close the door behind you. The Pizza looks delicious, like always, glistening garlic oil on top of the fatty pieces of Pepperoni thickly placed on your pizza. The problem was the other side of the cardboard, the thick red letters on the inside of the box.

O’Donnel Str. 47, yellow house, take three bags and lots of cleaner. Got out of hand. No alive. No police warned. Beware the cat. Ghost-job. “Fuck me. At least it wasn’t Soap this time.” You sigh, reaching for one slice of pizza and walking into your garage, picking out the supplies you would need for this job tonight. You hesitate before you put the whole box of cleaners in the back of your car.

“Fuck me.” You repeat, swallowing the last bite of the piece of pizza. “This I going to be a long night…”

--------------------------------------------

So I guess this is kind of a Crime!AU I got in my head? I wanted to write something about this and there is more lore to this in my head. But I dont know if people would even be interested in this? How would I even call this as a series? -- awkward Fink

#awkward fink #cod #AU #CrimeAU i guess #reader is a crime scene cleaner against her/his will #TF141 crime #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #au idea #wouldnt leave my head #reader #you #sorry You suffer a bit in this.#Fink's bad

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brittscafe · 2 days ago

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𝐇𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐬

Summary: Ichigo, Shunsui, Kenpachi, and Byakuya with a s/o who senses are very heightened

Request: Hi! I know your request are closed. You can write this whenever you want ❤️🫵🏼(tysm if u do) Can i request headcanons for ichigo, shunsui, Zaraki,byakuya with s/o whose six senses are on amother level? Like she can really sense/smell/hear everything,lol tysm 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

A/n: Heyyyy! I saw this pop up in my requests and I thought well why not now? I'm also writing this to get my mind off scheduling my classes for next semester. It's really such a pain bc all the classes I need, like absolutely need to take are full 😭 So, this def takes my mind off things so much!! <3

Content: Nothing to warn you about ;)

Ichigo:

He thinks it's really cool and totally boasts about it to Chad, Uryu, Orihime.

Wants you to tell him alllll about it and how you can sense things on a whole different level.

Smiles the whole time as you're talking about and inches forward, super curious and interested.

Wants you to tell him every time you can maybe hear him between the thick walls or smell his cologne lingering in the air when he's far away.

Will admire you as you can sense something he totally can't.

Ichigo can usually tell when you're sensing something and he cannot, he tries to sense it, but he just can't.

Always likes to hold you in his arms as you're sitting in his lap, playing like an I-spy game with your senses as he's giving you kisses along your face.

Ichigo has so much love for you and loves every heighten sense of yours.

Shunsui:

Honestly, he doesn't really notice about your heightened senses until you bring it up yourself.

Shunsui's jaw drops as he's in shock, he didn't even or know about it.

"I've told you many times..." -- "Oh, have you? Must've crossed my mind."

Shunsui will comment with a nervous chuckle, bringing his hand behind his head and scratching his scalp.

Your face drops as you realize what an idiot he is, but god, do you love him.

After, he finally starts to notice little by little. The way your nose twitches when you smell something he doesn't or the goosebumps that form along your arms when you hear something he can't.

He'll chuckle to himself, loving that about you.

Shunsui will boast to anyone about you and your amazing senses, it doesn't matter who it is.

He's just in awe about the kind of person you are and your incredible senses.

Kenpachi:

Groans everytime you can tell him you can smell or hear him nearby.

He likes to put up this front when you can sense him and go over to him, but deep down he actually likes it.

He think it's above average to have senses where you can sniff him out like a dog and find wherever he is.

Kenny honestly thinks its super cute, but will never admit it.

Instead of admitting when he finds it cute, when you rant on about your senses, he pulls you into a deep hug.

You're confused, but you love the hug. It's Kenny's way of telling him that he's proud of you.

Scoffs or roll his eyes every time you jump up and down excitedly about your senses.

Always find it super cute when you get excited about your senses, sometimes you can see a little grin forming along his face.

Kenpachi will always love that your senses enhance the person you are.

Byakuya:

Tries not to say anything or act like he's aware of it. Will never really say anything about it to your face.

He wants to treat you just like everyone else and speaks about it when someone brings it up.

A proud little smirk forms along his face as others do talk about your senses.

He is proud of you and your senses that help you become a stronger person/ soul reaper.

If Byakuya does ever talk about your very strong senses, he praises you and tells you how proud of you he is while rubbing your back.

Def takes a notice to your senses, but doesn't ever say anything, he kind of just watches you behind the scenes.

Will never take your senses for granted and always realizes how strong you are.

#bleach #ichigo kurosaki #byakuya kuchiki #kenpachi zaraki #shunsui kyoraku #bleachanime #bleach imagines #bleach anime #bleach x reader #bleach x you #bleach headcanons #bleach x y/n #bleach tybw #kyoraku shunsui

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mizzmellos · 1 year ago

Text

DEEP COVER - m2 ♱ m for mature ♡

It wasn’t often that Matt heard him open the door. Not just because the time he spent at their dingy apartment was close to none, but because Mello moved silently. He forced the black rubber of his boot soles to fall noiseless as he ghosted down the hallways, and the faint squeaking of his leather gloves on the doorknob or the shifting of his heavy coat was typically the only thing that gave him away. But tonight—was it nighttime? Whatever time it was, Mello seemed to have no patience for his usual grace, and it was the loud jingling of his swinging keys that startled Matt awake.

He’d fallen asleep on the couch. His PSP slid off his chest and tumbled to the floor, providing a small halo of illumination to the otherwise pitch-black room. He managed to catch the time on his phone from the corner of his eye—8:34p.m. on a Saturday—before Mello’s overbearing silhouette appeared in their doorway, lit from below by the PSP’s artificial glow like a late-night horror-show host. Matt briefly appreciated the image before Mello burned it from his retinas, flipping the switch to their harsh florescent lights they kept meaning to replace.

“Morning, sunshine.”

“Hey.”

Matt tried to assess Mello’s mood through his bleary, half-awake state. He couldn’t quite tell. While there was a hint of irritation playing across his features, it was rare that there wasn’t.

“You were sleeping. I told you to be ready.”

“Huh? For what?”

“Didn’t you get my text?”

Matt sat up fully, pushing his goggles up to rub the sleep from his eyes as he grabbed his phone. There was a missed text: one, from a number he didn’t recognize. Typical. A sheepish heat crossed his cheeks before he could help it, which only provoked a deeper sense of embarrassment—why should he be embarrassed that he was sleeping and missed a text? Mello made a point of keeping his schedule unpredictable, and why did he have to be on-call all the time? It wasn’t his fault if he stayed up late and didn’t always operate on Mello’s time and—

“It just says ‘Be ready,’” he finally sighed, interrupting his own train of thought.

“Yeah. You don’t look ready.”

Mello sized him up. He was wearing a dirty t-shirt with the D.A.R.E. logo—which Mello was certain he thought was hilariously ironic—and a pair of ragged boxers he’d definitely had since their days back at Wammy’s. He cocked an eyebrow. Or rather, raised his brow in such a way that made his eyes uneven and judgmental, because where there had once been golden-blonde hair, there was instead only perfectly smooth forehead. Mello had apparently begun waxing them off to go along with his ridiculous new outfits.

“Ready for what?” he asked, still wondering how badly waxing your eyebrows hurt.

“Stop asking so many annoying questions and get dressed.” While his words were sharp, his tone was more playful than usual. When Mello’s voice took on that little sing-song quality, it always stirred a certain excitement in the pit of Matt’s stomach that meant things were either going to go very good or very very bad.

“Alright, just gimme a sec.” Matt heaved himself up the couch and moved to their bedroom, feeling Mello’s laser-beam stare melting holes in his back. He could quite literally sense the heat dissipate as Mello’s attention was diverted to the kitchen.

“Got anything to drink?”

Digging through piles of dirty laundry with increasing desperation and hoping that the sing-song wouldn’t be replaced by impatient irritation, he replied,

“Uh, yeah, soda I think—“

“I don’t drink soda. Don’t be disgusting. You shouldn’t either.”

Aha! This shirt kind of looked clean. It didn’t stink, at least. And it was black. Would Mello like that? Or would he think it’s stupid to match? No, it’s not ‘matching,’ stupid, anybody can wear black—

“I mean a real drink.”

The heat returned. Mello blocked the doorway, wrinkling his nose in his trademark sneer as he surveyed the room.

“Your bedroom is disgusting too.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “It’s your bedroom too, dude.”

While he waited for Mello’s protest, it never came. Maybe he did think of it as his room too. They always shared a room. He quickly changed shirts, keeping his back to the blonde, and begun the hunt for underwear and pants.

“And yeah, there’s, uh, whiskey in the cupboards somewhere.”

“God. You’re so gross. Out of anything you could have… no tequila…”

Fading footsteps. Mello was in the kitchen now. Underwear underwear underwear. Was that even important? Were the ones he had on now really that bad? Yes. He needed clean underwear. Especially with that sing-song knot still in his stomach. As he finally found a pair, he heard the gentle chime of clinking glass.

“And it’s the cheap stuff. You really know how to impress.”

Mello was standing over him now, two mismatched cups in hand.

“Here. Cheers.”

“What are we cheers-ing to?” Matt took the glass awkwardly, clean underwear in his opposite hand. He stood up so they were at near-equal height, though Mello’s stupid boots gave him a few inches of artificial advantage, and tapped the rims of their glasses together.

“Who cares?” Mello threw his back easily and without a change in expression.

He dragged a finger across his lips when he was done and Matt was hypnotized, watching the back of Mello’s glove glisten as it collected the remnants of the liquor. Mello seemed to recognize the effect he had on Matt as he used the same finger to point at his untouched drink.

“You’re supposed to actually drink it. And what’s taking you so long to get ready?”

Matt eyed the drink with apprehension.

“Y’know, I usually add, like, ice and coke and stuff.” He considered the irony of Mello complaining about the 5 minutes it took him to get ready when Mello took more than an hour in the morning just showering and doing his hair. He wanted to say something snarky, but the sing-song stomach-knot dragged his tongue back down his throat.

“Just hurry up. Drink it and get dressed.”

Matt then realized he didn’t particularly want to do either of those things in front of Mello. It’s not like Mello hadn’t seen him naked, but they were usually in the sorts of situations where Matt was not the center of attention. Guess he needed the shot after all.

“Uh, yeah, cheers.” He closed his eyes and choked down the liquor, trying his utmost to repress the contortions the awful taste was drawing to his face. Liquid courage and all.

Matt watched as Mello nudged a pile of laundry with his foot, bending down to draw out a pair of grungy black jeans. He did a cursory sniff of the crotch before tossing them across the room and smiling when Matt deftly snatched them out of the air.

“Those look nice. Wear them.”

So Mello was fine with him wearing black too. That was a relief. Now was the hard part. It’s not like he wanted to turn his back to Mello and have those eyes all over his ass either. He grit his teeth and pulled his dirty boxers off, mentally attempting to maintain what could be considered a perfectly normal speed to get undressed—not too fast like he was trying to hide anything and not too slow like he was trying to put on a show. Mello said nothing but made a point of giving him another thorough once-over, with just a hint of a bitten-back smile flitting around his lips. Whew. Hard part over. As he wiggled into his jeans, Mello disappeared again, back into the kitchen. Matt heard him pour another drink and presumably slam it, and he hopped out into the living room as he worked his foot through the tight pant leg.

“So you gonna tell me where we’re going?”

“No. I’ll tell you how to get there, though.”

Matt wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol going to his head (he hadn’t eaten anything that day, after all) or the rush of excitement he always got when he was with Mello but they were in his car before he knew it—another rare occasion, as Mello didn’t particularly enjoy riding in cars, nor did he appreciate Matt’s reckless driving habits. Slouched down in the passenger seat with the slightest indication of nausea creeping across his face, Mello rolled down his window and leaned forward to fiddle with the dials of the radio.

“Sorry man. It broke last month.” Silence, aside from the noises of the city. Matt eased off the gas, and this seemed to temporarily correct Mello’s woozy expression. He cleared his throat, wishing he could light up a cigarette but knowing Mello would complain about his proximity to the smell in the confined space of the car. “I’ll take it slow. I know you get carsick.”

“Take this exit,” Mello abruptly instructed.

“Wh—come on dude, you’re the worst navigator!” While his tone indicated irritation, he was secretly a little excited to have an excuse to show off in front of Mello. He was in the far left lane, and though the L.A. roads weren’t as congested as they usually were, there was still a good amount of traffic to get through in a relatively short distance. Already pushing 80, he revved it up to 110 and flew across the four lanes, earning a small discomforted groan from his friend as the blonde brought his hand to his mouth. He whipped along the ramp and allowed the car to coast back down to 80.

“You know I hate when you do that,” muttered Mello, though he did seem a little impressed—or at least, Matt hoped that’s what that expression was. “Speeding ticket’s a really stupid way to get your photo in some database.”

“Whatever. They’d have to catch me first.”

This earned a small chuckle from Mello, and Matt gave him a cheesy grin in return, riding his adrenaline high. It wasn’t as fun to drive fast when there was nobody to ride with him.

“Alright, where to now, boss?”

Though he couldn’t quite see Mello’s eyes, the roll was almost audible.

“Just keep going. We’re almost there.”

Mello’s arm was resting near the gear stick, fingers drifting up and down the leather upholstery of Matt’s seat in a lazy rhythm. He seemed distracted by something, but Matt knew better than to ask. Asking questions like that makes good-mood sing-song Mello disappear. And with how close those fingers were coming to his thigh, Matt really didn’t want that to happen. He didn’t want to stop watching Mello’s hand, thoughts wandering as he matched the rhythm of Mello’s absentminded fidgeting to his imagination, picturing pulling his gloves off and feeling his silk-soft palms warm and sticky with sweat—

“You just ran a red light,” remarked Mello. “I thought you were supposed to be good at this.” He glanced over and his hand stopped moving, effectively ending Matt’s daydream.

“Uh, yeah, I meant to do that.” Matt pulled out a cigarette against his better judgment and was surprised when Mello said nothing, unsure if it was because he was distracted, carsick, or just feeling generous. Though he’d hoped it’d take his mind off the thought—the nature of which was quickly becoming obvious through the denim of his jeans—the smoke mixed with the fragrance of Mello’s shampoo as he ran his fingers through his hair and made Matt picture the last time they’d been together. He remembered how soft Mello’s hair felt melting through his fingers, and the way the curled tips bounced against his thighs, and how every time Mello bobbed his head he could smell that shampoo wafting up toward him.

“It’s up here.” Mello’s ice-cold voice pulled him out of his warm thoughts and made him shiver. “On the left. Park in the back.”

Matt gave the building a good look. It had no windows, and no signage to indicate what sort of place it might be. There seemed to be plenty of cars around, but almost no people.

But no questions. He pulled around as Mello instructed and stopped the car. As they stepped out into the lot, Matt saw that there was one other person around—it was a small, ratlike man, talking into a cellphone with a hurried whisper. As Matt shuffled along after Mello, he wondered why the fuck he’d let Mello drag him to a weird windowless building in the middle of nowhere with strange crackheads in the parking lot. But as his eyes drifted down from the back of Mello’s bouncing blonde head to his ass, he remembered.

“Hey Kal. Open up.”

Upon seeing Mello, the man’s eyes narrowed and his entire demeanor seemed to shrivel up and sour. He whispered something into the phone and flipped it shut, his lips drawn in a taut, puckered frown.

“No problem, boss,” he said dryly.

Boss? Did this guy work for Mello? Ass or not, Mello knew that Matt wanted no part in whatever stupidly dangerous shit he got up to with his new friends. All of the excitement was draining away like a whirlpool bathtub in his gut, replaced with a deep-seated and quickly-creeping dread that Matt was going to be witness to some sort of real-life snuff film. When Kal finally managed to unlock the door, his hands shaking and Mello’s foot tapping impatiently, Mello pushed past him without so much of a glance and Matt muttered a very garbled ‘thanks’ as he rushed inside.

Once they were in the building, Matt could hear the rhythmic pounding of something. Music? They descended a dark cement staircase, and he could make it out—it was music. A club? Was this some sort of speakeasy disco?

When they reached the basement, Matt’s suspicions were confirmed. He was hit with a blast of body heat: it smelled overwhelmingly of sweat, and the music had become almost deafening. How did they keep it so quiet outside? He squinted, adjusting his eyes to the darkness in between the pulsing neon lights. He could barely see Mello—his black clothes made him blend in with the throbbing mass of people, and the dark orange tint of his goggles wasn’t helping. The only thing he could focus on was the crown of Mello’s head, his bright hair reflecting the rotation of colors—red-blue-green-yellow—

“I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

Those words struck a fear into Matt’s heart. Here? Alone? Why? As Mello’s blonde bob disappeared into the crowd, Matt suddenly became extremely aware of where he was, as well as how badly he wanted to be at home. There was a sea of bodies roiling around him, tossing him in every direction, and it took all of his strength to maintain any semblance of stability. A girl much smaller than him seemed to dance through the crowd with ease, but his amazement with her ability to move through the fleshy ocean was interrupted when she shouted, “cute goggles!” He turned red and looked away.

Upon attempting to replay the interaction (if you could even call it that) in his head, he could only hear it in Mello’s mocking voice. Mello made him wonder if every compliment was backhanded, sarcastic, cruel. Mello made him wonder how long he’d be gone for, because it felt like hours, days, years. Mello made him wonder why the fuck he did stupid shit like coming here.

“Oh, Mello,” he yelped as a body collided with his, having been shoved by another careless, drunk dancer.

“Hey, watch it fuckface,” Mello yelled, though his deep voice went ignored, swallowed by the stuffy air and the thump of the bass. Turning with the tiniest bit of a surprised gleam in his eyes, he realized he’d been pushed right into Matt. “Well look at that. Imagine seeing you here.”

Again, Mello was leading him through the crowd, this time to the back of the dance floor, toward the bathrooms. He was careful not to touch the handle as he kicked open the door to the men’s, which was small and dirty but surprisingly empty. They entered the stall furthest from the entrance and as it shut, Mello produced three small baggies from his sleeve like a card-trick magician—two filled with white powder and one with small multicolored tablets. Behind his goggles, Matt’s eyes lit up, but he tried to keep his cool. So Mello really was in a good mood.

“I brought you a present.” He dropped the tablets into Matt’s waiting hand, smiling affectionately. “Don’t worry. It’s good. I know the guy.”

As if he were doing something as casual as painting his nails, Mello tapped a small line of the powder across the back of his glove and sniffed it, careful and precise. He delicately pinched the tip of his nose with one hand as he slipped the bag away with the other, scrutinizing Matt’s face as the redhead popped open the tiny seal and stuck two of the tablets under his tongue. Matt held the bag out as an offer of return but Mello shook his head, remaining silent but drawing their bodies closer together. The sing-song knot in Matt’s stomach was quickly ballooning down to his groin but he tried to focus on his breathing so Mello wouldn’t sense how desperate he was. It had been weeks since the last time they’d done anything, and the time before that, Mello had visited in such a bad mood that they hadn’t done anything at all.

Once again, Matt’s recollection of their last visit was not entirely confined to his brain, and his pale freckled cheeks began to burn. Mello leaned in further, hot breath drawing across Matt’s jaw as he cupped it in his hand and extended his thumb to run across his reddened skin. Matt’s mouth dropped open involuntarily as the tip of the leather pressed at his bottom lip, and Mello elicited the smallest of moans from the other as he pushed his thumb along Matt’s tongue. Opening the third bag, the blonde withdrew his wet gloved finger and rolled it in the powder, proceeding to rub it along his own gums and all the while refusing to break eye contact. After he seemed satisfied, he popped his thumb back into his mouth, repeating the process but this time offering the powder to Matt, who had no idea how to indicate that he was accepting aside from simply opening his mouth further and allowing Mello to drag the small crystals along the edges of his teeth. The taste was salty, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the molly or the leather of the glove.

As Mello’s thumb worked its way around the insides of his cheeks, he drew even closer. Matt’s heart started racing. He slid his finger out and replaced it with his lips, feeling Matt softly panting into his mouth. They weren’t quite kissing. Matt wanted to kiss him very badly, but felt stuck to the wall, his mouth dry as rice paper. The x wasn’t all the way dissolved and his tongue felt covered in sludge. Had it been this hot in here the whole time?

Mello hooked Matt’s lower lip between his teeth, giving it a gentle tug as he used his body to pin the other to the stall. His thin thigh slipped between Matt’s legs but somehow managed to avoid his groin entirely—he was thankful that Mello couldn’t feel how hard he was already, and he put every ounce of his self control into avoiding his body’s urge to drag Mello against him and grind on his leg. His glove slid down the front of Matt’s shirt like liquid, making an abrupt stop once it reached the waistband of the black jeans he’d picked out. He extended a single finger, the same he’d used to dab away the liquor from his lips earlier in the evening, dragging it past the tarnished bronze button that was beginning to make Matt quite uncomfortable. While Mello’s attention had now moved from Matt’s face to the zipper of his pants, Matt watched closely as a very undeniable smirk of satisfaction lit up the other’s features.

And just as abruptly as their rendezvous had begun, it ended. Mello removed himself from Matt completely, unlocking the stall door and breezing out. Matt stumbled out after him, dumbfounded but desperate not to lose him in the crowds again. Why did Mello have to enjoy torturing him so much? And why did he let him?

Mello wove through the dance floor until he found a spot that seemed satisfactory—in the center, surrounded on all sides but hidden—and when he turned around to face Matt, it almost felt as though they were hidden; despite being in the midst of hundreds of people, they felt alone, together. The knots in his stomach were joined by more in his chest as Mello drew him closer, pressing their bodies together again, but this time much more softly—at least, as softly as Mello could manage, because his soft was sometimes like a fine sandpaper, grating so smoothly you almost wouldn’t notice until you were bleeding and raw.

Matt’s arms slipped around his waist and as his hands pulled across the small of Mello’s back, tracing the spot in between that obscene quilted vest and those low-rise latex-tight pants, he saw it. Just for a moment—less, even—a split-second, a nano-something, Mello’s guard fell and there was an expression in his eyes so genuine Matt’s heart could have burst. He looked happy. Loving. Innocent, almost, but that seemed too strange a word, like dressing him up in pure white, like putting him on a cross. Matt wanted to trap that look in his eyes forever.

The moment passed and his expression faded, replaced by his typical frostbitten face—drawing you in and all the while telling you not to touch. Matt wanted nothing more than to grab him by the shoulders and shake him as hard as he possibly could. To bring it back somehow. To make it stay. He wanted to beg him not to let that cold cruel flame in his heart eat him away any more than it already had.

Let’s give up. Let’s go home. Let’s go hide. Let’s be hidden for real this time. We don’t have to do this.

You don’t have to do this.

But if he said these things, and if Mello knew he felt these things, Mello wouldn’t love him. Mello couldn’t love somebody who didn’t understand. He was doing the things he did because he had to. Because he had no other choice. Matt knew that. And so he stayed quiet, tightening his grip and trying to drink in every millimeter of that brief cherubic vision. His head moved to Mello’s neck—he couldn’t look at his face, he didn’t want to be reminded of the light that used to twinkle in his eyes whenever he saw Matt in the hallways of Wammy’s, the times they’d sneak out into the forest behind the school, laughing loud and spilling secrets, the open admiration for one another they used to share. There was so much he didn’t know about Mello anymore. He’d gotten so cruel.

To stop his lip from quivering—god, you fucking pussy, don’t you dare—he ran his tongue along Mello’s neck, pushing aside the folds of his vest to bite the stretch of skin where his collarbone diverged. Mello responded with an involuntary and angelic sigh, eyes fluttering shut. Matt always knew the right spot. Still choking back bitterness, Matt sunk his teeth further into Mello, biting him harder than he’s ever bitten him, hard enough to make small maroon teardrops bead around the tips of his canines. No sound passed through Mello’s throat, but as his fingers dug into Matt’s shoulderblade, he could feel the crescent imprints forming in his skin through his clothes. Matt’s hand slides up Mello’s back to his hair, grabbing a fistful of blonde and gently pulling his head back, exposing more of his throat. Biting the same spot with the intent to bruise, he drew his teeth across Mello’s creamy skin, wanting to break the blood vessels below and leave a cherry blossom mark, to let everybody know that Mello was supposed to be his.

“Matt…” It was almost a whisper, but it made the noise of the club fade into oblivion. When Mello said his name like that, Matt would do anything. He would follow him to the ends of the earth. How could he be upset when Mello was whispering his name? As his mood shifted once again, he realized they’d been dancing for at least half an hour, and the molly was definitely kicking in, making it seem like no time had passed at all. He thought of Mello’s smiling face. They were in the sun-dappled forest, they were so young, and Mello was laughing, turning back at him and calling for him. Matt… Matt…

“Matt,” Mello said, more urgently this time. He pulled Matt away from his neck, fondly brushing the bloody bite, and grabbed the buckle of the redhead’s belt. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” was all Matt could manage before Mello was dragging him toward another door—a back door, some sort of emergency exit. He tripped over a ledge in the doorway as they walked through, bumping into Mello and causing them to both stumble into the alley. His body felt like it was vibrating, to the point where even their brutal collision sent shivers of pleasure through him. All he wanted to do was touch Mello—his face, his hair, his soft stomach—

As if Mello sensed this, he immediately pulled Matt toward him, forcing Matt to pin him against the graffiti-covered brick. There was no hesitation or coquettish teasing this time—Mello dragged him into a messy kiss, one toned arm around his neck while the other immediately got to work unbuckling his belt. Matt pressed his tongue past Mello’s lips, trying to memorize the curvature of his teeth, the angles of his cheeks, the remnant-chocolate flavor of his hot saliva. There was a loud clatter as his heavy metal belt buckle hit the concrete, and Mello had his pants unbuttoned in half the time. A combination of the cool night air and the crippling potential that somebody could walk out and see his dick in Mello’s hand sent a cold shiver down Matt’s spine. This terrifying thought was quickly outweighed by the sensation of soft, well-worn leather gliding down Matt’s bare abdomen and past the elastic of his boxers (which, thank god, were clean).

As soon as Mello’s hand was wrapped around his cock, Matt knew he didn’t care if the entire world was watching. He massaged in slow, languid movements, his eyes only occasionally drifting from Matt’s erection to his face. Mello couldn’t help but smile as he watched the flush of heat bleed down Matt’s neck, the heave of his shoulders increasing alongside his breath—he was too cute when he wanted it this badly. He was already shaking.

“Mello…” Matt groaned, mentally kicking himself for how desperate he sounded. “Will you—uh—take your glove off?”

Mello laughed, a subtle sadistic undertone playfully ringing through, the little sing-song devil that made Matt’s stomach do flips. He brought his hand to his mouth and pulled the glove off with his teeth, discarding it on the ground beside Matt’s belt. “That’s all you want, babe?”

To be honest, Matt couldn’t think straight enough to want anything more than whatever Mello was going to give him, regardless of how much torture he had to endure. He would have fallen over if the wall wasn’t supporting him; pressing his weight onto Mello, he buried his face in the blonde’s neck once again, attempting to stifle his moans. Mello’s hands were so fucking soft. Of course they were—he never did anything himself.

The bricks of the wall were leaving painful impressions in his forehead, but he didn’t care. He wanted to run his hands up and down Mello’s sides, his thighs: the molly made him want to rub everything, even the rough brick, but his body was overwhelmed, and he was afraid that if he moved, Mello might take his hand away.

“Is that it? Are you satisfied with just this then? Hm?”

God. When Mello got that condescending, it drove him insane. It made him mad. But his body didn’t realize this, and he twitched in Mello’s hand. Yes. I’m satisfied. I’m always satisfied with you. Anything. There was nothing he could say. No right answer. Even if there was. No brain left to figure it out.

“I know that’s not all you want,” cooed Mello, patronizing and saccharine. Matt felt like if he didn’t focus solely on not finishing, it was going to happen. And Mello would never let him live it down—cumming in his pants from a handjob like they were teenagers. When he was alone he could jerk off for hours without a problem but with Mello it felt like he could only last minutes. Mello’s thumb was drawing circles around his tip, smearing precum across his palm while he smirked expectantly.

“I… unh—“

“Come on. Use your words.”

“—tch… come on Mello…”

“’Come on’ what?” There was innocence on his face once again, but this time so obviously feigned and melodramatic that it almost made Matt laugh.

“You’re such an asshole,” he groaned instead, sucking on his teeth as Mello’s pace increased. “Please… come on.”

As slippery as ever, Mello easily ducked out from underneath Matt’s weight, dropping into a squat like a girl from a music video and deftly removing Matt’s full erection from his pants. Briefly sizing it up, he allowed it to sit half an inch from his lips as he looked up from under his eyelashes and asked,

“’Come on’ what?”

“Oh my god, Mello, just suck my dick, fucking ple—ah—“ He dropped the end of his sentence as he hit the back of Mello’s throat, and the low moan that rumbled from Mello’s chest traveled up through Matt, buckling his knees. The brick was digging into his arms now, cracking his nails as he scratched at it.

He cupped the side of Mello’s head, thumb affectionately massaging his temple and brushing his bangs from his eyes. He just wanted to touch him, kiss him, hold him. He wished they were in bed at home so he could lay on top of him and pin him down, to go under a blanket together and stay there, keep him there, somewhere warm, safe, somewhere soft that smelled like his shampoo and not an alley that smelled like piss, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and he was definitely begging for whatever change Mello was willing to spare him.

His hands were running up and down the thighs of Matt’s jeans, long black nails trying to tear through the denim, occasionally catching on the distressed patches and popping a string. Matt couldn’t look away. He was so fucking close. As though he could sense Matt’s enraptured stare, Mello looked up once again, locking eyes as he slowly—oh-so-slowly—pulled Matt’s cock from his mouth with a wet pop, allowing long trails of saliva to connect them and run down his chin. Matt’s abdomen tensed as what remained of his willpower forced his orgasm back. He could come on his face just like this. Mello wouldn’t even have to touch him anymore. His open mouth—he’s just begging for it—

The next thing he knew, Mello was on his feet again, turning his back to Matt and unlacing his own pants, whispering something Matt couldn’t quite make out but didn’t want to risk asking him to repeat. Snaking his arms around Mello’s waist once again, Matt hooked his finger on the ring of Mello’s vest-zipper, dragging it down enough to splay a hand across his bare chest and gently run his nails along its expanse. He wanted to kiss him, but would have to crane Mello’s neck to reach his lips, and didn’t want to risk hurting him.

Managing to work his pants down with record speed, Matt barely had enough time to appreciate Mello’s partially exposed ass before the blonde’s hand is at his hip, pulling him closer.

“We don’t have lube or anything—“

“Shut up. Hurry up.”

Matt can’t help but wonder how Mello can still be so bossy at a time like this, and he tries his best to coat his hand in spit but his mouth is still so dry, and Mello is so impatient—

He starts to slip a finger inside of him, but he’s interrupted by a sharp,

“No.” A hum of pleasure as Matt grabs his hip. “All of it.” Firmly, because he wants it that way. He wants fingerprint-bruises. He wants evidence. Matt’s afraid he’s going to tear him apart, because Mello is small, no matter how large his presence. And he’s certainly not one to brag, but his dick isn’t small. But Mello makes no sound aside from a small, contented sigh as Matt tries to ease inside of him—he watches the black polish chip as fingernails curl up against the brick.

“Is that… okay?” He’s breathing hard and afraid to start thrusting, afraid he’s going to see blood running down the insides of Mello’s thighs.

“Mmm-hmmm…” It’s a half-moan, half-confirmation, and enough encouragement for Matt to begin moving his hips gently, pushing Mello into the brick. He wants to kiss him more than anything. He really doesn’t want to hurt him. He wishes he could see his face. He carefully monitors what profile he can see when he leans in to bite his neck, watching for any sign of discomfort, any sign of anything at all, really, but Mello’s eyes are closed and his expression is impossible to read. As his pace picks up, Mello’s brow furrows slightly, eyelids fluttering—he almost wants to stop but he’s certain Mello would be mad—and so instead he thrusts into him harder, earning an abrupt velvet moan. Mello wants it rough. And if Matt knows one thing it’s that it’s always best to give Mello what he wants.

One of his hands works its way towards the undone laces of Mello’s pants while the other moves to his hair, and on a whim, Matt yanks his head back, craning his neck to kiss him, shoving him into the brick with such sudden force that his exposed chest is scraped bright pink. Mello gasps louder than Matt’s ever heard him gasp and as he pushes his full length inside, he feels the blonde’s knees give out completely, held against the wall by the weight of Matt’s body and the supporting hand on his hip. Mello’s long, breathy orgasm is far more than enough to send Matt over the edge, and he tries to choke back his shaky moans as his body melts but he can’t bite his tongue quickly enough to stop himself.

“I love you,” he whispers, biting the shell of Mello’s ear, holding up his exhausted frame, willing him to feel it too. He doesn’t want to pull out. He doesn’t want them to be apart.

Fingers gently tracing the raw rash on his chest, imprint of the bricks dancing across his sternum, Mello craned his neck back to kiss Matt, and replied,

“I love you too.”

#Matt x Mello #Mello x Matt #YAAAAAY TIME FOR SMUTFIC.#sorry i'll write nasty confessional sex next time guys. i started writing this when club date was winning so.#<- needs to be put down like a dog for writing this

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narutosux · 1 month ago

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i want to talk about the frank castle, mr The Punisher, of my dreams

the version of the punisher that is canon to me in my heart and idgaf about reality because men wrote him anyway and i dont respect men in general. im also going to talk a tiny bit about daredevil because to me they are literally two sides of the same coin they're literally bbc merlin and arthur and im this woke ass dragon going "two sides of the same coin go freaky on each other"

In my heart of hearts, Frank Castle is an anarcho communist. He is a hardcore anti-establishment commie who believes that revolution cannot come without bloodshed. He respects and cares about the wellbeing of Daredevil, Matt Murdock, and other heroes who have similar goals, because they do want revolution and change, but they don't have the balls to actually kill wholesale like Frank. Frank sees himself as the only one willing to actually get shit done, and he's okay with being an attack dog. He's used to it, because its what the US government used him as when he was a Marine.

The concept he would ever respect the police, a violent force used to oppress lower classes and protect capital, is LAUGHABLE. It's foolish. I ignore iterations of the Punisher who is fine with killing drug addicts because they're "breaking the law", and I believe in versions of Frank Castle that kills CEOs of pharmaceutical companies for pushing opioids as harmless drugs. I think the Punisher of the 80s might focus on street level drug offenses, however I think he would learn that the problem is systemic and tearing the leaves off a tree won't kill it, you have to attack it at the root.

I believe that he would work willingly with Daredevil A LOT... Obviously, Frank Castle is more than capable of doing investigative work on his own, and he's great at planning, however I think that both men recognize their ability to work well as a team and function together. Frank is willing to work with him on jobs where he can admit that killing isn't NEEDED, even if it would do things a whole lot faster.

Frank Castle, without a single doubt in my mind, HATES the US Military Industrial Complex, and the enforcement of violence. He accepts violence because it's all he's ever known. He's a good trained attack dog, and it's where he feels comfortable, but he's both a dog and his own master, and he feels he can only make up for the attrocities he's helped commit by righting the wrongs he's done. He's single-minded, headstrong, focused on his goals of destroying in order for rebuilding a better version of the world. Allowing people to take time to change means they can fuck up and harm others in the meantime. He's not willing to risk that.

Another piece that I did like from the version of him where he was the leader of the Hand, I really liked the idea that Maria was planning to divorce him right before his family was slaughtered. I think it would make him recognize just how little of life he had, and it would make him even more angry at him failing to protect them and failing to be a genuinely good husband. But, he also recognizes that it was never love, it was a role he thought he was supposed to fill. I just don't think he really loved her. Love doesn't look like what he put Maria through.

He knows how to fill roles, but he doesn't know who he actually is. Something quite similar to Matt Murdock, who feels he's the Devil, but also doesn't know who he is when he's Matthew. They're both constantly trying to fill roles in other people's lives, or fill the roles they think that they're supposed to be in, but they don't actually know who they truly are as people.

I think that's so powerful, for these two men who are so full of conviction and so firm in their beliefs but when it comes to thinking about who they are as people, they don't know themselves. But, they know each other. I think they know each other better than they know themselves, but they don't recognize that it's because they see so much of themselves in the other man.

Sorry, but you can't convince me they aren't completely fucking obsessed with each other. Daredevil sometimes wishes he could be the Punisher. He wishes he could just kill the evil he has had to hear for years and years and years and years of his life. But he knows it would never solve anything, it would only make him as bad as the evil around him. The Punisher wishes he could see a world where redemption is possible, he wishes he had that scrap of humanity left in him still. I think when he works with Daredevil he feels himself growing weaker and he has to run away and can't stay with him long, because it makes him recognize that he might not have the resolve to kill. He also fears he might taint Matt Murdock. He might eventually actually convince him to kill. And that scares him. Frank Castle taints everything around him, even his bloodsoaked, mangled children. Even his wife Maria, brought back from the dead, still covered in bullet wounds and beautiful as ever. He drove her to kill.

One day he might ruin Daredevil like that too, and the only saving grace of that moment would be that Daredevil would finally put down the sick dog that is Frank Castle.

#tips #daredevil #the punisher #frank castle #matthew murdock #i am ltierally so fuckign insane and so obsessed im begging anyone who is interested in this discussion please be my friend im Pupthetic i #know but still #fratt #bc yeah i cant lie yea i know im poisoned by yaoi but also like even w/o romance like people need to know that they're.......#they're like merthur coded like that still ok two sides of the same coin please put ME down like a sick dog too #i have like 20 different fanfics i keep writing on and off about them because im like..... i want them ot be happy so bad i want them to fi #find peace in each other but also i think they have to go thru so much pain but i want them to be happy #help! help! help! WHAT ! help me! chicken nugget

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codecicle · 25 days ago

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house is set in a medical facility and the plot of each episode focuses on medical issues. that being said. it doesn’t feel like a medical drama

That's the really fun part imo :-) i really enjoy house because it's not Exactly a medical drama, the medicine is more a gateway for in-depth character studies. they use the patients as puzzles for house, as new angles for wilson to try and get through to him, as another way for cuddy to keep him in check, etc etc. the only medical part is where it happens and what things they need to diagnose, and none of that part is what makes the show good. the part that reallyyyy shines is how they let the medicine affect each character. especially when the medicine itself doesn't effect the characters, but the fallout does! like when a case is just a puzzle for house, and his constant pushing and pulling to figure it out shakes his fellow's lives. he's destroyed marriages, he's broken up relationships, he's shattered families, all for the next puzzle. and that's fucking awesome dude. even when it's not the case that's influencing characters, it's house's reactions to the case that is. the entire show doesn't revolve around medicine, the medicine revolves around the show ^_^ it's used as a REAALLYY really cool storytelling tool, instead of just being the story itself. and for me that's much more compelling !!

#i make yet anothet post just for me 👍#we have mail :]#shakes and rocks back and forth like an old dog that needs to be put down #just my two cents on it peace and love✌️#god i want 2 write essays about the storytelling in this fucking show. its SO good #its ssooooo good maaan

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butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway · 25 days ago

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I don't have a lot of energy these days [because of The Horrors] so I'm looking at my day and my priorities and trying to plan how I'm going to spend what energy I have, because I do need to be able to rest and relax but there are also things that need doing and that is a careful balance for me.

I managed to [mostly] clean the kitchen last night so I've kicked it out of the priority list until next weekend. Unfortunately the living room, bathroom, bedroom, and my office all need cleaning too. I think of the priorities, my office and the bedroom are the most important to me, so I'll probably push the living room and bathroom until at least Friday.

There's also the laundry. I don't have any clean clothes and as we're moving into winter I need to be more rigid about getting that done because days where the clothes can be dried on the line will be more limited. So I definitely need to wash an outfit or two and hang them up in the next hour.

That's already a really busy day, so I'll probably cut it there. But it's definitely going to still leave me a lot of work this week. Half my cleaning, at least one more round of laundry, settling dog food for the next couple of weeks, planting the fall/winter greens, doing some set up work on my computer, work on some writing projects, cleaning out the fridge, and patching some worn clothes. My work week isn't insane atm, but it is definitely limiting. Right now I have 6+4+0+4+2+5+5= 25 non work/non-survival needs (sleep, food, shower, etc) hours available each week. I need to figure out a regukar distribution of these that means everything is getting done and I still have an hour a day to myself as often as possible. I think it's probably not realistic to give myself more than an hour a day for free time/fun, which is a bit unfortunate because I've found in the past that my floor tends to be getting 2-3hrs of free time most days because of how I deal with transition and decision-making.

25-7 [1hr per day] is 18 hrs, so I just need to decide where and how to distribute those in order to keep pace with things.

Lets say the garden needs 3hrs per week, the laundry needs 4 hours (specifically 2 sets of 2 morning/early afternoon hours), the cleaning needs an hour a day to get through a maintenance clean of the house, and 3 hours once a week to work down any deep cleaning that's built up. Which is....already three more hours than I actually have each week. So I guess I'll make a plan to work in the garden for 20-40min of 4 of my free hours each week.

It really doesn't leave me any wiggle room. Only about 4 hours a week that isn't explicitly allotted to something that needs doing, which means there will probably me a lot of weeks where I only get an hour or so at best across the whole thing for free time. I guess I've had a hard time accepting that at this point, having actual time for myself or a time-intensive project is only available if I've taken a day off work. I love my job, but it's ... not comfortable to realize that it's the only love in my life I actually have time for anymore.

I think that's probably why I end up here so much. It's this mindless little way of zoning out into my own head, dissociating away from the exhaustion, for a few minutes at a time. I keep thinking I want to use this space differently, make it more if the things I enjoy. But I think what I really want is just to actually have the time and energy to do things I love that take work. I keep crying a few times every day and I couldn't figure out why, but like

I dunno

Why **wouldn't** I cry a little every day? It's the closest I'm getting to actual emotional release or relaxation in my life. We'd probably all cry. Heck. A lot of us probably DO, capitalism being what it is.

I guess I'm starting to wonder why I'm doing what I'm doing. What is there left for me to sacrifice to this life? What is actually serving me about not just letting myself go up like a fireball and take my surroundings with me? What in the ever loving fuck am I fighting this hard for?

All I ever want, all I want now, is to be able to live. To really, actually live. How does wanting to live bring you this close to killing yourself, whether on accident or on purpose? What am I actually doing that is LIVING and what am I doing that is FACILITATION of living? It can't all be facilitation, or I'm not actually facilitating fuck all.

I'm 30 goddamn years old and I need to figure out what it looks like to actually love my life. I fundamentally refuse to zombify myself like this for everyone else around me forever.

#i really wanted to believe that if i just sat down and did the math i'd be able to figure it out.#but there is literally not enough time in the day for me to do all this.#i suppose i could sleep less. it's...not great for me to get less than 9 hrs a day #but i could probably pull it off for brief stints #a week on a week off or something #get an extra two hours a day that way #and then of course there's my old go to #i could just stop eating or taking care of myself #lord knows it's my well-being that restri ts my time more than anything else #and if i work myself to death like mom did instead of committing suicide at least the life insurance pays out #in case anyone gives wifey inheritance trouble #i already don't eat until dinner so that part won't give me a TON of extra time #but an hour a day at the end of the night to write does sound lovely so it might be worth it #on the weeks i sleep less i could use my 2 extra hours a day to do ingredient prep so that wifey's food doesn't go to waste as much #maybe even work on the garden and the yard's facilities a bit. i have a few projects that need time and attention so those'd fot in #if i cut my pain meds too i could put an extra $50/week back in my budget and i could use that for project supplies and emergency funds #god even thinking about this is making me so tired.#i don't know what this will leave of me #i've been doing this so long now #feels like the last time i remember having a consistent hour to myself every day was my BA sophomore year #and that was the first time too lmao #i'd spent high school waking up at 3am every day after going to bed at 12am because I needed to do my hw in the mornings #my bus left at 7:30am and i had to do all my paper assignments - make myself lunch for the day - wash dishes/tidy the kitchen - and THEN #i could finally make sure i had my shit together for the bus and maybe nap for 5min #then i didn't get home from school until 4pm and i had to fix the kitchen from whatever my parents did before i got back #then make dinner for the family #then clean the living room from whatever the pets had dome all day #then take the dog for her nightly walk and take a shower #and usually sometime after dinner around 9pm I would get permission to run to my room and try to get a head start on my hw before 11pm #that was my lights out curfew so it gave me a blessed single guaranteed hour to do something for me.....assuming i could stay conscious

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cinnamon-bunni · 3 months ago

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NOT okay right now im thinking abt pokemon leaving scars on their trainers + everyday, domestic problems.....

#this is abt my top gun au btw <3333 which will forever haunt me even though im less likely to write it everyday </3333 #like.....getting thin scars from rowlet as a kid which have now all basically faded to time #(though the ones gained as a teen from dartrix can still be seen)#while in the other hand always having angry red scratches along both arms because hes always holding up rufflet who fights like no tomorrow #(believe me; its better to hold him up and take the damage than put him down and let rufflet pick a fight with someone)#OR like....getting electrical burns because elekid doesnt know how to control its discharge yet. and the scars that stay bc of that #(which tbh is an ash + pikachu thing i would love to see)#or how one accidental poison jab from toxicroak will leave you utterly sick for days #(like serious he should probably go to a hospital or smth) and toxi just has the biggest saddest puppy dog eyes in existence it feels so ba #(its fine this has happened before he'll be fine. probably)#bruisings on your shins bc pawmot punches your legs to grab your attention or to get smth it wants....#rooms always being like ten to twenty degrees colder (or even more) when he has his ice pokemon out for whatever reason...#the reverse of that with fire types..... ough...#having to BEG flygon not to fly rn bc it starts a sandstorm every fucking time and it does it anyway #(PLEASE i took you out of your ball to eat dinner why cant yiu behave this one time)#and then dragonair fixing it to be clear skies again.....the never ending cycle....#any trainer who have pokemon that start sandstorm needing a pair of safety goggles for when they battle #(maybe even bringing a spare just in case or--if theyre kind enough--for their opponent to wear so they can see too)#dont even get me started on mythical pokemon interacting with the tg characters.....#anyway tried to stay as vague as possible for the characters lolol #bergmite is just a lil guy who wants to be carried around like all the other small 'mons....i am so sorry sweetie you are over 200 pounds #you cannot be perched on your trainers shoulder like someone else's rufflet can #having ice burns bc froslass tried to freeze him.....#anyway. can you tell i love pokemon #sorry to anyone who sees this in the pokemon tag </333 #delete later #i feel like im begging on my knees for someone to ask abt my au....but also if they did id die of embarrassment from answering it...#the pros and cons of having a dumb little au </3 #sigh maybe one day i'll write a fic... (<-keeps saying it but has written nothing for it (yet))

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ebongawk · 5 months ago

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#personal #ebongawk personal #rant #literally just need to write this down or I’m gonna explode #but my brother got like actually upset with me earlier tonight over something that happened when I was 19 #so 11 years ago #bc he gave me his ‘85 beater of a car #(my name was on the title!)#and a lady hit me and it got totaled out #so I gave him half the money thinking well that’s fair bc it’s my car but he did give it to me #and he’s just been harboring all of this anger about it all these years #because I guess that was in fact *his* car #it’s so fucking stupid #and he kept talking about his *generosity*#I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why that bothered me so much until I was driving home #and I realized that #no matter what I said or how I tried to defend myself #he kept implying that my generosity was less significant than his because it wasn’t monetary #despite the fact that I clean his fucking house #and have put so much goddamn money into making it feel like a home #never mind the state of this place when I moved in before I painted and deep cleaned #oh and don’t even fucking mention the *months* of my time I have spent watching his dog *for free* while he was globetrotting #but no #a car that totaled out 11 years ago because of an accident that *wasn’t my fault* makes him the epitome of generosity #gods I’m so mad #I spent my entire goddamn afternoon cleaning my sister’s disaster of an apartment so she hopefully gets some of her deposit back #and then I get reprimanded for something that happened when I was fucking 19 #Jesus I’m so tired #this is all such petty bullshit too like we are over 30 #fuck

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fortheharbingers · 5 months ago

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Making Mithrun cum until he is severely dehydrated

#nova's ramblings #hello I am back #feeling like. a rabid dog tha needs to be put down Mithrun…….#not to mention w this aven fic im writing just being between aventurine and your ex (broke up due to diff life paths. mutual decision) hhhhh

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blacknidstang · 10 months ago

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#i keep writing sucu big big spn rant posts and then not posting bc i dont think any cares and i get myself a headache writing them #i dont sanna subject ppl to reading them 💀#and we have enough negativity and im just in crappy state #personal rant #need to be put down like a sick dog

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myballzitch · 2 months ago

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I will not bark until you are done biting.

I will lay down and let you do what you want. I am a dog. I am your pet. I’ve cried too loud and scared the neighbors, I’ve embarrassed you. Rip out my claws, shave down my teeth, clip my ears, never set me free. I will comply. I hold nothing against you, for I am not allowed. You have taken care of me, I am misplaced, I am your stray. My tail cowers between my legs when I see you, hear you, smell you, know you’re still alive. I am yours, do as you wish. I will not bark until you are done biting.

#woof woof #i need to be euthanized #put me down like the poor dog I am #we’re all dogs in gods hot car #creative writing #old writing #writing #more shit from church

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osamucide · 2 months ago

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⊹ I AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT A NASTY DOG!

. . . BSD MEN AS OVERUSED PORN PLOTS!

wc: 5.3k

cw: MINORS DNI—explicit sexual content, gn!+afab!reader, a lot of anonymous sex, dirty talk, BIG DICK MEN, probably a good amount of ooc, some questionable dynamics/dubcon that can be read through the lens of roleplay and/or prior consent. character-specific warnings—chuuya: public sex, penetration; dazai: penetration, riding, creampie; kunikida: professor/student, oral (m!receiving); fukuzawa: secretary/boss, office sex, oral (m!receiving), facefucking; atsushi: HEAVY DUBCON WARNING, stuck, perv atsushi, penetration; akutagawa: blackmailing if you squint, degradation, choking, penetration; oda: penetration; ango: public sex, penetration, riding; nikolai: dubcon, home intruder f!masturbation, penetration; sigma: a tiny bit of perv sigma, oral (f!receiving); fyodor: priest!fyodor, religion/blasphemy kink, christianity-specific, oral (m!receiving)

reid: putting my dual major in journalism to work by subtitling these like bad porn videos. little not so thought out drabbles many with no definitive ending just silly whore thoughts. some are more stupid than sexy but either way i hope you enjoy because this was a blast to write HAHAHAHA

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

⊹ CHUUYA NAKAHARA—HOT GYM BUDDIES CAN’T WAIT UNTIL AFTER THEIR WORKOUT TO FUCK!

“Yeah, that’s a lot better. Look at you, you got it,” the pretty redhead mutters, his hands still firmly on your hips as he spots your squat. “Give me one more, I know you can.”

The praise prompts you to draw in a deep breath that has nothing to do with your next squat; anyway, this gorgeous man, kind enough to help you with your form, believes in you. So you bend once more, squatting down, down, and pushing back up—until on your way back up, you feel your legs begin to buckle.

“Woah, woah.” It’s sweet how concerned he sounds as his hands fly up to the bar and his feet nudge you forward to help you replace the weight on the rack, but his hips end up pressed to yours, and you’re gasping. “You okay?”

You’re fine, caged between him and the bar as he leans over your shoulder to glimpse your face that’s flushed from exertion. Only exertion, surely, even though your ass is pressed firmly to his pelvis. He doesn’t seem hard, but you can still feel it, and it feels big.

“Yeah,” you breathe, moving to duck under the bar, but it’s low and you’re feeling a little dizzy, so you teeter backwards into him, and as his hands find your waist again. “Yeah, I’m about to be done anyway.”

“You should really stretch after maxing out like that,” he suggests, turning you around. “Don’t wanna be hurting, do you?”

But you can only look into his intense eyes and shake your head lightly before he’s easing you to the ground on your back, settling each of his knees over one of your thighs, and slotting his shoulder beneath your hamstring. He pushes forward, gently, slowly, looking to you for anything wrong; and there isn’t.

There’s nothing wrong, except for the fact that you can feel his huge dick against your pussy through both of your shorts.

It’s all you need to start moving blindly, reaching down for his waistband, pawing at his neck, mashing his lips to yours, and he doesn’t hesitate to do it back—he lets up on your leg only to slip your shorts off before your ankle is back over his shoulder and he’s grinding the head of his cock into your wetness.

“You gonna let me in, baby?” he pants hotly, looking down at you squirming beneath him. “Yeah, I know you will—you’re strong, you can take it.”

His tip catches on your clit, and you gasp before he’s plunging into you, setting a brutal pace. “Oh, fuck!”

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” he groans. “So fuckin’ tight.”

He hits the inside of you perfectly, his soft ginger hair falling loose from its low pony—you wish you knew his name so you could scream it, but you settle for moaning, panting, cussing, as he throws your other leg over his shoulder and drills into you on the gym mat. ⊹

⊹ OSAMU DAZAI—MY OLDER BROTHER ALMOST CAUGHT ME FUCKING HIS BEST FRIEND!

“Shit—I’ll be back, gonna go shower this off. Asshole.”

That was what your older brother, Chuuya, grumbled at Dazai before scurrying off to the bathroom. The three of you had just gotten back from getting ice cream, and Dazai had the brilliant idea of snatching Chuuya’s cone from him and sticking it in his hair. Cursing ensued the entire walk home.

And Dazai popped the tail end of his cone in his mouth and grabbed for your wrists as soon as your brother was out of sight, which leads you to now—in the living room, on the couch, bouncing furiously on his cock as he grunts.

“Osamu—be quiet!” you plead with him, but you’re moaning, too.

His lips fall into a grin. “Don’t worry, cutie, I can still hear the shower—fuck! Just keep—keep doing that, you feel so fucking good.”

So you reinforce your grip on his shoulders and slam your hips down to meet his, over and over, drawing sinful sounds from both of your bodies as you’re separated by a single thin wall from your brother—Dazai’s best friend, who would probably murder both of you if he found out you were fucking.

And then the water turns off. You muffle the choked cry you let out into Dazai’s shoulder, so damn frustrated that you won’t get there, not before Chuuya comes back—but Dazai’s flipping you onto your back, grabbing you by your hips, pulling you into him with such fervor that you almost shout.

“Need it, baby, I need to cum in this pussy—”

“Osamu!”

But even you can’t tell if you’re egging him on or warning him to stop—with no sound buffer and Chuuya undoubtedly coming back any minute, your body decides for you that you need it, too, you need to cum and you will, no matter how much your mind protests; your eyes flick nervously up to the hallway when they’re not rolling back from how Dazai’s rearranging your guts.

“He’s gonna come back—unh—and you’re gonna sit here with my cum in you, and he won’t even fuckin’ know.”

He’s digging his nails into your hips and ass, making you twitch, reaching down to rub your clit hard, and when you cum, clenching around him, he shoves his palm over your mouth and spills into you with a last few wet smacks.

Dazai’s scrambling back into his pants as footsteps pad down the hall; he all but throws himself at the other end of the couch as you curl up, dressed but fucked silly, focused on not letting the evidence of what just happened gush out of you and leak onto the couch.

“Fuck was that noise?” Chuuya mumbles, sauntering out as he’s tying his wet hair up.

“Hm? I don’t know, I didn’t hear anything.”

When Chuuya turns toward the kitchen, Dazai tosses you a wink. Your face burns as you feel yourself leaking. ⊹

⊹ DOPPO KUNIKIDA—COLLEGE HOTTIE SUCKS DICK FOR EXTRA CREDIT!

"You do realize I'm going to have to fail you," your professor informs you, looking into your eyes with a little regret. Truthfully, you've always been personable in class and shown promise as a student, and he's disappointed. Not in you, just in your poor academic performance during your final semester.

"There has to be something I can do to make up for it," you nearly plead, hands clasped together on the edge of his desk as you look to him with hope. You know you've been slacking, but you need this class to graduate.

"I don't know—" He sighs your name, clearly confliced. Your attendance record is less than impressive these days, and Kunikida's enforced a strict class participation policy throughout his years of teaching—as well as no extra credit—something he makes clear to all of his students in all of his classes, and you especially should know better after taking his classes for four years. "I don't know. Like what?" Maybe you can do a few credits in the summer and still walk at graduation, or pick up an internship. But he wants you to take the initiative and accountability.

He doesn't really know how to protest when you're slipping out of your seat and sinking to your knees as a spark starts to gleam in your eyes. You rattle off a few academic ideas for posterity, but ultimately find your hands sliding up his thighs and fiddling with his belt.

Fuck it, you think, you'll be out of here soon enough. Plus, Kunikida's always been kind, compassionate, understanding, and sexy—too invested in his field to even notice that handfuls of students on campus would throw themselves at him given the chance. Maybe he'll finally understand, you muse to yourself, as you work his hardening cock out of his dress pants.

He chokes out your name when you take his length in both of your hands; he's all the way gone when you're swirling your tongue over his tip, giving in to your little idea for extra credit sooner than he'd ever admit to himself.

"Oh, fuck—" He's staring up at the ceiling of his office in pure bliss because his student is working hot, sloppy kisses down the underside of his cock. His hands twist into your hair, and you gaze up at him, doe-eyed, as his head falls forward and he looks at you through his glasses. "Keep going. Don't fucking stop."

He's trying not to thrust into your mouth when you fondle his balls; his pretty blond bangs are dampening with sweat, and you can't take your eyes off him as you bob your head faster, hollowing your cheeks around him and moaning at the taste of your professor's cock heavy in your mouth. He twitches and jumps at your attention to detail—your fingers raking tracks down his thighs, your frantic tongue, your fluttering lashes and sugary moans, gags, and slurps that are music to him.

You know, as he falls apart more and more by the second, you won't have to worry about this class anymore.

"Unh—uh, yes, oh, fuck, we'll work something out, yeah, gorgeous? Just don't stop—d—don't stop, don't fucking stop, I'm gonna cum down that pretty throat, yeah, and we'll get it all figured out." ⊹

⊹ YUKICHI FUKUZAWA—NAUGHTY SECRETARY SEDUCES HOT BOSS!

You're perched on his desk when he returns from the meeting—Yukichi, your boss, who, lately, you can't stop thinking about climbling like a tree. You're sure your coworkers see it, too, but you're his personal assistant; no one gets to be as close to him as you, and he trusts you.

Which is why you'll put the moves on him today.

He runs a hand through his silver hair—obviously stressed—sighing as he pulls his office door shut and turns to you. He speaks your name, holds a few papers in your direction, begins instructing you on what he needs from you next.

But you know better what he needs. The papers that make their way into your hands are quickly forgotten about on his desk as you uncross your legs and hop down, sauntering up to place on hand on his arm, the other on his chest.

"Sir, you look so tense. Are you sure there isn't anything else I can do?"

He makes his way to sit down in his office chair, disregarding your touch in a way that has you following after him like a puppy in need of attention.

He doesn't answer, but he also doesn't protest when you settle between his knees beneath his desk and push his yukata and haori up to pool around his hips. His dick is thick and veiny, even soft; when you spit in your hand and begin to work him up and down his mouth falls open with a sigh, and he grows at least two inches as he hardens beneath your grip.

You didn't think you'd be able to fit his absolute monster cock in your mouth, but you find yourself, throat open, with your nose pressed to his happy trail as you swirl your tongue and breathe through your nose frantically; he holds your face down, speaking very little but making up for it with the way he grunts hotly in that deep, rough voice as he bucks into the back of your throat.

"Unh—ugh..."

You breathe through your nose as his hips fall into a brutal pace; his hands on either side of your head keep you pinned in place as he uses you, takes his stress out on you. Your fingers massage his balls, and you can't help the way you hum around him when he twitches in your mouth.

Yukichi pulls out of your jaw and you gasp for air, wiping the spit that drips down your chin with the back of your hand, but he's not done. When he does speak, it's demanding, low, and it makes your cunt throb with need.

"Get up. Get up, sit on the desk. 'Need to fuck you."

You do as you’re told, open up for him with no hesitation, smiling as he works his fat cock into you—yeah, his stress will be gone in no time with the way he fucks your hole so hard and fast that you shake with each creak of his desk. ⊹

⊹ ATSUSHI NAKAJIMA—STUCK IN THE ELEVATOR WITH MY SEXY NEIGHBOR!

"Ah! Atsushi, open the door!"

"Um," he frets, punching the button until he's sure it'll break. If it's not broken already. "I—I can't, it's not working!"

Not working? Is he fucking serious? You're trapped in the door—all you did was try to reach back out for your bag you'd set by the elevator and now you're stuck, by the waist, between the two sliding maneuvers, your bag dangling from your hands.

"It's supposed to have a sensor! It's not supposed to even close when someone's on the threshold!" you cry through your teeth as you try to squirm out. Atsushi's mind is already working, though, over the way you're pinned in half, wiggling your ass as you struggle against the industrial strength of the elevator door. "Atsushi, help me, please call someone or something—"

But his hands are on your hips, pulling backward, and you can't help the noise of surprise that slips out of you.

"Atsu', I seriously don't think that will work, please, just call—Atsushi!"

His hands shake as he slides your pants and underwear down your thighs, exposing your ass; he tunes out your protesting as he undoes his belt. You hear the clink of it hitting the ground, you feel his fingers dipping into your cunt from behind, and he cannot be fucking serious.

"I'm sorry," he cries like it's out of his control—he feels like it is. "I'm sorry, you're so hot, you're right here, I've wanted this for so long."

And you feel yourself beginning to drip at his desperate tone. You can't fucking believe it—this is depraved. This is some shit you would've never expected from the sweet, cute boy in the apartment across the hall who helped you drag your bedframe and couch from this very elevator to your room but here he is, prodding at you with his pathetically leaky cock while you're stuck in the damn elevator door.

And you'd be frustrated with how your body reacts, but as he slides his dick along your cunt, drenching himself in your wetness, you can't help but arch back into his touch.

"Atsushi, you have to fuck me, please."

And he does, fast and unpracticed—he whimpers for you, tells you you're all he thinks about when he jerks off; he confesses that he looks through his peephole when he knows you're leaving for work or school just to get at least one glimpse of you everyday to fuel his imagination, and you gush around him, the pain of the door trapping you falling irrelevant, drifting out of your mind, as he buries his face in your shoulder and humps into you like an animal, pounding against your cervix.

"Fuck, that's right, so good, so, so good—better than I could've imagined—agh, fuck, that's right, take it all, take it, take it, take it...!" ⊹

⊹ RYUUNOSUKE AKUTAGAWA—HOT BABE HAS NO MONEY, LETS THE DELIVERY BOY DESTROY THAT PUSSY!

You rifle through your wallet and hum when you come up short. "Um, I... know you said you don't have a card reader, but I don't have enough cash."

The delivery boy looks at you with little more than boredom until you invite him in.

"Here, let me look in my room—I might have more stashed somehwere..."

He stands over you, searching you with his curious gray eyes as you dig through a drawer, a bag, another bag, only to come up short again. You even peek under your mattress for good measure, but you're just out. You turn to him sheepishly.

"I, uh... I don't have enough, I'm really sorry."

"Well, I can't leave without some form of payment," he deadpans, and you try to think of something, anything—you have a few giftcards for other delivery services, some jewelry—but he's letting his bag fall off his shoulder and grabbing you by the hips before you can register what he means.

You end up face down, ass up on your bed as a compromise, his hips rutting into you from behind as he holds your wrists behind your back. Ryuunosuke his name tag read—you're quick to adopt a way around that mouthful, moaning out, "Ryuu, Ryuu, please!" as he splits you open and calls you a whore.

"Fuckin' slut—"

When you're able to glance back for a second you can see his pretty black hair swaying with each rough thrust, and you're sure he's hitting your lungs—he's so fucking deep inside you, and you're gasping, moaning for more.

"—so eager to—unh—take this dick. Probably hiding your cash somewhere."

But whether you are or not doesn't matter; your eyes are rolling back to the hard smack of his hips against your ass and the white-hot pleasure that rolls through you every time he plows straight into your g-spot, and he's throbbing inside of you at the way your cunt grips him. Your pizza's getting cold on the counter in your kitchen, but you don't care—not when he bunches his fingers up in your hair to arch you back up to him so he can wrap his other hand around your throat.

You hold onto him as he bends you, pulling air down into your lungs when you can, and his gravelly voice barrages you with more words that make you gush around his cock.

"Gonna let me cum in this pussy so you don't have to fork over a few bucks for a pizza? Pathetic."

His teeth sink into your shoulder, his other hand reaches down to torture your neglected clit, and you're sure he's gonna break you over this, your hot delivery boy who just so happened to have the idea to fill you up as payment. You pant his name desperately between thunderous moans—you're gonna cum soon. ⊹

⊹ SAKUNOSUKE ODA—THIS PLUMBER FIXED MORE THAN JUST MY PIPES!

"Okay, that should do it." The man stands up, back to a height at which he towers over you, and you lean on the doorframe to the kitchen as he shuts the cabinets beneath your sink. "It's all movin' again."

You were in your robe when you answered the door, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't run to the bathroom to fix your hair and swipe on a little lip balm while he was working. Really, you hadn't meant to try to fuck the plumber. But this man was gorgeous, with his auburn hair, stubble-lined jaw, large hands, broad shoulders. You felt your eyes widen when you first laid eyes on him, and now you'd been throbbing thinking about what those thick fingers could do other than plumbing.

You pull your robe tighter around yourself, hoping to subtly accentuate the outline of your body. "Thank you so much, really, I don't know what I'd have done without the sink."

"Probably used the dishwasher a lot more," he cracked dryly, and your previous words suddenly feel stupid, but it only serves to make him hotter.

"How should I pay you?" You stride over to him. "Cash?"

"You can just pay online." He looks tired, but he has a well-meaning smile on his face.

You look a little incredulous. "Really? I can't—do you accept tips? Seriously, top notch work and super quick. I can't not thank you."

"I'm really not supposed to take tips," he drawls, running a hand through his hair. You find yourself biting your lip; you can't look away from him. You must look like a rabid animal right now, but you can't help it.

He doesn't tear his eyes away from yours.

"I mean, unless..."

Those three words are what find you on your back in your bedroom with your robe thrown open, the sweet and efficient plumber named Sakunosuke standing at the edge as he impales you on his cock. He worked you open with those fingers first, fast and harsh, just how you begged him to, but nothing could've prepared your weeping hole for the stretch of his fat dick—and now he's pounding into you, his hands clutching your waist as you hold your legs open for him to thrust deeper, deeper.

“Oh, shit. Unh—so wet—“

His groans come from his chest, deliciously—he looks a little like he knows he shouldn't be doing this, but your cunt is sucking him in like it was what he was supposed to come here for all along. You spasm and clench around him and he throws his head back, your whole body rippling as his strong hips and heavy balls smack lewdly against your ass with each thrust.

“Mmph—fuck—break that sink of yours more often, alright?” ⊹

⊹ ANGO SAKAGUCHI—I JOINED THE MILE HIGH CLUB (EXTREMELY RISKY)!

The man you met in the airport bar—oh, he’s pretty.

He's even prettier in your mind when the pilot announces phone permissions now that you're in the air, and the first notification your phone receieves is from him.

I have an open seat next to me in first class. Come visit.

You don't hesitate for a moment. You stride forward from the economy section, past the flight attendants who protest at you flimsily to search for his seat number—you see his unmistakably gorgeous hair, his glasses, his sharp side profile as he speaks to an attendant, catches you in his peripheral, and then shoos her away.

There's hardly niceties before one of your legs is slung over his knee and he kisses you with fervor. You don't think too hard about the people around you—none of whom can actually see you but without a doubt will know exactly what's happening in a few minutes—as you grind down onto his thigh, bite his lips, draw soft gasps from him when your knee nudges his bulge.

Before you know it, his cock is free and he slides your underwear to the side so you can sink onto him; he groans shamelessly when your wet heat envelops him completely, causing heads to turn in your direction, but you just brace your knees against the airplane seat and your hands on his shoulders make quick work of milking him of everything he has.

He kisses you, hot, heavy; he smells good, he smells expensive, and you tear his dress shirt open to rake your nails down his chest as he grabs your hips, letting his head fall back and a full-bodied moan into the cramped air of the plane as he does so. You lift up to let him thrust, let lewd smacks resonate throughout first class, and with your chest in his face he rides your shirt up to latch his teeth to one of your nipples; you echo him, moaning unabashedly, running your hands through your hair, gripping him as people look on.

"Fuuuck, yeah, feels so good," he praises from beneath you. "Knew I had to fuck you from the second I saw you." His eyebrows draw up in concentration as he looks down at where your bodies meet and continues fucking up into you hard. "Hah—listen to that cunt cry for me. You like being watched, huh? Gonna let me fuck you 'til the plane smells like sex? Huh?"

You nod, messily, desperately, and he quickens his pace ever faster, pulling you back down into a sloppy kiss.

An attendant awkwardly approaches in the aisle, but the gorgeous man who's destroying your insides just holds up a palm, shoos her away again.

"Fuck—so sexy. Keep takin' this dick." ⊹

⊹ NIKOLAI GOGOL—LUCKY INTRUDER GETS TO FUCK HORNY VICTIM!

You're splayed out on your bed, two fingers stuffed deep in your cunt—and he's just surprised you didn't hear him breaking the lock on your front door.

When you meet his eyes, you're so glazed over with pleasure that you barely miss a beat, your gaze only blowing wide when he peers around your bedroom doorway. His snowy white hair, his sharp features—you can't find the sense to be alarmed at this unfamiliar man, the one holding your laptop and—is that your wallet?

Doesn't matter—they're clattering to the ground, another factor here you can't find it in yourself to care about as his gray eyes are locked onto you fucking yourself open on your sheets. The sheen of sweat that covers your skin, your desperate moans as you grind your clit against your palm, the obscene squelching that comes from your wet cunt—they all serve to propel him over to you, prompt him to dig his already-hard cock out of his pants as you just watch, beg him with your stare to come fill you up. You're so lucky he's here, really—you look like you're struggling to get deep enough with your pathetic little fingers; he guesses it's only fair that he repay you for the material goods he's about to rob you of and pawn off on whatever sucker will buy them for cash, right?

"Right? I'll help you out—" He gives his cock a few pumps as he positions himself between your legs, "—looks like you need it, sweetheart."

You can only bite your lip to supress the moan that leaves you as he enters your cunt and lifts your fingers up and out of you by your wrist to swirl his tongue around them, lick them clean. He's huge—even your third and fourth fingers weren't enough to prepare you properly for the burglar’s dick in your needy pussy, so you let out strained combinations of gasps and screams when he starts to drill into you mercilessly. You can't help the way your ankles link behind his back, the way you reach for him—and he smiles wickedly when your eyes roll back.

"You like having a stranger's cock deep in your guts, huh?" he speaks between deep sighs and grunts. You can only babble your incoherent agreement, your laptop and wallet forgotten, the actions of this man forgotten, everything but how desperately you need to squirt all over him forgotten—you reach down and rub your clit, play with your nipples as your mouth is frozen open as you moan, moan for this man who's just broken into your home. "Uh—yeah, you're gonna like takin' all my cum, too, I bet." ⊹

⊹ SIGMA—MASSEUR HELPS HIS SEXY CLIENT RELIEVE STRESS!

"Oh, yeah—right there," you groan softly as the heel of his palm meets the center of your back. You've been looking forward to this full-body massage the whole week, and this man was not disappointing.

He works his way down your back, twisting knots out as he goes—his lithe fingers feel like heaven against you, overworked from hours at your desk hunched over your computer.

But it's a full-body massage, as mentioned before; when his fingers dig into the plush of your asscheeks, you can't help the groan that leaves you.

"That okay?" he inquires; you think you hear a shake in his voice.

"More than okay," you reply, thinking you could fall asleep as he works you into relaxation. You could close your eyes from how good it feels, or you could peek behind you and see his face burning with blush at your sounds. You do the former, but smirk a little at how sweet it is of him to check in.

He checks in again when his hands are inching your underwear down, and you tell him of course, he's the professional.

He's still the professional when he climbs up on the table behind you and buries his flushed face into your cunt. You arch up and back, crooning, as his hands stay massaging you, spreading you apart, kneading your ass with career expertise and plunging his tongue into you with enthusiasm.

"Oh! Oh—feels good," you breathe, grinding back into his face, onto his nose. He laps at you happily, this masseur you've barely looked upon for a total of twenty seconds, but you can't lie to yourself and say you didn't think he was pretty when he led you back to his room; he hums into you, sending you shivering, twitching. "Please, more."

"Mhm," he mumbles, releasing one of your asscheeks to lay back beneath you and insert a long, thin finger into your pussy; you sigh, you settle onto his face, and his tongue speeds up in this new position in a way that rips a high moan from your lungs.

Not hunched, but arched, the stretch feels heavenly on your back in combination with the way he pumps another finger into you; you graciously sit up, throwing your head back, begging, pleading for more until his tongue settles into a tight back-and-forth rhythm over your clit. "Please, please, please—"

You grind against his nose, your moans become more erratic, and you dig a hand into his hair as your hips move in dizzying circles over his head.

"Cum for me?" he asks, muffled by your pussy; you'll ride him until his face is soaked. ⊹

⊹ FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY—CONFESSING MY SINS ENDS IN HUGE CUMSHOT ALL OVER MY FACE!

“And I’ve been terribly, terribly lustful, Father Fyodor,” you say with regret. “It consumes me. I really never used to be like this."

"Temptation lurks everywhere," the priest sympathizes. You can barely see him through the grate, but his soft, forgiving voice sounds close to you. "The Devil and his army are constantly exploiting our vulnerabilities to try and turn us to sin, but worry not, child of Christ; we're human. I'm here to guide you. Continue."

You shift on the wooden seat in the booth, crossing your hands tighter over your lap. "That's really all. It's been very concerning to me. I think about it... I think about it so much."

"About what?" Father Fyodor prompts, and you bristle even more at being asked to elaborate.

"Sex," it barely comes out as more than a whisper. "I can't help it—it's everywhere. It leaves me feeling so... exhausted and frustrated, and the only thing that helps is... Well..."

But you're met with silence. You know he wants you to go on. You're here to confess, after all.

"...touching myself. I do it at least once a day. It's like a burning within me—nothing helps but—but—cumming all over my fingers." Your voice is laced with shame—the throbbing of your cunt as you talk makes you feel all the more guilty, and you can only imagine how he's shaking his head. "That's all. That's all."

"You'll do penance," he says, comfortingly. "When we bring our sins to the Lord and repent he cleanses us of them."

The grate pops out of the window, and you see the the waist of his alb as he speaks his next words.

"You'll take communion, now—" the cinctures around his waist fall undone beneath his hands, and the alb is hiked up to reveal a leaking cock, pretty and pale and bobbing in the air of the confessional. "—and be saved from the flames of perdition.”

"Yes, Father, please. Anything to be saved." But your mouth waters in a way that you know has little to do with your thirst for salvation.

"Take this; eat. This is my body," he recites the scripture as his length reaches through the window; your hands, eager and already on the threshold, accept him willingly. As you wrap your mouth around him, he groans, and it's like seraphim singing their holy, holy, holy.

"That's it—child of God, follower of Christ; I absolve you of your sins," he gasps as his tip hits the back of your throat which was begging for forgiveness moments ago. His hands reach through the window to stroke either side of your face, and then hold you in place to fuck your throat. "The Lord will forgive you for this." ⊹

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