#Coil Cutting Services

[robinminustherichard]

And Falling Apart is The Only Way

Gen | BuckTommy | Spec/ MCD Aftermath | Good Friend Eddie Diaz

It's the night of the funeral that Eddie calls Tommy, and Tommy picks up because he walked away from them all after the ceremony and he figured someone would call eventually.

"Hey, Eddie," Tommy says, quiet in his house by himself, TV muted and playing a recap of the last A's game.

Immediately, Tommy clocks the grief and frustration in Eddie's voice. He tenses.

"Tommy," Eddie begins, blowing out a breath before continuing, "I need you to come to my--Buck's house."

Tommy's shoulders go rigid and his throat goes tight, worry coiling deep in his chest.

"What happ--"

"Nothing. He's fine." Eddie bites out, nearly a growl, "he's just God damn fine."

Tommy feels his eyebrows draw together and slumps back into his couch cushions. "Eddie, I don't think he wants to see me right now, I--"

"Yeah, to be honest, I'm kind of counting on that."

Tommy feels anger flare up, but he tries to shut it down first, just like he has been this past week; having to stand next to Gerard at the service, having to listen to Athena's mother make a tasteless comment when she thought no one could see her, having to get dressed down and get handed his suspension three days ago. He takes a deep breath, knowing it's audible to Eddie, before responding.

"Look, Eddie," Tommy says, careful and measured, "I don't know what you're trying to say here, but I don't think now is the time for Evan and I to talk. He has a lot going on, obviously. Before he called me for the helicopter ride, we didn't exactly leave things on good terms--"

"Yeah, asshole, I know what you said to him." Eddie says, sharp and hissing, "I know what he said to you. I also know that he called you and you came running, not just for Chim."

"Alright--" Tommy starts, feeling heat and rage building up his spine, but Eddie cuts him off again.

"I also know that you are the only person he has let himself break down in front of. That night, after...after Bobby died," Eddie's voice breaks here, "I know you picked him up and brought him home and I can't repay you for it. I have to ask you to do it again."

Tommy sits, struck silent by the sudden desperation that cracks through Eddie's voice.

"And," Eddie starts again, "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be a dick, not tonight of all nights. But Buck is numb right now, he's acting like he's fine, he won't stop moving and doing things, and helping. I know he thinks he's doing the right thing but I have to go back to Texas tomorrow and I'm afraid that this is going to kill him too."

"Eddie..." Tommy practically whispers, feeling like his strings have been cut. He's eying his keys and wallet where they sit by the door.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I have to ask you to come over. I'm his best friend but I've been a pretty shitty one and I just can't get him to break out of this--this mask he has on. Please, Tommy. Please come over. Karen said I can crash on their couch tonight, and I'll come back on the morning."

"What if--what if I make it worse?" Tommy asks, suddenly scared. He's getting up though, headed for his shoes because as he's come to find out he has a really hard time staying away from Evan Buckley.

"I don't think there is worse, Tommy. I think there is Buck, shouldering this until he breaks down. I can't let him go back to work like this. I can't leave California thinking he's going to act risky on a rescue and get himself--"

Eddie can't finish, and Tommy gets it. He knows, on a micro level, what it's like to lose Evan Buckley. He knows what it would do to him, to everyone, for it to happen completely.

Tommy's got his boots on and his wallet in his pocket and his keys in his hands and he's doing this.

"Okay," he says, itching to just go already. "Okay, Eddie, I'm coming. I'll be there in twenty."

Eddie breathes, and Tommy hears the slightest sniffle. "Thank you, Tommy--" he starts, before Tommy suddenly hears Evan's voice calling in the background, "Eddie? Who are you talking to?"

"Just Chris," Eddie says back, and Tommy winces. The call hangs up, but Tommy doesn't let it deter him. He walks out of his front door.

The drive passes in a blur, and suddenly he's at Buck's house, and Eddie meets him at the door.

"Thank you. I'm sorry." Is all Eddie says before he smoothly slips out the door with a bag over his shoulder and heads right for Evan's truck. The door closes behind him and Tommy stares into the house, can hear Evan moving around in the kitchen.

"Eddie?" Evan's voice calls, and he rounds the corner in an apron, drying his hands on a towel, but stops short when he sees Tommy. "Tommy. What--where's--"

"Eddie went to Hen and Karen's. He called me."

Tommy sees the flip, sees what must be scaring Eddie so badly. Evan's jaw sets, his shoulders pull back, his eyes harden.

"Well," he says coolly, "I'm fine. If he needed time away from me he could have just--"

"That's not why," Tommy says, keeping his hands at his waist and his eyes trained on Evan. Tommy knows this isn't like talking someone off the edge, this is going to be fight. "He's worried about you."

Evan scoffs, throws the towel across his shoulder and puts his hands on his hips. "I'm fine, Tommy. I'm sorry you came all this way, I made a coffee cake of you want some--"

"I don't think you are fine, Evan." Tommy says bluntly. Evan's jaw ticks slightly, and Tommy's like a bloodhound with a scent. "I think you're acting fine for everyone else--"

"I know how I feel--"

"I'm not saying you don't. I'm saying you're lying to everyone--"

"I'm not lying!" Evan says, volume rising but still controlled, "I am fi--"

"Stop tell me you're fine," Tommy cuts across him, realizing that this is the most emotion he's seen from Evan since Tommy had held him in the back of the ambulance that followed Chimney and Hen to the hospital, the thought Eddie was right shooting through him.

"I am!" Evan shouts, throwing his hands up. "I'm fine. Bobby said I would be okay and I am. He said the others would need me."

Tommy's heart breaks then, feels a cracking below his ribs, feels sick to his stomach. Evan's eyes have gone glossy and he's blinking quick.

"I'm sorry he said that to you, Evan."

That pulls Evan up short, confusion and upset breaking through his mask. "No, no, it's--" Evan starts, but Tommy's got the thread now. He knows how to unravel this. He takes a step closer, slowly.

"I'm sorry Bobby said that," another step forward, "I don't know if he meant this, Evan."

"Tommy--" Evan says weakly, not moving even as Tommy gets closer, "that's not fair, don't say that. Why are you here? You left, you--"

Tommy knows what Evan's doing, a last ditch effort to slice at Tommy and get him to turn around. Tommy won't, not this time.

"I'm sorry Bobby died, Evan," Tommy says, just a few steps away now, "I'm sorry you think he meant that you had to be strong for everyone and not let anyone know how badly this hurts. That's not what he meant, Evan."

"Stop, please, stop Tommy--" Evan chokes out, taking a stumbling step back as Tommy continues to advance.

"Bobby, like everyone else, always knew that your heart is what makes you, Evan," Tommy says, stopping when he's within grabbing distance, "he would never want you to cut yourself off from it like this. I think he wanted you to be okay not now but later--he wanted you to know that it's going to be good when you're happy again, some day."

Evan blinks, once, twice, and he can't keep the tears at bay any longer. They slide down his cheeks in thick drops, his breathing grows ragged. He says nothing, just looks at Tommy with a face that's a combination of grief and fear.

"Evan," Tommy says slowly and carefully, looking Evan in the eyes and reaching hand out to grab his arm, "I know Bobby was like a dad to you, and he died. He's dead, and I'm so sorry."

Tommy yanks, and Evan comes to him with no resistance. Tommy grabs him up in his arms and feels it when Evan's legs give out. Tommy drops them slowly to the floor as Evan lets out a heaving sob, and grips him as hard as he can, crushing Evan to his chest.

"I'm so sorry, Evan." Tommy says again over Evan's sobs and wails.

"He--he--" Evan tries to speak but he can't get the words out, Tommy lets him try anyway, "He said he loved--"

Tommy feels the muscles in his arms clench and protest at the way he's gripping Evan, afraid that Evan will fly apart if he lets go.

"How do I do this? How do I do this without him?" Evan gets out in stops and starts, chest heaving against Tommy's, "How could he leave me?"

Tommy just holds him as waves of grief and anger in equal measure seek to wash over him.

Tommy doesn't know how long they stay there on the floor, too long probably for his knees and back, but Evan eventually quiets in his arms. He loosens his grip once and Evan jerks like he's been hit, so Tommy tightens his arms once more.

Evan's breathing finally evens out, his sobs subside, and he pulls his head up to look at Tommy.

"You came," Evan says, red rimmed eyes fighting valiantly to show hope admist all of their tragedy. "After I ignored you for days."

"I can't stay away from you for very long," Tommy says before his brain can catch up with his mouth, "also, Eddie is kind of an asshole when he wants to be, but he cares. He wants to make sure you're taken care of too."

Buck nods, gulping and snaking an arm out of Tommy's hold to wipe at his face.

"I didn't--I thought I was hiding it well. I thought I was doing what Bobby said."

Tommy sighs, not unkindly, and lifts a hand to cradle Evan's jaw.

"I meant what I said. I think...I think Bobby was telling you that losing him was going to hurt you, but one day you'll be okay. It won't hurt any less, but you'll have room for everything else. And...when he said that the others would need you, he meant that you can't follow him. There are so many people in your life that need you."

Evan makes a wounded noise and leans into Tommy's hand, "I wouldn't--"

"That's what was scaring Eddie so much," Tommy says, cutting him off far more gently than earlier, "he was scared to go back to Texas not knowing if you would start taking unnecessary risks on the job."

Evan is quiet, heartbreak in his eyes but no denial. They're both quiet as Evan lets it sink in. Eventually, Tommy sees exhaustion settle onto Evan. His shoulders slump and his mouth is parted on slightly labored breathing.

"Let's get you to bed, huh?" Tommy says, preparing them to stand, "it's been a long day."

Tommy gets to his feet and pulls Evan up with him, turning and leading them to the bedroom. He gently pushes Evan toward his dresser to change and Tommy steps back into the kitchen to turn the lights off and drain the sink where Evan had been hand washing dishes. He fills up a glass of water to bring back with him.

When he returns to the bedroom, Evan is sitting on the edge in a pair of shorts and ragged looking t-shirt. Tommy stands in front of him and speaks gently.

"You should try to sleep, Evan," Tommy hands over the water and is satisfied when Evan automatically drinks half of it. "I can crash on the couch, okay? Eddie said he'll be back in the morning."

Evan nods, but looks far away for a moment. Tommy makes a move to start heading out but is stopped when Evan half rises from the bed and gets a hand on Tommy's wrist.

"Wait. I know--" he says, sounding nervous but determined, "I know we aren't, uh, together right now. But. I lov--"

"Wait," Tommy interrupts him, and Evan looks at him in despair. Tommy gently pushes him back onto the bed and sits next to him. He twists his hand out of Evan's grip and grabs at both of Evan's instead, holds them in his lap. "In the morning, we can talk."

"Bobby died without me saying it to him, Tommy." Tears gather again in Evan's eyes, but his voice is steel, "I'm not going to have anyone else not know."

Tommy nods, and takes a deep breath before speaking.

"Okay," Tommy says, and feels courage strike through him, "I love you, Evan."

Evan's breath hitches, and he looks at Tommy with a trembling mouth.

"I love you too, Tommy."

After everything, it's Evan's small but determined voice in that moment that brings tears to Tommy's eyes. He grabs Evan again and holds him to his chest, sets a kiss on Evan's birthmark and looks at the cieling, overwhelmed.

"Okay," Tommy whispers, feeling for the first time in a week that he's got somewhere to go from here, "Okay, Evan. We're going to be alright."

[lvmimis]

cw: smut but softcore. hot spring. too much banter. reader is implied to have textured hair.

“Your hair’s grown long,” you murmur.

With the observation, your right hand wades gently in the steamy surface of the hot spring to rise to Tanjiro's damp cheek and pats it coquettishly before your fingers glide gently through the strands of his water-slicked burgundy locks. You’ve been submerged together, you to your collarbones and him just to the base of his pectoral muscles for the past thirty minutes, chatting idly with a short pause in conversation just moments before this to rest and relax, really letting the soothing waters seep into your skin. Traveling together has weighed heavy on you both and the few minutes to catch your breath have been welcome, but now that you're rejuvenated, you’re right back to teasing. 

“You think so?” he asks. He looks a bit surprised, his own rough fingers closing around a couple looser strands. The remainder stick close to his skin, framing his handsome face, his neck, and the slope of his broad shoulders, and you continue to run your hand through them at the forehead, gently scratching his scalp with your nails as you do so. 

“Yeah, not that I don’t like it,” you practically wink, and he smiles, pulling you into his arms so that you’re back pressed to chest again. You inhale softly and he sighs as if you were sharing one breath. 

“I must have not been paying attention,” he murmurs, kissing your ear. You laugh to yourself, a trickle of heat running down your spine with the nibble of his teeth..

“That’s why you have me,” you remind him, brightly. "To pay attention to you, that is." Your own hair is in a high bun, avoiding the water but reveling in the wafting steam to nurture your coils and he lets himself breathe deeply of the scent, then presses his lips to your neck. 

“Cut it for me?” he asks, tentatively. His hands wander again, gliding from your shoulders to your wrists, and the soft splash of the water parting accentuates the drop of your heart into your loins as he kisses the soft underside.

“I don’t know how to cut wavy hair,” you immediately answer, but he’s turning you to face him again in the water and his eyes look at you hungrily now, as if you’re having a conversation a lot more licentious than the simple act of snipping away with scissors.

“I don’t mind as long as you try your best.”

Tanjiro’s voice is coming out breathy and lower as he leans in, and he’s clearly asking for something more from you rather than this simple future act of service. Eyes darkening as you press your palm against his chest, right above the jagged scars, he asks if you think you’re up to it, and it’s clear he’s not talking about an impromptu haircut.

“And if I do a bad job?”

His hands are on your hips now, cupping the curve of your ass before they lift up, your legs reflexively finding their way in a hold around his waist. The warmth of the hard length pressed soft against your belly stands out so much more than anything in the world right now, enough to make your breath hold tightly in your throat.

“I won’t hold anything against you,” he teases.

You snort, but his bad joke has made him crack a smile. Pulling you with him through the water, he lets himself lean on the rocky wall as he supports you. 

“You’ll let me do whatever I want then?” you ask. He nods, biting his lower lip as you attempt to ease yourself around his cock. He’s good at flustering you, but easily forgets how quickly you can turn the tables on him, at a loss for words as you descend.

But then once you sink in, and take all of him inside, your arms reflexively wrapping around his neck, the temporary gain is lost as you adjust to his length, moaning as he stretches out your insides. Again. Just moments ago, you were like this, letting him slip in and out of you, fluid resistance meaning so little to him with every thrust.

“Of course,” he practically croons.

The push and pull between the two of you is always an endless wave of emotion, where even something as simple as telling your boyfriend he’s looking kind of shaggy ends up in being awash in emotion, but that’s the ebb and flow of your relationship and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

[duskidolsmut]

Tied Up and Broken in

Tags: Slutty submissive idol, Black fetish lingerie, Ropes and collar, Horny post-show, VIP secret agency, Domination by four guys, Luxury apartment, Adrenaline and submission, Bad girl surrendered, Pussy dripping with lust, Dick in deep throat, Heavy verbal domination, Pussy blinking with lust, Submission on her knees, Crawling for cock, Collar shining, Ropes cutting wrists, Ice on hard nipples, Pussy dripping on the carpet, Cruel domination by four, Pussy blinking madly, Sadistic hair pulling, Half-loose blindfold, Deep throat oral fuck, Drool dripping on breasts, Four cocks in mouth, Tears and lust, Pussy and ass broken, Wild double penetration, Brutal gangbang with four cocks, Wet explosive squirt, Cum on sweaty breasts, Pussy throbbing with cum

On stage, Ryujin was the living embodiment of attitude: ITZY’s bad girl, oozing confidence with her razor-sharp glances and powerful moves. Every step, every defiant smirk, set fans ablaze, cementing her image as the untouchable idol. But when the lights dimmed and the roar of applause faded, she shed that impenetrable mask.

Off-camera, Ryujin harbored a secret no one would suspect: her deepest desire was to surrender completely. Far from the spotlight, she craved the feeling of being dominated—stripped not just of her clothes, but of the control the world assumed she had.

After concerts, when adrenaline still thrummed in her veins, Ryujin didn’t head home or to casual hookups. Instead, she contacted a secret agency, a service reserved only for the most discreet VIP clients—a place where her desires could be fulfilled without fear of judgment.

One night, after a sold-out show, Ryujin slipped into a nondescript penthouse in downtown Seoul.

Her stilettos clicked against marble, her black blazer hugging every curve. The place reeked of elite secrecy—automatic gates, a hushed lobby. A woman in a gray suit at reception didn’t meet her eyes, just gestured to the elevator. Wordless, Ryujin handed over her phone and purse, the ritual as familiar as a choreographed dance. The elevator ascended, its hum syncing with her pounding heart. The air smelled of leather and sweet incense, and her pussy was already dripping just from anticipation.

At the end of the hall, a black door swung open. The apartment was cold luxury: white walls, floor-to-ceiling windows framing Seoul’s glittering skyline, a black leather couch, and a glass table displaying ropes and a studded leather collar that gleamed like a promise. Four men waited—tall, broad-chested, sharp-eyed. Their unbuttoned shirts revealed carved muscles; ropes coiled in their hands. To them, ITZY’s Ryujin, the untouchable idol who made fans scream, was nothing. Here, she was just “our little submissive,” and their gazes promised to break her properly.

Ryujin peeled off her blazer slowly, letting it pool on the floor. The white shirt followed, unbuttoned to reveal black lace—a bra that barely contained her hard nipples, panties so sheer the wetness glistened. Her heels echoed as she swayed to the center of the room, hips rolling like she was still on stage. Her arousal was obscenely visible: nipples straining against lace, skin dewy with sweat, cunt swollen and slick. She knew she wasn’t the star here, but her defiance couldn’t resist.

“Damn, look at you! You’re the biggest man I’ve ever seen,” she purred, pointing at the guy with the neck tattoo, his body carved like a god’s.

The first man, who introduces himself as Michael, steps forward and grabs her hair, yanking hard until her neck arches.

“From now on, you only speak when we say so—and always end with ‘Sir.’ Understood?” he growls, his voice deep, gaze locked.

Ryujin, her pussy already throbbing, smirks.

“Yes… I mean, yes, Sir,” she replies, her voice breathy, a little mocking—but trembling with need.

The other three men laugh, a low sound that fills the apartment. The second, Jack—buzzcut, a scar on his cheek—shakes the leash. ���Look at her, already dripping!” he taunts. Ryujin’s face burns, but her soaked panties betray her.

“On your knees,” Michael orders, releasing her hair with a slight shove.

Ryujin drops to the soft rug, her heels still on, black lace glowing under the apartment’s harsh lights. She stares up at the four of them, heart racing, and blurts:

“You’re damn right. My cunt’s pulsing, my heart’s wild. I’m ready to be your whore, Sirs!” The men chuckle, and the third—dreads, eyebrow piercing—steps closer, rope in hand.

“Addicted to cock already, huh? This slut was born for dick and didn’t even know it,” he says. Ryujin bites her lip, the ache between her legs almost painful.

“Yes, Sir,” she murmurs, eyes glittering.

The fourth man, the quietest, a snake tattoo coiled on his arm, picks up the collar and crouches in front of her, leather grazing her throat.

“Open wide, whore,” he commands. Ryujin parts her lips, tongue out, like she already knows what’s coming. He doesn’t buckle the collar yet—just lets her feel the cool leather. “I love a slut who knows her place,” he purrs.

Michael, inked neck, black shirt hanging open, grabs a thick rope and steps forward.

“On your feet, bitch,” he snarls. Ryujin rises, hips swaying slightly, gaze defiant.

“Fine, Sir—I’ll be good,” she breathes, voice thick with lust but still teasing. Michael and Leo (dreads, piercing) work fast, binding her wrists behind her back, the rope biting into skin. Diego (snake tattoo) ties her ankles, leaving just enough slack to shuffle. The ropes are tight but not cutting—they know exactly what they’re doing. Jack, the ringleader (buzzcut, scar), slips a black blindfold over her eyes, the fabric swallowing the world.

Ryujin is blindfolded, wrists and ankles bound, completely at the mercy of the four men. The darkness makes her heart race, her pussy clenching with anticipation. She hears their footsteps circling her, the leather of their jackets creaking, then feels the first touch—Leo’s fingers tracing the curve of her ass, so light it raises goosebumps.

“Look how helpless our little girl is now…” he murmurs, and Ryujin shudders, her body desperate for more.

Diego drags his fingers up her stomach, teasing her nipples through the lace, pinching just hard enough to make her gasp.

“Born to take cock, and you didn’t even know it,” he taunts. Ryujin moans, voice loud and shameless: “Fuck yes, Sir—my cunt’s begging for it!”

Michael the Sadist chuckles low, yanking her black panties aside to expose her dripping pussy, slick glistening down her thighs.

“Look at this slut—already leaking,” he says, swiping a finger over her entrance but not pushing in.

Ryujin writhes, the ropes holding her tight, and whimpers: “God, Sir, just fuck me already—I’m aching!”

The men laugh, the sound echoing through the loft, and Jack the Boss steps forward, the floorboards creaking.

“Crawl to me, whore,” he orders, fisting her hair to drag her onto the rug.

Blindfolded and bound, Ryujin drops to all fours, knees sinking into the soft carpet, her heels still strapped on. She crawls awkwardly, the ropes restricting her movements, Jack’s grip on her hair steering her. Her pussy is so wet it drips, and she feels their four pairs of eyes burning into her skin.

“Coming, Sir—your slut’s on her way!” she rasps, half-laughing, half-pleading, like the good little fucktoy she is. When she reaches Jack’s boots, he yanks her hair harder, forcing her neck to arch.

"Open that mouth wide, slut," he orders, and Ryujin obeys, tongue out, lips trembling.

Jack shoves his thick cock into her mouth, straight down her throat. Ryujin gags, drool dripping down her chin. His dick is huge, stretching her lips, and she tries to breathe, but Jack fucks her face, gripping her hair like reins.

"Love a whore who knows her place," he growls, while the others clap and mock: "Look at the idol turning pro cocksucker!" Ryujin, her throat blocked, moans loudly—the sound muffled—and thinks: Fuck, sir, this dick’s killing me… but I want more. The ropes dig into her wrists, her ankles ache, but her pussy clenches, soaking the rug, as Michael, Leo, and Diego watch, ropes and leash still in hand, ready for the next move.

Jack grabs Ryujin’s short hair, the black strands slipping through his fingers, and yanks hard, arching her head back. The blindfold slips slightly, letting her glimpse the other three men—Michael, Leo, Diego—their hard cocks straining against their pants, eyes ravenous.

"Look at the men who’ll ruin you, bitch. Open those eyes!" Jack snarls, his voice cutting through the air. Ryujin’s pupils dilate under the blindfold, her pussy throbbing wildly.

"God, they’re huge… sir!" she rasps, voice hoarse, halfway delirious—arousal laced with a thread of fear.

The guys laugh, the sound echoing like a filthy promise.

Leo grabs a thicker rope and kneels behind her.

"Stay still, slut," he murmurs, binding her wrists behind her back, the knots so tight they cut off circulation, her skin flushing red. Ryujin moans, body shaking, the ropes biting like teeth.

"Fuck, sir, it hurts!" she whines, but her tone is shameless, like she’s savoring the pain. Leo smirks, landing a light smack on her already marked ass.

"Shut up. This cunt’s dripping—can’t lie," he taunts, and Ryujin bites her lip, her soaked panties betraying her.

As Leo tightens the knots, Michael picks up an ice cube from the table, liquid dripping onto the rug. He crouches in front of Ryujin, gaze icy, and rips off her lace bra—her hard nipples spring free, brown and glistening with sweat.

“Cry, you little slut. I want to see that tough-girl act disappear,” he says, rubbing the ice over one nipple, the cold burning like fire. Ryujin screams, her body convulsing, her wrists tugging against the ropes.

“Fuck, sir, it’s so fucking cold!” she gasps, her voice a mix of pain and arousal. Michael drags the ice to her other nipple, the cube melting, water trickling down her breasts to her stomach, mingling with sweat.

“Look at this whore crying,” he taunts, and Ryujin moans loudly: “I’m crazy for you, sirs, just fuck me already!”

Diego leans against the table, gripping her leash, watching it all with a crooked smile.

Ryujin—her nipples burning from the ice, her wrists numb from the ropes, the blindfold slipping—starts to unravel, her body trembling with anticipation. Her pussy is so wet it drips onto the carpet, her black panties a useless rag.

“My cunt’s throbbing, sirs, I need cock!” she shouts.

Jack yanks her hair again, forcing her to look up, her lips parted. “Good girl. Ready to be ours?” he says, and Ryujin, her heart racing, feels lust swallow the last shreds of shame.

Diego moves in front of her, his black pants open, his thick, heavy cock swaying. He grabs Ryujin’s chin hard, fingers digging into her skin, and drags the head of his cock over her lips, the heat leaving a wet trail. Without warning, he thrusts inside, invading her throat with a cruel stroke. Ryujin gags, her eyes wide beneath the blindfold, tears streaking her cheeks. Diego pinches her nose with two thick fingers, cutting off her air, forcing her to swallow or suffocate.

“Swallowed so many microphones, now you’re swallowing dick, huh?” he growls, grinning cruelly, his cock pulsing down her throat.

Ryujin fights for breath, drool dripping down her chin, onto her exposed tits, but she doesn’t pull away. Her lips tighten around him, her tongue desperate, licking the base, seeking approval even as she chokes.

“Fuck, this cock’s killing me!” she thinks, pleasure exploding through the pain.

Every thrust from Diego is deep, his cock hitting the back of her throat, obscene wet sounds echoing through the apartment. Ryujin’s saliva flows like a river, coating her chin, her breasts, pooling on the carpet. Michael steps closer, laughing.

“Look at this slut drooling! I’m dying to fuck that mouth too—I want more,” he says, yanking off the blindfold and tossing it to the floor.

Ryujin blinks, her eyes wet, and sees Michael with his hard cock already in hand. He grabs her hair as Diego pulls out of her mouth with a wet pop, then shoves his own dick inside—smaller but thicker—stretching her lips.

“Suck, you whore. Show me you know how to swallow,” Michael orders, fucking her face with quick thrusts, spit flying.

Jack stands to the side, gripping the leather leash. He crouches down and pinches Ryujin’s soaked nipples, still sensitive from the ice, making her scream around Michael’s cock.

“You love this, don’t you? That pussy’s dripping on the floor,” he taunts. Ryujin, her mouth full, lets out a muffled moan.

Her attitude shines even as she gags, tears mixing with spit. Leo grabs the rope around her wrists and yanks it back, forcing her chest forward, her tits swaying.

“Open wider, slut. I’m giving you more,” he growls, waiting for Michael to pull out before sliding his long, curved cock down her throat. Ryujin gags again, wet sounds filling the apartment as Leo fucks her mouth slowly, making her feel every inch.

The four men take turns with Ryujin’s mouth, each thrusting into her throat for a few seconds before passing her to the next. Diego returns, squeezing her nose shut again, laughing:

“Learning to be our little cocksucker, aren’t you?”

Michael pinches her tits, leaving red marks. Jack flicks the leather leash against her cheek, teasing:

“Look at this idol becoming a microphone slut!”

Leo tightens the ropes, making her wrists burn, and fucks her mouth hard, his cock hitting her throat. Ryujin, tears streaming, drool pooling on the carpet, is pushed to her limit—but the arousal is stronger.

“Fuck, yes—I love being your whore!” she rasps when Leo pulls out, her voice wrecked, filthy. The guys laugh, and Diego fists her hair again, ready for another round. “Good girl. Now swallow it right,” he demands, his heavy cock dragging over her lips once more.

Ryujin’s mouth is swollen and red, her lips bruised from sucking all four cocks. She gasps for air, her throat raw, spit dripping down her chin onto her tits—but the need outweighs the pain. Jack moves behind her, his black pants open, his thick cock swaying, veins pulsing. He grips her hips, lining up his tip with her dripping, throbbing pussy, her slickness glistening down her thighs. Without mercy, he slams into her in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Ryujin shrieks, the sound barely escaping her battered lips, her cunt stretched to the limit.

“It’s tearing, sir! That huge cock is wrecking me!” she whimpers, her voice trembling.

Jack doesn’t stop, fucking her hard, each thrust making her tits bounce, the wet sound echoing through the apartment.

“Fuck, this pussy’s a greedy little hole,” he growls, yanking her short hair back, his dick slamming deep into her cunt.

Ryujin shudders, her body trying to adjust, but the pain is insane—like his cock is pushing into her stomach.

“Sir, it’s too big—you’re splitting me open!” she screams, delirious, her pussy clenching around him as pleasure wars with the burning stretch.

While Jack pounds her pussy, Michael positions himself beneath her, lying on the mat. He flips her onto her back against him, grips Ryujin’s hips—fingers digging into her flesh—and lines up his hard cock with her tight, resisting asshole, already red from strain. Without warning, he forces her down, his cock stretching her virgin ass inch by inch.

Ryujin screams again, voice breaking: “It’s tearing, sir! That monster cock’s wrecking my ass!” The pain is fire, her anus burning, but Michael shows no mercy, pushing until he’s fully sheathed inside her, her belly bulging. “Cry. This ass is ours now,” he taunts, fucking her with slow, brutal strokes, each one making her convulse.

Ryujin’s at her limit—pussy and ass fucked simultaneously, Jack and Michael’s huge cocks destroying her without remorse. “Sirs, these cocks are too much—they’re ruining me!” she sobs, tears streaming, but her slutty voice doesn’t quit, as if she’s loving being their “doll,” the foursome’s whore.

Leo watches, rope in hand, his hard-on straining against his pants. He crouches in front of Ryujin’s swollen pussy—red from Jack’s relentless pounding—and starts spanking it with sharp, stinging slaps, the cracks echoing in the stifling room.

Diego laughs at the scene. He steps closer, rubbing his heavy cock over her face, her spit and tears slicking his skin.

“Look at this slut—taking two cocks and still begging for more,” he jeers, slapping his shaft against her cheek.

Ryujin, her pussy and ass on fire, moans: “Sir, these cocks are too big—they’re wrecking me… but I want more!” Even as her body trembles with pain and pleasure.

Jack speeds up in her pussy, Michael fucks her ass harder, and Leo lands another slap on her soaked cunt—the wet sounds mixing with her screams.

“I’m getting wrecked, sirs—these cocks are destroying me!”

Ryujin whimpers, her voice hoarse, as Leo laughs, ready to shove his dick down her throat. He fists her short hair, yanking her head back, and drives his thick cock into her drooling mouth, muffling her screams. “Suck it, Paty, you slut,” he growls, fucking her throat in slow, brutal strokes.

Diego kneels between Ryujin’s sweaty tits, his heavy cock wedged between them. He squeezes her breasts, pinching her nipples, and grinds his shaft along her cleavage, their skin glistening with sticky fluids—spit, sweat, pre-cum. “Look at this whore, taking it all and still begging for more,” he taunts, his cock smearing her chest.

Ryujin’s being used like a toy—flipped, bent, stretched on all fours, stripped of autonomy. Her pussy, ass, and mouth are stuffed, huge cocks splitting her open without mercy. “Sirs, these fucking monsters are too big—they’re tearing me apart!” she sobs, her voice garbled around Leo’s dick, tears streaming as her cunt clenches wildly, betraying her hunger.

The men take turns brutally, swapping holes like she’s nothing but a fleshlight. Jack pulls out of her pussy and rams into her mouth, his cock glistening with her juices, stretching her swollen lips. Michael yanks his dick from her ass and slams into her cunt, her slick dripping down her thighs. Leo leaves her mouth to spear her ass, her burning hole stretching as he pounds relentlessly. Diego, after grinding between her tits, forces his cock past her lips, drool pooling on the mattress.

The room drowns in the sounds of skin slapping, wet squelches, and Ryujin’s choked moans. She whines, trembles, her body jerking through endless, forced orgasms. “I’m cumming, sirs—these cocks are wrecking my soul!” she shrieks when Diego pulls out, her voice a ruined, slutty rasp.

Every thrust shatters the idol the world knows—her breath a mess of sobs, ragged moans, and mindless screams. Diego leans down, his lips at her damp neck, and snarls: “Tonight, you’ll learn to be a real whore.” He bites hard, teeth leaving a purple bruise. Ryujin howls, her body seizing: “This fucking cock’s marking me, ruining me… Sir!”

The four men bend her wider—knees and shoulders crushed into the rough mattress, her doggy-style pose leaving her exposed. Michael rears back and slams into her ass, her rim straining, while Jack hammers her soaked, swollen pussy, her juices gushing. Leo wrenches her hair, arching her spine, as Diego fucks her throat until she gags. Ryujin’s muffled cries rise, her body convulsing in another orgasm, her cunt clenching Jack’s cock like a vise.

Leo, with a sadistic grin, delivers a sharp slap to her ass, the crack echoing like thunder. “Go on, slut—squirt for us!” he snarls, and it’s too much. The pressure, the humiliation, the raw pleasure detonate. Ryujin shudders violently, body convulsing, a strangled scream muffled against Diego’s cock. Her pussy clenches uncontrollably—hot jets of cum gushing out, splattering thighs, Jack, the mattress, soaking everything.

“I’m squirting, sirs—these fucking cocks are wrecking me ‘til I come!” she screams, voice breaking, body spasming.

The men laugh, groaning loud as they feel her collapse. Jack grips her waist and thrusts deeper, his cock pulsing while she cums again, her cunt squeezing like a vise. Diego erupts down her throat, hot seed flooding her mouth, his hand fisting her hair to force her to swallow—spunk dripping down her chin as she trembles. Leo pulls out of her ass and cums between her sweat-slicked tits, smearing the come over her marked skin, her chest glistening. Michael explodes inside her ass, yanking her hips against him, his load smearing her ravaged insides, leaking from her burning hole.

Ryujin can’t speak. Can’t move. Her body goes limp—broken, surrendered, satisfied on a level only these men can deliver. She collapses onto the mattress, still bound, sweat-drenched, filthy with cum, drool, and her own slick. A weak smile touches her swollen lips. Her pussy, ass, and mouth throb—every fiber of her pushed to the edge—but she’s free, in a way the ITZY stage never let her be.

The men, panting, slowly untie her, her skin marked with red lines. They lift her carefully, like a trophy, and carry her to the apartment’s bathroom. Under the shower’s hot stream, water washes away sweat, semen, and tears—the four of them tending to her exhausted body with gentle touches, a silent ritual of respect for her total surrender. Ryujin, boneless in their arms, closes her eyes, soothed by the heat and their care, her heart calm for the first time in days.

Back in the bedroom, she slips into her “executive” disguise—the usual black pantsuit—and adjusts her sunglasses, even in the dead of night. Seoul’s skyline glows beyond the window, and in her reflection, Ryujin doesn’t see the untouchable idol. She sees “Slut”—the woman who found paradise in submission. Her heels clack as she leaves, already dreaming of the next time she’ll request “four stallions” from the agency.

[undyingdecay]

pairing: robert reynolds x reader cw: mentions of blood & cuts, ptsd, trauma responses, mentions of a dislocated limb, так ему и надо; 'serves him right', mentions of the void.

the sound of the room was clinical—yes, even in absolute silence, it seemed to hum with sterility, a low-frequency pressure that settled just behind your eyes. you’d once read that true silence didn’t exist, that the human brain, when left without noise, invented its own. you wondered if that explained the dull, persistent thrum in your skull—like a failing fluorescent bulb or the echo of something terrible that had happened here long before you arrived. or maybe it was the scent that haunted you more than the sound. too much hand sanitizer, the sour-metallic tang of dried blood, and something else—something distinctly human.

you stood in the medical bay alone, though you weren’t ever really alone in this place. ghosts of trauma lingered in the corners like mildew. not literal ghosts, but the kind you carried in your bloodstream—the kind bob joked about when he was trying not to be serious, which was often.

you’d been the team’s live-in medic—though “doctor” felt like a stretch. it felt almost obscene, like wearing someone else’s medals. someone who’d suffered through years of training, who’d paid their dues in sleepless rotations and buried patients. you, in contrast, had received your first taste of “medicine” in a community center summer program. a certificate that read 'doctors in training!' with your name written in sharpie and a cartoon bandage in the corner. you’d been eleven, and the woman who ran it had skin like paper and a voice like peppermint tea. she’d patted your head and told you you had “healing hands.” you weren’t sure she was still alive.

still, you found yourself here. no diploma on the wall. no white coat. just scars on your arms and the knowledge that your blood could knit tissue together, fuse bones, restart failing hearts—though it came at a price. healing by hurting. the ultimate contradiction.

the thunderbolts didn’t ask many questions. not moral ones, at least. they accepted things as they were—gritty, violent, half-measured.

maybe that’s why you fit in.

you were still in school when the avengers became myth. stark on every screen. natasha romanoff in every article about redemption. steve rogers a symbol of what humanity should aspire to—and ultimately failed to reach. it was like watching gods fall from olympus, only to be replaced by men and women who didn’t pretend to be anything more than what they were: broken weapons looking for a cause.

the thunderbolts weren’t heroes. not in the classical sense. valentina made that clear. redemption wasn’t offered here—it was extracted, painfully, through service and blood.

and yet, there was bob.

bob, who wasn’t supposed to matter. bob, who made dumb jokes when he was nervous and watched you from across the room like you were something rare. like you were something good. bob, who kept trying to convince everyone—including himself—that he didn’t care. that he was just doing the job. but you’d seen it in his eyes after missions. the hesitation before he killed. the way his hands shook before he handed you a bloodied patch of someone else’s skin. he wasn’t as numb as he pretended to be.

“you’re staring again,” you said softly, not looking up from the table where you were cataloguing syringes. the labels on the vials swam before your eyes, your fingers trembling in the too-cold air.

he didn’t respond at first. typical bob. words weren’t his strong suit, not unless they were carefully measured and edged with tension, like everything else about him. he stood near the doorway, hands at his sides, a stillness about him that always made you feel like you were in the presence of something ancient and coiled.

despite the blood, despite the steel tables and quiet hum of overhead lights, bob stayed. you’d hoped it meant something. maybe it did. you both had your rituals—movies with the volume low, books exchanged in silence, the occasional loaf of bread you’d bake late at night when sleep refused to come. he never said it, but you knew he liked flowers. you’d caught him more than once pausing by the wildflowers near the west perimeter. he’d never pick them. just stood there like he was remembering something that hurt.

but it was silence you shared most of all. not comfort, not peace—but a kind of truce. the kind of silence that acknowledged pain but didn’t press it. that kind of silence didn’t bother you.

for bob, it was different.

you knew pure silence would drive him mad. not metaphorically, not in some poetic sense—but literally. the void, whatever it truly was, loomed large behind his eyes. he hated loud noises even more. you weren’t sure what he heard when things got too loud, but the look in his eyes when they did—like he was slipping—was something you never forgot.

but of all the things you’d come to learn about him—his meticulous way of folding his shirt sleeves, the way his jaw flexed when he lied, the way he always sat with his back to the wall—it was the way he reacted to sound that told you the most.

the incident with walker hadn’t helped.

yelena had been in one of her moods. whether she was amused or angry, no one could ever really tell. but the sharp crack that echoed through the training hall when she dislocated walker’s shoulder was deliberate. her tone had been light, as if it had been an accident—“oops.” but the muttered “так ему и надо.” that followed made it clear that it wasn’t. and she didn’t regret it.

they brought walker in with his ego more bruised than his body. he scoffed at the idea of waiting for valentina to send a “real medic,” but sat down anyway, jaw tight.

you remembered the way he gripped the edge of the exam table, already pale, already sweating. you handed him a folded cloth. “bite down,” you said, not unkindly.

“this is gonna hurt?” he asked, trying to sound cavalier, but his voice cracked.

“no,” you answered flatly, “it’s going to be worse.”

he did what you told him. he always did when pain was involved. your hands found the joint. with practiced precision, you pushed and twisted until the shoulder snapped back into place with a visceral pop. the sound echoed off the metal cabinets and tile like a gunshot. walker screamed around the cloth, a guttural noise that vibrated through your teeth.

and bob—who had been leaning against the wall across the room, hands folded, silent as usual—flinched.

not dramatically. not like someone weak. but it was there. a small, involuntary recoil. his jaw tightened, and he turned away sharply, eyes unfocused. you caught the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too shallow. a pressure building behind the dam.

your eyes met his for just a moment. he shook his head, just once. and then he left.

no words. no excuses. just the sound of boots retreating down the corridor, and you standing there with blood on your hands and walker still cursing through his tears.

you hadn’t followed him. you wanted to—but you knew better. when bob needed space, he needed it. and if you pushed too hard, too soon you weren’t sure what might push back.

the memory faded as the present returned, settling back into your body like a weight you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. the medbay remained as still as it had been, the cold light bleaching your skin, the hum of refrigeration units loud against the silence in your head. everything here was designed to keep things alive—barely, clinically, without softness.

and still, you stayed. still, he stayed.

“didn’t mean to,” bob murmured, almost like it hurt to admit. the corner of his mouth twitched in what could’ve been a smile—or maybe just a reflex. “the staring.” he let out a breathy laugh right after, like he knew how it sounded. like he knew how he sounded.

you glanced at him over your shoulder, arching a brow. “sure. you just accidentally burned a hole through the back of my skull with your eyes.”

that almost-smile deepened, but he said nothing. just stepped closer. the laughter was too short to be comfortable, like he didn’t know how to hold it. like it was borrowed from a life where things hadn’t gone wrong so early.

you were starting to think yelena might be rubbing off on him. the sarcastic deflections. the timing of it. you wondered if it was easier for bob to joke around yelena because she expected so little tenderness from anyone. or maybe it was the shared language of blood on their boots and violence stitched into their skin. either way, there was a growing sharpness to him lately. a brittle edge where the silence used to be.

but here, with you—he softened. not all at once. not completely. but just enough.

you noticed how he hovered near the sink instead of leaving again, rinsing dried blood from his hands even though he wasn’t the one bleeding—you didn’t bother asking where it was from or who’s was it, you never did right after a mission.

“i found something earlier,” he said after a moment, drying his hands with a towel that had long since lost its whiteness. he stood with his back to you, which meant it mattered. bob rarely said anything that did. not unless it had already festered in him. “at that little store by the perimeter. the one with the flickering sign and the guy who always forgets to charge me.”

“the one with the terrible instant coffee and the weirdly good eggs?” you asked.

he turned halfway toward you. nodded.

“yeah. that one. they had these recipe cards out front. homemade stuff. handwritten. messy cursive.” he paused. “there was this one for olive oil cake. looked simple. but good.”

you blinked, unsure if you’d heard him right.

“you want to bake a cake?” you asked. “no,” he replied. then, quieter, “i want us to.”

the words sat in the air between you, fragile and heavy at once. in any other context, it might’ve seemed absurd. a cake. after everything. after bloodied mission reports, blown eardrums, after you pulled shrapnel from the flesh of ghosts and held hearts together with your own life force. but here, in this suspended moment, it felt like a lifeline.

bob rarely asked for things. he was the type to let the world take until there was nothing left. so when he did ask—especially like this—you paid attention.

you looked at him closely. the shadows beneath his eyes. the way his fingers twitched slightly, like he still didn’t know if he was allowed to want something warm, something ordinary.

your voice was soft. “you’re sure?”

he nodded once. “yeah.” then, with that rare kind of sincerity only he could wield without breaking it: “i want to do something that doesn’t end in pain.”

the hum of the medbay dimmed in your ears. for the first time all day, maybe longer, the clinical white of the room felt less like a tomb and more like a waiting room. something between here and somewhere better.

you crossed the space between you, fingertips grazing his wrist. his skin was warm—warmer than yours. he didn’t pull away.

“i’d like that,” you said. “i’d like that a lot.”

there were no grand declarations. just the two of you, standing in the sterile heart of something broken, daring to imagine a life with a cake in it. a kitchen. the scent of citrus and vanilla in the air. maybe a quiet evening where no one screamed or bled or begged.

maybe, just maybe, something sweet. something you could make together. and in bob’s eyes, for just a breath— you saw the future press its face to the glass. and smile.

[fanaticsnail]

Hair Pulling: Benn Beckman

Birthday Party Masterlist

Word Count: 2,600+

Themes: Benn Beckman x gn!reader, mdni, smut, 18+, NSFW, kink, hair pulling, insertion sex, oral sex, Sub!Beckman x Dom!reader. First-Mate x Barber.

Notes: It is @jintaka-hane's birthday! Happy birthday! I hope you enjoy your beautiful day, and may Beckman getting his hair pulled spark some joy and illuminate your celebration. So much love for you 🖤

Sitting at your workstation, you began rolling and folding the fresh batch of towels you purchased from the town the Red-Force was currently docked at. The fluffy material felt so foreign in your hands after using your well-worn and crusted cloths for your crew for so long. You couldn’t wait to spoil your crewmates with the new fabric, truly relishing in your job when you were not called to arms in defense of your captain, Shanks.

As the crew barber, it was your job to ensure your crewmates kept themselves as neat and tidy as they desired to be. Whether it was maintaining a goatee, some shadowing on their cheeks, a suave manicured lip and chin, or a rugged scruffiness suited to their liking: you were to keep them in perfect order. Haircuts and styling was also in your repertoire, and you wore that title well.

There was only one member of your crew that had yet to seek out your services for himself. Keeping in the quiet, shearing his own cheeks in the morning, neck and chin littered with small nicks and cuts at after a morning scrub in the bathroom, was the broody first mate.

Hunched over the itinerary captain Shanks had curated for their departure, he leaned his hips on the railing with a scowl on his lips.

Placing down the last folded towel, you withdrew your straight razor and leather hanging strop from your satchel. Checking over your blade for any notches or cracks in need of honing, you blow gently on the silver side of the knife. Holding your blade steady, you gently glide the silver along the stretch, conforming to its curvature along the surface with little resistance.

Benn Beckman was a friend to you, truly enjoying your company in the still of the night when the crew slumbered. As first mate, it was his duty to keep his captain and crew safe. He was both the first and last line of defense for the redhead, and often had little time to dilly dally with his crew. In that quiet, you would often recall small moments traveling together on the seas. Your soft laughter marrying his whispered chuckles was music to the crew, putting them at ease while they slumbered.

You would be lying to yourself if you said you were not attracted to him. Sure, your Captain and the Doctor had their charm, but Benn Beckman: first mate and dutiful death dealer was where your eyes found their perch.

Being simply friends, you assumed he would have approached you by now to do your job on his features. Just a quick tidy of his jawline, trimming his graying locks, giving him a treatment for the sea-sprayed ends - but he never did. Not once. Not a single time.

Narrowing your eyes at him and pursing your lips, you examined his recklessness littering his cheeks with drying blood and crusted sores. Almost scowling at it, you were yet to notice the approach of your crewmate taking a seat in your chair.

“Hey Barber, got a spot for me in your station?” Yasopp queries with a smile in every word, “Can I have a quick tidy up?”

“Course you can, Sharpshooter,” you laugh with him, gently brushing off your chair and reaching for one of the freshly rolled towels. “It's what I'm here for. Just a shave, or rerolling your coils?”

“Just a shave for now. The dreads can wait,” he nodded his head and eagerly plonked himself down at your station. “I've never had a shave as near as yours before. Even when it grows back, it's more manageable.”

“Thank you, Yassop. Now just shut your eyes, lay back, and let me do what I need to do on you.”

“Aye, Barber.”

Watching from his position reclining against the wooden panels, Benn Beckman’s lips drew slack. The filter end of his cigarette lay glued to his lips while they parted in awe. Each glide of the blade over Yasopp’s skin coincided with a gentle tug or maneuver of his scalp to guide him to an appropriate repositioning.

“You're doing it again, Becks.”

Shanks plopped himself alongside the railing beside the first mate, giving him a playful tap on the shoulder in the process. Beckman let's put a soft grunt and continues glaring at the scene unfolding in front of him. You were halfway through the shave now, gently holding idle chatter between yourself and Yasopp while you tidy him up.

“I'm not doin’ nothin’, Cap,” Beckman grumbles, taking a hefty drag of his cigarette. Shanks chuckles, following his eyeline and darting his gaze between Yasopp and you together.

“Why don't you just go up and take a seat,” Shanks suggested as if it was the easiest course of action to take for the big guy, “You really messed up your general scruff. Looks like you angered a pather. Go on. After Yasopp, it's your turn.”

Beckman snaps his gaze over towards Shanks at the thought, blaring into him with his darkened eyes filled with rage.

“You know damn well how I feel about my hair gettin’ touched.” Beckman warned him, his voice hardened with a mixture of warning and confession laden within, “I don't want our barber to do it for me, because I know it'll change the way they see me. Don't wanna do it to them.”

“Just focus on something else, Becks.” Shanks offered in a tone of jesting, index and middle fingers on his right hand walking up his forearm, “You know? Not like you haven't thought of ‘em tugging your hair when you're alone in your quarters.”

Beckman sends Shanks a glare that he has only ever seen a handful of times, who in turn raises his hands defensively. With a small chuckle, Shanks backs away from the broody first mate with a playful smirk.

The gray-haired first mate continues to watch you as you finish your work on Yasopp, wiping off the sharpshooter’s face with a towel. Giving him a playful trace of your fingers along his jawline, you send him from your chair and begin to sanitize it for the next use.

Looking over from your point above the deck of the red force, you could've sworn you caught the first mate’s eyes as he gazed over from his recline against the rail. His thumb met the filter end of his cigarette and pressed it in a sizzle within his iron ashtray.

“Beckman?” you gather your courage to call over to him, finally refusing to let this little dance go on any longer, “Come and see me tomorrow, you hear? Need to fix up your razor, and I've got a balm for you to use tonight.”

Benn Beckman freezes in place, a static-like shudder frizzing from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head. Without much force, he apprehensively sighs out a little, “Aye, that I will.”

Smiling to yourself, you prepare a cube of solid ointment in a tin for him, hoping the balm would aid in the healing for a closer shave, and to halt any scarring or pore blockages from occurring and getting itchy.

The following day, Benn Beckman found himself in your chair. A dark cape was casually draped around his neck, tucked in a towel and buttoned at his collar. The aroma of aftershaves and foaming cleansers lingered as you massaged his prickly scruff with your fingertips.

He could barely focus on your conversation. Whichever topic that graced past your lips was white noise to him. While he often found himself easily lost in conversation with you, he was now wholeheartedly focussed on one thing, and one thing only.

Trying not to cum.

Your hands so easily maneuver his head around, skilled fingers cleaning up his face and ridding him of his spindles protruding from his chin. In his head, it was an eternal argument as to whether he was to tell you how worked up he was, and how long he had been without coupling with a partner, or simply ignore how you made him feel while wholeheartedly enjoying the experience.

He had been to barbers before, and none of them made him feel this worked up over a simple pampering. Paired with the fact he adored you, and he was lost completely to the feeling of your fingers on his skin.

“You want a trim while I'm at it?” he hears you ask. He hadn't had the heart to decline, sparing both himself and you or his shameful joy at the touch. Instead, he closed his eyes and uttered a soft, “yes,” while his cock twitched against the crotch of his pants.

“You have such pretty hair, Becks,” you compliment him in earnest, reaching for the woven band holding his locks within, “If you don't mind me saying, of course.”

“N-Not at all,” he stuttered out, wincing as your hands dragged down the tight coil and freeing his strands from their confines. You take his small flinch as discomfort, but it could not be further from his experience.

Beckman was trying not to picture how you would look straddling his face, guiding him by those skilled hands. Tugging and pulling harshly to have him pinpoint your bliss, having him consume your ecstasy with his vigorous and unrelenting mouth while you held onto his hair.

Carding your fingers through his salted and peppery strands, you found yourself cooing at the way each fistful felt in your hands. He was so pliant, listening to your wordless directions as you angled him to find an appropriate position. Scissors handled carefully to chop at the damaged ends, you continued humming out your praise at the first mate.

His pulse quickened and breath hitched at the way your words and actions truly moved him.

Where your lips curved out: “Your hair is so volumous, I can't get over how you manage to trap it in that band,” Beckman heard, “Your hair feels perfect in my hands, let me trap you in my lap and fuck you.”

Spilling out gentle praise and manageable instructions: “Move to the side, good job. Just like that, Becks,” Beckman’s mind morphed it into, “Fuck, you’re doing such a good job for me. Keep going, good boy.”

Each roll of his neck guided by a tug to his scalp, his eyes rolled back beneath fluttering lashes. His cock continued to twitch and move against his seams at every motion, everything occuring below the belt against his will. He hated himself for reacting like this, for hearing your voice guide him and move against his skull so easily.

At one more sensual tug, his voice entangled in his jugular and caused him to shudder his jaw. You halted your actions immediately, truly believing you had caused him discomfort.

“I'm sorry. Did I hurt you, big guy?” Your concern was laden in your tone, only aiding in expanding his cock to a pulsating rod to pitch the tent in his pants.

“No, Darlin’, I'm alright,” he uttered with a breathy chuckle to follow, “Just not used to bein’ manhandled like this is all.”

“You're used to being in charge. I get it,” you chuckle down at him playfully, giving his hair a soft tug as you did with the others aboard your ship, “You're in my chair now, sweetheart. Gotta listen close to me, or I might accidentally pull on something I shouldn't.”

Both of you were surprised by the needy whine that fled from Beckman’s throat, your hands fleeing immediately from their grip on his hair and discarding your scissors in the tray beside you. You took a moment to steady yourself, your infatuation rising for him in your gut and swelling in need up to your throat. The way he moaned for you was pornographic, and your mind ran with that to a point where you personally had to halt your job to breathe through the feeling.

Beckman knows there's no disguising it now. He has a kink, and you had inadvertently made yourself subject to it by your actions. His mind was already attempting to accumulate an apology to you, thanking the stars that Shanks had conducted an away mission to enjoy a bar in town himself with the crew.

As you stepped towards him, he immediately drew his eyes to find your own. Expecting you to be peering into his soul, gaze filled with rage at the use of you pulling on his hair and fanning the flames of his lust, he saw your eyes immediately flung to his belt line.

Noticing your eyes draw down to his cock, shrouded by the dark covering laid on his lap, he was unsure as to where your mind found itself wandering.

“Benn Beckman,” you whispered softly, a softness rising in your tone. Reaching for the loose strand dangling over his eye, you tucked it behind your ear and purred at him, “You have a thing for hair-pulling, don't you?”

His apologies jumbled and merged into one large stuttery mess. His cheeks rose in hue and illuminance the longer he attempted to recover from your accusation. Each tumble and stutter he elected to present to you was met with a knowing and teasing look down your nose at him.

“Oh, Becks,” you cooed down at him, scrunching up your nose with a soft light in your eyes, “Is that why you haven't come to see me? Something as simple as a little tug on the ponytail gets you all hot and bothered?”

Beckman’s blush rose higher, his head practically seething with frustrated vapors. Just as he was about to open his mouth to growl at you for your comments, you hushed him with a few simple words.

“If you'd have told me about this earlier, we could've had some fun with it,” you shrugged, eyes immediately thereafter growing wide at your blazen disregard for indescression, “I-I mean, if you like me like that-... I mean… if you don't… I… I didn't-.”

“-Are you done with the cut?” Beckman immediately cut you off, his face no longer glaring with his uncertainty and fury.

“I… well, yes, sir,” you nodded, lips sucked into your mouth to stifle their quiver. Beckman reached up to the collar, tugging at the buttoned seam and releasing the cape from shrouding his broad body.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Just as simply as that conversation began, you found yourself with the broody first mate tangled in his sheets and crying out beneath him. Your legs were over his hips, your entrance stretched and molding to his shape the longer he split you open with his thick shaft. Slow and sultry drags of his cock within your body propelled you to a higher plane of bliss. He huffed and panted in the crease where your shoulder met your neck, whining out as you tugged on his freshly trimmed and manicured ponytail.

His hips grew staggered in their languid thrusts, feeling his enevitable release finally stampeding towards the finish line. Your own need was pooling in the pit of your stomach, swelling up and beginning to bloom in your chest. Your breaths came out in heady pants, and you reigned him towards his unravelment by pulling hard on the back of his hair.

“Cum for me, big boy,” you whisper needily, Beckman’s resolve shattering as he unleashed his pearlescent ropes of thick cum deep within you. Calls of your name on his tongue spur you into your own ecstasy, riding through the coursing waves as he buried himself down to the hilt within you.

Both you and Beckman were once again thankful that Shanks and the remainder of the Red Force crew had left you both in isolation to enjoy exploring Beckman's preference for having his hair pulled.

From then on, he was adamant on having only you shave his cheeks and trim his hair to keep him pretty. Even better were the times you did it naked, his cock nestled deep within you and being told to keep still so you don't make a mess of his handsome features with a straight razor and your scissors.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory

🎶Happy birthday to me🎶.

If you would like to celebrate by indulging my caffeine and bubble tea addiction, my Kofi link is here.

[theshiniestgemstone]

I really love the concept of Jesse having a soft spot for his daughter in law that didn’t have her parents show up.

I have an idea if you’re interested.

What about the parents showing up after the wedding or whenever they announce their pregnancy and the they start to say really mean things about reader and the Gemstones get protective(like when they pulled their guns out in season 3).

I love this storyline sm y'all. I find a breadcrumb and figure out how to make it into an entire plot.

The halls were lined with dozens of other churchgoers, their voices echoing softly in the after-service hum. You shook hands with a few, familiar faces offering warm smiles and the occasional tight hug. Compliments came freely. How radiant you looked, how motherhood suited you, how you were absolutely glowing. And despite wearing a pair of shoes a size bigger than you usual size, a support band around your stomach, and heartburn that made you nearly leave in the middle of Judy's song, you were beginning to believe the compliments. You fielded each one with practiced grace, hand instinctively settling on the swell of your belly. Thirty-four weeks along and still trucking.

You lingered off to the side, just out of the main flow of foot traffic, letting the others pass while you waited for Gideon and the rest of the family to gather for lunch. Mrs. Imari, in her usual sharp lavender suit and sensible heels, stood beside you like a quiet guardian, throwing polite but unmistakable glances at anyone who lingered too close.

As the hallway began to clear and the voices faded to a gentler hum, she turned toward you with a familiar maternal softness in her eyes. “Have you and Gideon settled on a name yet?”

“Well, we were thinkin’ of a few names,” you said, brushing a slow hand over your belly. “After finding out we’re havin’ a girl, that cut our list in half. He wants something from the family. I want something new. Not like… new-new, but unique. And still findable on knickknacks.”

Mrs. Imari’s face lit up with genuine delight. “Whatever you pick, I’m sure it will be beautiful. May I feel?”

You nodded, gently guiding her hand to the place just beneath your ribs. Almost right on cue, a solid little thump nudged against her palm.

“She’s always kicking during church,” you said with a soft laugh. “I think she’ll be a soccer player. Or a kick boxer.”

“She’s strong,” Mrs. Imari said warmly, her hand lingering for a moment longer before letting go. “Children are such a precious gift, aren’t they?”

Before you could reply, cold and uninvited, another hand pressed against your bump. “Only when they actually come visit.”

The voice coiled around your spine before you even looked up. Instinctively, you wrapped your fingers around the intruding wrist and pulled it away from your body with sharp precision.

“Mother,” you said flatly.

“Daughter,” she snapped back.

“Mrs. Imari, would you excuse us?” you asked, steadying your voice as you patted her arm.

“Of course,” she said, shooting a tight-lipped look at your mother before turning to leave. “I’ll see you at lunch, dear.”

You waited until she was out of earshot before turning back with a comically exaggerated frown. “Mom, you’re late,” you whined in mock disappointment. “The wedding was, I don’t know, over a year ago. I think the bar’s been tapped out by now.”

“Don’t sass me,” she snapped, grabbing your jaw with those sharp fingers of hers, the way she always used to when she thought she was being affectionate. “You always had a smart mouth.”

You pushed her hand off with a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “What are you doing here?”

She scoffed like it should’ve been obvious, crossing her arms and scanning the hallway as if waiting for someone else to jump in on her behalf. “You think I liked finding out my only daughter is pregnant through Christian Times? You could send an announcement to a journalist. Your father's convinced it was lost in the mail."

You shrugged, unfazed. “You found out about your first three grandbabies through Facebook chains. I’d say you’re takin’ a step up in the world.” You looked around for your dad. "He didn't even bother to make it, did he?"

She let out a short, bitter laugh. “You think this is funny? Parading around like some kind of preacher’s wife? You always were a liar.”

You tilted your head, expression flattening. “You came all this way to pick a fight in a church hallway?”

“If that’s what it takes to finally get your attention,” she hissed. “You won’t answer my calls. You won’t even send a photo.”

You stopped fighting for a potential relationship the day of the wedding. After Jesse walked you down the aisle, after the day was done and you were settled into the honeymoon suite at the Four Seasons, you removed her and the other guests who refused to attend from your social medias and contacts.

You rolled your eyes, letting out a sigh as you adjusted the collar of your dress. “This isn’t worth my time.”

“I am your mother!” she barked, grabbing for your arm again.

You shook her off with a final, clipped glance. “And I’m busy.”

With that, you turned your back and walked, not caring who might be watching. Your heels clicked against the tile as you moved with purpose, weaving through the last of the stragglers toward the lobby, where the family was gathered near the double doors. They all looked away when you glanced over at them, obviously having witnessed the conversation, but unsure of what to say.

Gideon noticed the tension in your shoulders and the change in your expression immediately.

“Hey,” he said gently, stepping forward. “Who was that?”

You gripped his hand tight, not slowing down. “My mother,” you muttered, tugging him with you toward the front door, away from the hallway, away from her. “Come on.”

He didn’t ask again. He just followed, matching your pace as the doors swung open behind you both and the sun hit your face like a quiet relief.

After a few hormonal tears in the parking lot of Jason’s, you and Gideon made your way up to the second-floor dining room. You usually greeted everyone individually, joked with the family about the baby making it hard to climb the stares, but today you couldn’t find it in yourself to entertain. Instead, you settled into your usual seat beside Gideon and focused on the food in front of you. You picked at the meal, forcing a smile when you made eye contact with anyone.

The clink of your fork hitting your plate as you noticed her at the top of the stairs was barely audible over the insults hurled between Judy and Kelvin. The noise of lunch blurred for a moment as everything inside you went still.

Your mother stood there like she belonged. Chin high, lips pressed in a tight, self-satisfied line.

“What the fuck do you want?” you snapped, loud enough to cut through the noise. Every head turned. "Can't I get a minute of fucking peace.

Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Jesse froze where he was reaching for another dinner roll. Judy’s jaw dropped open mid-comeback, and even Kelvin blinked like he wasn't sure he heard right. Gideon slowly reached for your hand under the table, squeezing once, your name passing through his lips quietly.

Your mother ascended the last few steps slowly, theatrically. “I came to meet the family,” she said, eyes scanning the table with fake curiosity. “Isn’t that what good mothers do?”

“You had three years to call,” you bit back, standing now, chair legs scraping loudly against the hardwood. “Three years to care.”

She smiled, cold and wrong. “Well. I’m here now.”

“Not for long,” you said, heart pounding.

Eli cleared his throat at the head of the table, already rising. “Ma’am, this is a private gathering.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” she said with a dry laugh, eyes landing on him. “You’re the one who made her think she’s better than where she came from.”

You moved before you could think. You went around the table, past the stunned faces of your in-laws, Gideon shadowing your every step after scrambling out of his chair. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re trash! You always have been. You come from a slum, not silver spoons and gold necklaces.” She teetered on her feet, jabbing a finger in your direction. “You’re not good enough for this.”

You blinked, stunned. Not because it was new. She had said worse, been worse. But something about hearing it now, after everything… it cut differently.

“This family is fixing you to be what they want you to be. Barefoot and pregnant and… and some spectacle.”

Three years of distance. A wedding she was invited to and never showed up. A baby that stirred beneath your ribs like a reminder of everything you’d built. Everything she hadn’t touched.

You didn’t respond right away. You just stood there, jaw locked, throat burning, one hand braced against the curve of your belly. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out her words. And even standing where you are today, with everything you built for yourself, you suddenly felt like you were fifteen asking for ten dollars to see a movie only to be reminded of your ungratefulness. And in that silence, before you could find the words, your family did it for you.

“Hey,” Jesse said, standing up so fast his chair nearly toppled behind him. “You don’t talk to her like that. Not in here.”

“Not ever,” Judy added, eyes wild, fork clutched in her hand like she might throw it. “I don’t care who you are.”

Kelvin crossed his arms, stepping around the table with a furrowed brow. “That’s a Gemstone you’re talkin’ to,” he said, nodding toward you. “You don’t get to come in here and act like you matter more than she does. Not anymore.”

Even Eli rose, slow and deliberate, napkin folded beside his plate. “Ma’am,” he said calmly, but with steel in his voice, “I think you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

Your mother looked around, eyes darting from face to face, realizing for the first time that she was not the center of the room. Not the authority. Not feared. She looked back at you, like maybe you’d call them off. Like you’d play the peacemaker.

But you didn’t.

You just stood still, the quiet between heartbeats louder than anything you could’ve said. A scratch on the floor caught your focus, just like the crack in the coffee table did when you were ten and she'd given you a lecture after you asked if you could get a new bike for Christmas.

Jesse scoffed, throwing his napkin on the table. You’d opened up one night about your mother and how she treated you. He’d found you crying over a sonogram during the early weeks when he’d come over to drop off some of Gideon’s trophies he’d left behind. No one besides Gideon knew you were pregnant. You opened up about the doubts and feelings she’d instilled in you, the fear you’d do the same to your own baby.

“You don’t get to walk in here and act like you matter just ‘cause you gave birth to her,” Jesse said, voice rising. “You sure as hell didn’t raise her. And you sure as shit didn’t love her right.”

Your mother blinked, taken aback.

“You were a shitty mother,” he went on, standing up, “and you’re being an even worse grandmother before that baby’s even born. You don’t deserve to be here.”

“Jesse,” Amber said from her seat, soft but clear. Her tone asked him to calm down, but the look on her face, steady and sharp, told him to go ahead. To finish.

He glanced at her, then back at your mother.

“You know what the difference is between you and her?” he asked, jerking his thumb toward you. “She learned from the pain you gave her. She's not gonna pass it on. She broke the cycle. She’s gonna raise that little girl to know love. You can’t even say the word without choking on it. And I hope you do!"

A heavy silence settled over the room. Your mother’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Jesse shook his head once and sat back down.“She’s got us now,” he said simply, settling in his chair once again. “Doesn’t need any of whatever the fuck you’re offerin’.”

Kelvin nodded solemnly, then looked around before throwing up his hands like a referee at a wrestling match. “Boo, Y/N’s mom,” he declared.

Judy didn’t miss a beat. “Boo, your dusty-ass energy,” she added, waving her fork in the air. “Goodbye, bitch.”

A chorus of boos erupted around the table like a bad halftime show had just taken the stage. Even Eli let out a quiet, amused hum as he sat back in his seat, doing nothing to hide the smirk on his lips.

Your mother blinked back tears. Real tears. Not the kind she forced during arguments to make you feel guilty. She gave you one last look before stomping down the stairs.

Amber clapped once, like that settled it. “Well,” she said, slicing into her chicken, “that’s the end of that chapter."

Gideon squeezed your hand, his other hand wrapping around your shoulders. “You good?”

You nodded, teary-eyed but smiling because somehow, through the chaos and ridiculousness, through the mess of emotion and interruption, you felt safe.

“I’ve suddenly gotten my appetite back," you admitted, letting Gideon lead you to your chair. He pulled it out, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before sitting in his own chair.

Jesse slid the basket of rolls over, a knowing smile on his face.

This family was loud, dysfunctional, and completely unfiltered.

But they were yours.

And they had your back.

[teastainedprose]

Hi !

Can you do a Homelander x F!Reader with a blackmail situation ?

For the context, someone's blackmailing Reader to leave Homelander and because of the stress she did it when he was patrolling. Of course, Homelander wouldn't accept it and try to find her but he can't. So a few days later Vought brought him a new "girlfriend" to heal the pain Reader "created" only for them to (by mistake) imply that they are responsible for the departure of Reader. After dealing with the situation at Vought, he went looking for her again, eventually finding her at her favorite spot, where she was trying to forget Homelander.

You can change some parts if you want 😁

Thanks you if you do it ♥️❤️

Listen, Anon. LISTEN! I am grabbing you by the shoulders, I am gently shaking you, I am lovingly cupping your cheek and whispering, "Write the fic." - because it's clear that you've got the plot and I bet you've been daydreaming up the story route and I need you to write it. Spit out some bullet points. Scribble out a few scenes out of order, but write it!!

As I read this ask while rolling out of bed half awake and ran off in a slightly different direction while I brainstormed in the shower and I know you've got an idea there so WRITE IT!! So I can read it

Now have something similar, but not quite what you outlined. This kinda evolved into a companion/epilogue?? piece to Play With Fire, as Vought would have plenty of reason to not want Homelander dating a canned employee, especially if she's a fat little thing. Bad for the brand and all.

+1.5k words | Warning for violence/gore, Homelander can have a little murder. As a treat. Plus-Sized female reader, established relationship, no proofreading as I was possessed

The moment his boots drop onto the balcony and Homelander strides into the penthouse, he knows something is wrong.

First, there is the absence of you. Not just the lack of your body settled on the couch waiting for him as you often are, but everything you touched. The laptop you diligently type away at while working is gone. The vibrant throw pillows you insisted on getting to make the imposing couch more inviting are missing. The plush blanket you always coiled yourself into wasn't haphazardly thrown over the back of the couch as it always is when not in service. The lack of these items now makes the couch look barren and cold. Now Homelander can see how uninviting the whole thing looks.

There are other pieces of you missing as well. The trinkets and baubles you'd purchased on a whim and set about the penthouse, coloring the space with pieces of you. The discarded books, many with notes and dog-eared pages weren't haphazardly stuffed in strange places. Homelander would check the bedroom, but he knows the closet now has an empty space where your clothing hung.

There's a buzz starting up in his brain, an insistent worry that's setting his teeth on edge as Homelander's mind races across every possible reason why you're gone. You left him. Someone kidnapped you. You finally got tired of him. Someone stole you away. You hate him. Someone is hurting you. The buzzing grows in volume as Homelander's lip twitches up, feet taking him to pace across the floor before a movement in the corner of his eye cuts straight through the noise.

The buzzing goes silent. The colors are correct. Relief rushes over Homelander as he turns to face the figure in full. You, there you are and- 

No. Homelander blinks, drawing back a step as he takes in the woman standing at the entrance of his penthouse. She has your hair color; the cut has been styled like yours, but the texture is off. She's got something close to your complexion, your eye color even, and she's wearing clothing in your usual manner of dress, but everything is wrong. For one, she's thinner. Homelander sneers.

The woman smiles, uncertain as her heart races like a rabbit against her ribs. "Hi." One word uttered and it's all wrong. That's not your voice. That's not your smile. There is no sunshine breaking across this woman's face as she looks at Homelander. Her expression is quiet and expectant, waiting. Anxious.

He inhales slowly, rolling his neck as Homelander clenches his fists at his side. The scent on the air is bitter. She's afraid. She should be.

"No, no, no. Who the fuck are you?" Homelander snaps out, across the room in two long strides and now she's gasping. Gasping because Homelander has his fingers about her throat, gloves creaking softly as his grip tightens and lifts her. "Who the fuck are you?" He repeats, barking the words out.

"I-I'm Vicky," She stammers out as Homelander eases up enough to let her breath and set her feet back on the floor. That rabbit heart is trying to burst free within the woman's chest now, beating all the louder. "Y-your er, new girlfriend...?" Her words end in a panicked squeak as the woman tries to shrink away. 

"New- "Homelander cuts off as he stares at her, head tilted to the side and lip twitching as he digests this bit of information. He swallows and takes in a breath, reeling in his rage as his mind whirls. Vought had decided to replace you. Plucked up some stupid woman who only shares a similar color palette with you, but she isn't you. This woman is nowhere close to the beautiful creature you are.

Vought didn't approve of your secret relationship. They'd deemed you unmarketable. Not the image they wanted to project for the brand. Then there was the hope that Homelander would grow bored of you. To wait out his hyper-fixation on you. The months had crawled by and still Homelander kept you close. You'd moved in, burrowed yourself right into his life as Homelander wanted. 

For some fucking stupid reason, Vought thought a replacement would distract him. As if he's a child, or a dumb dog they've swapped a toy out on. 

"Vicky," Homelander smiles and it's the smile of a shark. All teeth and dead eyes. "How lovely," A purr now as Homelander slides his hand down her neck and brushes his thumb over her collarbone. Her smile is uncertain, but it's still there as she relaxes. The rabbit in her chest calms down. He digs his thumb in as Homelander sucks on his teeth.

Fucking idiot.

There's no warning when Homelander's fist buries itself into the woman's abdomen, only a wheezing hiss as the air is forced out of her. A wet sound follows under all that crunching and grinding of bone as Homelander twists his fist and pulls it back. He clicks his tongue, releasing the woman's corpse to topple across the floor.

Homelander exhales, puffing out his cheeks while looking down at his fist in mild disgust. The red leather hides fresh blood well, but he knows it'll congeal into a darker mess soon enough. Leaning over, he absently wipes it off on the fabric of the woman's sunshine colored dress. The sunshine would look better on you while the smeared red looks better on Vicky as far as Homelander is concerned.

It doesn’t take him long to hunt Ashley down, storming into her office with eyes flashing red. The only reason Homelander doesn’t fucking laser her in two is because she’s crying. Ashley is crying and blowing her nose into a tissue as she looks at Homelander, eyes filled with regret and tears. She’s grown fond of you, Homelander realizes and that’s reason enough not to cave her skull in. Homelander knows you like her well enough, too. Ashley blubbers the story out. They’d wanted you gone. Out of the picture and out of his life. You were an uncontrollable variable that refused to play ball and Edgar wasn’t one for loose strings. A replacement had already been found and was on her way earlier this morning. While Homelander was out on a mission, disposing of you had been easy enough. It only took thirty minutes to pack all of your things, revoke your access to the building and effectively lock you out. Ashley had managed a helping hand in the form of a plane ticket wherever you wished, knowing you no longer rented your own apartment after moving in with Homelander.

It had been a plot against you, he knows this now but why had you gone so willingly? Why weren’t you screaming outside of Vought Tower for him? Why did you take that plane ticket? Something rotten wriggles within Homelander’s heart. He knows he’s not an easy creature to live with and has worn your patience thin some days. The start of your relationship would have been considered rocky at best and there’s all that stalking he did that you still don’t know about. They gave you an out and you took it.

His trip to the airport is swift and no one would dare try to stop the Homelander as he seeks you out at your intended gate. Except you’re not there. You’ve not even checked in yet. He goes to your old apartment next, eyes scanning the building for your form. Your favorite restaurant is next. Then the place that makes your favorite tea. After that he’s hovering above the bookstore you’ve dragged him to. None of them contain you. Homelander is lost for a moment, mind frantic with worry now at where you could be. Then he remembers one of your favorite spots. A park close to where your old apartment is and it’s another place Homelander has been dragged to by you. This is a spot he enjoyed. It was quiet, even in such a bustling city. He always pretended it was a forest clearing you two were enjoying the peace of.

You’re there. Of course you are. You’re settled on a bench, head turned towards the trees as Homelander descends. “Sweetheart,” He growls. It comes out harsher than Homelander wants, but he’s on edge. Why did you leave him? 

You jump, head snapping round and he can see you’ve been crying. Your eyes are puffy, face pinched in pain as Homelander’s heart seizes at the sight. 

“What!?” You stare a beat, before anger rises. You’ve always been his little spitfire. “You had me cast out! They packed me up and kicked me out on your orders! You- You abandoned me…!” The fire smolders and dies as tears leak down your face.

"No, no, no. Not you, never you!" In an instant, all of Homelander's rage vanishes in the face of your sorrow. How could you ever want to leave his side? Foolish of him to even think it. Why would you ever want to leave? He’s beside you, he’s gathering you up in his arms, he’s crushing you gently in his hold. Your sobs are wet, loud, and there’s snot on his suit. Homelander doesn’t care. He shushes you, fingers combing through your hair as the arm about your middle squeezes just a bit tighter. The weight of you sinking against him and into him is a comfort, your flesh yielding under his grip on you.

“I came home and you were gone,” Homelander whispers against your ear as he nuzzles his nose into your hair. He inhales deeply, all of the tension leaving his body as he takes in your scent. “But I’m here now. It’s okay, I’ve got you,” He exhales, pulling back enough to look down at you. Homelander smiles. You’re here, you’re safe, he will never ever let you out of his sight again.

[apollabarnes]

part two

thanks to @beanarie and @fiyaerrigan for cheerleading for more — hopefully this scratches that itch!

tommy's not sure how it happens, but he and athena start grabbing food once a week. sometimes it's dinner, sometimes breakfast, rarely it's lunch. they're both shift workers, so the changing schedule doesn't bother him.

it means that he has to keep going to the meetings, but… it's not so bad. if he talks, he talks around evan, because athena is close to evan and there's some things that she probably doesn't want to know. it's not as if he doesn't have a whole lifetime's worth of bad relationships to talk about.

he doesn't mention abby by name, either — that's a whole confusing mess that he just doesn't want to get into it with a member of evan's extended family.

mostly he listens, remembers, tries to use some of the reframing that they suggest.

"my dad was a real shithead," tommy says one night when he's halfway through a stack of waffles. "joining the army was just a way to get away from him."

athena makes an understanding noise, snapping her bacon in half.

they've both learned that if she talks, tommy's likely to clam up and drop the subject.

"he wrapped the car around a tree three years into my deployment," tommy continues. there had been a whole thing involving bereavement leave and a hardship transfer stateside because his mom couldn't cope afterwards. he doesn't like remembering that part, either. "it's probably the best thing he ever did with his life." tommy's still not sure whether he means killing himself or doing it in a way that meant no one else got hurt. the damage was limited to tommy and his mother, but that's been a hell of a shadow to deal with.

"i've met a few of those," athena says, after a pause to make sure tommy didn't want to add anything else.

"i'm not surprised." tommy methodically cuts a waffle along every raised imprint, popping a square into his mouth.

it's kind of like having a sponsor, he guesses. if that was something the family groups actually did. athena tells tommy how may's classes are going, that harry wants to stick around for college after he graduates. she tells him about a fire at an animal shelter that bobby had dealt with, and that buck — evan — had fostered a dog for a few days.

tommy wonders how that worked. evan had told him about hoover one night over dinner.

athena pauses mid-sentence and tommy stops her from apologising. "i can hear his name, it's fine." he's not sure how to explain that he's managed to… silo off evan from buck. evan is his ex. buck is one of athena's coworkers. hearing about buck doesn't make tommy sad, because he never really spent time with buck.

she gives him what he's dubbed the maurice stare. (he saw it a lot in the six months between bobby arriving and transferring to harbour. sees it more now.) but tommy is unflappable and therefore not bothered by it.

the standoff is broken by her phone buzzing. "that's my ride," athena tells him. "my car's in for service."

"i could have given you a ride," tommy offers before he can think better of it. "you didn't have to call an uber."

"that's cute, but i called my husband."

tommy breathes in. doesn't react. can feel the tension coiling around the base of his spine. "tell bobby…"

"he's not coming in, tommy," athena reassures him. "i told him i was grabbing food with someone from work."

tommy thinks about that. they're not in front of the windows, and his back is towards the door. the chances of bobby seeing or recognizing him are definitely lower than they would be if tommy showed up in his truck to drop athena off. and if bobby looks around the parking lot, well, how many grey trucks are in los angeles?

he'd still prefer the drop-off option.

"it's not like you need to keep this a secret," tommy says instead, even though every fiber of his being is screaming that he doesn't want anyone to know. that he doesn't want bobby, specifically, to know, because once he knows it's only a matter of time before the rest of the firehouse finds out.

"of course i don't, tommy. same time next week."

part one // part three

[agentrouka-blog]

It seems like Dany in book is still having hard time believing that her father was a Mad King who was hated in Westros. When Selmy tried to mention it she stopped him because she didn't like where it was going despite she asked him about it.

That entire scene is so...

(Cut for long quote)

Dany is reading a book of fairytales that she acknowledges are not proper history. (Symbolismmmmm.) But she keeps getting distracted by doubts about herself.

She played at being a queen, yet sometimes she still felt like a scared little girl. Viserys always said what a dolt I was. Was he truly mad? She closed the book. She could still recall Ser Jorah, if she wished. Or send Daario to kill him. Dany fled from the choice, out onto the terrace. She found Rhaegal asleep beside the pool, a green and bronze coil basking in the sun. Drogon was perched up atop the pyramid, in the place where the huge bronze harpy had stood before she had commanded it to be pulled down. He spread his wings and roared when he spied her. There was no sign of Viserion, but when she went to the parapet and scanned the horizon she saw pale wings in the far distance, sweeping above the river. He is hunting. They grow bolder every day. Yet it still made her anxious when they flew too far away. One day one of them may not return, she thought. “Your Grace?” She turned to find Ser Barristan behind her. “What more would you have of me, ser? I spared you, I took you into my service, now give me some peace.” “Forgive me, Your Grace. It was only … now that you know who I am …” The old man hesitated. “A knight of the Kingsguard is in the king’s presence day and night. For that reason, our vows require us to protect his secrets as we would his life. But your father’s secrets by rights belong to you now, along with his throne, and … I thought perhaps you might have questions for me.” Questions? She had a hundred questions, a thousand, ten thousand. Why couldn’t she think of one? “Was my father truly mad?” she blurted out. Why do I ask that? “Viserys said this talk of madness was a ploy of the Usurper’s …” “Viserys was a child, and the queen sheltered him as much as she could. Your father always had a little madness in him, I now believe. Yet he was charming and generous as well, so his lapses were forgiven. His reign began with such promise … but as the years passed, the lapses grew more frequent, until …” Dany stopped him. “Do I want to hear this now?” Ser Barristan considered a moment. “Perhaps not. Not now.” “Not now,” she agreed. “One day. One day you must tell me all. The good and the bad. There is some good to be said of my father, surely?” “There is, Your Grace. Of him, and those who came before him. Your grandfather Jaehaerys and his brother, their father Aegon, your mother … and Rhaegar. Him most of all.” “I wish I could have known him.” Her voice was wistful. “I wish he could have known you,” the old knight said. “When you are ready, I will tell you all.” Dany kissed him on the cheek and sent him on his way. That night her handmaids brought her lamb, with a salad of raisins and carrots soaked in wine, and a hot flaky bread dripping with honey. She could eat none of it. Did Rhaegar ever grow so weary? she wondered. Did Aegon, after his conquest? Later, when the time came for sleep, Dany took Irri into bed with her, for the first time since the ship. But even as she shuddered in release and wound her fingers through her handmaid’s thick black hair, she pretended it was Drogo holding her … only somehow his face kept turning into Daario’s. If I want Daario I need only say so. She lay with Irri’s legs entangled in her own. His eyes looked almost purple today … (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

The whole scene is so utterly rife with Red Flags.

Dany has just commited a(nother) massacre, made herself Supreme Leader Until I Move On and banished Jorah for his past spying. She (correctly) surmises that she is overwhelmed and questions her suitability for the job of ruling. She questions her family's sanity.

She wants to avoid what those questions imply. Out on the terrace, she sees Drogon doing his best Replacement Harpy impression (symbolismmmmm) while another one is off hunting boldly (surely nothing bad can come of that behavior in the near future...) and...

A glimpse of hope! A dude with unique personal information about her family appears and offers to share it! Perhaps that uncomfortable feeling can return into focus and be addressed?

Nah.

AND THEN the guy goes "You know what? You're totally right. This isn't really relevant or urgent. Nothing about your family history is alarming enough to question your path in general. Your brother was AWESOME btw."

Barristan, even if he had told her things, would never have helped her come to uncomfortable conclusions because he is the worst kind of hypocritical sycophant for a) any monarch he happens to be serving at the time, and b) House Targaryen in particular. The conversation they are putting off... would not have been useful anyway.

So a placated Dany returns the focus on herself and her feelings, but validated, and her next move is to turn the "this must never happen again" incident with her "not a sex slave" Irri into "actually, time to honorable serve your khaleesi like a sex toy while she fantasizes about other people". People who remind her of her family and their Valyrian looks.

She is burrowing into her Targaryen identity in ways she hadn't even done before, taking liberties with her power that she had shied away from before. Her yelp review will be underwhelming. "Her kisses tasted of duty". Because that's what it was. Dany doesn't care.

She ends up making a choice the next morning.

“My city,” said Dany. “I was looking for a house with a red door, but by night all the doors are black.”

And it is a reasonable choice on the surface, that finally has her standing fast to accept a sense of responsibility for the outcomes of her actions here.

But already we see how the missing context of Westerosi history is distorting her understanding, and Barristan bolstered this. Because she creates a difference where there isn't one.

“Aegon the Conqueror brought fire and blood to Westeros, but afterward he gave them peace, prosperity, and justice. But all I have brought to Slaver’s Bay is death and ruin. I have been more khal than queen, smashing and plundering, then moving on.” “There is nothing to stay for,” said Brown Ben Plumm. “Your Grace, the slavers brought their doom on themselves,” said Daario Naharis. “You have brought freedom as well,” Missandei pointed out. “Freedom to starve?” asked Dany sharply. “Freedom to die? Am I a dragon, or a harpy?” Am I mad? Do I have the taint? “A dragon,” Ser Barristan said with certainty. “Meereen is not Westeros, Your Grace.” “But how can I rule seven kingdoms if I cannot rule a single city?” He had no answer to that. Dany turned away from them, to gaze out over the city once again. “My children need time to heal and learn. My dragons need time to grow and test their wings. And I need the same. I will not let this city go the way of Astapor. I will not let the harpy of Yunkai chain up those I’ve freed all over again.” She turned back to look at their faces. “I will not march.” “What will you do then, Khaleesi?” asked Rakharo. “Stay,” she said. “Rule. And be a queen.”

Dany sees a difference between dragon and harpy that the earlier image of Drogon in the harpy's place already shows us is a false dichotomy. She imagines prosperity and peace in the aftermath of Aegon's invasion where he created no such thing. She is concerned with her sanity and suitability to rule, so she will stay temporarily to test herself on this city of human beings.

The human children must heal and learn. Her dragons need to grow and fly.

Dany needs the same, she says. The same as her dragons, not the same as her children. There will be little healing and learning. But we will see her fly off on Drogon, ecstatic, while the people of her city burn below.

It was never going to end any other way, because "if I look back I am lost" is her curse. She is not interested in the facts, because they hinder her fantasy of the red door. But she will also never get facts because there is no one who would give them to her.

She prefers a book of fairytales over a proper history and she will begin to forget there's a difference.

[muzzledhoundsheart]

On my knees, at your service

🕊️Benjicot „Davos“ Blackwood x Reader🕊️

His hands left searing prints on your skin. Every hair standing on edge and the small trickles of sweat were ever present in your mind. He was ungainly and breathless, muttering to himself in between desperate whimpers „just….i can’t….come on“. He was simply too clumsy, too inexperienced and, as always, just a tinge too timid. You wouldn’t expect it from someone so ferocious and bloodthirsty on the battling ground but for you, he would always falter. 

„Ben…let- here let me hel-“ you pant out trying to aid his hands, showing him which strings to unfasten first. But he cuts you off with another desperate kiss. You feel like your lungs would burst at any moment, it was all too much yet still not enough to satiate this searing desire. The kiss was, in all of its force, still so soft and loving. His right hand coming up from his unfruitful attempt at unlacing your bodice, to gently cradle your jaw while his tongue swept over yours, mingling your saliva together. He came up for air briefly, the aforementioned saliva now hanging in glistening strings connecting your lips still. Benji was torn between dipping down again and entwining your lips once more and telling you that this light be a bad idea. He thought that, maybe, him not being able to unlace you was a sign from the gods. Heed and refrain from going any further lest you will regret it. All these doubts were overwhelmed by sight of you though. So flushed and panting you looked like you would pass out at any moment. Your hair disheveled, curls and waves having left your braid and now sticking wetly to your blushed skin. Your eyes glossed over and your lips so deliciously swollen and plump.

He often wondered how they would feel all over his body but those were the thoughts he wouldn’t dare speak aloud to you. Benji would never want to treat you like his brothers treated the ladies of the night they frequented, he’s heard all the stories. No. You were a goddess divine and he was your ever loving devotee. This gave him an idea though. „I need… I want..“ he sputtered out helplessly. Your brows furrowed but before words could leave your mouth he sank to his knees and gently ran his hands up your shins. „Ben.. what?“ „hold this.“ he instructed having bunched up your skirts. You did as you were told, an amused grin spreading across your lips. „And what is your plan now, huh?“ you couldn’t help but tease him, it kept him humble. Ben’s eyes were almost black and so glossed over, it looked like stars were swimming in them. „I plan on devouring you whole my Lady.“ The air you sucked in to laugh at him was repurposed for a moan. Ben kept at your slit, parting it with his tongue over your silken slip. One of your hands let go of your skirts, hesitating to find solace in Benji’s hair.

Benji was occupied with sliding your undergoes down your legs, just enough so that they pool around your ankles themselves. He gently lifted one of your heels, completely slipping out of them now and sat it atop his shoulder. Satisfied with your position he dove in. His tongue licked in long strokes between your slit, gathering as much of your wetness as he could. Ever the impatient man he was though, his tongue soon grew restless. He licked and sucked making obscene wet noises, grunts and whimpers leaving him like he’s been starved for too long finally getting to feast once more. You were in shambles.

Your timid hand did find its way to his hair, pulling the root trying to find some sort of stability. Your legs soon began shaking and in vain attempts of staying quiet, you gulped down the thick air panting in staccato. The pleasure brought tears to your eyes, a feeling you’ve never experienced before coiled in your innards. And your head fell with a thud against the wooden wall behind you.

Between your legs Benji’s hands itched to to slip inside of you, feel the velvet slick wetness and be as close to you as was possible. He stuck to just using his mouth for now though suckling on your clit and sending shivers up your spine, not wanting to defile you more than he was now. He told himself that this was fine, you were allowed pleasure and he technically wasn’t taking your maiden hood in the traditional sense. His cock was pulsating painfully in his breeches now, weeping of its woes and aching to be sheathed inside of you.

But on his knees in front of you is where he belonged and he would feel all but blissful to be able to die between them like this. He needed not to die on the battlefield, he would drag himself back home to you and lap at your cunt until his last breath. He didn’t know if it were these thoughts or his aching cock that made him paw at your hips whispering pleas into your cunt, or the moans that slipped out through your desperate attempts at keeping quite.

He grew restless and soon you were sure that this was your end. He’s eaten you whole that much was sure. The coil in your innards thoughts until the tears streamed like glistening pearls down your face. „Benji please please please.“ his nose brushed over your clit once more and that was it. You were shaking and clenching around nothing, wishing his cock was sheathed deep within your weeping cunt. Benji just keep drinking up all the nectar dripping out of you.

When he came up again, his whole face glistened with your fluids. Even his thick lashes were coated and the realization made you even more bashful. His hands wrapped around you waits tightly, pulling you in flush against his hard body. „You look like you’re about to faint“ he chuckled. „I have faith that you will catch me then.“ you both grinned at eachother like mad men, your eyes filled with longing and adoration for eachother. „Maybe then you’d have all the time in the world to unlace me.“ „These things are worse than a bear trap dove. I might lose a finger next time.“ he feigned worry, muttering with his nose against your cheekbone. „What a shame that would be, I have hoped you could put them to good use next time.“ „Next time.“ he promised.

[andbreakmynose]

sweat marks all on my clothes

tennis player! alex x tennis player! reader

heavily challengers inspired because i kept rewatching it while writing this lol

also fetus al

WARNINGS: SMUT, oral (m + f receiving), sweat, light body worship, semi public sex

WORD COUNT: 4.5k

Alex stood at the baseline; his feet were shoulder-width apart, and he could feel the texture of the court on his feet. His right hand gripped the handle of the racquet with confident familiarity, the leather-wrapped grip slightly worn from countless matches, molding perfectly to his sweaty palm.

The weight of the racquet felt like home—a precise extension of his arm. He bounced the tennis ball a few times with his left hand, the sound echoing in the quiet of the court—or maybe it was just in your ears. In your ears this sounded like the loudest anticipation you’ve heard. You needed him to win this for you.

Alex shifted his stance, leaning slightly forward, eyes narrowing as he focused on the service box across the net. His already sore muscles tensed subtly, a coil of energy ready to be unleashed. The air was static, thick with the lingering heat of the day, and he could feel a bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck, slowly tracing the line of his spine that was still covered in your marks from the night before. Before he sent the ball in the air he made a millisecond of a glance at you, acknowledging the stakes here.

With a smooth, practiced motion, he tossed the ball high into the air, his eyes following its arc against the sky. His body moved in perfect synchronization—knees bending, torso rotating, and then, with a snap of his wrist, he brought the racquet forward.

The ball shot across the net, a blur of yellow as it cut through the air, skimming just above the tape. It hit the service box with a sharp, echoing thud, kicking up a tiny puff of dust as it struck the court and veered sharply to the left, barely skimming the sideline.

Alex straightened, eyes fixed on the ball’s trajectory, every sense heightened, already preparing for the next move, his body alive with the electric anticipation of the game before him. You tried to watch him, tried to keep your eyes on every move that boy made, but there was that damn camera shoved in your face, some reporter trying to get every angle of Alex Turner’s equally talented girlfriend.

You gave the camera a smile and a wave before turning your attention back on Alex, not wanting to miss a second of the action. He was playing against some guy named Tucker, you had done your research. Tucker was from Manchester and was born into a wealthy family. He had a similar track record to Alex but he lacked something your boy had; drive. You could tell he didn’t really care if he won or lost, that it was just a game to him. For Alex it was bigger, for Alex he had to win for you.

You met Alex when you were young, he was playing at the park by himself and you offered to help him out. Since then you were an unstoppable duo, he’d go to your games and cheer you on, you’d go to his games and cheer him on. You were both good, really good, especially for two people who only got formal training from the cheapest coaches in the city. Both of you started playing competitively at the age of 14 and became level one juniors at 16. Now you were both 18, in your last year of playing with the juniors until it was time for the big leagues. You really had to make your mark now and make it big.

That’s where the relationship stuff started; a mutual friend of you and Alex jokingly suggested that you two should pretend to date and become some sort of spectacle. That if the number one male junior player and female junior player were dating than you’d be worth more than your already impressive skills.

You laughed at first but eventually you and Alex decided it was a good idea, that if the attention was already going to be on you then there was no harm in manipulating it a bit. And it helped that there was years of mutual attraction behind the two of you already, it was almost a perfect plan.

So you and Alex started dating, kissing each other before and after games, going to events together, and mentioning each other in every interview. It seemed to work well, all the tennis publications were about the two of you. You two got dubbed the “Most Promising Couple in Tennis”, people started to talk about you.

You struck “the deal” when you first noticed Alex’s focus decrease. He had lost a few games here and there and sometimes it seemed like he wanted to party instead of practice. You couldn’t deal with that; he was supposed to go pro with you like he said he would when you were 12.

It was a simple deal but it worked:

If he won a game you’d suck his dick

If you won a game he’d eat you out

If you both won you’d fuck

Alex’s skills improved almost immediately, he was lovesick and would do anything for the opportunity to touch you (even if you were planning on giving it to him win or lose). He started winning all his games again, he made you proud.

And that led you back to where you were now, watching him against this Tucker guy. When you left his bed this morning you promised him the best blowjob ever if he won this for you, and it seemed like that put a fire in Alex’s step.

He was drenched in sweat by the end of the first set, pouring water down his throat to prepare for the next. He had won but not by a lot, he needed to be at his best to win the second and not have to go to a third set. Your eyes never left him, staring at him like a hawk.

He winked at you before the second set started, a cocky promise that he’d win and you’d be on your knees for him an hour later. That made the stakes higher, you hadn’t sucked him off in over two weeks and the idea of having him in your mouth was really appealing. You gave him a nod back and ushered for him to get back out there.

By the last half of set two you were tired of tennis ball green. You were tired of following it back and forth with your eyes. And you were really damn tired of Tucker. Somehow he had gotten better in the second set and was proving more of a competition to your poor Alex. You decided that even if he didn’t win you’d still suck his dick because he was putting up a really good fight.

You felt your heart sink when Tucker matched him at 5-5, you couldn’t let Alex lose to some posh boy with an ugly name. As if Alex could sense your nerves he turned around and gave you a thumbs up, letting you know that he had a plan. God you hoped he had a plan

In anxiety you began to down your water bottle, trying to distract yourself from the racing thoughts and the dull throb in your panties that always seemed to appear when he played. You were so distracted by the water that you almost missed the announcer making it known that the winner was Alex Turner, your Alex Turner.

‘Thank fuck’ was the thought in both you and Alex’s mind. You put your bottle down and ran to him, him pulling you into a tight kiss and covering your hair with kisses. He smelled like sweat and body spray, but he had still won. Proud was an understatement. You were always proud of him and you had been watching him win games for 8 years at this point.

He cradled you softly for a while, just savoring the moment. You could hear Tucker give a post match interview in the background but you couldn’t pick up on the words, he was probably complaining that he had lost.

“You gonna talk to these suckers?” You asked him, gesturing at the reporters behind you with raised eyebrows. You would’ve understood if he did, but also you kinda wanted to get to the blowjob part of the agreement. Alex looked at the swarm of them, most that he had already talked to. He considered it but ended up shaking his head, giving you a sly smirk.

“Nah, you’re the only sucker I want.” He teased, hand lingering around your ass. You laughed at his crude suggestions, but you also couldn’t complain. He took your hand and led you off the court, past all the other players lounging around, and into the locker room.

“Here?” You asked, a bit worried about a list of things. There were probably other boys in there first of all, and it probably smelled. You liked a lot about Alex but the smell of athletic teenage boy was not one of them. Alex peeked his head into the locker room to check and shook his head.

“No one else is here, won’t be for a while. Trust me girlie.” And then before you could speak he dragged you into a shower stall, pressing you against the wall and digging his hands into you ass.

“I won.” He whispered against your neck, his hands starting to trail up your body until they reached the hem of your shirt.

“You did win.” You responded, moving your own hands to help him pull your shirt off. You couldn’t tell if he was beaming in pride at his accomplishment or just really happy to see your boobs. You decided on the latter when he pushed your sports bra off too.

“Fuck, so glad I won so you could do this. Love your mouth, love you.” He groaned out, helping you shift onto your knees. The floor was hard, slimy, and uncomfortable on your knees. But that didn’t matter when his bulge was right in front of your face. You slid his shorts and boxers down to his ankles in one quick move, needing to see his cock free.

“I’ll tell you a secret…” you started, wrapping a hand around his base and causing him to groan, “I would’ve done this even if you had lost. You put up a very good fight.” As silly as your words sounded, you made sure to say them with the most seductive tone you knew how to do, looking up at him through your lashes before you darted your tongue out to kitten lick at him.

He leaned against the shower wall instantly, lacing his hand in your hair as he exhaled. He loved your tongue, he loved the little routine you always had when sucking him off. You gave him a few pumps, placing kisses and small licks around the head until you knew he was too worked up. He seemed to be needier today than he usually was, just a few licks and he was already starting to buck his hips.

You took that as your sign to wrap your lips around him and start to push him down your throat, his eyes rolling back shut at the feeling of your warm throat. You were his first blowjob and he was certain you’d be his last blowjob, he was utterly addicted to the feeling of your throat. You think you were addicted to the feeling of his cock down your throat too. He was such a responsive boy and you loved the way you could almost feel him twitch in your mouth.

You set a purposely teasing rhythm; you’d move forward when he breathed in and move backwards when he breathed out. It took him a second to realize why he was holding his breath, shaking his head at you.

“Please just-,” he groaned as he grabbed onto your hair, starting to move you himself. You didn’t mind the display of dominance, it was hot that he needed you that bad. And plus, the focus was usually on your place. He deserved to be the one seeing stars for once. He set the pace he wanted, somewhere in between fast and slow. Your mouth felt so full with him, he was making sure he took up all your senses. If anyone would’ve walked in they certainly would’ve heard the two of you; his loud groans and the sounds of choking coming from your throat. Neither of you knew anymore if you were alone, too involved in the actions.

When the twitching in his dick started to speed up he pulled you off, staring at you with lust-blown eyes.

“Where should I cum?” He asked, voice husky and breath still needing to be catched. Your brain was a bit fuzzy so you had to think for a second, you’d usually say your tits because you know he likes to see you covered in him but you still had to walk back to the hotel.

“Mouth.” You decided on, giving him big eyes and a big nod. He gave another groan at just how erotic the words sounded coming from your mouth and then pushed you back on his cock, picking up the pace.

To give him that extra, final edge you reached out to gently kneed his balls between your fingers, it was clear he liked this the way he thrusted at you. Thank god for your lack of gag reflex from the sheer amount of times you’ve sucked him off, you were used to deepthroating him at this point. He started to thrust with his hips and move you with his hand, movements becoming quick and fast.

His loud moan was the only warning you got before he spilled in your throat, his cum coating every wall of your mouth. He pulled out and grabbed onto a bar in the shower, trying to keep his legs from giving out. His eyes never left yours, he was waiting to see if you’d swallow. You didn’t really have a chance though, it was so deep enough in your mouth that spitting would be a hassle. Plus you liked the taste, it was a bit salty but it tasted like him. It was complete and utter Alex in your mouth. You swallowed with no complaint.

“You can’t do that you damn minx!” He giggled, still trying to catch his breath. You giggled back and he offered a hand to help you up, you were sure you could see the imprints of the tile on your knees.

“Well, maybe you should stop being so talented and winning all your games.” You bent down to grab your top and sports bra, they were slightly damp from the shower floor but you’d live. It was only 10 minutes to the hotel.

When you both had finished getting your bearings back he grabbed your hand, rushing you out of the shower to act like nothing happened. No one would ever know you were in there. He grabbed your hand and started walking you out.

“I need a nap.” He admitted, looking at you with a soft smile. He didn’t even have to ask anymore if you were going to nap with him. Of course you were.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You chuckled and gave his hand a quick squeeze, your eyes drifting to the court you’d be playing in the next morning.

“You know… win that for me and I’ll return the favor. And then we’ve both won so I’ll get to fuck you senseless.” He said bluntly, causing you to both blush and give a small laugh.

“I know. I’m anticipating it.” You winked at him, squeezing his hand again. You weren’t particularly worried about your opponent tomorrow, she wasn’t that great. Right now you were worried about cuddling up with him in bed, right now you were happy to be with him even if there was probably a camera following you.

Well, maybe you should’ve been more worried about your opponent. It turns out Vanessa Forester from Wales had been practicing her ass off. You were able to hold her off for the first set, but in the most embarrassing turn of events possible your knees were starting to kill you and you lost the second. God damn Alex.

When you were given the chance for a break before the third you quite literally poured your water bottle down your throat. The sweat had started to run into uncomfortable places and you were sure you looked like you had fallen into the river. You looked up at Alex, who you’re sure had already noticed you were lacking, who was snickering at your current state. Little bitch. You rolled your eyes at him, pointed down at your kneecaps, and flipped him off. That seemed to put him in his place as he suddenly looked a lot smaller in his seat.

You took a second to stretch and got back in your place, it was Vanessa’s serve. Your breath was trying to steady itself and you were trying to keep focused, all you could hope is that the adrenaline stopped the dull ache in your legs.

Thankfully it did, once you saw how determined Vanessa was the idea of winning crowded the rest of your thoughts. The back and forth became tantalizing, your eyes focused on nothing but that blur of neon flying between both sides of the court. The game was getting closer and closer and you were starting to grunt everytime you hit the ball. If it wasn’t for the game itself you probably would’ve passed out.

There was a quiet reminder of the score in the back of your head but you tuned that out to focus on the game, you had always told yourself that if you were too focused on the score then you wouldn’t remember your skills.

That worked, you guessed, because eventually a whistle was blown and you were crowned the winner. The adrenaline was still clogging your ears and your vision was still blurry so you didn’t even notice Alex coming down the stands to hug you. His arms enveloped you, your own arms wrapping around him to support your failing legs. He pushed your head up and wiped some of the sweat off your brows.

“Jesus… that was hell…” your voice came out breathy and tired. Alex could sense you didn’t want to talk to reporters either so he started to lead you back to the hotel.

“Yeah, hard game I could tell,” he starts, placing a few small kisses on your moist forehead, “but you still kicked its ass. You won.” His words brought a gentle reassurance into your head, you had won and you didn’t have another game to play. You would just be able to go back to the hotel and crash. You hummed against Alex’s shoulder and he continued to drag you to the hotel.

It was a nice hotel you had been given to stay in, there was a heated pool and a spa you had been meaning to check out. The room was spacious and the bed (you and Alex had fought for one bed instead of two) was comfortable. You couldn’t wait to shower and then crash out.

He got you inside and you smiled at him, starting to walk towards the shower.

“Wait-” he called out, making you turn around to raise an eyebrow at him, “I thought we were going to-” he didn’t finish his sentence. He got shy and started to rub the back of his head.

Oh right, the “reward.” You had won and that meant he got to eat you out and then you got to fuck. The idea sounded nice, but... after your shower. You loved him, and he had seen you in every capacity, but you still weren’t sure about him actually tasting your sweat.

“After my shower, I’m so fucking sweaty.” You admitted to him, wiping your hand through your eyebrows to really show him. Alex just kind of nodded and smiled at you, letting you do what you needed to.

The shower was nice; you didn’t feel slimy anymore, and some of the aches in your muscles were gone. You pulled a towel around your body and walked back into the bedroom. Alex was already perched on the bed, a shy smile and blush appearing on his face when you walked in. It was funny to see him this way when just last afternoon he was fucking your face in a shower stall. You sat down next to him, and he shifted closer to you.

“Are you sore?” You nodded; you were still a little sore, and you wanted him to go gentle. Sometimes you could get rough, but after a game you just wanted to lay down and have him take you.

He looked like he was about to say something else when you pulled him in for the kiss, attaching your lips against his. He was such a good kisser, always confident and sensitive in the way his lips mashed against yours. His tongue gently traced across your bottom lip, asking you for permission to take this a step further. You granted what he wanted, and you both parted your lips to deepen the kiss.

He brought his hand up to tangle into your hair, pulling you closer. He wanted you to feel safe and warm in his presence; he wanted to make you feel like the winner you were, just the way you did for him yesterday. In a single motion, you removed the towel from your body. That made this all easier—no messy clothes to take off.

He pushed you back on the bed so your head was against the pillow and started to trail his lips across your body, kissing every part of you that was sore from the day. A heat swirled in your lower stomach, and you let out a few brief moans at the feeling of his lips. He situated himself so he had easy access to your core. He wasn’t going to touch you yet but wanted an idea of the proper position to be in.

His lips continued to trail down your body; he grabbed your hand and placed a kiss on every single one of your fingers.

“You won with this hand. This is a winner's hand,” he mused, like just your arm was the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He worked his way back up to your collarbone, sucking a small mark into the flesh there. “This damn body, you couldn’t have won without it.” His words would be cheesy if they weren’t turning you on so badly; it felt nice to be appreciated so intimately.

Without speaking, he wrapped his lips around your puffy nipple, making you wiggle and moan against him. He lapped around your breasts, breath heavy like he was the one getting pleasure from this. Every so often he’d suck into them, leaving small pink marks that were just for him to see.

“They’re your trophies,” he remarked with a small grin, pulling back to admire his work. You giggled at this, and he acted like it wasn’t the stupidest thing to say. It was, but it was also cute. He was always like this, your boy. He looked at them for a second longer and then down at your pooling heat, a smirk appearing on his face.

“I’m going to eat you out now,” he declared. And then he did it; he buried his face right into your cunt. The second he made contact, you let out a high-pitched whine, arching your back right into his face. He kissed and licked at your folds, taking you in like you were his favorite glass of wine. You brought your hand down to tangle into his hair, pulling him closer.

“Fuck! Alex! You’re so good!” You cried out, making him smirk against your cunt. He moved up just slightly to place a few kisses along your clit, the sensation causing goosebumps to trickle down your spine. All he wanted to do was make you feel good, and it was obvious he was doing that right now, so he kept at it. He created a pattern where he’d go between licking into your hole, slurping the skin of your folds, and sucking at your clitoral. It was absolutely obscene, but maybe the best thing you had ever felt. Your mind was already a bit hazy from the day, and he was just intensifying it. You’re sure that words you weren’t even aware of were tumbling from your lips.

He fucked you with his tongue like it was his dick; after all the time you had spent together, he knew every little move to make you come apart on his mouth. You kept your hand in his hair, making him stay as close to you as possible. He wasn’t allowed to pull away, not when he felt this good. He just pushed and pushed at all your senses until you were satisfied.

It seemed that the stress of the day had really made you wound up because you were already close. Alex must’ve noticed that because he started to budge his nose against your swollen clit as his tongue swirled around your hole. The added simulation drove you insane, with high-pitched noises coming out of your mouth while you shook around him.

It took only a second before it all became too much, and you came all over him, waves of pleasure taking over your whole body. Your back arched and fell back down just as fast, all of the stress of the day releasing directly from your body. Alex’s face must’ve been covered in your juices, but he loved that. He loved the amount of pleasure he had just brought you. You were still shaking a bit, but he brought his face up to kiss you on the lips; you could almost taste yourself against him.

“That good?” He asked gently, running a comforting hand down your stomach to soothe your hyperactive muscles. You nodded a few times, reaching over to grab the bottle of water from earlier this morning.

“That was good, goddamn. I don’t think my knees hurt anymore.” You both chuckled at this, your breath finally returning to normal. You shut your eyes, the tiredness from the day returning. Alex laid down next to you and ran a hand through your hair, making you smile at him.

“Do you want to go to sleep?” He asked gently, pulling you a little closer and pressing a kiss against your temple.

You weren’t going to respond, but you felt his hardness pressing against your back a bit, a reminder of the second half of your deal.

“But don’t you need to?” he cut you off, shaking his head.

“No, it’ll go down. You won, and now you deserve to sleep. We’ll fuck later when you’re less tired; it’ll be better anyway." He reassured you, placing another kiss against your head. You could’ve protested, but he seemed serious, and sleep was already starting to come. You nodded and curled up against him.

“Love you, Alex.”

“Love you too, winner.” You chuckled at this, turning around to look at him.

“You’re a winner too, remember?”

"Oh, I remember, that’s why I get to fuck you later!” He teased, bringing your lips against his for a quick kiss before you shut your eyes again.

A/N: this is shit! i had the first half done and then my power went out and i had to rush the second half in the middle of a library with an old man breathing down my neck!! i tried to write more smut but i got really paranoid with everyone around me in public lmaoo but i wanted to get this out

[rottenpumpkin13]

shinra attempts to replace reeve causing everything to go to shit how do the directors react

No one truly realized how much Reeve held HQ together until his replacement decided to cancel his under-the-table deal with Lazard regarding SOLDIER's "stress-relief expenditures" (read: overpriced snacks, dubious luxury items, and niche services that kept people from spontaneously combusting). Within a week, the board started questioning why the program needed a soundproof "screaming" chamber labeled 'For Sephiroth Only.'

*Zack bursts into the room holding Cait Sith*

Zack: Guys, this cat can solve all our problems!

Angeal: A toy cat. While we're dealing with budget cuts that are threatening the entire program.

Genesis: They've already stripped us of our imported coffee. Now we're supposed to believe a stuffed... whatever this is... will restore our dignity?

Zack: No, listen! It's like Reeve's spirit animal or something! It knows things!

Angeal: Zack, they cut our training simulator funding by 60%. We need to talk to Lazard NOW. Put the toy down and let's go.

Zack: Fine... :(

*Everyone storms out, leaving Sephiroth alone with Cait Sith*

Sephiroth: ...

Cait Sith: Some folk deserve tae shuffle off this mortal coil wi' a swift kick, and Hojo's top o' the list! If yer feelin' generous, ye could send the professor tae the great beyond!

Sephiroth: What the fuck

Cait Sith: No one will ever believe ye, laddie.

[two-bit-too-high]

Lost boys with a mate/pack member that has a rbf (resting bitch face) and is touch starved but love touch and when they cuddle in the nest she falls asleep with a smile and- OAMXOAMAOMWJ ITS SO FLUFFF IM SORRYYY LMAO

A/N I did a another one! Yipeee! Please enjoy! As always please send in any more ideas.

The Lost boys x Reader with resting bitch face

☁️ pure fluff

⚠️ Warnings: none except my possibly god awful spelling and grammar.

Enjoy

It's cold in the cave, cold enough that if you weren't a vampire you would probably fall into a coma.you were sitting on one of the large lounge chairs that the boys had found a few weeks ago warped in a big quilted blanket reading with a mason jar of blood on the nightstand next to you a vampic hot chocolate if you will .When a certain blonde pops up in front of you.

“Oh hello Marko” you say not looking up from your book “hello my bleeding rose” Marko says in a quiet voice he himself was warped in a blanket to keep out some of the cold “is everything ok” you ask is due to the face he as his puppy eyes on he only uses those when he is in Trouble or if he wanted something. “Are you mad at me?” he asked, “Mad at you?” you replied “no I ain't mad at you all” you add “oh well you just looked really upset and I was...I was worried I had done something to make you mad” he says still with his puppy eyes on full display “no not at all Marko your fine” you says while unwrapping the blanket from around yourself to invite him into the warm this is one invitation he expects immediately jumping up into the big lounge with you cuddling under the covers and up to you. As you sat there in silence your Mind started to wonder why on earth did he think you were mad at him.

Later In the night you were in the small kitchen that was just off the main cave area where Marko was sleeping in the big chair still warped in the blankets.when You ran into David who was making yet again another Blood and whisky in the glass that only he is allowed to use. You were Minding your own when David spoke up “what's got you in a twist darling” “huh” you replied “you look mad or something is Paul getting on your nerves again” he continues “no I'm fine” you say you stop washing your cup and look up at him “I ain't mad or upset” you add “okay then” he said as he disappeared back into the cave whisky glass in hand leaving you in the kitchen to once again wonder what on earth is going on.

An hour went by and you ended sitting in the rafters watching Paul play his guitar. You had found another blanket and was now just staring into space thinking. “Woah babe you look pissed” says as he looks up from his guitar “I do?” you replied “yeah like someone cut all ya guitar strings or stolen your feed” he says as he keeps plucking at his guitar “I ain't upset” you say you had started to play around with a loose coil of guitar string. Paul hums “well you certainly look it” he adds before going back to his music leaving you in the mental dust.

“Alright everyone, time to pack it in for the night” yelled out David at about 5:30am and like clockwork everyone started to file into the nesting room. Like always you in the middle and David and Dwyane to your right and then Marko and Paul to your left. “Did you have a bad night honey” asked Dwyane as he cuddled up to your side “no!” You say loudly “oh my god why does everyone keep saying that!” You add “because you look like it,love” says Dwyane “what do you mean!” You add “seems you have a case of resting bitch face babe” says Paul “oh that's just great” you said as you nuzzle into Dwyane’s chest. “Well a public service announcement if I look pissed off I'm probably not so stop worrying about it” you say.”noted” they all say in unison.

One by one you all fell asleep under several different blankets and as you did you had a smile on your face thankful that you had finally figured out why on earth you kept getting all those questions.

Hope y'all enjoyed it :)

[daisyofwaterdeep]

Can you please write more soft cock zevlor? 👉👈 maybe with a male reader?? If thas not much to ask..... (Also thanks for ypur service to the society)

IT WOULD BE MY ABSOLUTE PLEASURE

Zevlor/cismasc!Reader

!NSFW!

-When you have sparring sessions with Zevlor, you always feel a spark between the two of you. Intense, lingering eye contact. Playful smiles. And when it's done, the hand on your back congratulating you for a job well done tends to linger far too long.

-But this session is different. It's more visceral, more teasing. Every word that Zevlor says spikes your adrenaline and coils heat in your stomach.

-"Come on, harder!" as you swing at him, "I can take it, so give it to me." Your cock is getting stiff as you continue swinging, the both of you starting to pant with strain, "Harder, that's it--harder, just like that!"

-Perhaps a bit too roughly, you knock the sword from his hand and are immediately on him. The flirting has finally reached it's boiling point, and you can't hold back and play naive any more.

-You grind your throbbing cock against his groin, the both of you breathing hard into each other's mouths.

-"Is this hard enough for you?" You ask, dropping your own sword to grab Zevlor's hips and pull him tightly against you, making sure he feels just how much he's worked you up.

-Zevlor seems like he's been expecting this all along, kissing you rough. It's hurried and desperate, like Zevlor's been holding back just as much as you have.

-You can feel that Zevlor isn't hard yet and try to rut into him to get him there, but instead, he steps back from you. You think he's about to cut this all off and say that it's a mistake, but instead he turns and places his hands on a tree, his tail thwipping against the ground excitedly

-If that doesn't make the invitation clear enough, Zevlor unfastening his pants and shucking them down is about as clear as things could get. You're behind him in an instant, grabbing handfuls of his taut ass and kissing the side of his neck

-But when you reach around to stroke his cock, a calloused but gentle hand grabs your wrist. "Don't worry about that," Zevlor breathes, "Just take me."

-It's clear that he's uncomfortable about his dick for some reason, so you don't push it. Instead, you kiss his neck again, letting your hands slip under his shirt to caress at the hard ridges of his ribs

-"Lube?" You ask, grinding your clothed cock against his ass

-"I've, ahh--" Zevlor arches his back as you nip at his neck, "I've already taken care of it," His tail wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, "So fuck me already."

-Your mind reels as you fumble your pants open. What does he mean that he took care of it?

-You only have to wonder for a moment, because as soon as you slide your cock between his ass cheeks you feel that his hole is already soft and slick with lubricant. You groan into his ear and ask him if he fingered himself before this

-"A good soldier is always prepared." You can't see his face, but you can hear the smile in his voice

-Knowing that he was expecting to be fucked by you is driving you wild. You pant out apologies as you inch into the impossible heat of him, your muscles twitching with the need to slam in but resisting as best as you can

-"I can take it," Zevlor groans, reaching a hand behind him to grab your hip, "So give it to me."

-Hearing him parrot back the words from your sparring earlier makes you laugh, and then buck your hips. "Like this?" Your cock pries him open, making both of you moan and pant

"J...just like that-" You can see the muscles of Zevlor's back flex as you begin pumping into him, "Fuck, just like that..."

-It's amazing. Zevlor's hole is impossibly hot and tight around you, and the sounds he grunts out with each thrust makes your head swim. There's no way you're gonna last long like this

-You know that you're going to cum in the next few pumps--the heat in your core is building to a manic degree, and your thrusts are getting faster and sloppier

-Instinctively, you reach around Zevlor and grab his cock to stroke him, hoping to bring him to completion too

-"N- wait, ahh--" Zevlor's body tightens and his hands grab yours, but they don't pull you away.

-His cock is still soft. You slow your hips before stopping altogether, feeling like a monster for being so greedy and inconsiderate

-"Don't..." Zevlor moves back against you, slowly fucking himself on your cock, "Don't stop...feels good, promise..."

-You wouldn't believe him if it weren't for the sheer amount of precum oozing from his tip. The sticky-slick fluid steadily leaks into your hand as Zevlor finds a quicker pace and arches his back, groaning and shivering as he finds his prostate with the head of your cock

-Understanding dawns on you. It explains why he didn't want you to touch him earlier. But with that realization comes a fierce adoration. To you, signs of age aren't anything to be ashamed of. It's something worthy of admiration--a testament to all you've been through. You've always loved the signs of Zevlor's age-- the thickness of his horns, the creases around his eyes, the faded scars along his chest. This is certainly no exception.

-You pull Zevlor tight to your chest, grinding into his prostate as quick and hard as you can, peering over his shoulder to hungrily watch his soft cock swing with your thrusts. Thick strands of precum dangle and fall messily from him, all the while Zevlor's moans grow higher and tighter-- he's getting close

-Your muscles burn as you fuck him with everything you have, your eyes fighting to not roll closed as you threaten to fall into your orgasm

-And then you see it-- The clear slickness of Zevlor's precum turns white and it drools thickly from his tip as he whines deep and gravelly in his throat. The sight and sound alone would've been enough to push you over the edge, if you weren't already there

-You ride out your orgasm, burying yourself deep in Zevlor's ass as you fill him with hot pumps of your cum. You could have stayed there behind him for an eternity, just relishing in the feeling of his strong back and tight ass, but kissing him is far more important in that moment

-You turn him around and lock him into a kiss, grinding your cocks together-- yours twitching and slowly softening, and his still steadily leaking

-"Fuck," You breathe into his mouth between a kiss, "I love you..."

-You feel Zevlor's muscles tighten at that, but after a moment he melts into your arms, a happy hum rumbling in his chest

[sombrashe]

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆kinktober 2024⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

𓉸ྀི i love a man in uniform

𓉸ྀི Valeria Garza

𓉸ྀི content afab!reader, chubby!reader, christianity, church sex, readers religion is unspecified, uniform sex, yuri, bathroom sex, fingering, reader is called a slut

Leaning over you pluck at a button. The person it belonged to tries hard to ignore you. You were sitting in church in the furthest pew. It was a late Monday night so you could count the amount of people attending on one hand. Your hand had been patiently waiting on her thigh for over an hour now. Boredom has taken over you soon after the offerings were collected. It has only gotten worse especially with Valeria sitting there straight and tall clad in her uniform. Lifting your chin your lips barely scrape against her ear.

“Valeria, I’m bored.”

She scowls and squeezes your knee in an attempt to get you to act right. You don’t let up, though, and take a second to lick the shell of her ear.

“I need youuu~”

“We are in The House of God, knock it off.”

“Then take me out back where God isn't watching.”

Slightly turning her head to the side she quietly rasps at you to go take care of yourself. Huffing you shove past her and leave the middle of the sermon. Pushing open the door you enter the broken down bathroom. Disgust floods your features as you stand painfully still in the middle. The door is cracked and you fear touching the handle. Staying a few minutes you contemplate how you would annoy Valeria on your way back to your shared home. A few more minutes and you’ve formulated a plan. Not even a full five minutes later and you're ready to join the service again. Looking back as the door creaks open you're surprised to find her standing there anger brewing in her eyes. Quickly stepping her way into the bathroom she closes the door with a loud click. Another click and you're locked in with the pissed-off woman. Giving her a nervous smile you try to smooth things over. She immediately cuts you off and raises her hand trying to find the words.

“Valeria, this bathroom is disgusting. Let’s just go back.”

“Then you shouldn't have been such a slut.”

She’s found it. With a grunt, you cross your arms in defiance. Closing the already suffocating space in the room she pushes herself against you. She gives you no time to protest or even take in what's going on before her hand is shoved down your jeans. Buttons pop open to allow her more access. Huffing your head bounces off the peeling wall. Letting it rest against the yellow she takes this opportunity to chew at your neck. Two fingers slip their way under your waistband and find a home against your clit. Groaning, you attempt to keep quiet. As much as you want to be obnoxiously loud you know better. You want to cum like this. Those fingers leave their home and slip lower and into your soft core. Humming she sinks her teeth into your collarbone and you yelp in surprise at the intense burning that spreads through your chest. She hushes you as her fingers pick up pace. Clamping your lips closed your eyes water at the lack of pain relief. Pleasure mixed with the pain and you have to squeeze your eyes closed to remain in the moment. Letting her have full control you can only weakly hump against her palm hoping for more friction. She angles her hand so her fingers can still pump deep in you while her thumb presses against your clit, rubbing harshly. Whining softly she works you over for the rest of the sermon. You can feel the coil in your abdomen slowly start breaking as music floods the hallways. A signal that church was nearly over. Huffing the coil finally crashes as a bang is heard outside the small bathroom. The large doors have been opened and you can overhear muffled speaking as your orgasm crashes over you and you're soaking through your underwear. Peeling herself away from you she takes a few moments to wash her hands allowing you the chance to find your composure. A few paper towels in the trash later and she's gently buttoning your jeans and fixing your top enough to look presentable to the pastor. Helping you out of the bathroom she takes a moment to shake the pastor's hand and comment on the lovely ceremony.

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist | Valeria Masterlist

[akuyaku-monsters]

Stranded in Another World with the Lewd Exorcist Class (Story 1, Part 3)

Behind a cut, because it starts getting spicy.

Tentacles. Everywhere. Coiled up tight around her arms and legs. Restraining her so she couldn’t run or get away. Grabbing all over her when she couldn’t resist or fight back. How good would it be with something warm and soft that didn’t hurt like a cheap vibrator or dildo due to the manufacturers being cheapskates with the materials? They would be able to twist and squirm in all sorts of ways. One part of her mind argued. She could finally get to enjoy a total tentacle experience! Bent in all sorts of weird ways that couldn’t easily be done with two humans. Plus, surely something that fed on mana wouldn’t just leave Charlotte high and dry after a half-dozen thrusts! 

Even though the slime already had Charlotte by the wrists, waist, and ankles, it was holding her with just the right strength. It didn’t actually hurt anywhere, but it was clear that the human woman was going absolutely nowhere if the slime had anything to say about it. 

But what about her reputation? Another part of Charlotte interrupted, with the full weight of reality. She had a job. She had a place to live. People thought she was reliable and respectable. There were no issues with her daily needs, with the basic requirements for living. 

And it hadn’t always been that way. There had been some times Charlotte didn’t really like to think of. It was hard to live in a world where you had no connections and no people who vouch for you and teach you how to interface with others. 

You are making a lot of noises that indicated distress, the Slime observed. 

“I am having a moral quandary over here!” Charlotte snapped back. 

What possible moral quandary could you be having? 

“Listen, unlike you I live in a capitalist hellscape. I have to earn currency to live. I have to exchange that currency for goods and services, like food and shelter. And if I get chased out of town for doing hanky and panky with a monster, then I won’t be able to live!” Charlotte hissed. 

Oh. 

The Slime seemed thoughtful. 

Well, I have a suggestion. How about I cast a Sleep spell on the young lady over here, so she won’t have any idea about the various things we get up to? Will that allow you to let me eat my fill without fighting? I don’t like it when I have to fight my food too much. It makes me feel like I’m a bad person. 

Why the fuck was this Slime constructing the most iron-clad argument in the world? Why the hell was this Slime more considerate than most of the men Charlotte had regretted dating? 

That dangerous chuckle again. With the wave of another tentacle, a low, lavender-colored glow settled around Lin Lin. Then, the slime pulled a large blanket from somewhere in the dim room. He draped it over the cage like he was keeping the light out of a bird cage. 

Have you ever been told your face is utterly transparent with your feelings? 

The tentacles around Charlotte’s waist shifted, and the slimy tip of one moved towards the waistcoat of her guild uniform. It deftly undid all the buttons. The second tentacle pulled the dark brown waistcoat from her shoulders as the first slithering in further to start work on the smaller buttons of her shirt. After the first button undid, the second tentacle lunged right into the gap. It swirled around to grab one of Charlotte’s breasts, circling the widest area then spiraling towards her nipples to grip against that as well. The tentacle left a slimy, shiny trail of a viscus liquid. 

Oh, you haven’t been skipping any meals have you, gorgeous? I dare say you would be more than a handful. 

A second tentacle slid into the same hole as the first, squeezing around the second breast. Both tentacles paused for a moment, and then spread in opposite directions, popping the remaining buttons off of Charlotte’s blouse. Most of her chest was covered in sticky slime. 

She made a quick noise of protest and shock. 

Oh my! I think you may be protesting a bit too much, given how much you seem to be enjoying this. I can tell. I can literally taste it on your skin. The slime chuckled. 

You know, I can’t quite tell what you’re thinking. But, what if I could? What if I could see all the nasty things you were thinking? Humans are so funny—assigning morality to things that don’t really have anything to do with morality. Do you think I’d really, honestly call you something like a pervert or a rotten woman and mean it? I’m not bound by those constraints. I’m just doing it because I can tell it gets you off. Do you think being a rotten woman will mean that I should feel righteous in having my way with you?

He pressed the tip of one wet tentacle against the woman’s lips. The vibrantly colored tentacle pressed up and down against Charlotte’s lips, leaving a nearly lip-gloss like residue as it teased her. Every time that appendage squirmed and pressed against her lips, Charlotte hoped that it would just plunge in and shut her up. It had that slime, so there was no way it could be dry, right? How deep could she take something like that in her mouth? 

God. Charlotte was really losing her mind, she thought. But there was no way she’d get an opportunity like this again. So she parted her lips, just a little. Would it be enough for that slime to get the hint? 

You’re right. If you make too much noise, that girl in the corner might wake up. We can’t have that. Not until I’m done with you.  

Charlottes lips parted wider, then wider still as the translucent tentacle forced its way in. It seemed to have no issue grinding against her teeth. No hesitation. The taste was a little like salt water, but weaker. With a hint of a taste that Charlotte couldn’t identify. It was almost fruity, like maybe very watered down grapes.

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