#Because as much of a loving father he is.. he was still no perfect father. But I hope he actually tries to improve.

[dubina-dawkins]

FORD MUSTANG '66 BACK SEAT

~2k words (i got carried away :p)

pairing: teen! dean winchester x teen!virgin! reader

> your uncle got you a perfect 18th birthday gift - white ford mustang '66, and dean is in awe. not only because of the car, but because of the birthday girl too

warnings/notes: smut, minors dni! f! masturbation mentioned, loss of virginity, fingering, p in v, unprotected (done by professionals don't try at home), softdom! dean, afab! reader, really fluffy and gentle, lots of kisses i mean how do they still breath, may be kind of continuation (but not a direct one but after some time yk) of my previous work with teen! dean and teen! reader, reader is hunter btw but this is mentioned less, no usage of y/n

REPOSTS WILL BE APPRECIATED

"Are you kidding...he gave you that baby girl? Damn it, your uncle has taste!" Dean laughs, approaching the vintage car from the bumper, palms wide on the cold metal. He stares out the windshield, then walks around the car in a circle before turning back to you, one arm around your shoulders.

Your birthday was literally, like, a week ago? But since your uncle was busy, he didn't get you a present until yesterday. And today Dean was here on your call. Secretly from dad, of course. Sam's at school somewhere, so there's no need to keep an eye on the kid, so, uh...

"Uh-huh. A useful gift for hunters, huh? Especially since uncle let me hunt alone or with you now... Cool stuff. And even though I'm a bit of a machine builder 'cause I'm always helping him, I think I'm gonna need some help, you know..." You start, turning so that your fingers slip into his messy hair, and Dean laughs.

"If you want me to drive this hottie until you get your driver's license-"

"Bingo!"

Dean laughs, his hands finding a place on your ribs as he pulls you into a tender kiss. The touch of his lips on yours was always too gentle, and it was infuriating sometimes. Knowing Dean, he could have done so much more. Just cared, I guess?

You kissed him back, wrapping your arms around his neck. Knowing Dean freakin' Winchester, it was easy to see that he loved you very much. Well, loved you as much as he could. Sometimes it was a fight, but not a big one - hell, you're only 18, what the hell is there to fight about?

Especially since you now had official permission for alone time - soon you'd be hunting together, which meant lots of adventure, blood, sweat, and lives saved. Sometimes that last point was purely functional, and yet. Just you and him.

You couldn't call yourself an innocent Christian girl. You hated the church, God and angels with all your soul after all you had seen and gone through. They're in, they're out, it doesn't make much difference. So sinning didn't seem like a bad idea. Especially when you're just getting back from a walk with Dean in the night, when he's running away from home in his father's car - let's just say he wasn't promised his own car until he was 21 - and the feeling of his hands on your cheeks, ribs, waist and hips still hangs in space...

Then your fingers traveled south, stroking first the lower abdomen, then the labia, then the wet passage, and finally up to the clit.... you could've sworn your panties hadn't been dry after any encounter with your boyfriend. Dean's wink or a glance at your neck, your waist, and you'd be drowning. God, why's he so pretty all the time?

"Okay, now..." Dean pulls back and walks around the car to open the door and land in the driver's seat. His eyes glisten, and you can tell he's enjoying this immensely. Somewhere along the lines of his favorite movies and listening to Led Zeppelin.

His strong palms grip the steering wheel, and he leans back to keep it at arm's length. And Dean laughs again, stroking the leather of the steering wheel with his thumbs. "Pretty one, that's for sure..."

You land in the backseat, and he turns to you, raising an eyebrow. Without even hearing his question, you smile and fold your hands in your lap.

"I can't get used to the fact that it's all, like, mine. And I'm kind of scared to sit in the front. I guess it'll pass with time." You don't have time to finish the sentence when he gets out of the car, and a few moments later he's standing in front of the open backseat door.

"Then I should join you," he laughs, jumping to you, putting his hand on your lower back. You shriek and laugh, pressing your lips against his. The kiss is long, sensual, and at some point Dean's hands move down to your thighs, spreading them wide, and he pushes you back against the seats, towering over you. When he pulled away from the kiss, you looked up at him wide-eyed, doubt flickering across his face instead of a smirk.

"Uh...I hope you've-...you've already had someone, right...?" he gently takes you by the hips, wrapping your legs around his waist, and you only blush.

"Well...no?"

Dean closes his eyes for a moment and frowns, stroking your thighs with his thumbs, the same tenderness he used to stroke the steering wheel of your Mustang. Yeah, well, considering you were a hunter too, you didn't have much of a chance for a relationship...

"Ah, so...I get to be first? Woah..." he'd be lying if he said it didn't excite him even more, but it scared him too. However, he smiles and bends towards you, not allowing you to give an answer, his lips pressed against yours again. He places one hand on your chin, gently, two fingers opening your mouth for his tongue as his other hand creeps down to your stomach, stroking it.

"God, you're so- aah, fuck..." Dean sinks down between your legs, unzipping the fly of your jeans and pulling them down your legs. When his teeth snag the elastic of your panties, you whimper, putting your hand on his head, and he laughs. "Shh, not yet."

He looks at your glistening, wet folds, and God, it means everything. Dean licks his fingers - though it wasn't necessary at all, you were fucking soaked - and gently presses his thumb against your clit. When that elicits a soft moan of his name from you, he chuckles.

"Are you okay, baby?" He whispers, kissing your stomach, and gently pulls up your t-shirt. He kisses your collarbones while his free hand works on the clasp of your bra.

But God, you're too good to respond with anything but a whimper. You take off your shirt, and he pulls off your bra, and for a moment he just stops, staring at you. A low growl escapes Dean's lips. "You're so beautiful for me, baby..."

He brings his hand back to your pussy, gently stroking the space next to your passage, and your already tight walls tighten around nothing. He whimpers at the mere sight, pressing his lips to your nipples. Every sensation is new, every touch sending shocks of pleasure through your entire body. You put your arms around his neck, one hand creeping up to his disheveled hair, the other reaching down to his back.

Dean throws off his leather jacket and flannel, leaving only a T-shirt, and the cold material of his amulet burns your skin as he leans in again to leave kisses on your skin. "It might hurt now. Tell me if you need me to stop..." But you both know that neither you nor he wants to stop it.

Dean rises to capture your lips again in a kiss, and his middle finger slides into your channel, and you let out a loud sob at the sensation. His fingers are different, feel completely unfamiliar. And it's too exciting, especially when he gently pushes his finger deeper, and your core squelches so lewdly that you blush.

"De...feels so good," you whimper, hugging his shoulders, your hands in fists clutching the fabric of his t-shirt. "I'm trying, love," he laughs against your lips, his finger stroking your walls in a circular motion, and you grind against his hand - at which point Dean presses his hand to your stomach and begins to move his own finger inside, discreetly adding his ring finger as well.

You arch your back, and he kisses your cheek. "So good, you're so good, baby. So good at taking me like a good girl," your walls clench around his fingers at his praise, and Dean groans at the sensation - the bump on his jeans getting noticeably harder as he muffles both his and your moans with a kiss.

You feel bratty, pulling your hands to his belt, and Dean growls against your lips. "Can you handle this? I don't want to hurt you, sweetheart," he pulls his own jeans down, tossing them off his legs somewhere on the back of the driver's seat, followed by his T-shirt. Your fingers stroll phantomly over his waist and hip bones as he slides his fingers out of you with a squelch of your walls, and you whimper unhappily.

"Please, Dean-"

"Shh, shh, shh..." He strokes your cheek, bending down to kiss your swollen lips again, and his free hand guides your palms to the waistband of his boxers, and you obediently pull that down, letting him away from the kiss. Your eyes widen as you stare at his erection, and Dean chuckles shyly.

"Whoa..." you lick your lips, and purely out of interest, you touch your fingers to the tip. His shaft throbbed, and Dean let out a high-pitched whimper as his precum began to glisten under your finger.

"Baby, let's not make any more comments," he picks up your hand, intertwining your fingers, and gently positions himself between your thighs. Dean can't resist the opportunity to rub me against your swollen clit, and you synchronously make almost identical sounds - something between a high-pitched moan and a sob.

"...Are you sure?"

"Dean, shut up and get to work."

He laughs, leaning down to your face again. "That's my girl."

And he pushes into you in one, slow thrust, inch by inch, swallowing your moans of pain and pleasure in another kiss. God, a little more, and your lips would have turned blue.

He pulls away from your lips, arching his back, and catches your hands in his, intertwining your fingers again. Dean hisses, squeezing your hands. "So fucking tight...just for me, huh...?"

He doesn't just fill you up - his hardness overwhelms you, and you feel complete for the first time in your life. Your fingers grip his hands as if your whole life depends on it. "F-fuck, it's so huge-"

"Believe it or not, you're the first person to tell me that," he leans to you again, kissing your cheek as his hips move and he begins his slow pace. His thrusts may be measured but they're precise, each time his tip taps harder on that most sensitive point inside you, and it seems there are more stars in front of your eyes than there are in the night sky.

"You're doing well, baby...So tight, so wet, so pliable, just, just for me..." He whispers into your ear as his thrusts become less controlled, more needy. Your walls quiver and his length throb more and more inside-you're both close, and that knowledge drives you insane.

"D- yaaah, Dean, I'm close-" He doesn't answer anything, just presses his lips against you again and roughly penetrates your mouth with his tongue, his palms gripping your waist hard enough to bruise it, but one hand does drop down between your bodies to caress your swollen clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

And this is it, you cry out his name, your walls tighten around his cock, and he hisses, with a loud pop of your bodies releasing his length from your heat.

But you don't let him out that easily.

"My turn," you grin weakly, your hand taking his erection in your fist, giving it a few quick strokes, and he fucks your fist like he's in heat, nuzzling his face against your neck, making a moan so pathetic it's even cute.

"I love you so much...Baby, baby, sweetheart, fuck-" He whispers frantically, and with one final thrust, shots of his seed crash into your palm, your side, and the leather of the seats. Dean wraps his arms around your shoulders tightly, pulling you close, his face finding its place in your hair as he exhales hoarsely. "So fucking much..." he says, breathing heavily, his voice muffled by your locks.

There were tissues in the glove compartment, right?

a/n: still love my baby. still a tooth rotting fluff. your honor I'm sorry!! was working on reqs but i just thought of this idea and couldn't get it out of my head so that's it.......

[quintessenceofdust88]

perfect (it's not all it's cracked up to be)

Hello everyone! I promised you guys that the sequel for this prompt would be up by the weekend, right? Turns out I only sorta lied cause it's still Monday hehe. I hope you enjoy it!

You can read it on AO3 if you'd prefer! ❤️

When Tommy wakes up, it’s like his body is on fire and freezing at the same time; half of his body feels numb, and the other half is hurting like never before. Huh, maybe his father had a point and all queer freaks end up in hell. Then again, considering one of his last deeds on Earth was walking out on sunshine itself, maybe it’s not about his queerness after all; it’s about Tommy himself. 

He hears a heart monitor at his side, and that gives him pause; he doesn’t think the afterlife bothers with medical devices, so… So maybe he’s alive? If only opening his eyes didn’t feel like it would hurt so much, Tommy could try and find out (not that he knows what hell looks like; it could be like a hospital room, for all he knows). He tries it anyway, letting out a grunt as it, indeed, hurts like a bitch. 

“Oh my God, you’re awake!” A voice says to his right side, and yeah, now Tommy’s pretty sure he’s not in hell. Evan Buckley doesn’t belong in hell, not even as part of Tommy’s eternal torture. 

As his vision clears, Tommy sees Evan is on a chair by his side, and he looks… Rough. There’s stubble covering his cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. He’s looking at Tommy with despair clearly written in his permanently wet eyes, as if he’s afraid Tommy will disappear if he looks away. And to Tommy, it’s still instinct to comfort Evan, to try and find something to say that’ll make him feel better.

“You found your present” He says dumbly, his eyes not leaving the burgundy hoodie that’s so beautifully wrapped around Evan’s frame, making him look as cozy and adorable as Tommy expected. And, well. It might not have been the smartest thing to say, but he supposes there’s a lot of morphine going through his body right now. 

“Well, yeah, after you told my sister where it was as your helicopter crashed? After you wished me Merry Christmas and Happy New Year as your parting words?! It wasn’t so difficult” He answers with a somewhat hysterical chuckle. “What the hell, Tommy?! You’re too much of a coward to actually let yourself be loved and see a future with me, but not to send a farewell message to me through dispatch?! You’re unbelievable!”

“Buck…” He starts, but it’s clear he won’t get to say anything this time. For one, his brain is still working a little too slow to translate thoughts into words. Evan seems to notice it, and lets out a defeated sigh. 

“We… We’ll talk later, ok? Let’s get a doctor to check on you first. Sorry, that should have been the first thing I did” He says grumpily, and presses the button by Tommy’s bed. 

From them on, it’s a flutter of doctors and nurses, and Tommy learns the extent of the damage: a broken femur, at least five crushed ribs and a small concussion, not to mention the thousand bruises that turned his whole left side black and blue; he hasn’t looked at a mirror yet, but it can’t be pretty. 

“Yeah, well, you should’ve seen the other guy, doc” He attempts to joke, and Evan’s scoff and the doctor’s exasperated look make it clear it wasn’t his best attempt. “So, let’s talk business, doc. Will I fly again?” Tommy asks, because that’s the question that matters the most. 

He realizes with a treacherous skip to his heart that Evan looks as interested in the answer as Tommy himself. During the whole time the doctor is talking to him about treatments and physical therapy and his perspective to get back to work, he stays by his side, nodding attentively at everything the doctor says (as if he’ll be involved in your treatment, a hopeful part of his brain that should have quieted down weeks ago supplies, and Tommy does his best not to listen to it, because it’ll hurt so bad when it’s not the case). 

When the doctor makes it clear that Tommy will not go back to the air for at least six months, Evan squeezes his hand and gives him a look of solidarity that goes a long way to make it not feel like the end of the world. And when the nurse comes to up Tommy’s dosage of morphine and redress his wounds, he doesn’t let go of his hand. Tommy wants to say something, anything, but he’s received a lot of information and the morphine running through his veins makes it difficult to put his thoughts into words. But he doesn’t want to fall asleep; he doesn’t want to let Evan go. 

“Sleep, Tommy” Evan tells him in a firm tone. “I’ll be here when you wake up. Then we’ll talk”

It sounds too good to be true; Tommy refuses to believe it. Evan would have every right to leave him to fend for himself; he wouldn’t blame him in the slightest. He closes his eyes, fully expecting to find an empty room when he wakes up.

But contrary to all expectations, when Tommy opens his eyes again, feeling slightly more like a person and less like a shapeless bruise, is to find Evan in the same chair, only with the black hoodie this time, and a cup of coffee in his hand. 

He’s impossibly handsome in black, Tommy thinks dazedly, taking advantage of the fact Evan’s looking down at his phone to take a good look at him. There are dark circles under his eyes, and Tommy wonders if he’s been home at all. 

His heart does another one of those treacherous leaps, and Tommy is having a hard time keeping the hope from bubbling in his chest. Because if this man saw Tommy at his worst, physically and (especially) emotionally, and was willing to stay this long by his side, who’s to say he won’t stay longer? He was willing to; Tommy was the one who fled, thinking it was about the excitement of a new relationship, but staying by his side after a helicopter crash is something entirely different. Who’s to say he won’t just… stay?

Tommy has to be brave; hell, he’s been brave before, on that glorious night where he took a leap of faith and placed a kiss to the man who had maimed his best friend for Tommy’s attention. Evan had been brave, if a little misguided, when he invited Tommy to move in with him. He owes him some bravery right now. If nothing else, he owes him some honesty after everything.

“You were right” He blurts out, and Evan looks up from his phone, staring at him with widened blue eyes. 

“H-hey, you’re up! Do… Do you need anything? I can call the nurse…” He trails off when Tommy’s hand, the one which is less covered in scrapes and bruises, reaches out to lightly touch his.

“I just need you to listen to me. You… you were right, Evan. I was a coward. I am a coward. I… I don’t know how to be loved. I never was” He admits it, and hates himself for choking up as he says it. This isn’t a pity party; he’s just stating a fact: the sky is blue, alcohol is flammable, Thomas Kinard was never loved. He hates how it makes Evan’s whole demeanor soften, because Tommy doesn’t deserve it. 

“Then let me love you” Evan whispers, taking Tommy’s hand in both of his. “Let me teach you how it feels. It’s… It’s not like I’m an expert at it, ok? I… I haven’t always been loved either. But… but I love you. You broke my fucking heart, Tommy, and I still love you. Do… do you love me?”

“With all of my heart” Tommy whispers back, and he can’t keep a tear from running down his face. Hell, he almost died, he’s allowed to be emotional. “T-that’s why I had to leave, Evan. If… If you didn’t love me back… If you found out I wasn’t perfect…”

“I know you’re not perfect, Tommy. But guess what? I love you anyway, you idiot” He says, pressing a kiss to Tommy’s forehead, another to the tip of his nose, and a very tender one to his lips. “You… You always wanted me to see you as perfect. You barely let me in all the time we were together. But I saw it anyway, Tommy, and I still wanted you. I still want you”

“I… I was so afraid of being hurt that I didn’t think I’d be hurting you” Tommy admits with a sigh. “A-actually I didn’t think you’d be hurt. I… I thought you’d be okay. I’m sorry, Evan”

“Well, I wasn’t okay. Just ask all of my friends and the thousand loaves of bread in their pantries” He says with a chuckle, and then looks Tommy deeply in the eyes. “Next time, talk to me instead of doing a dramatic exit. And don’t wait till you almost die to let me know where my Christmas presents are”

Tommy chuckles, and squeezes Evan’s hand. He wishes he could sit up and kiss him within an inch of his life, but it  sounds a little out of his physical abilities right now. He’ll content himself, with a peck on the lips before Evan sits back down, still holding Tommy’s hand in his. 

“I promise Christmas will be perfect” He says, and Evan shakes his head.

“I don’t need perfect, Tommy. I just need you”

–

And Christmas is not perfect. Tommy’s still mostly on bed rest and his leg’s still in a cast. Buck’s staying at his place for now to help him around, but they decided to leave any serious conversations about moving in to after New Year’s. They haven’t really decorated (Tommy was too depressed to bother, and Buck didn’t really have the time between his shifts and taking care of Tommy) and their plans for the day mostly consist in staying in bed and alternating between cheesy rom-coms and documentaries. 

It’s not perfect. They are not perfect. But they’re together, and Tommy finds himself thanking any deity out there for his accident. That it brought Evan back to him, and more importantly, him back to Evan. 

Buck’s wearing his new burgundy hoodie, and he gives Tommy the airplane model that he stubbornly kept in the hood of the Jeep all this time. They assemble it together, and it’s not the best, because Tommy’s hands are still a little sore and Buck’s not very good at the whole arts and crafts thing, but Tommy puts in his nightstand with adoration anyway. 

And if there’s no tree, no Christmas dinner, no cheesy sweaters, well. They can always make up for it next Christmas.

--

Tag list: (let me know if you’d like to be removed or if I missed anyone! Also if you'd rather only be tagged on Little Blobs' verse, also let me know! ♥)

@bidisasterevankinard @unhingedangstaddict @silversky9 @music-is-the-voice-of-the-soul @asmugfirefighter  @rubydaiquiri @racerchix21 @actuallyitsellie  

[athenaswisdoms]

𝑩𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑫𝑰𝑪𝑻, 𝑫𝑨𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮

𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒏𝒆

benedict bridgerton fanfiction (more chapters coming soon)

"...and as for Mister Benedict Bridgerton, one cannot be so sure. He has spent the last two seasons focusing on his artistic talents, according to the Viscountess Bridgerton. As the beginning of the season is upon us, there are countless young ladies and anxious mamas on the market for a handsome, and not to mention wealthy, eligible man of status. I will be keen to see if the second-eldest Bridgerton brother will follow in his older brother's footsteps of marriage. Dear reader, you shall be hearing from me."

I roll my eyes, tossing the most recent issue of Lady Whistledown onto the sofa beside me. I knew it was a waste of time, but I'd rather read it than allow my anxiety over the coming evening's ball to come to the surface.

Tonight was Lady Danbury's annual Four Seasons Ball; the first of the season. Not to mention that this was my debut into the eyes of the public in hopes to find a husband. At least that's what my mama liked to say. I more thought of it as a missed opportunity. A failure to indulge in an education and adventure. As much as my parents denied it, the search for marriage was an auction, and I was about to be led by the neck right into the ring.

Still lost in my worries, my maid, Clara, opened the door to the drawing room, startling me slightly.

"Sorry, Miss. I didn't mean to disturb you," she said formally, "but we must start preparing you for the ball."

I walked towards the door, sighing just quietly enough so that my father, looking over his business papers, wouldn't notice my dread. As soon as the door shut behind us, I looked to Clara and swore under my breath.

"My goodness, get that language out now because you'll need to be on your most 'ladylike' behavior for tonight," Clara joked.

Clara was just a few years older than I and we had developed a closer bond than my parents were aware of, and she had been consistently reassuring me for weeks that everything would be fine and to look for the positives. As much as I tried, all I could see was Clara striving to live vicariously through me, as I know all she had ever wanted was to fall in love. If we could switch places, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

After slipping on my gown overtop the numerous undergarments of frills and laces, I sat down in front of my vanity as Clara began on my hair.

"Love, once you arrive and get through the first dance you will feel much more comfortable. I assure you that all of the other young ladies are just as nervous," Clara comforted, " - and I'm sure some of the men are too."

I laughed, "I know, but I wish my mama and papa would've waited another year for my debut. I know that they support my studies and yearning for adventure, but I can't see why I must do this now."

"They only care for you and want the best life for you. I'm sure there's a man out there that will support your desires."

I shook my head slightly, thinking about the housewife I would be destined to become through the values of the men I know of.

"In our dreams, Clara."

. . .

The constant bumps of the carriage were the only thing keeping me steadily awake on the way to the ball. A coachman assisted me down the steps and I was forced to take it all in - the arched doorways underneath pillars atop a grand balcony, patios on either side, and tall windows that allowed light from inside to peek out from between the curtains.

The inside was stunning. Decorated to perfection with cascading carnations and crystal champagne glasses that reflect the candle light to allow the drink an even more golden essence. Priceless diamonds were cast upon the collarbones of young ladies, sparkling almost as much as their excited expressions. A shudder of hope ran through me, but only for a moment. Until the ribbon of a dance card was slipped over my gloved wrist by my mother. I looked down at the empty name slots, already plotting ways to circumvent the inevitable small-talk and stiff dances to come. Before I could become serious about a plan, Lord Clarke began to approach.

Lord Clarke shook my father's hand, then greeted me with a curt bow. I stood still until my mother reminded me to curtsey with a swat on the back of my arm. His name was promptly added to my dance card, reminding me of my previous plotting that I was becoming more serious about by the second. As I scanned the room for unwanted approaching Lords as well as a way out, I noticed the Bridgertons walk in the door to the ballroom. The new Viscountess Kathani Bridgerton on the arm of Anthony, Colin Bridgerton scanning the area, Eloise Bridgerton looking all but disgusted, and Benedict. I had practically forgotten about his presence in the Bridgerton family whatsoever until my Lady Whistledown endeavor this morning. He gave the impression that he preferred being out of the ton's line of sight. He didn't look ill at ease in any way as his other eligible siblings did - but instead, curious. I watched Benedict a moment longer before the orchestra began to play and I realized I must face my most dreaded moment of the last month: dancing.

Being the first name on my dance card, Lorde Clarke approached me once again. It's not that Lord Clarke wasn't a decent man. In fact he was just fine with his wealthy lineage, strong business, and perfectly acceptable character. He just wasn't what I was looking for. In fact I wasn't entirely sure what I was looking for. As soon as the dance began, I had suddenly forgotten my last five years of dance lessons; stepping on toes, falling out of rhythm, missing cues - it was dreadful. As soon as the dance ended I apologized to Lord Clarke for my clumsiness. Feeling overwhelmed, I scanned for the nearest hallway and hurried in its direction.

The dimly lit hallway was peaceful and quiet aside from the muffled music and chatter from the ballroom. I plopped down on the floor anything but gracefully, crossing my legs underneath my dress. I allowed myself a few deep breaths as I craned my neck to stare up at the patterned ceiling, counting the grooves of the decoration. The sound of footsteps broke my concentration and I attempted to pick myself up from the floor unnoticed.

"Oh, I'm sorry," a voice started. "No need to get up."

My gaze pierced through the soft lighting and into a pair of apologetic green eyes.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Despite his insists I still rose to my feet.

"Mister Bridgerton - sorry I-, uhm-," I stuttered.

"No, no. I had no intention of disturbing your peace, Miss... Jackson, yes?" he questioned.

"Yes, that's right. I only needed to get away for a moment," I explained.

Benedict walked towards me.

"I was doing the same. Since my brother, Colin, and I are the last unmarried Bridgerton brothers, we are being all but harassed by every eager mother here."

I laughed a bit more comfortably than I should have, but Benedict didn't seem to mind.

"I know Lady Danbury's home quite well as her and my mother have been close friends my whole life. I like to come look at the art she's collected over the years," he explained.

I hadn't even noticed the grand paintings on the walls until Benedict pointed it out. He was now stood next to me looking up at a large depiction of a Trojan battle. He continued to speak as he admired the painting.

"It was ridiculously difficult to get away from my family for a moment. Social events aren't really my scene, but I go to please them."

"I've been trying to convince my parents to let me wait another year to be out, but clearly my efforts were in vain," I replied.

Benedict pulled his eyes away from the artwork to look at me, his eyes studying my face.

"Are you uninterested in marriage?"

"No!" I exclaimed, blushing at my unintentional volume. "Sorry. No it's not that, it's just that I would rather have more time to live a more adventurous life. I wish for spontaneity and excitement before I devote myself to tending to a household and a family."

"Is that what you believe marriage to be? A never ending chore?" This was not an accusation, Benedict was genuinely curious.

"Isn't it?"

Before he could answer, the opening latch of a door sounded in the near distance. Neither of us had yet considered the scandal that would certainly emerge if the two of us were to be found alone and unsupervised, but our newfound commonalities felt so comfortable that the topic never emerged.

"We should get back before..." I started.

Benedict cleared his throat, "Yes, that would probably be wise."

"Until we meet again, Miss Jackson. And we shall."

Benedict nodded a goodbye, making his way back into the ballroom.

[varpusvaras]

Friend, I am frothing at the mouth over your protective!Roy snippets. The way you had him go to tend to Jason's helmet, only to then piece together he was hit outside of true combat, by Batman, his father...ughhh. And the way he KNOWS every scratch on said helmet! That is love. God. Like, consider me obsessed.

I would read 100k words of this little jayroy world you've carved, if I could. I hope you continue to post about this particular version of them. 🥰

I will admit (this comes as news to probably pretty much no one who has read my stuff before lmao) I am a sucker for protective characters in relationships. Like that is the number one thing that gets me going. I will be writing it in. Roy and Jason both do display protectiveness and isn't that the good stuff. Roy especially is just such a perfect character to me in so many ways (just by himself, not just talking in ships). He is loving and soft and gentle and fierce and strong and emotional but stable at the same time (yes it makes sense if you look at him). I am a firm believer that Roy is the character who has all the rights to beat up shitty parents for free. He would be able to see that yes, Batman is someone who does a lot of good and isn't a bad person per se, but it's still not okay. It's not okay. One reason I like jayroy is that they just narratively complete each other as individuals in many ways, and I think Roy being someone who can actually see Jason and be so protective of him is a goldmine regarding them. Good stuff, good stuff indeed.

I would absolutely write that 100k for you in a heartbeat if I had just a little more time (hopefully things become a little less hectic after the New Years, I say, as my Master's Thesis is looming over my shoulder, reminding me that I need to write it too-), but I am going to continue giving smaller bits for ya'll in here because I am frankly just as obsessed. Seriously, I am in trouble.

[rhaegonthinker]

happy rhaegon week!

{day 1: all tied up, whether that be rhaenyra or aegon’s blood ties that keep them tethered to each other, or the rope, the chains that keeps them in bondage to one another.}

bonded and bounded by blood {mature, 950 words}

Rhaenyra traces over the scar her stepmother inflicted on her all those years ago. the mended flesh her father’s catspaw dagger sliced through, tarnishing her porcelain flesh. The same dagger revealing Aegon the Conqueror’s dream she wished she had within her grasp, wanting to run her hand along the Valyrian blade, reveal its secrets once more to her. Of fire and blood.

But another of her blood, one with fire swirling through his veins, holds onto it no, grasps onto it tighter, not afraid to cut his own flesh upon it—her half-brother. One named after Aegon the Conqueror, the second of his name. Second in everything Rhaenyra was first in: first born, first loved, first, first, first.

Thoughts of her consume him daily, memories of the night when his own mother cut his sister with the curved dagger, once her filth, her sins, had been revealed for all to see. All because he was jealous of her, of the attention and love she got from their father wholly. even from his mother. He envied that his sister’s bastards got kisses to their foreheads, a comforting touch to their bruised cheeks, while all Aegon received was a harsh, swift slap to his own cheek, marks his mother left—for never being enough. For always being too much.

Aegon cried himself to sleep that night dreaming of a younger version of his older sister, dressed in white and gold, intricate braids piled on top of her head, rubies placed like bloody tears drops amongst them. He was marrying her, he was placing a cloak of his protection around her—one of black fire and crimson blood. And Aegon smiled down at her, his dreams coming true. But Rhaenyra was crying, looking at him with misery in her lilac eyes, disappointment. She held the dagger to her young flesh and carved an A into it, then she carved an R into his arm, joining her blood to his. This is what you wanted, brother. Now we are one and the same, our blood and fates forever linked. Rhaenyra licked the blood of the blade, kissing him, sharing the taste of both of their blood with him. She bit his lip, injuring him strikingly. And Aegon awoke from that nightmare, that dream, harder than steel. He pleasured himself to the memory of her copper and saliva, how sweet, how metallic it tasted. He imagined fucking her on their wedding night, how she would bleed on his cock, once he pierced through her maidenhead, officially making her his sisterwife.

Aegon always imagined it was her each and every time he fucked another, drinking until he was dizzy and couldn’t differentiate a simple whore, picturing the sister he craved in place of them. And at least with actual sisterwife who favored his Rhaenyra, he could imagine more easily, effortlessly, especially if he fucked her from behind, imagining her tears and moans of pain were those of pleasure. For he knew Rhaenyra would find pleasure in the pain he could gift her, give her always.

As the years went by, without his sister’s presence in his life, learning that she had an Aegon of her to own now—with their uncle of all people, Aegon’s love turned to rot, beginning to loathe, while still harboring the lust that that twisted sickly inside his soul. Still believing she was his, that she owed him.

The day he saw her before the throne, belly full and festering with their uncle’s seed, Aegon smirked at her, salaciously, sinfully, wanting her to hear the filth in his mind. Of how he thought of fucking her in front of their uncle, her sons, their father, his mother. Of how he thought of ruining her, giving her wounds along her perfect flesh to match the wounds he felt inside himself, never able to heal. Not since that night she started haunting him, that his blood began to hunger for hers. He couldn’t help but act out, taunt and bully her bastard sons. Take out his frustrations on them, when she was jovial, smiling and laughing, all joy, no hurt.

And when the dagger was finally placed in his hands for the first time, he felt a thrill holding the curved blade. The same steel that cut his sister, that drew her blood. He almost envied the dagger. He wanted to lick the edge of it with his tongue. See if it tasted like her.

Aegon holds onto it now, tightly, obsessively, never letting go. A piece of her always with him, never out of his sight, always in his grasp. He's tempted to use it on his flesh, to make himself bleed, hurt. To feel it slice through his pale skin and cause him pain, like she causes him everyday. But Aegon is patient, and he is king now, his father's rightful heir. And he knows Rhaenyra will come to claim her rightful place; that his sister will come with fire and blood to take what is undoubtedly hers. And Aegon eagerly awaits the day she does, for he will graciously give her her throne, made of iron and steel swords. As long as she submits to his steel carving into her flesh once more, making her bleed for him and only him. A fresh bloody wound signifying his mark on her, his claim upon her pristine flesh, branded onto her body by her brother, on her very soul for eternity.

In life and even in death. For her fire will always scorch and burn through him, for they share the same blood. Are bonded and bound by it, wounded and stitched, sewn back together by the veins that intertwine their destinies, their fates together. 

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Okay, I am here and present, ready to get right into this, my beloved Sharkie!

I LOVE the way you used Bryn's calling out to Hev as a possible symptom of Targaryen madness, but she just knew that it wasn't. She understood it was the one who in effect made her what she is calling her back again, that compulsion she felt to return to a place she'd never been, but felt intrinsically linked to.

“You were born not of fire but of frost. The world cast you out because it feared what you are. This is not your death, my child, but your real birth.” She spoke with both wisdom, her powerful words resounding with a dreadful, inhumane shriek.

I absolutely adored this part! It gave me goosebumps. From the frost touched upon her father in curse, to there she returned. The only correction I would make - and it's totally up to you if you decide to use it in any other works going forward - is to Bryn's voice. To me as I created her, she is quiet, and mostly only speaks barely above a low, rattling whisper. She doesn't need to exert any volume to her voice, the power is there already in her immortality :) But, this is your interpretation, darling. You write her as you see fit for your story!

Loved seeing Holrine pop up in this, too!!

Heavenerys let out a discreet sigh and as she did no white smoke followed. She frowned. Ah, another fantasy of her new condition, she thought. Maybe she was really dead, after all. Just like her heart had stopped beating, her breath held no warmth anymore. She took a quick look at Kairaxès, her frost dragon, who loomed near her like a wraith, his glowing blue eyes mirroring her own.

This part was so visceral, Hev experiencing all she now is in death, and her beloved dragon still guarding her so closely <3

Heavenerys squinted her glowing eyes, trying to understand what that thing was until the realization hit her fiercely. Her entire body stiffened as she recognized him.

Amos.

MY SQUEAL!!!!

The turmoil you described in Hev as she came face to face with him again was PERFECTLY detailed. I ate up the entire scene like warm cookies fresh from the oven! Brilliant!

Finally, after his cruelty, she receives her justice in all that he did to her. A slave without voice, bending the knee to her rather than the other way around. How very, very fitting!

“He’ll do,” she said, glancing at Bryn, her voice as sharp and adamant as the ice around them. “He’ll do just fine.”

Brynhild smiled.

All men were already dead. They just didn’t know it yet.

SHARKIE THIS WAS ABSOLUTELY PERFECT AND I HAVE CHILLS!!

I really can't put into words how much I enjoyed this! Your writing is just... chef's kiss. Amazing. I have so much love for it!

Notes: Brynhild belongs to @darklydeliciousdesires. Lucy belongs to @mischievouslittlecreature. The Eagle belongs to @cillmequick. Yeah, I had to mention them.

The wind howled Beyond-the-Wall, cutting through the heavy fur cloak that was draped around Heavenerys’ shoulders. Her glowing blue eyes, an unnatural and terrifying inheritance of the curse that had plagued her since birth, burned fiercely in the eternal winter. A scourge the wildest part of the North had cast on Amarys Targaryen and her wife, Pollyanna long ago. For months the lost queen had wandered through Westeros, driven by inner voices she couldn’t explain but felt deep within her bones, rattling against her skull. Prior to her departure, she had entrusted her intelligent cousin Thomaryon with the crown to his greatest regret. His beloved wife and the Queen's dearest friend, Lucy Targaryen, had begged her to come to her senses and stay but the voices were clearly stronger.

They were like whispers. Countless, resounding whispered uttered at the same time.

A pull that she couldn’t resist.

And this time, it wasn’t her madness – no, she had long since abandoned the muttered rumors of her “descent into insanity”, ignoring them to preserve the last bit of self-control she fought to keep. Once a legendary beauty and well-respected ruler, Queen Heavenerys had fled everything after Aerthurys’ death on the battlefield, stating that her crown had been nothing but a bane to her existence.  What about now? Now, Heavenerys had no crown, barely no family left, save for her beloved dragon and the weight of her own sins and nightmares.

"Hev... Please." Lucy said, holding her hands, but nothing was left for her in Westeros anymore.

Kairaxès slithered through the snow like a frightening ghost, accompanying his tiny human mother. His body, white and blue frost fire, shimmered against the frozen landscape. Even though he had never been there, the beast seemed in his element. His breaths came in low, misty rumbles – the only thing the forsaken Queen could hear besides the wailing wind its lament through the vast frozen desert.

When the voice called again, louder this time, she paused, paralyzed. “My child of winter, you have come home.” It came from behind her. Heaven turned around in one swift movement and caught a glimpse of hundred shadows. Among them, a unique figure rose from the fog as though she had always been part of it. Her dark robes flew behind her in ghostly veils just like the long, black coat of Death. The crushing aura she exuded stopped Heavenerys' breath. The Night Queen was tall, her pale skin luminous in the dim light of the smiling moon crescent above them. When her chilling sapphire eyes fell on the Targaryen beauty, a little smirk crept on her thin lips, her eyes gleaming like the edge of sharp a blade ready to shed blood. Almost immediately, Heavenerys fell on her knees, her strength finally giving way after a long relentless battle against the cold. She was not tired, she was drained. Empty. Already dead inside even before the Night Queen thrusted her sword of ice through her frail body. Hot, red blood came out of the poor Targaryen girl's mouth.

Kairaxès screamed in pain and sorrow, collapsing behind his most precious treasure.

Brynhild the Dead leaned forward, the snow crunching under her bare feet and yet she didn't feel its cold biting at her immortal skin. With a motherly tenderness, the Night Queen grabbed Heavenerys' chin between her bony fingers with her free hand, the other still wrapped around the handle of the weapon that were going through the Lost Queen. Then, she forced her to raise her head until their eyes met. Sapphire diving into the cursed blue fire. Heavenerys shuddered under her touch, the warmth she had once known, the fire of her Targaryen blood, was no more than a distant memory now replaced by a comforting cold. She didn't feel pain. To be fair, she didn't feel anymore besides an unexpected sense of peace.

“You were born not of fire but of frost. The world cast you out because it feared what you are. This is not your death, my child, but your real birth.” She spoke with both wisdom, her powerful words resounding with a dreadful, inhumane shriek.

"Kai-Kairaxès..." Heavenerys stuttered, more worried for her dragon than she was for her own well-being. Death, at last, was tranquil.

“Do not cry, child. Your dragon is a creature of winter’s wrath. He'll be reborn as he was meant to be, just like you." The Night Queen's voice howled with the wind and danced with the mist, like a haunted far away melody that lulled her.  "Do you not see? You belong here.”  Here in the endless frost and in Brynhild’s touch, there was something that finally felt like home.

Heavenerys closed her yes, giving in to the comfortable embrace of both darkness and winter.

The eternal winter stretched out across the desolate land, the ice biting deep into the earth and devouring any trace of warmth. Any trace of life. Standing on the jagged edge of the frozen fortress she woke up in, Heavenerys thought about the tale of the Eagle, a mystical Wildling who, stories told, had managed to tame the cold Beyond-the-Wall. She remembered when Aerthurys told her the tale and how she was fascinated at the mention of her army of furious women enslaving men for their own pleasure. Now that Aerthurys was dead and that she was not in her safe castle in King's Landing anymore, Heavenerys came to wonder if Holerine the Eagle really existed or if she was just a fabricated legend. Nothing could really survive in such a hostile place, devoid of shelter and food. Or nothing that was alive, at least. If Holerine existed, maybe she would have tried to join her -- well, hadn't she been brought here by the Night Queen herself.

 Heavenerys let out a discreet sigh and as she did no white smoke followed. She frowned. Ah, another fantasy of her new condition, she thought. Maybe she was really dead, after all. Just like her heart had stopped beating, her breath held no warmth anymore. She took a quick look at Kairaxès, her frost dragon, who loomed near her like a wraith, his glowing blue eyes mirroring her own. His scaled lover was in his best shape though.  When she opened her eyes, terrified, Bryn told her to rest well and be patient. That she will come to understand her place in this new world soon but that, before,  she had give her something to prove that she had no ill intentions. The Night Queen insisted on having her by her side, and, according to her,  the so-called gift would convince her. It had been days and still nothing.

A sudden shiver ran down her spine. She felt Brynhild presence even before her deep voice, sharp and commanding, called out from the depths of the castle.  The ghastly Queen of the Dead walked to her, her beauty as cruel as hers and her smile... Her damn, charming, and frightening smile colder than the bitter snowstorm that was raging outside, "I promised you a gift, my child," Brynhild exclaimed, her tone laced with a wicked amusement and a tinge of pride, " And I always keep my promises," She waved her hand, commanding her ghouls.

In the span of a brief instant, two scrawny and rotten guards appeared, dragging a figure into the hall. The silhouette they escorted was walking with uncertain steps as if it was a puppet freshly brought to life by some kind of dark magic. It might be tall and imposing in stature, but it was moving with hesitation. Heavenerys squinted her glowing eyes, trying to understand what that thing was until the realization hit her fiercely. Her entire body stiffened as she recognized him.

Amos.

Panic washed over her like rogue waves crashing against the shore in a stormy night.

“This is a trick! You tricked me!” The Targaryen beauty screamed with fury, her body responding almost automatically by stepping back but Brynhild grabbed her by the wrist in a firm and quick movement, keeping her from running away. Her cold fingers wrapped tightly around her skin, which was prickling at her touch.

“Look at him.”

She couldn’t. She fucking could not. “I said, look at him, my child. You have nothing to fear.” Then she obliged, eyes threatening to overflow with tears as she looked at him… Until he was close, and she was calm enough to notice them – the three scars across his face, the lifeless blue of his eyes, and the way his head hung in unnatural submission.

Amos was not the man she remembered – or rather feared. His once-perfect face, now veiled with incomprehension and fear, was marred by three scars that slashed across his skin. Three scars he got from a battle, but which seemed deeper than they usually were, as if someone had reopened them.  Yet, the most troubling change was in his eyes. The void-black and dizzying eyes that used to terrify her and that were still haunting her nightmares were no more. Instead, his iris now gleamed with an unnatural sapphire blue.

“Do you like him better now? He’s yours, my dear.”  For a brief moment, the Night Queen’s voice was all she could hear above the deafening buzzing sound that resounded behind her ears.

With haste, Heavenerys broke free from the deep-seated fear and descended the steps, almost running to him – her heart would have pounded hard in her dead chest if the ice of the North hadn’t completely stopped it. Once she broke the distance between her and the Monster, her small and trembling hands didn’t hesitate to cup his face, “By the Seven Gods…” She whispered as her fingers slowly traced the scars and went on exploring the very face she knew so well she could draw each tiniest detail, each mole, with her eyes closed. The lines under her fingers’ pulp felt so familiar and so different at the same time that it almost made her sick. His beard was rough beneath her fingers, hardened by the ambient frost, while his usually scorching-hot skin was so cold she barely believed it was the same man who used to make her burn by simply brushing her. And yet, the maelstrom of physical reactions only confirmed that it was him.

Her breath hitched, panic surging as memories of his violent fits threatened to overwhelm her. The times he had cornered her, bound her to pain and humiliation. Then came something else: softness. The times he had kissed her forehead goodnight before wrapping her body with his strong arms, or when he laughed at her silly jokes amid a serious conversation.

Amos leaned into her palms, his glowing sapphire eyes glistening more than ever: his facial expression of lost little boy shifted to a mix of deep sorrow and hope, like a frightened kitten that found his mother again. Her eyes fell on his lips, chapped but still perfectly sculpted, parting to say something but only silence met her ears. Closing his mouth almost instantly, he brought one of his strong hands to his throat and looked at Heavenerys again. A single tear escaped and rolled down his cheek, freezing midway as it caught the deadly chill in the air.

“I thought you’d like him better without his vocal cords. I took them out with my own hands.” The Night Queen added, impatiently waiting for the woman’s reaction, “I wanted to fetch Aerthurys’ body, but the man didn’t deserve this fate.”

A storm of emotions surged within her while she lost herself in the contemplation of his face – hatred, guilt, sorrow, and unrelenting love that refused to die no matter how hard Heavenerys had tried.  They all mixed, leaving her more confused than she already was. Suddenly, Amos’ hands twitched at his side, as if he was yearning to reach for her but to scared to do so. He finally overcame it and grabbed her hips gently, oh-so gently he was almost unrecognizable. Even after years and a second wedding, his touch still made her feel weak and she hated it. You have nothing to fear. Bryn’s voice resounded in her head, and she understood: as she dived into his eyes, she could feel the faint whisper of the man he was, now trapped in his cruel mockery of life. At first, a pang of sorrow and guilt cut through her cold heart. She had loved him once—so deeply that the memory still left her breathless. But with that love had come suffering. His obsession had been a prison, his control suffocating, his love more a leash than liberation. And now, here he was, the once-mighty Lord Bolton reduced to this husk of a man, mute, scarred, and utterly devoted.

Amos softly leaned more against one of her palms, rubbing his beard to ask for affection. “He still loves you, you see,” Bryn purred and as she did, she circled them like a predator who had just brought a delicious prey to her cub, “But he will never hurt you again. His voice is gone, his will broken. He is yours to command – your nice and obedient little dog.”  A flash of amusement burnt in her eyes, remembering the cruel Bolton’s tradition he created,  “Much nicer than the hounds he once unleashed on his victims though.”

Heavenerys’ dead heart offered one ultimate beat, coming back to life for just a leap, when Amos pressed his forehead to her, letting the ice of their soul mingle.  “Amos…” She breathed and for a brief moment –  she thought she saw a flick of recognition in his eyes, the ghost of his former self but then it was gone in a blink, swallowed by the abyss.

“You’ve made him a slave.” She stated, quietly. “I have made him a good husband.” The Night Queen corrected; her head tilted with pride while she relinquished on the two lovers embracing each other. “And don’t get fooled by the frost of his skin. I kept everything that was… necessary for him to warm your bed.”

Her throat went dry when he kissed one of her fingers, for her body ignited with a sick, twisted rush that coursed through her: maybe he was a monster, but he was her monster. A monster now tamed and caged.

“Kneel.” She dare to risk, and the broken man knelt at her command, shoulders tensed but eyes still desperately locked in her eyes as if he was desperately waiting for praises. Silent he was. Motionless. Waiting. And for the first time ,she realized the power she had over him The Lost Queen’s lips trembled, then curled – not into a smile but into something far darker. This was justice. He had sought to bend her to his will, to make her his perfect queen, bound only to him. But now the tables had turned. He was the one shackled, the one at her mercy, and the glimmer of pain that shone at the back of his sapphire eyes didn’t fail to stir something in her that was no longer compassion— it was satisfaction. Heavenerys stepped back and Amos looked at her with pain, silently begging her not to break their touch. Even zombified, he was still a needy little boy. Obliging, her hand still lingering on his scarred cheek but this time, it was different. Whatever sorrow she had felt at the sight of him was gone, replaced by a cold certainty. Oh Amos, she thought, this time, you kneel. “He’ll do,” she said, glancing at Bryn, her voice as sharp and adamant as the ice around them. “He’ll do just fine.” Brynhild smiled.

All men were already dead. They just didn’t know it yet.

AU family: @justrainandcoffee @evita-shelby @cillmequick @novashelby @mischievouslittlecreature @shelbydelrey @wonderlanddreamer @peakyswritings @darklydeliciousdesires @lunarubra @wonderlanddreamer

[kismetconstellations]

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart) x.

[mismefancy]

He suggested pancakes in the finale, so I'll draw pancakes for the father and daughter. : )

I'm not really in the Hazbin/Helluva fandom nor do I consume their content as often. There is also the fact the fact their type of content isn't my usual content...

But you know the drill: Family stuff convinces me of anything, lol. Lucifer became an instant favourite character of mine. He was absolutely hilarious to watch, his relationship with his daughter made me emotional, and his song "More than anything" absolutely wrecked me gosh darn it! :'D

And with the implication that he might become part of the main cast gives me so much excitement for season 2.

[iwoulddieforienzo]

Something that makes reading TOA so devastating is how fucking much Apollo feels about Everything. There’s so MUCH. Like I don’t even know how to describe it to you if you haven’t read the books yourself. He has so many complicated thoughts and emotions about just about everything and he cares about everything so much and there is just SO MUCH going on in his head. And yet none of it ever reaches his mouth!!

He almost never says what he’s feeling. What little comes out of his mouth about his thoughts barely even scratches the surface of what he actually means. Like he’ll be having a long ass monologue about how incredible someone is, showing a deep understanding of them as a person and empathizing with them so hard you’d almost think it’s projection but it’s not he’s legitimately just mind melding with this random person he met like a week ago and he’s thinking the softest, kindest thoughts about them like he knows they’re fucking incredible - and what comes out of his mouth is just like, “you’re a wonderful friend :)” AND ITS LIKE. THERES SO MUCH MORE UNDER THE SURFACE. the sheer admiration and adoration he has for everyone around him……… UGHHH!!! But he never VOICES ANY OF IT!!!!!! He never tells anyone about what Zeus did to him……. He never tells anyone except the reader about his realization that Zeus is abusive…. He never even tells commodus about how much he adored him, not then and not now… he refuses to tell anyone when he’s in pain or tries to justify the things he does when he actually had Decent Reasons for why he did something… I’m. I’M. AUGH. AHHHHH

HE DOESN’T EVEN TELL US ALL OF HIS THOUGHTS IS THE THING. THERES EVEN MORE THAT HE IS NOT TELLING US!!!!! THE FUCKING OCEAN OF FEELINGS AND THOUGHTS HE HAS ABOUT EVERYTHING IS THE CLIFF NOTES VERSION. I AM IN DISTRESS.

And YET…. Even what slips out of his mouth is so fucking devastating it is SO devastating. He’s so fucking kind and gentle with Harley and Meg and and other younger Demis and his kids… he’ll act like an obstinate idiot and then turn around say something that drags the core of the person he’s talking to into the light like nail on the fucking HEAD like he reached into their soul and gave them the words to express something that they were struggling to say aloud or that they didn’t even realize about themself. Around the 2nd book he starts putting voice to some of his feelings and thoughts about others and even that tiny fucking sliver is overwhelming to the people he’s talking to bc he’s SO. AUGHHHH

[g36a2]

not the worst of lapham's crimes but tommy's short hair being a symbol of recovery was evil.

[laniidae-passerine]

Honestly I think Dean Highbottom has some shit to answer to as well. The mockery, the derision, the outright admittance that he was hoping Coriolanus would fail and the Snow family would continue to suffer. How someone who loathed the Games still treated a young man with cruelty because of the past, because of social divides that would be so easy to tear down. In the end, it wasn’t just Gaul who shaped Snow into the man he became. So bitter and hateful. So incapable of compassion and forgiveness. Just like his father. Just like his Dean.

[pastel-rights]

And then I finally end it off with some doodles of them… they make me feel things.

[quietwingsinthesky]

okay like the thing is. if i was going to write actual real marie fic with plot and consequences and everything. even in the hypothetical fic with lucifer being released from his rewritten character back to factory settings (s5) he’s still like. he’s not a good person. it’s important to me that if this was a real fic and not just me shitposting, that lucifer does not magically become a good person this way. or a good parent. in fact, he’s probably worse because he now has empirical evidence to back up that God will, when convenient, erase who he is, make him worse, make it so that there’s never any choice but for him to get worse. And who’s to say it isn’t still happening. who’s to say lucifer is “back to normal” because nephilim baby interference and not because God thought it would be more interesting to see him spiral down from a higher place rather than fall over already at rock bottom.

[astro-b-o-y-d]

Thinking about Boyd and Gyro again, and how no one understands what their dynamic should be but me

[tonycries]

The Heir - G.S.

Synopsis. No, your clan leader husband won’t stop until he gives you an heir. No, you don’t think you’ll make it out alive.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, clan leader! Gojo, established relationship, he’s cray-cray (for you), bréeding - like a LOT, oral (fem receiving), unprotected, creampíe, marathon, séx, running from it, use of “my wife”, overstim, FÉRAL Satoru, absolutely heinous, mentions of kníves and bIood, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.3k

A/N. Guess what ya girlie is back with clan leader Gojo hehe.

An heir to the Gojo clan - no matter how small, how weak - could eradicate all three of the big clans before even being born. Much like their father. 

You knew that. Satoru knew that. And, unfortunately for him, so did the stuck-up old toad currently sputtering across from him. 

“I am not asking for permission.” Satoru smiles, deathly calm. “Simply that everyone vacates the Estate. After all, what the madam wants, the madam shall get.”

“But- but young master! It’s madness- An heir can tip the scales of power like never before!” The elder lunges frantically over the meeting room table. “I cannot allow- a-and considering the madam’s lowly lineage-”

Schwing!

They say that the infamous young head of the Gojo clan has a katana as hauntingly beautiful as he is - a blade of pure white, with a sapphire hilt. Though, there wasn’t anyone left to tell the tale - and Satoru wasn’t about to let that change anytime soon. 

The long, deceptively delicate sword glints sharply against Satoru’s humorless grin, and those cold, cold eyes. Unblinking - crazed, as he hums, “What did you say about my wife?”

The man in front of him can do nothing but yelp in fear, “I- it could- the scale of ah-”

“No.” The freezing cold blade presses deeper against skin. And Satoru’s tutting, “Try again.”

“Th-the madam!” Pathetic tears stain those expensive tatami mats below, every shred of previous ego wiped away as the elder’s forced to echo his words. “It is no lie that her b-background is…unsuitable-”

Oh this was why Satoru hated these meetings - and for once in his life he’d been the one to summon it instead of being forced to attend. What a joke. If only this elder had agreed to vacate everyone in the Estate like he’d wanted, then none of this would’ve happened. Seriously, how hard was it to get some alone time with you? 

Satoru sighs, blue yukata rustling as he grips the hilt tighter. “Do you know why you’re here, advisor? Why any of you little council of elders are still here?” And he doesn’t wait for an answer - couldn’t care less about it anyway. Plowing on in that same sweet, dangerous tone - as if scolding a stubborn child, “My lovely wife is kind, you see. Too kind. Doesn’t like for me to get my hands dirty.”

He lets his arm retract slightly, as if giving up on the conversation topic at hand. And oh for all his wisdom, the elder should’ve known better than to let the silence lull into one of safety. Should’ve known better than to let out a breath of relief. Relaxing - ever-so-slightly, to be stupid enough to mutter, “S-see young master. I told- you-”

Because this was Gojo Satoru, and he’s chuckling - and that was never a good sign for anyone but you. “She’d make such a perfect mother, don’t you think?”

---

SLAM!

You startle - there was only ever one person that dared to kick open the doors of the Gojo Estate that way, like he was out for blood.

Eyes tearing from your window towards the now-splintered doorway and-

Oh. Oh shit. 

Your voice dies in your throat as the metallic tang of blood hits your nose - followed very shortly by the realization that this was your husband. Towering figure leaning against the frame, gaze frantic - bouncing off everywhere but you, fingers twitching on the stained handle of his katana, looking for all the world like he’d seen a ghost. 

What the fuck happened?

“Satoru?” you breathe. And the sound of your voice his eyes finally snap to you - widening, like he’d finally noticed your figure standing there. Like he was seeing you after a thousand years. Stepping forward in concern, “Are you o-”

You’ve barely made it two steps before Satoru’s closing the distance in a split-second, dropping to his knees before you with a harsh thump!

You wince at the sound, but if it hurt then he doesn’t show it. Anything but - in fact, looking more blissed out than you’ve ever seen him as he lets his prized katana clatter to the floor, looping two powerful arms around your waist.

And it’s times like this - when he nuzzles his cheek against your stomach, sighing in contentment - that you forget about those blossoming stains of red on his yukata. None of his, you bet. 

Threading your fingers through his soft hair, you repeat, “Are you okay, Toru?”

And oh. 

Oh, it only takes those words - and your sweet sweet voice - before Satoru’s entire body jolts. Taking a sharp inhale, fingers trembling as they clutch onto the fabric of your yukata. “An heir.” Words strained, ragged. Some deep, visceral part of himself peaking up at you through those hazy, half-lidded eyes, “Would you give me an heir, my wife?”

You weren’t making it out alive. 

You’re gasping - partially because of his words, partially because that’s all it takes for him to yank you down. Sprawling you out like such a slut on the floor. “Wha- an heir?”

It’s not something you expected him to even consider - that sleepy, quiet little pillowtalk from earlier today where you’d mindlessly wondered out loud whether your husband was ready for kids. Hell, Satoru was never a morning person, so you didn’t expect him to even have heard the question let alone this. 

Nosing at your racing pulse, whispering, “An heir. You think I’d ever deny you, pretty?” Like he couldn’t believe it himself - sharp canines nipping at your neck, “My heir.”

It’s like it was the only thing he could say - could even think about right now as his lips burned a path down your jaw, into the valley of your breasts. Muffled, “N’ now we have the Estate all to ourselves, so I can ruin you as much as I hah- want.”

And for the second time today, you’re actually registering that this wasn’t the same yukata your husband had kissed senseless in before the meeting. Or, at least, those patches of red were new.

“Satoru…” You pull his face back.

“No- no no please- Come back-” you squeal when he just drags you across the floor by the hips, pressing you up against that massive bulge, back to sloppily kissing the underside of your jaw. “Was jus’ one I swear- m’sorry about gettin’ the fabric dirty.”

“Satoru.”

“Wasn’t gonna break you where everyone could hear right?” 

And fuck he doesn’t wait to hear a response, no - it’s been far too long, and every little scold from you has all the blood in Satoru’s body rushing to his aching cock. His lips are crashing onto yours, so desperate and needy. 

“Sa-toru!” you manage to squeal through the way he sips at your candied lips. Letting out pained, breathless little grunts like each swipe of his tongue against your mouth was driving him insane. 

“Shhh shhh, m’here m’here.” he pants into your open mouth, hands wandering everywhere. Cupping your ass, your breasts, nudging open your jaw to let him suck so filthily on your tongue. “Fuck- m’here.” He’s licking up the drool pooling at the corner of your mouth already, “N’ m’gonna ruin-” One hand makes its way to palm your clothed cunt, “-her.”

But, alas, no matter how many times Satoru’s done this before - it never gets any easier, or as less heavenly of a sight for him. 

With you all disheveled and splayed out for him, your tits almost spilling out of your yukata with the way his hands have been so greedy. So thoughtless. 

Satoru groans, dipping his head forward to peck messily at your lips. “Mmm- ” Pulling back just enough to mutter, “Gonna let me breed this pretty cunt, hm?” 

It’s all you can do to give him a half-delirious little nod of agreement, lower lip wobbling at just how hungrily he was looking at you. Eyes wide, lips curling into a crazed smile, fingers trembling with anticipation as he deftly works on untying your robe. 

“Is my wife gonna give me a pretty baby?” He gasps out, strangled. “An heir?” He presses a sloppy peck to your glossy lips, strings of spit snapping when he breaks apart to whisper. “One to take out all these dumb fucks?” Again, so dizzyingly. And again. “Oh how I’d love to see their fuckin’ faces.” And again and again and again. Kisses punctuated by that little mantra - “An heir. My heir. I need you to give me a baby, pretty.”

And then your yukata’s being pulled down your shoulders, the expensive fabric ripping down the side with the way he was so ravenous. Goosebumps prickling down your skin as fast as Satoru can get his hands on every inch of you.

“Oh, look at you.” his jaw falls slack, palms kneading at your soft breasts. “Fuck- the mother of my kids.” He rolls his thumb over your hardened nipples, rubbing lazy little circles, “I need to- fuck!” 

Before you know it he’s pinning your arching body down onto the floor. One hand easily pinning down both of yours, the other angling your lips back onto his, a knee wedged between your damp thighs. 

You whine at the feeling of Satoru’s thigh rubbing up against your drenched panties.

But he could barely hear - fuck, you didn’t even know if Satoru was breathing with the way he wraps his pretty pink lips around one of your pert nipples. Eyes rolling to the back of his head, cheeks hollowing as he sucks - harsh.

“Need to fill these up- s’gonna be so sweet. So full.” he’s blabbering into your tits, tongue rolling around your sensitive nipples. Incessant, like he was somehow trying to draw out milk. “I can only hope they hah- share, right?”

You buck your hips up, mewling as your throbbing clit catches on the dips and curves of the muscles on Satoru’s leg. “P-please, Toru. Don’t tease.”

And oh, when has he ever denied you? Hell, Satoru would burn down this entire world and himself if it meant giving his wife anything and everything. Especially the future mother of his kids. 

With a final, playful bite, you watch with glassy eyes at the way he dances his lips down. Slow. Teasing. Eyes locked with you all the while like some sort of predator cornering his prey. 

“And this-” Satoru stops halfway down, pressing a deep, sultry kiss onto your bare stomach, “Oh this. Gonna be so round n’ pretty. Absolutely glowing f’me, right? Fuck!” 

Snapping his head down at the feeling of your grinding your hips so sluttily onto his legs, slick seeping through your panties and onto his skin. 

“Oh.” he sighs, awe-struck. More to himself than you at this point, “You can kill me if you’re not with my heir by the time we’re done, pretty.”

A promise.

And with it went whatever was left of Satoru’s poor sanity - and whatever pathetic chance there was of you making it out of this alive. 

Immediately, Satoru fists your flimsy panties in his grasp. So see-through they were practically useless anyway. Reveling in your panicked little gaze as he pulls - rips them clean off your dripping cunt. 

“Oh god- There we go.” he moans, hooking two arms underneath your legs and pushing up, up, up - all the way until your knees were pressing up against your tits. Your lips wobble when Satoru takes the time to admire your pussy, breaths coming out in feverish little puffs to watch the way you glisten and clench at nothing. Licking his lips - salivating even - at the sight of your slick beading through your puffy folds. He runs a thumb along your sopping wet slit, “Better wish her good luck tonight.”

And, usually, your husband was refined - he teased and toyed with your poor cunt until you were begging to have an ounce of friction. But right now, it’s a wonder he doesn’t get whiplash with how fast he’s pushing his face into your pussy.

“Mm-” Satoru’s eyes roll to the back of his head as his tongue laps at your dripping wet cunt. Tipping his head back, back, back to let your sweet sweet juices slide down his throat. “Fuck that. Even luck won’t save you from me- hah-”

“Toru!” you arch off the cool floor as he cards the tip of his tongue between your puffy folds. From the base of your sloppy entrance, all the way up to your throbbing clit. “Hngh- s’too-”

He was going too fast too soon. 

You whine at the palm pushing your unstable hips flat onto the ground, holding you still while Satoru licks all over as he pleases. “Now now, how are ya gonna ngh- fuck so sweet- handle later if ya can’t even handle this, pretty?”

Sucking on your clit in such a messy, open-mouthed kiss. “Fuck. Shouldn’t have told me about an heir.” he’s murmuring into your cunt. Harsh - rolling his tongue against the sensitive nub in a way he knows will have you crying out so prettily. “Fuuuck you shouldn’t h- oh- Ohhh, look at you, my wife.”, breathing in deep, ragged gasps of air only to go deeper. “Fuck- just look at you. You’re so wet I could fuck you just like this.”

As if to prove his point, he’s urgently bullying the tip of his tongue between your plushy walls. And it was true - so pathetically true. You take him in so easily. 

Somehow, you manage to crack an eye open to spy downwards - only to be met with Satoru’s eyes already on yours. Hazy, curtained by his messy hair, swollen lips curving up to flash you such a devilish grin as he squeezes his tongue past that feeble, first ring of resistance. In and out in and out in and-

“Ohh. Squeezing me so fuckin’ tight.” His jaw grinds deeper, nose flush against your clit. “Ya like that idea? Like the thought of me p-painting ah- slutty pussy white already?”

Your embarrassed little whine isn’t enough of an answer for your husband. No, he’s pressing his fingers - all glossy and covered with a sheen of your slick - onto your pulsing clit. Just barely grazing in a way that has you crying out. 

Making out with your cunt so sloppily, “Tha’s more like it.” Heavy eyes boring into yours - goading, even, for you to give more of a reaction. “Fuck- use those words, pretty. Scream.” Satoru’s fucking into your sloppy hole the way he’s been dreaming to do with his rock-hard cock. “After all, we h-have the Estate all to ourselves, right?”

Faster. Sloppier. 

Pushing and pulling his tongue in a way that has you sobbing, “Yes! Please- wan’- ngh” Thighs squeezing around Satoru’s fervent head, “W-wan you to jus’ breed me, Toru-”

Oh.

Fuck, you might’ve just signed your will away at this point. 

Because in a split-second, you’re cumming. 

Shit, were you glad that there was no one in the house. Sobbing out a broken whine of his name, fingers white-knuckled on Satoru’s hair while you gush all over his pretty face. Just dragging your sloppy cunt all over his mouth - using him through your high. 

And he’s more than happy to be dragged and angled all you please. Greedily lapping up your syrupy sweet juices, just dipping his tongue into your hole to feel the way you clench around him. 

But it’s not long before Satoru’s pulling away. Swallowing a disappointed whine, you gape up at the absolutely feral man looming above you. 

Lips plump and glossy, your juices dripping all the way down his chin, his jaw. Teeth bared, a pretty pink blush dusting over those cheeks - and you have half the mind to wonder how high the kill count actually is. Whether you’d be on it, too. 

“Heh, kill count?” Satoru grins, teeth grazing so dangerously over your racing pulse. Shit, did you say that out loud? “Funny, real funny.” And with that, he’s thumbing apart your swollen folds, biting his lips at the sight of your quivering hole. “Wonder if our- hah- kid’s gonna have your-” Without warning, he spits. Once. Twice. Gliding the pads of his fingers along the thick globs of spit on your cunt, “-humor?”

And oh how ironic it was for Satoru to be groaning out sweet little spiels of what your kids might look like, when his fingers were anything but. 

Stretching out your gummy entrance, having the audacity to laugh - laugh - at how desperately your pussy was trying to milk his fingers. 

“Y-you’re so mean-”

“And yer killin’ me- ohhh you’re gonna be the death of me.” he mutters - strained. Depraved. Hastily pushing apart his yukata. He hisses, “Fuck-”

You can’t help but gasp at the sinful sight before you - Satoru’s blush reaches down his sculpted chest, down, down, down all the way to his painfully hard cock. Curved against his abs, already so angry and soaked with precum. Giving you a pretty little peak of those veins glistening against the dim lighting. 

Before you even know what’s happening, he’s circling his fat, weepy head around your sloppy hole. Slow, lazy patterns to tease your cunt. “Can only pray m’not dead before I see ngh- fuck- my heir.”

It’s like something breaks. And Satoru’s remembering that no, this isn’t just any child - it’s the next Gojo. That grip on the base of his swollen cock tightening when he slips past your pussy lips. 

“Oh! Toru- f-fuck wait s’too big-” you keen, nails digging into where his yukata was sliding off his milky, sculpted shoulders. Hard enough to break skin. “It’s ah-”

“No.” he spits into your sagging mouth. “No no no no- wait fuck- ngh squeezing so fucking- tight.” Hips pushing in quick, shallow little thrusts to squeeze more of his achy head inside. “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck hold on. Need this. Need this so bad- please!”

And you can’t do anything but arch into his touch, scrambling up onto your elbows to- shit, that was a bad idea. 

Because one look at the sight of your poor cunt, all bulging and stretched out on Satoru’s massive cock was enough to have you running away. 

You’d barely made a movement to escape, feet flattening on the floor to buck your hips because shit it was too much. And it was a useless effort, anyway, because Satoru’s dragging you back so easily, pulling your limp body deeper down his swollen cock. 

“Need this. Need this need this so bad, pretty.” he groans, barely even halfway in yet. Still pushing, still relentless. “Need to breed this cunt so bad.”

Some tiny, useless part of Satoru’s rationality knows that he should slow down - maybe give you a second to relax. To maybe even breathe. But he was out of control now, hips stuttering and wrenching forwards like he couldn’t stop. 

So he’s simply gripping onto your shaky thighs harder, sure to leave neat little indents of his nails to admire tomorrow - or, whenever he gets back his sanity, that is. 

Satoru hisses at the way you’re so pliant below him. Limp, letting him rest your legs on his muscled shoulders. “Think I needa manhandle ya more often, pretty.” Pressing down, down - all the way until you were folded in half beneath him in such a mean mating press. “Can’t- can’t stop-”

The change in angle makes you scream out Satoru’s name - and it makes him bottom out. Finally. 

Fuck, you weren’t making it out alive.

“Oh.” he grunts at the feeling of his heavy balls smacking against your ass, his fat, leaky tip kissing against your cervix. God, if Satoru was any less of a man he thinks he could’ve cum just from the feeling of you trying to suck him up already. 

“Oh- oh my god-” you gasp when he presses down about halfway down your stomach, Pressing down for that bulge, hard. “You’re in s-so deep ngh- S’like you’re pushing into my ngh- lungs.”

Fuck, if you talked any more with that pretty mouth then Satoru was bound to pass out. Blindly, he’s feeling for your pouty mouth, kissing and nibbling at your wobbling lips like a subconscious apology. For what was to come, that is.

Because Satoru Gojo spares no apologies when he starts moving - finally. Finally fucking you the way he’s been dreaming of all throughout that droning meeting. 

And he says so - a little over fifteen times, in fact, while he splits you apart on his cock. 

“-n’ when I was negotiating those ngh- c-clan deals. N’ when I was at that meeting-” he gasps, shoving your legs so far apart it burned. “S’all I could hah- think of. Everything - don’t give a fuck if I got a contract wrong.”

Each word was punctuated by a rough, harsh ram of his cock, stretching out your gummy walls so far apart like he wanted to make his mark there. Pushing - even when he could feel his aching tip nudging at your cervix.

So merciless - violent even - with the way he’s slamming back into you. Molding your plushy walls to every ridge and curve of his massive cock. It was impossible to even form coherent sentences with his harsh pace. 

A large hand flattens beside your head as Satoru’s thrusts get deeper. More purposeful. You almost sob at the sheer pressure when he dances his fingers down to rub quick, methodical little circles on your clit. “Toru-” you moan, like a prayer. “M-more.”

But it wasn’t enough.

“More.” Satoru breathes, more to himself than anything. And shit at that very moment you almost understood why even the most hardened of clan leaders feared to even look at Gojo Satoru wrong. Because he was giving you a sopping, fucked-out smile, eyes widened, voice trembling, “You want more?”

And of course this was the strongest. Of course, he was ruthless. 

Of course, it takes him exactly two seconds to pull out of your heavenly cunt and flip you onto your stomach. One hand coming under you to angle your hips up until you were on all fours - like some ragdoll. The other feverish, distracting on your clit while he bullies his achingly hard cock past your sopping entrance once more. 

“Fuck!” your voice is hoarse when you scream. Teeth gritting because fuck the stretch was too sinful and Satoru’s hips were too harsh. Too hellbent on fucking into you like he’d lost control. “O-oh please, Toru-”

He doesn’t waste time easing you into it this time, picking up where he left off with that maddening cadence. And you were glad he had an arm on your hips because your knees were weakening with each thrust, slowly sliding down the floor before-

“Aw, my poor girl.” you hear Satoru coo from above you. Muscled chest rubbing up against your back, “S’alright. M’gonna take care of it. You jus’ hafta take it- jus’ take it like the good lil’ wife you are.” his body bows into yours, strands of white sticking to his forehead. “N’ I’ll take fuck fuck fuck- care of everything.” So sloppy with his rhythm, pushing you further and further up the floor with each movement - only to reel you right back so easily. “I’ll wash ‘em and hah- clothe ‘em n’ t-teach ‘em to take over this godforsaken society. To protect their momma.”

“T-Toru-” you squeal as he only gets more erratic. “I’m…”

“Hm?”

He didn’t even have to ask - he could feel the way you were squeezing so hard around him, like you were trying to suck the fucking soul out of him. The way the only thing you could get out was his name. 

His perfect wife. 

Sobbing out, “Close! So close. Wan’ cum- Ah! Please-”

He was losing his fucking mind. 

Biting down so hard at the crook of your neck to keep himself from cumming before you, he moans deliciously, “Then cum. Fucking cum. Please- wan’ you to cum on my cock.” Wrists aching with how desperate he was moving, “Cum- yeah yeah yeah fucking- cum- Cum for your husband.”

Oh, if heaven was real then whatever was left of that part of Satoru that could still form coherent thoughts knew that this was it. 

Watching you fall apart like such a slut all over his cock. Not even realizing it at first - just that your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, swollen lips falling slack, letting out such a pretty cry of his name that he can’t help but cum, too. 

You don’t know who’s more far gone - you, with your head spinning, a lewd little ah! ah! ah! leaving your mouth each time Satoru fucks you through your high. 

Or him, gushing out in thick, hot ropes of cum that overspill from your snug cunt. 

“So muchhh.” you whine, heavy head being held up by your husband. “S’too much.”

And he knew what you were talking about - because Satoru was cumming and cumming and cumming so hard it was like he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. Because he was mesmerized by that creamy trail of white drooling down your folds, forming an obscene ring at those tufts of white at his base. 

“Too much?” Satoru hisses. “Too much?”

You can only give a barely-lucid nod, whimpering when he doesn’t ease up. Not one bit, in fact, Satoru was only abandoning the hand playing with your ravaged clit to press down on your abdomen. Hard. 

“There we hah- go. Better now?” The hand supporting your head forced you to look down below, at the sticky mess of white covering your cunt. Slobbering all over Satoru’s cock - even down to his thighs. “Now we got fuck- more space.”

You don’t even realize you’re scrambling away until Satoru gasps, panicked, “No no no- we’re not done, pretty. Fuckkk we’re far from done.” Fingers tightening around your neck to pull you deeper down his cock, holding you in place. Just dragging you along his length. “Gotta make sure it takes. Why else d’you think no one in the Estate will be back until tomorrow?”

He doesn’t wait for a response - not that you could give one, anyway, with how you were being fucked dumb on his cock again. 

A strong, powerful leg hooks around yours, pushing you down with his body weight. “So that we ngh- h-have enough time to prepare for my heir.” Weeping head grazing all those sensitive spots so expertly. “T-to plan and and- ruin you and- fuck you feel so good. They’ll be the most powerful- hah- jus’ watch. Those fuckers better w-wait and see.”

So debauched and fucked-out that you don’t even know what he’s running his mouth about now, just heavy, urgent words slurred into your neck while he fucks you just as sloppily. 

“Don’t know?”

Fuck. You said it out loud again. 

And the embarrassing realization has your eyes screwing open, gazing tearily back at an amused Satoru. Well, as amused as he could be when he was just as wrecked as you. 

Kissing your sweaty forehead, hips reeling back all the way until your cunt was missing the stretch - bucking traitorously against the fat mushroom tip grazing your entrance. Making a mess of precum down below.

“S’alright, pretty.” he groans, sandwiching his cock between your puffy folds. “Because you just have to sit there n’ ngh- take- it.”

If you thought that Satoru was broken before then he was absolutely ruined now. 

Because there was no reason or rhythm to his actions now - just mindless, feral movements to milk his cock as much as he physically could on your pussy. Running only on pure need and the thought of you round and so full with his kid. 

“Ah!” you’re startled out of your reverie by something wet. Whirling sluggishly to catch the tears of overstimulation brimming at Satoru’s heavy eyes - shit, you wondered if he even knew what he was doing at this point. “T-Toru…you- ngh- o-okay?”

The only response you get is an unsteady nod. 

“-the best.” he whispers, twitching balls squeezing so painfully with each slap against your ass. Faster. Absolutely soaked with the sinful concoction of your juices and his cum. “We’ll be the best parents- ngh-” And fuck it was so much - too much. Too good. Painful pleasure.

Enough that all it takes is another, sloppy thrust before he’s seeing stars behind his eyes again. Cock twitching wildly inside your cunt as Satoru shoots load after load of cum to paint your pussy white. 

So warm with his cum - him - that Satoru’s body moves before his mind. Pooling the mess down below to nudge back into your cunt. “C’mon, pretty, c-can’t get ngh pregnant if ya don’t oh- cum.”

And it’s so embarrassing how that’’s all it takes for you to reach your high with a strained, barely audible moan. Voice shot, your own orgasm nothing but a few tingles that have your thighs fucking back into Satoru’s. 

“Satoru- Satoru Satoru Satoru.” you mewl, big fat tears streaming down your cheeks. Birds of a feather, they say. 

Hypnotized. Drunk off the feeling.

And, evidently, Satoru was, too. 

“Pretty…” his voice rings in your ear. Tinged with a tone you know didn’t bode well for you - or your poor, overfilled cunt. Bloated and dribbling already. “Are- sure- ngh-” 

And with a jolt, you realize he’s still moving. Still pushing and pulling in languid, slow strokes. Thighs shaking as the fatigue wears on him. 

If anyone saw Satoru like this, they’d have a heart attack. Flushed your favorite shade of pink, the lower half of his body well covered with a sheen of your obscenities. Eyes teary with sensitivity, cock still twitching and so angry as he clears his throat and tries again, “Are we- hah- sure it took?”

“Wh-what-” you gasp, breathing in big, deep inhales. “Yes- yes yes- oh my god it’won’t-”

“It will.” Satoru’s interruption almost comes out as a whine. And he’s more sluggish, dazed when he flips you over onto your back again - not too difficult, with the way you were practically splayed out already. “Th-this pussy is made to take it, right? T-to be bred by me?”

It’s almost like Satoru was begging for confirmation, plugging back in the excess of what was leaking out of your abused pussy. It was spreading in a lewd little pool now, seeping into the non-existent space between you two.

But oh how Satoru loved it. Couldn’t tear his eyes off of it, in fact as he noses at your neck. Barely even thrusting anymore, just raw grinds, “Right? Gotta make sure- ngh- heir. Oh-”

He’s darting his tongue out to lick at the beads of tears streaming down your cheek. The salty taste on his tongue having Satoru’s hips stuttering forwards. Again. And again - alternating, not on purpose - between hitting your cervix and that bruised g-spot. “Gonna give me an heir? Ohhh fuck fuck fuck- lemme breed this cunt?”

You’re using up every bit of energy left in your body to give that slow, shallow nod. Which is all the time it takes for the pool to spread even wider. For Satoru’s fingers to stumble their way back to play with your clit. 

Rolling his thumb over in a harsh, uncalculated pattern - if you could even call it that, just jerky, obscene movements to get you off. 

And it works. Hell, the two of you are barely in the state of mind to even feel it. But he’s finally cumming again, and so are you. 

“Ngh- Fuck-”

With a loud, pained cry Satoru tightens his grip on your body like a vice. Raw, sensitive, overusing his cock until it felt so empty. Until you felt so bloated it was like you could explode - or maybe that was your own orgasm. “Toru- c-cumming.”

You’re not sure, anymore. And you don’t know if either of you could bring yourselves to care at this moment, not when your eyelids grow heavy. Vision tinging with black in the corners, and the only thing you could see was your husbands face - sweaty, eyes almost closed, kiss-bitten lips moving in a soundless whisper.  “-the best- momma.”

A/N. CLAN LEADER GOJO SAVE MEE. Oh yeah the “can’t get pregnant without the momma cumming” bit was based on this old tale I’d heard where people used to gen believe that. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[m00sebaby]

just having a bit of a ramble dont mind me