#because well...he loves Tails so much

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

Imagining Sonic just out and about, having a fun time just running where the wind takes him, then (after recieving a brief call from Tails) sorts to start to feel a bit lonely. Then, as he runs and runs (and continues to do whatever he's doing) he eventually realizes how much he misses having his little buddy by him, so he makes his way to the lab of his (Tails') that Tails is currently in, working on something or other. It's like...magnetism, the way Sonic goes from simply missing Tails, to missing Tails by his side, to just simply needing to be as close to him as he can get.

Sonic arriving into Tails' lab, "announcing" his presence by gently wrapping his arms around Tails from behind. Tails complains at first, of course (because Sonic very well surprised him and began to hold onto him suddely while Tails could have been working on something important/dangerous), but he allows himself to relax into Sonic's hold for a few minutes.

Cue Sonic trying not to pout when Tails is like "listen you can hold me later but I'm busy right now and I can't get work done like this"

[turtleblogatlast]

Things I make for myself when insomnia kicks in

Just a chart about what I wanna change up and keep consistent in my art - I mainly wanna draw Raph with a tail because he deserves one, it fits too well. Donnie gets a long tail too because I didn’t realize how dino-like he looks until I gave him one, and now it’s a must for me haha.

[maulfucker]

a handful of oc concepts

[softquietsteadylove]

I have an idea for the lawyer au. Inspiration from Boston legal season 8 episode 9.

A girl, make her young like sprite, comes to Gil one day and asks if he is a lawyer and if he can help her. Gil thinking she is being a kid jokingly asks how much money she has and when she answers 10 bucks her father comes and wants to take her with her. But she holds onto Gil and says please help me, if I go back to Poland they’ll force me to marry a man in this country. in this moment he realizes it’s a serious matter and protects the girl. At the end of this case it’s a very depressing situation for him. Thena is there to gently lift him up

Im sure you’ll manage to do something with it

"Gil."

Gil didn't even pick his head up. He was all but sleeping in his mug of guinness. "Gil's not here."

Thena didn't let him get away with it. She did pat his shoulder with some sense of pity for him. "Come on, Gil. It's well past midnight and you have another court date tomorrow."

He groaned at even the mention of going into court again. He didn't know if he had it in him after his day today. "I'm not going back there."

Thena shuffled her purse on her shoulder and perched herself on the stool next to his. "You don't mean that."

"I do," he huffed, pushing the goblet away with distaste. All he could smell was the thick, sweet stench of it. "And I should have punched that judge in the face."

"It wouldn't have changed the ruling," she pointed out in a very Thena way. "Unless you want to be barred from practising law for a year, if not the rest of your life."

He shrugged. He wasn't sure how he felt about the law after today. He had always thought he was on the side of the good guys, as cliche as it sounded. Sure, the law was far from perfect, but he really thought he was doing some good with his job.

"You did everything you could for that girl, Gil."

He scoffed and rubbed his eyes. The dim lighting and loud music of the bar were making his vision blurry, and all he could taste in the back of his throat was cheap beer. "Is that what you call letting her get shipped back to Poland to get married to some old creep?"

She was a kid, no older than Sprite. It was a sickening 'case', no matter how sudden or pro bono it had been. She had even offered to pay with the only 10 dollars to her name, kept safe inside the birthday card it came in and everything. But none of it had done any good.

"We don't win every case, Gil."

"Well, you'd think this one would matter more!"

A few heads turned. He had been quietly sulking at the bar for hours, by this point, enough beers in that the bartender was beginning to eye him every time he asked for another.

Thena didn't even flinch.

Gil groaned again, scrubbing his face with his hands even though he'd been touching the bar that was cleaned only god knew when. He sighed, "I'm sorry."

But she understood his outburst, maybe even condoned it. "It's okay. I can't say I blame you for coming here and burying it under...how many is it now?"

More than he wanted to admit to. So, instead, he ruffled his hair and attempted to pull himself up in his seat with some dignity. "Doesn't matter. I'm pretty sure he's cut me off quietly anyway."

The bartender turned around, ears already burning and a towel slung over his shoulder. "Time to pay up, Boston Legal?"

"Very funny," Gil snarled at him. He knew it wasn't this guy's fault he'd had the worst day of his entire career, but that didn't mean he was in any mood for it. He slapped his hands over his jacket, his rumpled tie and then his suit pockets. "Shit."

"Oh come on, man, you're a lawyer, I know you've got-"

"It's okay, I'll pay it," Thena held her hand up, already reaching into her purse.

"Fuck," Gil cursed, hanging his head (as if he needed any more reason to be ashamed of himself tonight). He misjudged the distance, even knocking his forehead against the counter edge. Maybe it would be a little sobering, if he was lucky. "Thena, you don't have to-"

"It's okay," she assured him yet again, but she was still sounding more like 'work' Thena than the Thena had come to know and prefer.

Gil watched as the bartender took her card to close out his tab. He couldn't get any more pathetic anyway--what was a little more humiliation? "What are you doing here? Are the girls okay?"

Thena finally smiled at him, and it was the real Thena he saw, no matter how blurry. "They both asked to have sleepovers tonight. It's rare, but tomorrow is a half day at school, so I dropped them both off. When I asked how you were, the response wasn't all that clear, so I figured I would try here."

Gil made a face. He didn't remember talking with her. He felt around again for his phone, which he didn't so much pull out as clumsily drop it onto the bar. He blinked a few times, really trying to focus on reading his messages.

She had texted him, asking if he was doing okay and where he was. His response was a jumbled mess, but he unfortunately could make out something resembling him telling her that he was going to drown himself in beer and that she could join if she wanted.

He couldn't even remember reading, let alone responding to it. He really did need to be cut off for the night. He wasn't young and in college anymore--he would probably have a hell of a hangover tomorrow morning (afternoon).

Thena nodded as her card was handed back to her, Gil's debt settled. She turned back to him, "think you can walk?"

He grumbled. If he wasn't already, he would flush with guilt at the insinuation. "I'm not that bad, Thena, really."

She was kind to say nothing about him wobbling a little as he got up at first. But he made it to the door easily enough with her behind him. Maybe he did need a little hand on his back, but as soon as he was out in the cold night air it was at least a little better.

Thena pulled her jacket tighter around herself. She should have been at home, relaxing during her kid-free-evening. She could have been curled up reading or watching that funny ghost show she liked with a glass of wine or a mug of tea or something. Instead, she was picking up his drunk ass from a dive bar a block away from work.

"I'm sorry, Thena," he began apologizing, for the first time of many, he told himself. He owed her plenty more, and that was beyond his bar tab, which he would pay back with interest, too. "I just...that kid-"

He pushed his nose deeper into the soft material of her white turtleneck. The cotton or cashmere or whatever it was soaked up his tears. "She was just a kid."

Thena probably didn't consider herself a hugger, but she gave really nice ones. She was really gentle, and soft, and even if she was small boned, she still felt warm. Even in her boots, she was up on her toes just slightly to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling his face into her shoulder. "I know it's terrible. But you did everything you could, and we're just going to have to live with that."

"I know." Thena did know--she had sat in for the final leg of his plea. She had witnessed his loss and she had been the one to restrain him from mouthing off to the judge presiding and possibly losing his license. "It's not fair."

"What are we doing?" he asked, even hiccuping faintly as he closed his arms around her as well. He was a mess, probably stank of beer, and he shouldn't have been here in the first place. But he melted into Thena's good graces, letting her absorb some of his misery for him. "What good is any of this if I couldn't protect her?"

"That wasn't your job today," Thena whispered to him, and it felt as if it was right next to his ear. "Your job was to argue for her in her place, and you did that. You fought with all you had. But the law wasn't on our side, today. And there will be more days like this."

He knew that. He'd had hard cases before, lost cases before. But never anything like this. He'd had his faith in the judicial system and the court system and the social work system waver before--it came with the job. But now he wasn't sure how he was ever supposed to go back to work again.

"You lost a case, and it's never easy. But what that girl's parents are enforcing is not your fault."

It sure fucking felt like it was. Gil could still remember the look on the kid's face as it sunk in that it really was over, that they had lost and that her parents had every right to drag her back with them. He had handed her back the card with her birthday money in it, unable to accept it after their defeat.

"Come on," Thena leaned back, putting a hand on his cheek, probably checking his eyes to see if he was sober enough to make it back to his car. If she even called him an uber and watched him slump himself into it, it would already be more than he deserved.

"Yeah," he cleared his throat, swallowing the lump in it. He looked around the parking lot, increasingly empty by this time on a work night. "I, uh, left my car back at work. It's probably where my wallet is, a-actually. I should-"

"We can get it tomorrow, Gil," she cooed in that melodic voice of hers. She insisted it was like cold, hard ice, but he thought it was gentle and elegant, like a curtain dancing in a window.

"I've gotta get home," he all but whimpered. What a wet blanket he was being, but whatever. He pulled out his phone again, attempting to find an uber she could toss him into and be rid of him.

"I know, come on," Thena pulled at his arm gently. And when he stumbled anyway she leaned closer, letting him rest his big, meaty shoulder against her little one. "I'll get you home."

He just stared. She looked really pretty in the streetlight glow, all blurry at the edges like it was a dream sequence in a movie. "You didn't have to come and get me."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Was I to leave you drowning in your beer?"

It would be a fitting end, at least. But he shrugged, leaning on her as little as he could afford as they made their way to her car. "You shouldn't have to deal with the aftermath of my shit."

But she shouldered him easily, getting him to the passenger door first and unlocking it with her fob. "We have the same job, Gil. Same job, same shit--I know what it's like to want to dive head first into a pool of cheap wine coolers and forget everything we've ever learned."

But she didn't, that was the difference. Because Thena had other obligations and responsibilities. And took them seriously, unlike how he had come over here without even his wallet somehow.

Gil leaned against the top of the car before letting her elbow him in. She was supporting him under his other arm, tucked into his side. He would rather be supporting her, like he had after she broke her arm. "Thanks, Thena--even if you're seeing me make a huge ass out of myself."

She gave him a really sweet smile as she separated herself from him at last, letting him get into the car seat. "Quite impossible."

She even closed the door for him, being a real gentleman to his drunk ass. Gil crossed his arms, tilting his head as he looked out her windshield. "I don't think that's true."

But she climbed into the driver's seat without a word, not wasting any time as she began backing out. "I've only picked you up a few times, but I believe I remember the way."

"You'll be fine," he murmured, still with a slight slur to his words. He would let her go and if he really had to correct her, he would. "Just look for a depressing bachelor complex and I'll be on the left."

Thena let out a laugh, which added at least some levity to the night.

She had a cute laugh. He looked at her again, although hopefully with her focused on the road she would just think he had a sore neck or something. "Y'know, maybe we should change firms."

"What makes you say that?"

He shrugged, his eyes getting fuzzy again. He was tired. "I mean, we're not allowed to do any pro bono work, which sucks. I know it's a small firm but come on."

"I do agree with you on that one," she muttered quietly. She could act all 'ice queen' if she wanted to, he knew she also had a soft spot for the kids they ended up working with.

"And the guys at the office," Gil made another face, but Thena was driving so she couldn't appreciate how funny it was. He made a noise to accompany it. "I don't like the way they look at you."

Thena didn't answer for a few minutes, probably trying to actually focus and navigate amidst his yapping. "I didn't think you noticed."

He blew a a raspberry, although with his dry lips it really sounded more like a wet fart. "Please, those pigs think they're being subtle when they look at you like--well, they're not, is what I'm getting at. And they wonder why I don't like them."

Thena let out a faint laugh again as she made a turn. She was driving a little slowly, but that was probably because she was afraid she would jerk him around too much and risk him hurling on her nice off-white interior. "I figured you were just too nice for their crass tastes in drinking buddies."

"Not disgusting enough, more like," Gil huffed again. He had to reel himself in and keep from divulging anything else. He didn't ever want to have to repeat to Thena the kind of language he'd heard them use to refer to her when they thought no one was listening.

And it didn't matter how many times he told them not to talk about her like that. All it ever did was get them convinced he was sleeping with her and beg him to tell them all about it.

"You would leave the firm just because of them?"

He slumped down further in his seat. He wasn't paying nearly enough attention to direct Thena if needed, but it was kind of nice just being in the car with her. Just them, a quiet drive, not even Sersi or Sprite or the loud, bouncy pop they liked to listen to between them.

Well, he did like some of the music they made him listen to.

"It wouldn't be just for that reason, there are more," he sufficed to say. But then he dragged himself up again and looked at her. "But I wouldn't leave without you."

Thena, driving, spared him a quick glance. She seemed surprised. "You wouldn't?"

"Of course not," he scoffed more lightly this time. Because that question was actually funny. "If anything, you're the reason I stayed past my probation period."

He wasn't supposed to tell her that. Well, he hadn't wanted to admit it to her, and certainly not like this. Whoops.

"Well," Thena began as they pulled into the parking lot of his building (unfortunately). Her voice really was like a lullaby. He had to wonder if he would even make it inside, at this rate. "If you decide to leave...then so will I."

[scarysanctuary]

the thing that made me feel better about the whole shitshow that was the mismanagement of Izzy's death was David's tweet of "fwiw there’s no version of this show that doesn’t include Izzy Hands" and in the midst of a lot of unhappy fan reactions, he also liked tweets referencing the fact that Buttons is a witch and what that must mean for Izzy's future, those things gave me, and many others, hope. but the thing is, he also said in an interview that this was the last time we will see Izzy alive, and it made me think, hmm, so then youd just bring him back to use him again huh? because what kind of a life is izzy gonna get to live if hes not actually alive? he's going to be used as some sort of plot device for one of the other characters, again, or even worse, be brought back as a joke of some sort, which, objectively i do think itd be funny if he was a zombie or something but like no one even acknowledges that fact, and they go about their lives as usual, yeah that would be funny, but once again it would be a shame for his character, which has shown the most growth out of anyone, to be boiled down to the role of a clown. He also could just show up in memories from when they were younger, to score cheap emotional responses from those fans that miss him, while also enabling us to gain further insight on Ed's character more than likely, so once again, using him. Even though i cant deny id be happy to see Con again, i think its going to be nearly impossible to do this in a way that isnt going to feel like a slap in the face, like a means of appeasement. it makes it quite obvious that even they knew Izzy had more to offer the show, if after killing him senselessly, they act like we are silly in thinking he wouldnt be brought back in a season 3, excuse me, are we supposed to take the death of a character seriously or not? because im watching your show and i watched you bury him, so that seems pretty final to me, but yes, the seagull landed on his cross, but guess what, i also read your interview where you said that magic doesnt exist in this world, yet now youre saying witches are real, so im really confused about if David really knows what he's talking about because he keeps contradicting himself, and honestly thats very scary when it comes to being able to successfully conclude this series...

[lyril]

lumpus is a fascinating specimen glad theres other people also fond of him

HE SURE IS i will be honest i almost like him a Little Too Much because i Also live in my fantasy world of make believe where camp lazlo is a little more than a 6.4/10 show (I STILL LOVE YOU SWEETHEART!) and instead also includes all my insane 20k spiels of backstory stringing and talks about character writing but

(also. i do think it's funny how popular slinkman is in comparison, i love him just as much, but i actually see people mention really liking slinkman pretty frequently if someone happens to posts about camp lazlo which is GOOD because he DESERVES IT MAJORLY but the lumpus bug has Also caught me something awful even though i hate him and he sucks so i'm alone adrift in the world out here...)

edited this just for him

[silverselfshippingchaos]

MY SONNNN EVERYBODY LOOK AT MY SON ISN'T HE BEAUTIFUL ISN'T HE AMAZING

[hana-bobo-finch]

jørgan clan my beloved. you guys are so messed up

[furshrimps]

Sammy is actually learning to enjoy strangers a little 🤭

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

PROSTHETIC ARM SIMON

sfw + nsfw. overstimulation & premature ejaculation (simon). his metal arm has a vibrator function. unprotected sex.

mr. riley is a new regular.

hulking, broad-shouldered, always hunched like he's trying to fold himself into something smaller. dirty blonde hair, hoodies that swallow his frame, gloves that never come off— not in winter, not when the air conditioning is broken, not when it’s so hot outside that the pavement wavers under the sun. you see him come in once during a heatwave, sweat beading at his temples, looking like he just came from hell itself. but the gloves stay.

always.

he’s quiet. doesn’t talk much unless he has to. keeps his answers clipped, never makes small talk, never lingers longe,ur than it takes to grab his order and leave. you might’ve found him intimidating if it weren’t for the fact that his dog, riley, was the exact opposite.

big, fluffy, and absurdly well-behaved. the kind that made strangers stop and coo when they passed by, all soft ears and wagging tail. an instant favorite among customers. an absolute menace to simon.

because the dog likes attention. loves it, actually. practically demands it. and, more specifically— he likes you.

so the moment simon steps up to the counter, riley is already perking up at your voice. tail wagging, eyes locked on you, waiting expectantly like he thinks you’re about to drop an entire steak into his mouth.

"oh! mr. riley! the usual today?"

simon grunts. closest thing to a yes you ever get.

"and a pup cup for little riley, i take it?"

the man sighs. “he’s gonna get fat.”

but he still swipes his card. no hesitation.

riley whines at the accusation, staring at him with something close to betrayal.

you slide simon’s order across the counter after a moment, the movements routine by now.

he reaches out. his right hand hovers over the cup. fingers stretching, hovering, like he’s trying to will it into his grasp.

nothing happens. his fingers twitch, but they won’t close.

you see it— the way his jaw tightens, the sharp curl of his lip like he’s biting down a curse. the tension in his shoulders. the exhale through his nose.

“mr. riley?” you ask carefully.

his scowl deepens. he tries again— too hard, too fast— his grip locks up, crushing the cup before he can stop himself. the lid pops off. coffee splatters over his hand, dripping onto the counter.

you yelp, stepping back on instinct. he doesn’t.

he just stares down at his hand. impassive. like he hasn't been baptized by scalding liquid.

“shit- hang on-” you scramble around the counter, heat rising up your throat, words spilling out in a rush. “jesus, are you- your hand-”

“s’fine,” he grunts.

his flesh hand flexes at his side, but the other— the one that had crushed the cup— stays frozen, unmoving.

you don’t believe him for a second. ignoring his protests, you reach for his wrist, peeling off the soaked glove before he can stop you.

you freeze.

metal. not sleek, new, high-tech metal. not the kind you see in sci-fi movies, gleaming and futuristic.

no. this is old. dull, scratched, worn— something that’s clearly been through hell and barely made it out. the joints look stiff, the plates dented in places, the wiring almost exposed near the wrist.

your mouth opens. closes. opens again. “… huh.”

his brow lifts slightly. “that all you got?”

you blink, tilting your head. “kinda thought there’d be… more wires. sparks. terminator shit.”

a beat. then, maybe, the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips.

“disappointed?”

“a little.”

you keep staring, the sight settling in your brain, cataloging every detail. not military-grade. not some brand-new prosthetic straight from a lab. something about it makes your chest tighten.

“has it… uh, been this iffy for a while?” you ask, glancing up.

simon shrugs with his good shoulder, the movement almost dismissive. “yeah. thing’s temperamental.”

“like you,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

his brow arches slightly, but he doesn’t deny it.

you glance around the café, nerves twisting in your stomach. no customers. the clock ticks lazily, the smell of coffee and vanilla in the air. you bite your lip, thinking.

“so, uh- i’m an engineering student,” you start, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your apron. “and… i mean, if you wanted- i could take a look? maybe tweak it a bit?”

his gaze snaps to you. it makes your stomach flip, and you wonder if you’ve just crossed a line you hadn’t realized was there.

“… you want to mess with my arm?”

“not mess! i mean- help. like… it’s kind of what i do. circuits, mechanics- prosthetics aren’t that different. probably.” you wince. “unless you’re, like, secretly part robot with classified tech and i’m about to get black-bagged or something-”

“you talk a lot,” he deadpans.

“nerves,” you shoot back, cheeks warming. “so… yes? no? totally fine if it’s weird.”

he exhales through his nose, staring at you like he’s trying to figure you out. the silence stretches. then—

“… got tools?”

your face lights up. “back in my car!”

“figured.” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “fine. but if you break it worse-”

“i won’t,” you grin, already grabbing your keys. “trust me.”

“don’t say that,” he calls after you. “famous last words.”

…

simon would rather take a bullet than admit it, but you turn out to be a problem in his life.

because after that first fix— crammed into your car that rattled like it was held together with duct tape and prayer— he walks away with a hand that actually works for the first time in months.

no stiffness. no lag. no bullshit. he clenches his fist and releases, watching the fingers curl and straighten without a hint of resistance.

it feels foreign. unnatural. smooth in a way that it should be but hasn’t been for a long, long time.

so when he asks how much he owes, expecting a number, you just tilt your head and grin.

"tell me your full name. i don’t wanna keep calling you mr. riley."

simon stares at you like he’s weighing whether he can get away with walking out without answering. then, like it pains him— "simon."

you laugh. “you look like a simon.”

…

he doesn’t try to make it a habit, coming to you.

really. he doesn’t.

but prosthetic specialists are expensive, and he’s not exactly drowning in engineering contacts. the local mechanics won’t touch prosthetics (liability reasons, mate, can’t help ya), and he sure as hell isn’t stepping into a clinic unless he wants some lab rat poking and prodding at him like he’s a cutting-edge science project.

so when his arm starts acting up again, he does what he always does.

he ignores it. it’ll be fine. he can live with it.

it starts with a bit of stiffness. a missed grip here and there. nothing major.

then his fingers start locking up at random, the servos stalling, the whole limb feeling like it’s dragging behind the rest of him.

not ideal. not something he can use. three weeks in, and it’s a fucking liability.

he caves.

simon times it carefully. dead hour. mid-afternoon. when the café is empty and you’ll have a second to spare.

he walks in, orders a pup cup for riley, and waits. he doesn’t wait long.

the moment your eyes flicker to his gloved hand— how his fingers can't even curl anymore— your expression drops.

your shoulders tighten, brows knit together, mouth parting slightly like you’re about to scold him before you even know what’s wrong.

"simon," you say, voice sharp like he just admitted to a felony.

before he can so much as blink, you’re untying your apron.

"break," you toss over your shoulder.

your coworker barely looks up. just shrugs.

simon exhales through his nose. he should’ve just ripped the damn thing off himself.

your car is just as a mess as it was last time. empty water bottles on the floor. a crumpled hoodie in the backseat. textbooks piled in the passenger footwell, some open, some stuffed with loose papers. it smells faintly like vanilla air freshener and stress.

riley jumps in first, hopping into the backseat like he owns the place, and promptly curls up across the mess of loose papers and crumpled receipts.

simon says nothing. just lets himself into the passenger seat, shifts slightly to get comfortable in the too-small space, and watches as you slam the driver’s side door with a little more force than necessary.

you’re fuming.

he can feel it radiating off you like an overheating engine as you shove his sleeve up and strip the glove away.

he glances down. yeah. even he has to admit— it looks rough. the plates are slightly misaligned. the servos are dragging. the tension in the fingers is off, the whole mechanism resisting movement like it’s gummed up with sand and bad decisions.

"oh my god, how long has this been going on?"

his eyes flicking to the side. "three weeks."

you go still. "THREE WEEKS?!"

riley lifts his head from where he’s sprawled out in the backseat and whines at the sharpness of your voice. simon rubs at his temple with his good hand, sighing.

"three- jesus, simon, if your arm has a problem, you come to me right away!"

"didn’t wanna bother you."

you make a strangled sound, something between disbelief and frustration, already yanking open your toolkit with more force than necessary. "bother- oh my god, you idiot," you snap, flipping through your tools at lightning speed. "this is- unusable. how were you even functioning like this?"

"managed."

"you shouldn’t have to ‘manage.’ that’s the point of a prosthetic!"

simon huffs, shifting his arm slightly as you mutter curses under your breath and start unscrewing the external plating.

riley rests his chin on the back of simon’s seat, watching the whole thing unfold with his big brown eyes, tail thumping softly against the pile of forgotten assignments.

"can feel your judgment," simon mutters, breaking the silence.

"good. let it sink in."

riley lets out a low whine, nudging the back of simon’s neck with his nose.

simon sighs. "yeah, yeah. i know."

the dog lets out a single huff, like he agrees with you.

you pause long enough to glance at riley, expression unimpressed. "at least he gets it."

"gettin’ ganged up on," simon mutters.

riley whines. you don’t even look up.

"good.

his mouth twitches. he tells himself it’s a muscle spasm.

you don’t look at him when you actually get to work. simon notices.

he’s sitting there, arm bared, cables exposed, and you’re bent over the mess of wiring like he’s not even in the room. like he’s just another machine in need of fixing. your hands move with quick precision, fingers deft as you pluck out worn components and replace them with fresh ones. you mutter to yourself, little noises of satisfaction or frustration depending on what you find.

it’s unsettling. not you— no, you’re fine. better than fine. competent. but it’s been a long time since someone’s handled his arm without hesitation, without the kind of quiet reverence people get when they realize how much damage a man has to take before he needs one of these.

to you, it’s just broken. something that needs tuning.

he flexes his fingers the second you flip the switch.

his hand moves fast. smooth. no delay between thought and motion. he rolls his wrist. it hasn’t felt this natural in weeks.

"good?" you ask, still gathering your tools.

he moves his fingers again. watches them articulate, watches the precise shift of metal joints. "yeah," he mutters.

you nod, already packing up, already moving on.

he watches you.

then you say it, casual, like an afterthought. “don’t worry about it.”

simon doesn’t blink. he knew you were going to say that because apparently you're the next coming of the good fucking samaritan. it still pisses him off.

he glances at you. at the torn-up upholstery of your car, the loose wires under the dash, the check engine light that’s been on this entire time, the faint but definite smell of something burning.

he drums his fingers against his knee. “i’ll fix your car.”

you argue about it, of course. insist it’s fine, like you don’t hear the death rattle when you start the engine. simon doesn’t argue back. doesn’t need to. just asks— when’s the last time you had it looked at?— and watches you press your lips together.

thought so.

“two days, at least,” he tells you.

your horror is almost funny. “two days?”

“maybe three.”

you stare at him like he just told you your dog died.

he pats the dashboard. “i’ll do what i can to keep it alive.”

it takes one day. he calls while you’re still half-asleep. “your car’s a lost cause.”

you meet up later so he can walk you through the damage in person.

you listen. don’t talk much, don’t get defensive. just nod as he points things out, as he explains the alternator’s failing, the battery’s shot, the brake pads are gone— and yeah, he’s still pissed about that one. your transmission is a liability. the engine’s practically running on fumes.

you sigh, dragging a hand over your face.

“i need my car,” you grumble. “i have plates to pass. blueprints that cannot get wet, or my professor will deduct major points. and-”

“i’ll drive you.”

you stop. blink. “what?”

“i’ll drive you,” he repeats, like it’s obvious.

you look at him, wary. “don’t you have work?”

“on break.”

“friends?”

he shakes his head. “not really.”

“family?”

he actually laughs. there's no real humor in it.

something shifts in your face. simon sees it before you do, the flicker of discomfort, the way you adjust your stance like there’s something you want to say but don’t know how.

simon doesn’t let you say it.

“tell me your schedule.” he shuts the hood like the matter’s settled. “text me when you need a ride. i’ll be there.”

you cross your arms. “so i get a chauffeur for fixing one prosthetic?”

he flexes his fingers. “you underestimate how much these cost.”

you roll your eyes. “you act like i replaced the whole thing.”

“you might as well have,” he mutters. “damn thing actually works now.”

you sigh, shifting on your feet. “you really don’t have plans?”

“if you count drinking beer alone, then yeah, i have plenty.

so he starts picking you up.

at first, it’s straightforward. you text him when you need a ride, and he shows up, no questions asked. no complaints, either— just grunts a greeting, waits for you to get in, and drives. sometimes he has the radio on. other times, it’s just quiet, the steady hum of the engine and the occasional flick of a turn signal.

simon doesn’t mind detours. when you run late and beg him to swing by a drive-thru, he just sighs and pulls into the next available one. doesn’t even say anything when you apologize through a mouthful of food, just takes a sip of his own coffee and keeps driving.

but, one morning, when you rush out of your apartment, tripping over your own feet, already bracing for the inevitable “can we stop by-”

simon just reaches into the passenger seat, grabs a bag, and tosses it into your lap.

you blink down at it. warm, heavy. smells good.

“…what’s this?”

he puts the truck into drive. “breakfast.”

“thanks,” you mumble, glancing at riley whose got his head wedged between the two of you, tongue lolling out, eyes bright as he watches you unwrap your sandwich.

“does he want some?”

simon doesn’t even look. “he always wants some.”

you tear off a piece anyway, holding it out. riley inhales it like it personally offended him

simon snorts. “you’re gonna spoil him.”

“he’s cute. he deserves it.”

“he’s a liability.”

“you’re just jealous ‘cause i don’t feed you by hand.”

you look up, realizing what you just said.

simon’s looking back at you. slow blink. unreadable.

heat licks at your neck. “i- i didn’t mean-”

riley whines, nosing at your hand for more food, and you’ve never been more grateful for a dog’s terrible sense of timing.

he hums, turning back to the road. “thought so.”

…

this keeps going for months. a pattern. a rhythm. the two of you slot into each other’s lives like you’ve always been there.

you stop thanking him when he brings you food. he stops questioning it when you drag him to your workshop to tinker with his arm.

and then, one day. he picks you up, just like always.

but this time—

you slide into the passenger seat and don’t say anything.

no greeting. no complaints. no requests for coffee. just sit back, staring straight ahead, like you’re still processing something.

simon frowns. “…what?”

“…my project is on prosthetic arms.”

his head snaps toward you. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask if it’s because of him. because that— that feels too dangerous.

your hands grip your sleeves. “can i design you a new prosthetic arm?”

he doesn’t answer right away. doesn’t move. his fingers flex against the wheel.

you don’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at you, and it’s the first time in a long time he really feels like he’s made of metal and wire and things that aren’t his own.

you exhale. glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

he looks down. his palm, cold and impersonal. not really his, not entirely.

and— “…yeah,” he mutters, tapping his fingers against his thigh.

a beat.

“…all right.”

…

simon steps inside your apartment, and the first thing he notices is that it smells like you. not perfume, not some scent in a bottle— just you. a mix of coffee, paper, and something warm and lived-in. his boots make the floor creak slightly as he shifts, taking it all in.

riley, in comparison,immediately takes off, nose to the ground, sniffing every single thing he can get to. he pushes his head into the couch cushions, sticks his snout into your laundry pile, and stands on his hind legs to peek at the half-eaten bag of chips on the coffee table.

simon watches you rush to pull snacks away before riley gets his paws on them, muttering something about “you’d think i don’t feed you.” riley wags his tail in betrayal.

the space is cluttered but cozy. the kind of messy that isn’t disorganized, just... busy. like your life is so packed with things to do that it spills over into your home. there are loose papers on the coffee table, your drafting table is buried under textbooks and sketches, and there’s a laundry basket in the corner that’s almost full but not quite.

and the lamps. so many damn lamps. simon counts sixteen before he even makes it past the entrance.

you explain your thesis, and simon listens. really listens. you talk with your hands, explaining concepts in bursts of energy, excitement bright in your eyes. you tell him about rare alloys, cutting-edge designs, how the neural link would function with smoother input signals.

his stomach twists a little when you say it—

“i want to make you a new arm with all of that.”

simon doesn’t answer immediately. just exhales through his nose. he know he should say no. tell you it’s unnecessary. that his arm is fine. that he’s fine.

but then you pull out the blueprints, show him the design, and it’s... it’s good.

it’s really fucking good.

and he knows how much this tech costs. he remembers sitting in a sterile office, watching a man in a lab coat list out the prices of different prosthetic models. he remembers running his fingers over a brochure, seeing the way the most advanced models— the ones that felt like real limbs— were laughably out of reach.

“it’s expensive,” he says, voice flat. It’s not a question.

you hesitate. shift your weight. “…the university gave me a budget.”

he watches you. waits. “…and is it enough to cover the costs?”

you don’t answer.

he sighs and pulls out his phone.

you blink. “what are you doing?”

“making a call.”

simon doesn’t ask for favors. he doesn’t like owing people. doesn’t like being in someone’s debt. But this— this isn’t only for him.

it’s for you too.

he doesn’t hesitate when he dials price’s number. the line barely rings twice before it picks up. “this better be good, ghost.”

it's the price standard. no greeting, no pleasantries.

“it is,” he says. “need a favor.”

a pause. not because price is surprised— simon doesn’t ask for favors often, but when he does, it’s never something small. It’s never something for him.

“go on.”

simon glances at you. you’re watching him, curiosity and just a little bit of suspicion. the old leather of his gloves creaking as he crosses his arms. “need a sponsor.”

another pause. then, dry as hell— “what, you starting a football team?”

he rolls his eyes. “no.”

“boxing, then?”

“price.”

the humor fades. a quiet sigh. “who’s it for?”

he hesitates. just for a second. not because he doesn’t know what to say— because he doesn’t know why he’s saying it. “she’s building a prosthetic,” he says finally. “one I need.”

one i want, he doesn't say.

“your arm acting up?”

“yeah.”

“so get it fixed.”

“this is better.”

price doesn’t say anything for a while and simon knows the old man is thinking, turning things over, considering.

then: “she good?”

siimon glances at you again. you’re shifting through your notes now. he exhales. “yeah.”

he hums, considering. “you trust her?”

that’s what it comes down to. trust.

simon has trusted exactly three people in his life:

1. his mother. until she was gone.

2. price. who never asked for it, never demanded it, but earned it anyway.

3. johnny. who trusts him back without question.

and now, there’s you. he wouldn’t be making this call if he didn’t. “…yeah,” he says.

and that’s all price needs to hear.

you protest the second simon shoves the phone into your hands. try to give it back, eyes wide like he just handed you a live grenade.

but he just crosses his arms, leans against the drafting table, and nods at the phone. “explain.”

you hesitate for way too long before reluctantly pressing it to your ear. “alright, kid. sell me on it.”

you freeze.

“oh my god, i hate you,” you whisper at simon before launching into a shaky but passionate explanation of your thesis to whoever the hell is on the other end of this call.

price listens. makes the occasional noise of interest. asks a few questions. and then— “alright. send me the details. i’ll see what i can do.”

you blink. “wait- so-?”

“i’ll sponsor the damn thing. might even endorse it a little.”

you stare at the phone like it's just grown legs.

“just make sure it works, yeah?”

you nod like he can see you, mumbling out a “thank you so much, sir,” before fumbling to hand the phone back to simon.

simon takes it, tucks it back into his pocket, and proceeds to act like this wasn’t a big deal at all.

you gape at him. “who even was that guy?”

“someone you don’t want to owe a favor.”

your eyes narrow. “and you do?”

simon shrugs. “already owed him one.”

and that’s true. priice has done more for simon than he can count. gave him a job when he didn’t deserve one, gave him a reason to live when he thought he’d run out.

if sponsoring you means putting another tally on that tab, then so be it.

…

you learn more about simon throughout the months.

he doesn’t like cucumbers. you find that out when he picks them out of his sandwich with the kind of silent disgust that makes it clear this is a habit, a ritual, a deeply ingrained practice that will not change no matter how many times you tell him he’s being dramatic.

he doesn’t sleep much. that’s another thing. you catch it in the way he moves, the way his eyes flick around a room too quickly, too sharp for someone who’s gotten a full night’s rest. sometimes, when he’s sitting at your table and riley is curled up by his feet, he just stares off like he’s somewhere else, mind miles away. you don’t ask where.

he doesn’t like sitting with his back to the door. ever. it doesn’t matter where you are— your apartment, a coffee shop, some hole-in-the-wall diner— he always angles himself so he can see the entrance. you test it once, sitting at a booth before he gets there, taking the seat facing the door. when he arrives, he stares at you for all of two seconds before just sighing and sliding in next to you instead of across. you don’t do it again.

he fixes things when he’s anxious. your loose cabinet hinge, the flickering kitchen light, the leaky faucet. he doesn’t say anything. just gets up, pulls out a tool, and starts working like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you find out that the calluses on his fingers aren’t just from weapons—he knows how to take things apart and put them back together, knows how to get grease under his nails, how to run his hands over a surface and understand exactly how it works.

he doesn’t like closed doors. doesn’t like feeling boxed in. when he’s at your place, he always leaves the door cracked, just a little. at first, you think it’s just a habit, but one night you’re in the kitchen and you see the way his shoulders ease when he glances up and sees the open space. you don’t say anything. you just stop closing the door all the way when he’s around.

one day, you’re working on fitting the prosthetic to his stump. it’s finally starting to look like an arm.

simon sits across from you, his forearm resting on the table as you carefully adjust the fit. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t do anything except watch as you secure the straps and check the connection points.

“any discomfort?” you ask, frowning as you examine the joints.

he flexes his fingers, rolling his wrist. “no.”

you glance up. “are you sure?”

he snorts, a short breath of amusement. “you want me to make somethin’ up?”

“no, i want you to tell me if it hurts.”

his lips twitch, but he doesn’t argue. just shifts slightly, testing the range of motion. “feels good,” he says finally.

you nod, make a note. “good.”

rain starts somewhere in the background. a soft patter at first, then heavier, filling the quiet of your apartment. you barely notice at first, too focused on your work, but then you glance up and realize how late it’s gotten.

simon leans back slightly, rolling his shoulders. the room is dim now, the warm glow of your lamps casting long shadows across the walls. riley is curled up on the couch, one ear flicking at the sound of the rain.

you hesitate.

simon notices. lifts a brow.

“what?”

you swallow, shifting in your seat. “would you like to stay over?”

there’s a beat of silence.

simon blinks, slow. looks at you, then out the window, where the rain is coming down in thick, steady sheets.

“…you sure?”

you nod, maybe a little too fast. “yeah. it’s late. roads are bad.” you clear your throat. “and- i mean. it’s not like you sleep much anyway, right?”

he huffs out something that could be a laugh. drags a hand down his face. when he looks back at you, his expression is unreadable, something wry and considering.

“alright,” he says finally. “but i’m takin’ the couch.”

you roll your eyes. “obviously.”

he smirks. you get up to grab blankets. riley stretches on the couch, taking up as much space as possible, and simon mutters something about “bloody dog” but doesn’t move him.

the rain keeps falling. the room is warm.

simon stays.

…

months of refining, testing, and sleepless nights have led to this— the almost-final version of the prototype. the culmination of your work, a piece of engineering so advanced it almost breathes beneath your fingertips. simon sits before you, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, his flesh-and-blood hand resting on his knee while the new prosthetic gleams under the workshop lights.

it’s a work of art, even if he’d never call it that. matte black plating, smooth but lined with faint ridges where the internal components shift and adjust to mimic the movement of muscle. beneath the casing, synthetic tendons coil and flex like real ones, powered by the delicate balance of neural signals and finely tuned actuators. when he moves his fingers, the transition is seamless, each digit reacting in perfect sync with his intent, no longer the slight delay of older models.

he watches as you adjust the final connection points, the alignment of the servos. the heat of his gaze is palpable, but he stays silent, letting you work.

then— a flicker in the system.

it's subtle at first, a low hum beneath the surface of the plating. then it builds. a vibration rolls through the arm, an erratic tremor that makes the fingers twitch. simon lifts it slightly, inspecting it with mild curiosity, flexing his hand.

“huh,” he muses, tone is as dry as ever. “well. could be a vibrator.”

your brain short-circuits. “what-” your fingers slip, almost dropping the tool in your hand. heat floods your face. “that’s- no. absolutely not.”

he tilts his head, studying you like he’s just found something interesting. “was this meant-”

“no!” you blurt, too quick, too loud.

simon is skeptical. “be honest.”

your throat tightens. you look at the circuitry, the faint whir of the servos, anywhere but his face. “…i just- i thought it’d be good-”

his brow arches. “good for what?”

“you look like someone who gets a lot of girls, alright?”

there’s a beat of silence.

simon leans back slightly, tapping his fingers against the metal plating. the low buzz of the malfunctioning motor is the only sound in the room. “is that so?”

before you can even think of a way to explain yourself, he moves.

his grip is swift, fingers curling around your wrist. there’s no real force behind it, no intention to hurt. just a casual show of strength, a reminder of just how easy it is for him to manhandle you. you barely have time to react before he pulls, tipping you off balance.

you land on his lap, breath stuttering out of you in a quiet gasp.

he settles you there like you belong, his flesh-and-blood hand pressing into the small of your back. you feel the heat of him beneath you, the solid mass of his thighs, the way his breath stays even while yours quickens.

the prosthetic hums again.

before your brain can catch up, he moves his arm, pressing the vibrating palm against the seam of your jeans, right between your thighs.

your spine straightens, legs twitching against the instinct to squeeze shut, but his knee is right there, keeping you open.

simon makes a considering noise, watching your reaction. his voice drops, low and lazy.

“since you built it,” he muses, letting the vibration roll against you, “might as well test its full range of function, yeah?”

his head tilts, gaze flicking down to your parted lips. you’re already shaking, already aching, slick and soaked through before he’s even put his hands on you properly.

his weight shifts, thighs bracketing yours, hands adjusting. the grip he has on you firms, fingers pressing deep into soft flesh, making sure you don’t slip away.

not that you would. not that you could.

his breath ghosts over your cheek and your head tips back automatically, a slow surrender, baring your throat. simon makes a low sound of approval, and then his fingers tighten, curling into the denim at your hips.

"si-"

"oh, sweetheart.” he slowly tugging your pants down. "you in a rush? thought you liked when i took my time."

simon's hand drags over your thigh, metal knuckles gliding over your skin. the pressure he uses is just enough to make you feel it, to make your breath hitch, thighs twitching as something hot sparks low in your belly.

"shakin’, love. that bad, huh?"

his fingers stroke over your panties, pressing into the slick beneath.

"fuck," simon laughs, dragging his palm over your thigh, fingers spreading, squeezing. "you're dripping. what, just from me takin’ off your jeans? christ, love, that’s pathetic. you really need it that bad?"

your hips jolt, desperate, chasing friction. instinct drives you— no thought, no shame, just the raw ache of needing him.

simon tsks, shaking his head like it’s funny, like he isn’t already rolling his hips against your leg, cock hard and twitching beneath denim. his fingers press against the soaked cotton between your thighs, rubbing slow circles over your clit.

"built this thing for me," he mutters, mostly to himself, watching his own fingers move, the thick, cool metal pressed flush against heat-swollen flesh. "and look at you. already makin’ a fuckin’ mess all over it."

his mouth twitches. not quite a smirk. something meaner, hungrier.

his gaze drags up, pinning you in place. sharp. knowing. "bet you thought about it, though," he says. "at least once. didn’t you?"

heat spikes through you, curling in your gut. shame prickles at the edges, but it doesn’t matter. not when he’s right. you had thought about it. had imagined this. had pictured his prosthetic between your legs, pressing down, making you beg, the hard edges of metal digging into soft, soaked flesh, the slow hum vibrating against your clit until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but come apart on him.

your fingers clutch at his shoulders, grasping for something solid, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t acknowledge how you tremble beneath him. just watches. tracks.

you stare up at him, panting, barely able to focus, and— god, his face.

the sharp lines of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones, the scar that cuts jagged through the scruff along his chin. his stubble is coarse, speckled with hints of gray, a little uneven along his jaw. coarse shadows frame his mouth, dust over his upper lip, the cut of his jaw. his nose has been broken before, maybe more than once, slightly crooked where it was never set right. the thin pink ridge of an old scar cuts through his left eyebrow, splitting it clean in half, a deeper line stretching down the side of his face, the tail end disappearing into the rough stubble at his jaw.

you don’t get long to stare.

his mouth crashes against yours, rough and urgent, teeth knocking against teeth, lips parting just enough to let him shove his tongue deep, curling against yours, licking into your mouth, taking, claiming.

his teeth sink into your bottom lip, sharp, hard enough to sting. you whimper, legs shaking, and he groans like he feels it everywhere, like he wants to eat you alive.

then— a hum. low. steady. vibrating against your cunt.

your whole body jolts, spine arching, hands flying to his arms, fingers twisting into the thick, corded muscle of his biceps.

you gasp into his mouth, try to pull back, try to breathe, but he doesn’t let you.

simon’s arm locks around your waist, dragging you closer, pressing you down against the hard, pulsing vibration between your legs.

"fuckin’ christ," he groans, fingers slipping beneath soaked fabric, spreading you open. his breath stutters, mouth barely moving as he stares down at his own hand, at the thick, slick mess coating his fingers. "you’re soaked."

his cock throbs against your thigh, thick and heavy where it presses into the denim of his jeans, pulsing hot through the fabric.

his fingers stroke through slick, teasing, pressing against your clit, and the vibration amps up.

you cry out, body jolting, hips stuttering, but he catches them in both hands, grips them tight, holds you still.

"jumped like a scared little rabbit.” Simon's breath is warm against your jaw, lips dragging over your pulse.

his hand stills.

his fingers rest against your clit, pressing just enough to make you squirm, to keep you teetering, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t push you over. "should turn it up, yeah?"

your breath hitches, hips jolt, but his grip plants you right where he wants you.

"no runnin’," he breathes against your mouth. "you take what i fuckin’ give you."

pressure builds. tightens. burns through you a f through it all his eyes stay locked on yours.

the vibration shifts— harder, deeper. his fingers push inside, stretching, filling, pressing against every aching, sensitive spot.

your moan rips from your throat, raw and wrecked, nails sinking into the hard planes of his back. your legs twitch, thighs trembling where they clamp around his sides, but he doesn’t let up. doesn’t ease up.

simon grins, sharp and smug, lips curling against your temple. “atta girl,” he breathes, pushing you down, keeping you still.

his fingers press firm against the swollen bud beneath, dragging slow, torturous circles that make you jerk.

"swollen, love," his knuckles brush over your clit just enough to make your whole body twitch. "look at you-" his tongue drags over his bottom lip. "all fucked-out already, and i haven’t even started.”

a whimper spills from your throat. you twist beneath him, trying to get away— but there’s nowhere to go. simon is everywhere all at once.

simon’s head dips, breath warm as it ghosts over slick, swollen flesh. you’re open for him, spread wide, cunt glistening— slick dripping down the crease of your thigh, pooling beneath you.

he noses at you, the rough drag of his stubble scraping over sensitive skin, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh.

"tastes sweet," he mutters, lips barely brushing where you need him. "dripping all over yourself, love. makin’ a fuckin’ mess just for me."

his tongue flicks out— soft, fleeting— not enough.

you cry out, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting, trying to pull him in, trying to keep him there.

he smirks against your skin. "shh." another lick, just to watch you tremble. "poor thing. so sensitive."

you twitch, hips chasing his mouth, aching for more, needing him to stop teasing, needing him to eat you alive. but then—

he pulls away.

your eyes snap open, bleary, wild.

you barely register him moving, barely track the way he rises up, broad and so fucking smug.

you're about to ask where he's going when you you hear it.

the clink of his belt.

your breath hitches.

he drags it out, making you watch as his fingers work the buckle, making you listen to the quiet rasp of the zipper, the rustle of denim as he shoves his jeans down just enough—

his cock is flushed dark at the tip. pre-cum beads at the slit, smearing as he wraps his fingers around the base, giving it a slow, teasing stroke. the sheer girth of it stretches his grip wide, the veins running down the shaft prominent, pulsing, standing out beneath the taut skin. he’s obscenely long, thick enough that your thighs instinctively press together, anticipation twisting tight in your gut.

simon strokes himself again, dragging his fist up the thick length, thumb circling the swollen tip. his cock twitches in his grip, another bead of precum welling at the slit, spilling over, tracing a slick path down the ridges of a pulsing vein.

his fingers flex around the base, squeezing, drawing another lazy stroke up before dragging his thumb along the sensitive underside. a quiet exhale leaves him, sharp through his nose, body tensing at his own touch.

he taps the swollen head against your clit, watches the way you shudder, thighs trying to squeeze together even as they stay spread for him.

a whimper breaks from your throat.

simon smiles. "need it that bad, huh?"

you nod frantically, thighs trembling, nails biting into his skin.

he exhales through his nose, head shaking like he can’t believe you.

"fuckin’ insatiable," he mutters, pressing the head against your cunt. "guess i’ll just have to fuck it all out of you."

you sob beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, nails clawing at his shoulders.

"so tight," he grits out. "fuck- look at you, baby. takin’ me so good."

simon sinks an inch, just enough for the head to pop inside and his breath catches, body locking up, heat surging through his spine.

your cunt swallows him whole, warm and wet and too fucking tight, and instinct takes over—

his hips snap forward, bottoming out in one sharp stroke.

a broken noise rips from his throat, something between a groan and a whine, his body shuddering, his hands gripping your hips too tight as his cock jerks inside you, pulsing, spilling hot and thick before he can stop it.

his forehead drops to your shoulder, his whole body trembling, breath coming ragged, desperate.

"fuck-" his voice breaks. "oh, fuck."

your cunt throbs around him, squeezing, milking him even though he hasn’t even moved, and the overstimulation makes his body jolt, makes his jaw lock tight.

"oh my god.” your fingers claw at his back. "simon-!"

he groans into your skin, cock still twitching inside you.

"jesus christ..” he drags in a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to see your face— tear-streaked and glassy-eyed. "m'sorry- fuck, baby, i’m sorry, it’s been-" he chokes on his words, shaking his head, voice breaking. "god, it's been so long-"

he drags in another breath, body screaming, cock still throbbing with the aftershocks of his orgasm, but you’re still crying, still trembling beneath him, still so fucking needy.

and fuck, you deserve better than that.

he shakes his head, tries to will himself to stop, to apologize, to pull out— let you laugh at him if you want.

but your cunt is still squeezing him, soft and warm and perfect, and he can’t.

his hands slide down, gripping your thighs, spreading you open wider.

"fuck- i got you, baby," he pants, hips pulling back before snapping forward again. "fuckin’ hell.” his whole body shakes. "gonna make it up to you, promise. gonna give it to you like you need, yeah? gonna fuck you so good, baby, you’ll feel me for days."

you wail beneath him, thrashing, tears streaking hot down your cheeks, mouth open on a sob as he fucks into you, fast and hard, ignoring the way his cock aches, the way his whole body protests, pushing through it because you need this.

"simon- simon, please- oh my god- fuck!"

"shh, shh," he coos, a little breathless. "i know, baby, i know. takin’ it so good- fuck, squeezin’ me so tight."

you sob harder, clinging to him, and he groans, burying his face in your neck, pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, sucking little bruises into your skin.

"fuck- oh fuck," his hips stutter, his own release rising again, too soon, too intense, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a fuck if it hurts.

"c’mon, love," he pants, "give me one more, yeah? cry all you want, baby, i love when you cry."

and when you finally do, when your body locks up around him and your walls squeeze tight, he groans loud and desperate, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it.

"there it is, fuck, there it is-"

he’s so proud, pressing wet, messy kisses to your cheeks, licking away the salt of your tears, whispering, "such a good girl, takin’ me so well, so fuckin’ perfect-"

"gonna cum again," simon tells you, almost pleading, "need to, sweetheart- need to cum deep in this perfect fucking cunt again-"

you wail, nodding, sobbing his name as your own orgasm crashes over you, squeezing down around him so tight it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

simon groans, pressing his forehead to yours, gasping, desperate, hips snapping forward in rough, short little thrusts.

"good girl," he chokes out, "good fuckin’ girl-"

and then he's spilling into you again, sobbing into your skin, wrecked and shaking and completely fucking gone.

[bunnis-monsters]

Late night thoughts about incubus husband…

He’s such a flirt. Every time you go out he dons a different human disguise. It’s always annoying seeing him flit about the bar, changing himself to cater to whichever person he’s talking to.

Really, your husband just wants to make you jealous. He’s a bit of an attention whore, and usually you’d just tug him away and ride his cock until he’s sensitive and crying, begging to fill your cunt with his cum but being denied because of how bad he was.

But he went a bit too far tonight.

You were finishing off your drink when you spotted him across the bar, his fingers twirling a woman’s hair. Already this was a bit much for you, and you stood to stop him.

But you froze in place when his eyes glanced towards you before he wrapped an arm around her waist. “Looks like I’m taking home a pretty lady tonight. Don’t worry, my wife won’t mind.”

He glanced back to gauge your reaction, excited to face some kind of kinky punishment for being a flirty brat… but instead he was met with your teary eyes.

Instantly the woman was forgotten as he followed you out. “W-wait, please, you know I wasn’t being serious, right? I was just-“

You turned on your heels, pointing a finger into his chest. “Maybe to someone like you marriage is just some kind of fun game, but it actually means something to me! I don’t exactly enjoy you treating my love for you like a joke!”

His eyes went wide with shock and hurt, his disguise disappearing as he reverted back to his original form. The sight of his tail twitching nervously almost made you soften… almost.

“My love… that’s not-“

You swatted his hand away, storming off. “… find somewhere else to sleep tonight. I… need to rethink some things.”

Your husband stared at your back as you left, his chest aching in a way it never had before. Could this really be the end of your marriage? No, no of course not. You loved him, and he would do anything for you. There’s no way such a small issue could divide the two of you that easy… right?

Oh how wrong he was.

When he attempted to come home the next night, his clothes and personal items were packed up on the porch, and the locks were changed.

This wasn’t something he could just smooth over with a few kisses and a good fuck. You were genuinely upset, something he could barely comprehend.

Upset? Why, because he was being a bit of a brat? His view only changed when he was complaining to a friend through tears and a glass of wine.

“Well, what would you do if she did the same?”

The glass shattered in his hand, his pupils turning into slits. The image of you walking up to a man, cooing and attempting to seduce him right in front of your husband made his heart boil in a jealous rage.

So that’s how you felt…

“I’m an idiot…” he murmured, looking at your picture. When he married you, he swore off ever having sex with another person. You were his sole source of sustenance and love, his only reason to breathe and live.

If he lost you, what would he even do besides sob until his heart stopped?

If he wanted to keep his beloved, he’d have to win you back…

Fortunately, the incubus knew just what to do.

Part 2? And should I go the yandere route or normal route?

—————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi

[nochepsicodelica]

You wake up from a nap that went on a little too long, only to see that Toji still isn't next to you in bed. It's dark already, and when you check the time on your phone, the screen reads 10:14. You see light underneath the bedroom door and get up, dragging the blanket along with you. When you open the door, there Toji is, sitting on the couch, watching TV with his hand in a bag of chips. You peek at him from the hallway entryway and watch as he puts another chip in his mouth.

"Hi," Toji says, not the slightest bit oblivious to your eyes on him. His gaze shifts to you and the big, puffy blanket you have draped around you. "How'd you sleep?"

You don't answer, but instead start making your way towards him, the blanket tailing behind you as it drags on the floor. Five more steps and you're right in front of him. Without a second thought, you're climbing onto his lap and making yourself comfortable. Your big blanket covers him, as well as his bag of chips, now, too.

"Still tired, mama?" Toji asks, when you bury your face in the crook of his neck. You grunt, affirmatively, in response, tightening your arms around him. "That's how you answer, now?" He asks, chuckling when you grunt, again. "I'm rubbing off on you. You sound like a bear."

"Why didn't you come sleep with me?" You ask, your voice quiet from being underused.

"I went into the room to check on you and you were knocked out. Even got some cute pictures of you drooling, and you still didn't wake up."

You whine, annoyed at this revelation. "Not cute at all. It's like you don't even love me," you mumble, turning your face away from him, your cheek now positioned on his shoulder.

"Love you enough to keep an album full of these pictures."

"What? Toji." You briefly turn your attention back to him.

"There's eighty in there. Well, eighty-three, with the ones I got today."

You sigh, dramatically, and rest your cheek on his shoulder, again. "I have nothing more to say to you. Goodnight."

You can hear the smirk on Toji's face when he says, "'Night."

In the short amount of time that you slept on Toji, he was witness to yet another one of your dreams. He's been around for plenty of them. Some were nightmares, others just random dreams that made you jolt awake with a jump scare. He's even been around for the good ones that cause breathy renditions of his name to spill from your lips. This one was just weird.

Toji felt you stirring and watched as you nuzzled into his shoulder. He listened in on your nonsensical thoughts and grinned, amusedly, at the randomness. You sounded worried as you mumbled things about your eyes and how you wanted to keep them, and then something else about changing your mind and not being ready. He had no time to wonder what you weren't ready for, because you woke up and you looked scared.

You sit up on Toji's lap and blink a few times as you look around. "Toji, do my... my eyes?" You question, not finding offense in the way Toji looks like he's trying not to laugh. You're still very much concerned about your eyes.

"What about your eyes, ma?" He asks, his gaze darting after yours as you keep looking around.

"Do my eyes still work?" You ask, still panicking on the inside.

"I don't know. Do they?" he says, only further adding on to your fear. There's a small crease between your eyebrows, making you look conflicted. Your expression goes sad when you look away from Toji.

"Ma, wake up," Toji says, pinching your cheek a few times, while wearing a teasing grin on his face. "Look, if you're actually scared, we can check." You really need that confirmation, so you give Toji your full attention. "What's this?" He asks, tapping the scar that strikes his lips.

"Your handsome, sexy, all you can eat, full course meal of a scar," you mumble.

Toji deadpans and tilts his head, furthering his unamused expression. "Your eyes are fine."

"Test me, again. Pleaaaase?" You beg, giving him a soft smile and puppy eyes.

He sighs and gives in, no fight put up against you, whatsoever. "What color are my eyes?"

You hum as you lean in to examine the subject more closely before coming to your conclusion. "The most handsome bobansome, beautiful, crispy green apple, shade of green."

Toji scoffs and shakes his head in disbelief. "See? Your eyes are fine. On that note, you're banned from sleeping on me."

You gasp, dramatically, as if he offended you. "Aren't you the one always manhandling me so that i'm sleeping on top of you? And during our afternoon naps, you put my leg over your hip. And when I try to get up, you--"

"Okay, you're not banned. Jeez." You outsmarted him and it shows through the way he subtly clenches his jaw. "If you like sleeping on me that much, just say so."

You narrow your eyes at him, before pushing off of his chest in an attempt to get off of him.

"Whatcha doing?" He asks, holding your hips down so that you can't move.

"Going back to the room," you say, trying to peel his hands off of you, to no avail. "I would like to sleep on our bed, now, Toji."

"Then, tell me that and I'll take you. What are you doing pawing at my hands, trying to get them off of you?" He takes one look at the involuntary lift of your lips and already knows what's going on. "Oh..." he chuckles. "You a grumpy little bear, now?"

"Don't talk to me," you grumble, huffing childishly and turning your attention away from him.

"Aren't you the one always calling, saying you just wanted to hear my voice while i'm working? And you get goosebumps all over when I talk directly into your ear. And when I don't--"

"Stooop," you whine, leaning forward and burying your face in the crook of his neck, again. Your arms wrap around his neck and your thighs squeeze his waist. "You're not fair," you mumble, into his warm skin.

"Yeah, i'm so cruel to you, huh, baby?" He says, pressing a kiss to your cheek, a soft smile lingering on his lips when you hum out a little "mhm" in response. He moves his bag of chips aside and turns off the TV, before wrapping the blanket around you and tucking the excess away, so that he doesn't trip over it as he walks. With ease, he stands up from the couch and starts towards the bedroom, with his lump of a blanket clinging to him.

[specsthesecond]

Werewolf boyfriend who tries to be dominant with you but fails every time.

He wants to be the growling primal Dom he thinks you want but he just can't because every time he's pounding into you his brain short-circuits and he just becomes a good obedient puppy for you.

He's trying so hard to keep his dominance while he fucks you and then you just have to look up at him with your beautiful fucked out eyes and moan,

"Ah~ so good, such a good boy."

And he crumbles instantly, whining into your neck as you giggle and scratch behind his ear. He knows your little "Awww" isn't supposed to be condescending but it still makes his cock twitch and his pace quicken. He whines and cries as he frantically pounds your addictive pussy. You hold him so close to you, breathlessly panting out praises as your climax approaches.

"That's it", "So good for me", "Making me feel so good, baby"

He hates the way his growls always trail off into whines when he's about to cum. His stupid tail wagging and his tongue lapping at your throat like the dumb dog he is. He hates that he cums before you, he thinks it's weak, even though he always keeps pounding until you cum around his knot no matter how overstimulated he gets.

He hates the way you control him even when you're getting fucked dumb on his cock, and you don't even know it! You don't even know how much he loves it when you cuddle him close, kiss his face and say things like,

"Thank you, thank you baby." "Love you s'much" "Treat me so well"

The way you sing these praises and don't even notice the effects it has on him makes him so mad. It makes him want to fuck you even harder, makes him want to assert dominance and put you in your place. But he knows that if he tried he would just end up being a whining drooling mess, mindlessly bucking into your pussy like the needy puppy he is.

🦴υ´• ﻌ •`υ

[makaylaloves-words]

Jason Todd thought his need for touch had died with him.

Pairing: Jason Todd x afab reader

TW: Mentions of virginity, sexual themes, masturbation, mentions of death, mentions of body issues

1.5k Words (wow i can yap)

Part two

Jason Todd thought his need for touch had died with him. Decayed and rotted with his body after that faithful encounter with the Joker. And when he came back, he was happy to go without it.

Jason got all the touch he needed, he was in physical fights on a daily basis. Putting literal blood, sweat, and tears into it. Why would he need someone to patch him up after patrol or press gentle loving kisses to each his scars, of which he has many. Not that he stayed up at night thinking of those things. He does. But he goes without it. He refuses touch like an abused animal; scurrying away with his tail between his legs.

If someone asked him about his love life, he’d wave them off. Says he’s too busy and has actual important fucking things to do. He is also kinda embarrassed, not that he’ll admit it to anyone. Even himself.

Then he met her. You.

Jason doesn’t believe in love at first sight. Thinks it’s just lust with a fancy title, not that he would know. He’s a 24 year old virgin, leave the poor guy alone, he died at 15. But, he does know that as soon as he saw you, something changed. Something fundamental in his genetic makeup changed. Something in the cosmos shifted. He felt a need like he hasn’t felt since his before his resurrection. Not a sexual desire but a want to be close to someone. To be doted on and cared for. It disgusts him how much he craves it. How much he wants soft kisses and tooth decaying fluff.

It starts slow, agonizingly so. He doesn’t trust easily but he also doesn’t give up information easily so getting close to him is a hard battle. But, you steadily become a part of his life. And he yearns for your presence more than he cares to admit. He keeps coming back, even when he messes up. Maybe because he’s stubborn. Maybe because fate. Maybe because your presence makes his heart feel something it hasn’t felt since his mother died and he causes that high. You’re a trouper through it all. Supporting him when he ghosts you just to reappear with muttered apologies and half begging to hang out again. He’s a huge guy with scars and muscle and before you got to know him, you were sure his body count was higher than his IQ. You were severally wrong about both.

In Jason’s head, he’s got you wrapped around his finger but it’s really the opposite. He worships you and like hell isn’t he gonna show it.

Somehow, against all odds, you end up dating. He has no idea how it happened. You’re a goddess in his eyes and he’s.. well him. A traumatized brute of a man.

The first time you stay over, he’s so nervous he nearly barfs. He’s scared you’re gonna ask for more, for sex or cuddling or something he just can’t do right now, and he’s gonna have to say no. But you don’t. You keep your distance and let him make the first move. You watch a movie together and he puts his hand on your thigh, he’s sweating bullets and is so giddy on the inside.

Soon, every other night is spent at the others house. At time, he’s kinda weird about sleeping but he drifts to you like a moth to a flame. He can’t deny how complete he feels with you in his arms. He craves your affection like a man starved. He goes from not having his first kiss to full on make out sessions and he is a happy camper.

He doesn’t tell you he’s a virgin but you’re not an idiot, you can tell. You can tell by how he stiffens when your hands go a little too low while you kiss. You can tell by how it took him months to even start sleeping without a shirt on and even now he wears sweatpants and keeps himself covered.

You’re okay with it. He’s worth it in your eyes.

He is not insecure per se but he’s aware that he’s not conventional. The first time you see his autopsy scar he looks like a scared puppy and it hurts your heart.

“I think you’re beautiful, Jason” you murmur, running your hand up his abdomen, tracing the red mark. He shivers and something shifts in his gut. Maybe he isn’t ugly, because you wouldn’t lie. And god knows you could have any man you want so he must be decent looking. You’re an angel and god knows he will worship you until he has no life left to give.

Eventually he gets better at the small affection. Craves your touch, actually. He hugs you when he gets home and kisses you before he leaves. He learns to braid your hair and let you help him dye his. He acts as normal as he can manage.

He yearns for your affection, really. He’s come to terms with it, but he doesn’t know how to deal with the desire that has formed in his gut and won’t go away. He died before he could experience anything and you look so. fucking. good. And you smell good and you laugh at his stupid jokes and read the books he likes and oh my god he’s totally in love.

He doesn’t tell you, not at first, not for a long while because love is dangerous and scary and if he messes this up he is sure he’ll never forgive himself. But he shows you, in the little things.

One day you’re sitting on your shared, yes you moved in together, couch watching some random movie. Your legs are slung in his lap and he gently holds your calfs. You laugh along with the movie, pointing out things and just being you and he feels his pants growing tighter. He panics. He doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable and the pang in his gut every time you shift isn’t a good sign. Except that you’ve been dating a little over a year and you’ve been aching for your big hot boyfriend but you’re obviously not gonna push him to do something he’s not comfortable with.

He awkwardly excuses himself to the bathroom and stares in the mirror for what seems like hours. Who is he to be lusting over you? He doesn’t deserve you and he doesn’t what to look like a perv, even if it’s his own girlfriend.

His dick is so hard it hurts and he squeezes it till near pain, willing it to soften up so he can go back in there. He ends up jacking off thinking about you. He does that more than he cares to admit.

Weeks later, after yet another awkward moment of his scampering off when you get too close. You address it.

“Jason, honey, can i ask you something?”

He swallows, stiffening. “Yeah.”

“Feel free to correct me if i’m talking nonsense but I uh-“ you take a breath, god how do you even say this. “I don’t want to pressure you or anything, i’m just bringing it up. Desiring your partner is normal, Jay. If- if you want that, that’s normal and encouraged.” You swallow. He blinks. Sea foam eyes studying you in that intense way that either makes you squirm in intimidation or because your guts fluttering.

“Have i been that obvious?” he finally says and you smile.

That night he stays up thinking. You said it’s okay to want that but is he okay with what that could mean? sure, everything he was in the shower, or pretty much anytime he was alone at this point, he would think of you, your scent, your laugh, and would come so hard he saw stars. But masturbation and sex were very different things and as much as he craves that depth of physical intimacy, he was scared.

You guys have a conversation, he actually fully opens up and you decide you’ll try. It takes a couple tries. You take the lead. Making it natural, letting make out sessions turn into you on his lap. Grinding and panting before he swallows and tells you to stop. Of course you do. This happens a few times and everytime he feels so bad. Yes, he wants you so bad it hurts but until recently he had lacked to think of your side. You have been dating for a year and a half and hadn’t done anything. He’d be scared you’d leave him over it if he didn’t know you so well.

Jason lies awake at night just staring at you, absentmindedly grinding against your ass before he realizes himself and scoots away to put as much distance between you. You whine from the cold and scoot to him. He kisses the top of your head and makes a decision right there, he’s going to fuck you if it’s the last thing he does.

And he’s praying to any god that’ll listen that he can make it good for you. Heaven knows he worships you more than anything and would rather die than you get no pleasure out of it.

I’m writing a part two but I would also love to do detailed stories on the first kiss or something so please give requests! thanks, babes.

@cyberangel-graphics

[cutiefulism]

i’m a dog, i’m a mutt ▼⁠・⁠ᴥ⁠・⁠▼ caleb , lads

✦ ~ 1.1k wc, german shepard!caleb x reader, fluff, caleb n reader both being a little crazy abt each other, this wasnt meant to be so long (⁠ ⁠≧⁠Д⁠≦⁠) but possible smutty pt2?????

you don't even get one shoe on your foot before you hear the familiar, false lightness of caleb’s voice from behind you, irritation brewing just below the surface.

“where ya goin’?”

a sigh blows past your lips. you've been trying to find a cure for caleb’s, err. . problem for the past three days, and each time you attempt to leave the house, he's there to reel you back in with a pout and a grumble, big, dark ears flat against his skull.

sometimes, when you're really stubborn, he just drags you towards him with his evol, locking you in his big arms where you are meant to be and shoving his face against yours.

his hearing has gotten aggravatingly good.

you slowly turn to face him, giving yourself a few extra seconds to smooth the guilty wince from your face. “caleb, you know you can't leave the house like this. won't it be awkward to explain to your subordinates that you now have fluffy ears and a fluffier tail?”

the strict, cold colonel of the farspace fleet turned adorable, helpless puppy. what a headline.

his head cocks to the side. “they won't say anything.”

they know better than to say anything. just because he's soft with you doesn't mean that same kindness extends to everyone else. you've witnessed it first hand, and, honestly?

it's a little hot.

maybe you're just a freak, but it's nice to have that warm, gentle bit of caleb reserved just for you. no one else gets to taint it. not that you'd let that happen, anyway.

“that's. .” you bite your lip. “that's true, but that's not the entire point. this,” you gesture to him with a toss of your hand, and his brows furrow, “whatever it is that's happened to you, clearly has other side effects. you literally barked the other day.”

gotcha.

that makes caleb stiffen, his eyes locked on you as heat tints his cheeks pink, and you can't help a cheeky grin. his bark was pretty cute — a deep, firm, sharp noise that was directed to the poor guy who delivered y'all's pizza.

“that was an accident,” he says with a cough. “a-and only a one time thing.”

you kiss your teeth, still grinning, and he doesn't even let those words that he just knows will be teasing get out. “i’m serious! you see i haven't barked or growled since, right?”

he's had to actively resist the urge to, but you don't need to know that.

in a few short strides, he crosses the small distance between you, his arms looping around your waist and tugging you to his chest, big tail happily swishing behind him. it might be a bit harder for him to hide his emotions thanks to this transformation, but it's not impossible.

nothing is impossible.

well, besides him not loving you. that's very much so impossible.

“c'moooon,” he whines, and you damn your stupidly weak resolve right now. he shouldn't look so. . cute.

big, violet eyes peer down at you, plush mauve lips pulled down into a gentle pout, and his dark brows are practically knitted together.

to be quite frank, caleb looks pathetic.

but both he and you know that you like pathetic.

“i’ll be fine. you can trust me. always.”

you hum, and that mischievous grin melts into something more contemplative. “‘s not that i don't trust you, it's just. .”

“just what?” a pause, and then that wet puppy look is gone from his face, his signature smirk taking its place. “oh. ohhhhh. you don't want anyone else to see me like this. that's what this is about.”

. . .

“what?” your jaw goes slack, something like embarrassment creeping up the back of your neck, and caleb can just see the idea worming its way into your vulnerable little mind and taking root.

perfect.

you shake your head, and he only chuckles. “that's not true! i just don't want people bothering you in public! wouldn't you be annoyed if people kept coming up to you, asking to stroke your tail or scritch your ears?”

you're so obvious, it's both infuriating and adorable.

infuriating because — despite him informing you numerous times that he knows you better than anyone, even better than you know yourself — you still continue to hide things from him.

adorable because you look so pretty and lively all fired up, like a firecracker in the dead of a summer night.

“no, no. you're the only one who would be annoyed,” he says, and his hand travels up to gently pinch your cheek. “what have i told you about lyin’, pipsqueak?”

you groan and shove his hand away, but the burning in your face tells him all he needs to know. “i’m not lying!”

caleb’s hand simply moves to your thighs, and then he's hoisting you up with a grunt, thick arm situated underneath your ass. “you sure? your voice is gettin’ all squeaky. if i remember correctly, that's a definite sign you're lying.”

the smell of your perfume graces his nose, and he can't help but let out a tiny, content sigh. you smell so good — mostly your perfume, probably some gourmand scent, with just a hint of his own musk and soap. he'd prefer you smell a lot more like him, but that'll come in due time.

he's waited for years to have you — it won't hurt for him to wait some more.

your arms, like they have a mind of their own, hook around caleb’s neck, despite the almost petulant frown on your face. “i’m not a little kid anymore. and even if i was lying, which i’m not, that wouldn't be a tell!”

he snorts. “i think you're overestimating how much you've changed. you still act like the little girl who'd come crying to her gege because someone knocked over your sandcastle.”

your gaze narrows into sharp daggers. “and you still act like some flirtatious know-it-all!”

at that, caleb shifts you closer, rubbing his face into your neck with a soft smile. a flirtatious know-it-all, huh?

oddly enough, he's never flirted with anyone but you.

his lips press a soft, almost reverent kiss on your pulse. “for you to be so smart, you sure can be dense, can't ya?” he mutters, and his voice is swallowed up by your skin.

caleb would never betray you like that. no, you're all he wants, all he needs. no other girl will fill that crevice in his heart, something perfectly carved in the shape of you.

he pulls his face back, and his soft eyes meet your angry ones. cute. “i’ll be your flirtatious know-it-all for the evening, how ‘bout that?” and when you only continue to glare at him, he sweetens the deal.

“i’ll even let you touch my ears.” as if on cue, they twitch, looking fluffier and softer than ever.

. . hm. that antidote can wait a little longer, can't it?

sweats.

[pastelclovds]

cw: monster fucker laios, shapeshifter!male!reader, marathon sex, creampie

thinking about laios pleading with his party members to allow you, a shapeshifter, to join them in rescuing his sister. his party reluctantly accepts you when they realize that you would be really useful to their cause since you can shift into any monster you pleased. laios wanted you to join him 50% because his chances of his sister being saved would increase exponentially…

and the other 50% was because he was immensely fascinated with you and your species. as your journey throughout the dungeon continues, your adoration and care for laios grew as well. he felt the exact same way about you. it wasn’t long until you both got… curious about each others bodies and took any chance when you made camp to fuck.

it was like the dungeon knew of your intentions, as a room always appeared for the two of you to take refuge in.

it wouldn’t help that you were a massive tease who loved to rile up laios by groping his clothed cock until he was hard and twitching in your palm. you wiped away the tears trickling down his flushed cheeks as you whispered the dirtiest thoughts you had in your mind in his ear. the tips of your mouth curled into a grin when your nose caught the sinful scent of pre gathering on the tip of his cock.

it doesn’t take long for laios to beg for relief, pathetically humping against your palm for the tiniest bit of friction. you could never say no to that adorable face of his. he unknowingly had you wrapped around his finger.

as your relationship continues, laios asks you out of the blue like the blunt man he is if you could have sex in your different monster/hybrid forms. he lasted about four rounds until you bottom out, your knot popping inside his sore hole and filling his stuffed ass with more cum. he lets out a breathy whine and lets his arms slump on top of the soft sheets of the bed, they’re tired after holding half of his weight up as you ravaged him.

his plush ass is a mess of white cum from previous rounds, some leaking out of the base of your cock where you two are connected and dripping down to the sheets.

your claws carefully fondled the fat of laios’ hips before slithering to his soft belly and push down on where you felt your cum sloshing inside him. laios let out a pitiful moan as his cock twitched and another spurt of cum stained the bedsheets.

you were honestly impressed he lasted this long. the first round was in your naga form. second round: your scorpion form, third round: bear, and now the fourth round: werewolf. he was one greedy boy. but now he was spent and satisfied. so were you.

you took generous sniffs of laios’ sweaty hair before softly licking his neck as you felt your knot soften enough to pull out. spurts of your cum left his gaping hole as he let out a sobbing sigh. overstimulated tears stinging his eyes as his soft cock hung uselessly between his legs. gods, just staring at his thighs makes you want to suffocate between them. definitely next time. until then, you’ve gotta take care of your precious laios.

laios weakly calls out your name.

“yes, baby?” you answered.

“do you think i’m pregnant now? you’ve cum so many times inside… it’s gotta happen. right?” laios said in a dazed voice, like he actually believed he could he impregnated.

you held back your laughter as you gather the tissues, your tail shamelessly wagging behind you. you love him so much.