#captive belly

[ilikebigbellydotnom]

Mike's Big Meal at Freddy's

This is my interpretation of a vore alternative to the ending of the movie (no kids are harmed in the making of this story, only evil sexy old men!)

Inspiration for this whole thing is thanks to @woogydoo & Astralseasoning! Check out their beautiful Michael collaboration!

https://x.com/astralseasoning/status/1729544595347038542?s=20

[spinus-pinus]

White-bellied Go-away-bird Crinifer leucogaster

5/28/2023 San Diego Zoo, California

[allfryam]

the basement

Austin was your average man in his twenties. He was 6 foot, with short brown hair that sat nicely on his head. His brown eyes and friendly smile made him quite attractive. He had an average build, with a few pounds added to his midsection over the last few years. He wasn’t fat by any means, however. He just looked filled out. He owned a small home in Kentucky and he lived alone. He lived in a small college town with Frankfort university being right next to his house. Austin lived a quiet life. Apart from his secret.

Austin’s house had a basement. The kind you would see in one of those cheesy horror movies with spiderwebs and cement floors. It was cold and dingy, but Austin liked it. He used it for activities different from normal basement activities though. Currently, he had 4 men tied up and blindfolded down there. He would walk over to the college and find a man that had passed out from being too drunk, and he would walk them back to his house. But Austin didn’t just want to kidnap them. He wanted to feed them. He wanted to watch them grow and moan with pleasure as he shoved food down their throats.

each of the four men ranged in different sizes. Man number one was Austin’s most recent captive. He had only been here for about a week. He had a nice body, but you could tell Austin’s feedings were starting to catch up. There was a slight paunch growing on his midsection and his thighs were looking a bit bigger than usual. He complained the most. He often cried and begged to be released. Austin usually shut him up with more food. Austin likes to leave his captives clothes on so he could watch them get tighter. He noticed number one’s belt starting to look tight. man number 2 had been there for a couple months now. He had a proper gut that sat like a ball in his lap. He looked like he had been working on this for at least ten years, but he was quite skinny when he arrived. Austin was worried he wouldn’t gain any weight, but his feedings always worked. Austin made sure that each captive received at least 10,000 calories a day. His shirt no longer covered his belly. It had grown tight enough to rise over his belly button, letting his gut hang loose. His pants button had popped off a few weeks ago and number two was relieved. It felt good to let his belly have room to grow. man number three had been there for almost a year. He was big. His round gut almost covered his enormous thighs, and his moobs sat nicely on top. His fingers even started to get a little chunky. This guy was quite hairy, so Austin called him bear. Bear never complained. He did was he was told and ate every bite that Austin gave him. His pants had ripped and fallen off a while ago. Austin noticed bear would get a boner every time he got fed. Bear’s face would grow red from embarrassment, but Austin liked it. He would never tell any of them, but bear was his favorite. man number four was the biggest. He had been there for almost three years, and you could tell. His enourmous belly hung low and spread across his chubby legs. His fat arms looked like baby hippos and his fingers looked like sausages. His fat face had at least three chins and chubby cheeks. When the room was silent, all you could hear was number four’s shallow breathing. Austin was surprised number four was still alive. Most of his victims had died after a year or two but number four just kept growing. He received the biggest portions of food. He ate over 20,000 calories every single day. Austin didn’t even have to tie him up anymore. He could barely move his arms and legs. Austin left his enormous naked body laid on the ground, belly in the air.

Austin enjoyed his little crew. He thought of them as family. And he couldn’t wait for them to keep growing. Especially number one. Austin was excited about him.

There will definitely be a part 2 to this story later this week. thank you guys again for all of the support on the weight gain drive!

[judeid]

Summer palace Laurent rly had that pregnant omega glow 😌✨

[ken-dom]

Lars and sexual energy

Lars Lindstrom thoughts + gn!reader imagine

∘₊✧ Thoughts: 500 words - imagine: 900 words

∘₊✧ Author’s notes: I started writing a few thoughts about Lars and why I’m so attracted to him based on his character, the screenplay and things I’ve enjoyed in the movie, and it ended up in me writing a bit of a smut imagine to go along with it, so I thought it might be worth sharing. It starts with thoughts on Lars’s sexual energy, desires, urges, and how he deals with them. Until you come along. And then he has no idea how to deal with them at all.

∘₊✧ Warnings/content: nsfw, masturbation, possessive streak, rough sex (and soft, tender sex), blow job mentions, making out, crying, switch!Lars, touch starved Lars

∘₊✧─────────────────────✧₊∘

You know what half the appeal with Lars is?

He’s not supposed to feel sexual desire. At least, he doesn’t let himself. Starting with the basics, he won’t allow himself sleep in the same room — or even building — as Bianca until she’s taken ill. He says right at the start that it’s because he’s religious, and I’m sure that does mean something to him, but I’m also sure it’s not just that.

At the beginning of the movie, he cant stand psychical touch and wears layer upon layer to avoid the excruciating pain it causes him. He sleeps in layers. He eventually says (in the script, but not in the movie) that he’s the one with issues around nudity, not Bianca, who comes from a culture that is very comfortable with it. I think he's reached a point here where he’s experimenting a little. If she’s perfectly comfortable, he could maybe get used to it, too. And maybe he secretly wants to see what she looks like under her clothes out of curiosity or to learn a thing or two from her; but he can’t just take them off without good reason. And she needs her nightly bath, right?

Then, looking back to the script, we have his ‘sexual energy’ which he canonically burns off by chopping wood (in his own words, he’s really good at that, and in Karin’s thoughts, he’s sexy while he does it). When Mrs Gruner asks him about partners, she tells him, ‘Don’t wait too long, it’s not good for you,’ which could easily be interpreted to be about sex. Lars plucks up the courage to ask Gus if it’s sex that will make him feel like a man; both admitting his virginity and in a roundabout way asking his older brother’s permission to lose it. And yet, he never (that we know of) shares any physical affection, other than innocent hand holding, cuddling, dancing and that one tearful goodbye kiss with Bianca. Bianca, a doll who was created for sex.

Add into this that Lars can be possessive. Part of me wants to think that it’s simply in his nature, buried somewhere deep under his trauma and social difficulties, because according to his family, he ‘wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ And in that case it surfaces in the right circumstances, because in all other ways he’s so soft and gentle and caring. The other part of me wants to think it comes from his sexual desires and urges being pushed so far down that he doesn’t know what to do with them and ends up losing his temper and needing to take it out on the firewood i.e. a good fuck might calm him down. Maybe it’s both, maybe it’s neither. Maybe he’s confused about it himself.

Throughout the film, Lars gradually learns to enjoy the sensation of touch, starts to forge meaningful human relationships, experiences jealousy (with little bit of that delicious possession peeking through with it) toward someone he’s scared to pursue despite knowing she has romantic interest in him, and the layers he wears as armour gradually reduce to his underclothes. So we could take from this that given the right conditions, he could learn how to enjoy being physical with someone.

And, with that in mind...

∘₊✧─────────────────────✧₊∘

Imagine being the one who finally turns his head. You catch his eye so unexpectedly, it snowballs faster than he can control it. He’s never felt like this before, never fought so hard to keep his thoughts clean and his physical urges at bay.

Lars, who uses his religion as a reason not to even sleep in the same house as his partner and doesn’t want anyone close enough to touch him, who can’t even get through a conversation with you without scrunching his eyes shut or running away, suddenly can’t get you off his mind. And the pain of carrying that pining, longing feeling around with him far outweighs the pain he might feel if you actually touched him, or so he convinces himself. Something must be done about that.

Chopping wood doesn’t distract him. Church doesn’t distract him. Driving to the lake doesn’t distract him. And neither does reading his favourite book or going to work or even accepting dinner invitations from Gus and Karin.

Lars goes from completely avoiding any hint of sexual desire his mind or body might conjure, to furiously jerking off every time he's seen you, rushing home and forcing down his pants to relieve the ache between his thighs. When he can’t sleep because his mind is buzzing with fantasies of you, his delicate, precise fingers wrap around his length before he can find a way to calm himself, and before he knows it, his thick, hot seed is spilling inside his pyjamas and he falls asleep in the mess, guiltily washing away the evidence in the morning. But not before indulging the wet dream he was having about you first.

It’s filthy. He feels filthy. And he likes it, whatever it is that you’ve done to him.

Lars ‘it’s always the quiet ones’ Lindstrom, has gone from sitting on the edge of his bed cringing at the conversations he’s had with you replaying in his mind because he feels so awkward and embarrassed about them, to daydreaming about his fingers wound in your hair while your soft, wet lips are wrapped around his cock, or fucking you hard against the tree by the lake while his tongue is shoved down your throat, or slipping one hand into your underwear and one over your mouth in the kitchen at work to quickly get you off while you steal a few minutes alone.

All the while, he’s breathless and trembling with anticipation, his hand wrapped tight around his cock as he pumps furiously, or stroking himself, soft and slow until he’s a whining, whimpering mess, moaning your name as his release washes over him.

Through this, he learns how to enjoy pleasure, learns his body, and starts to crave touch. Your touch. His own simply won’t do any longer.

So when he finally gets you all to himself? When you’re kissing him all chaste and sweet?

I hope you’re ready to have your clothes torn off, to be grabbed at until he leaves bruises, to have his fingertips driving into your flesh, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs, ‘I’ve dreamed of doing this with you,’ through shaky breaths, to feel the burning heat of his flesh against yours, his mustache tickling at your skin when he stays in the same spot for long enough, his teeth dragging down your throat, pausing to suck at your pulse point, strong arms controlling your movements because he knows what he likes now, and when he’s around you, he loses all semblance of self control and has to have you just the way he’s fantasised.

In the thrill of desperation, he doesn’t even get his clothes all the way off, completely lost in a haze of excitement, but he manages it eventually, needing to feel as much of you as possible against as much of him as possible.

His hair is a mess, his cheeks are burning up, he’s completely ruffled, and he switches wildly from being a possessive, commanding lover to giving you the sweetest, most sensual fuck of your life.

His possessive side takes on a whole new meaning as he completely devours you — soft, sweet, innocent Lars — moaning loudly as he watches you cum from his touch over and over, bunches your hair into a fist to feel the bobbing of your head while you suck him dry, snaps his hips hard and fast against yours, followed by what feels like hours of slow, tender lovemaking while he whimpers needily and drips dirty words and praise into your ear like warm honey between breathless begging, revelling in this new sensation of the touch of another, until he’s spent, trembling and sobbing into your shoulder, overwhelmed and thankful and incredulous. Finding the soothing strokes of your fingers through his hair incredibly calming.

After so many years of repressing all these urges, and not finding any pleasure in touch, it could take a while to tire him out. But even when he’s temporarily sated, he will snuggle into you, press his lips gently to yours, and make out with you in a languid, sloppy kiss that doesn’t end until you’re both so worn out you’re falling asleep humming and sighing into one another’s mouths, limbs tangled together because now he's experienced your skin against his he will never get enough.

As he sleeps with you pressed against his chest and his strong arms keeping you safe with him, he has the biggest, warmest smile on his handsome face, but when he greets you in the morning, that naughty streak is back, and he’s smirking at you with a glint in his eye that you’ve already come to associate with nothing but pleasure.

[minnaci]

also i came here to say that. jy girlies n boys. i get it. i get it so much. the most recent animated short has me terribly fucking endeared. his lil sleepy groans??? sleeping in fetal position???? the lil kitty licking his face??????? the satisfied sigh after his dimsum breakfast???????????? oh my GOD

[liminalmessaging]

i am a lazy fatass and i feel no shame about that

[spinus-pinus]

White-bellied Go-away-bird Crinifer leucogaster

10/7/2023

[leogichidaa]

7 Up

thanks for the tag @anemicc-royalty <3

rules: post 7 (or more) lines of a wip you've been working on

This is from a WIP I have been obsessing over the last couple of weeks when I should be focusing on other things. I went back and forth between which lines to pick because I have two sets I like and then decided, fuck it, rules are for squares, have both!

The Beast in the Belly of the Earth:

Fenrir leaned forward until his face was an inch away from the child’s. The boy scrunched up his nose as Fenrir’s hot breath hit him, but he did not back away. “Your daddy left you out on the street to die, boy,” Fenrir said. “And they call us monsters…”

“I’d rather eat it than raise it,” Ginger said. “I’m hungry. We’re all hungry.”

“We will find food,” Fenrir snapped. “I've not let you starve before, so I'll thank you to shut your mouth and trust me.”

“I guess we have another mouth to feed now, too,” Bea said, giving the child a light kick. “Just what we need.”

“The boy will find his own food,” Fenrir said. “Won’t you, Rosier?”

The child put his hand on his stomach, which ached with an impossible hunger. He had not missed so much as a meal before being bitten and it had been days since he had last been properly fed. Lately he thought of little else but food, how to find it, and what it would feel like to eat it.

He looked up at Fenrir and nodded.

AND:

"As you wish," Rosier said, releasing his hold on Regulus. "You're coming with me, though."

"What? I am not watching you shower, Rosier," Regulus said, rubbing his wrist where Rosier had held him.

"Watch me or don't, I don't care, but I have to watch you. Were you not listening?"

"Surely not constantly..."

"All your fancy schooling and you don't understand what 'don't let him out of your sight' means, hmm?" Rosier asked with a smug smile. "Put on a blindfold if you're so bothered, but you better be where I can see you."

Regulus tilted his chin up defiantly. "Or what?"

Rosier leaned forward slightly, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Or I will have to come and find you, won't I, little prince? I would enjoy that quite a bit, but you…Depends how willing you are to play games with the Dark Lord's orders."

No pressure tag: @yletylyf @unspeakable3 @drownedlove @green-and-grey-kenaz @ncoincidences

[vrag-veshtica]

already is in this house

A belly can be a "slut waist" too. If you're not a fearful little freak

[knistumteaser]

First I’m gonna pin you to the ground. Then I’m gonna slowly roll up your shirt. Then I’m gonna take a soft makeup brush and draw endless circles around your belly button until you beg me to brush inside

Oooooh my....I can surely take that, you can't break me that easily, anon! My belly shivers at the thought, but you gotta do better than that if you want me to beg~

[la-artist322]

And while was she being as the master's favorite enslaved girl for her whole responsibility. Sonya herself as seems already enough with to just fuck them over whenever she'll free herself.

This art was a redraw of this fanart back at DA from 3 years ago;

Sonya © JJSponge120 Fanart © Me

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, yandere, captive reader, omegaverse, forced bonding is implied, subjugation, some type of sexism, soft dom, but extremely patronizing

♡ fem reader

You offer to go down on him for the first time since he claimed you for himself, and his heart swells with all sorts of bliss—shock and awe, love and pride—utterly overjoyed at the pretty sight of you, so pliant and on your knees, acting like a proper Omega for a change—his cutest little mate. It’s so adorable he ought to take pictures, yet he doesn’t want to miss a thing or spoil the mood—after all, you always get so embarrassed when he brings the camera out.

So he settles for just watching—his adoring eyes resting on you, admiring how you struggle to fit all of him inside your mouth, thinking it’s the just cutest and sweetest how you try so hard for him. Bless whatever brought this new change of behavior on. He can’t be grateful enough.

It was only a couple of days ago when you’d still bite and claw and run away from him at every turn, growling and snarling like a rabid wildling and not the sweet Omega he knew you could be with the proper love and care. Maybe it’s just that—has his love for you finally tamed you? Oh, he couldn’t be more pleased if that’s it.

Look at you… trying your very best. He didn’t mind if you could only fit half of him—just seeing you try to take it all made him more than happy. The way your pink tongue slides along his veins—all teasingly and ticklish—makes him smile while looking down at you. Petting your head in smooth, encouraging strokes—reminding you to breathe every now and again.

He even pinches your cheek when you cough, crooning, “Careful now, there’s no need to rush, baby—take it slow.”

You curse him from where you kneel at his feet, trying to get it over with quickly. Despite your struggles, he seems pleased, and you think you might have managed to get yourself off the hook. That is… until he wraps his cock with one of his big hands and pulls it away from you. 

“I think that’s enough for now,” he says in his best attempt at sounding suave by nature, and yet, as you look up at him, you see it plain as day.

It makes your guts fold—the eagerness that encompasses him as he looks down at you with kind eyes and a smile—not completely able to hide the frenzy behind it.

No, please, you sulk inwardly—your clit is so sensitive from yesterday, you think you might die if he toys with it again today. You almost indulge the urge to scoot back, attempt to crawl away, and hide in false hope. But you know, chasing you around would just serve as kindling to his inner animal—he would take it as a game, hunting and pinning you down only to lick you clean like a dug-up bone.

You shudder at the thought and almost beg him to allow you to continue, almost insist you can do better, but all you manage is to bite your tongue and cry instead.

“You did so good, baby, don’t pout,” he coos, cradling your face and lifting it up to let him kiss it silly—chastely yet excessively—quick pecks all over, the same way you’d kiss something that’s just too cute for its own good.

It’s his way of comforting you, you suppose, or it might just be him poking fun. You can never really tell with him—if his coddling is all some act or something even more unsettling. But you suppose it doesn’t really matter either.

“Come here, baby, and I’ll do the rest, okay?” he asks, and yet it isn’t a question as he hauls you up off the floor and repositions you as he sees fit—on your back, belly-up beneath him.

His alpha pheromones are quick to overwhelm you, thick and suffocating, pouring over you in waves, drenching you in sweat and something else—something that makes everything sensitive.

The former fight you had when you were still independent has all but left you completely—siphoned from your being every day that’s passed and left you soft like the rest of those Omegas you vowed you’d never become—weak-willed with a body even more so. You feel like a stuffed animal at this point, full of cloudy cotton with a broken voice device that only knows how to squeak when played with.

He takes you beneath the knees and folds them down neatly by your head—one large hand taking both your summoned ankles in a single grip—and you’re locked in, unable to do much else other than pant—kept from breathing too much by the weight of your own thighs pressing down on you.

This had been what you were trying to avoid—this awful position which he seems to love just as much as you dread.

He whistles in awe at the pretty sight of you—all squished beneath him like that—face flushed, and your bloated lips parted with cute little draws of breath—tits bunched together, glossed in a sheen of sweat and heaving with the labored rise and fall of your chest—and that adorable cunt, wet and puffy, swollen up like a pink pillow eagerly waiting for him, a soft bed for his cock and a perfectly bite-sized slice of his favorite cake. His gut rumbles, and his mouth soaks. To think he hasn’t had a single taste all day—he’s beyond starving.

You squirm under him, and he chuckles again, this time breathily—showing more of the unsightly animal with the low growl that seeps into his voice, “Such a pretty girl…” It’s unclear if he’s talking to you as his inkwell eyes are set on something else. He sags forward, back hunched as he bows down to face the object of his desire with only a hair’s breadth of separation—breaths thick, puffed hot against you—canines bared in an eerie smile. “So shy…”

He ignores your wiggling completely—pinching the chunk of cunt where your clit hides, making it peak forth like a little button to press, and his grin broadens.

“There it is,” he licks his teeth with a raspy sigh—eyes wide and deadset. “My beauty.”

You squirm a little more, even though you know you’re not going anywhere until he’s satisfied. He doesn’t waste much more time—not allowing you to prepare. Keeping the pinch, he opens his mouth wide and takes the chub with eyes closed, tongue flattened and wide, cloaking your exposed clit with thirst. “Mmgh…”

He always gets like this—cute-aggressive and pussy-whipped. It’s as if he and your cunt have their own private affair, the way he completely ignores you. No, that’s not entirely fair—he gets like that when feeding you his tongue as well, but you suppose it’s easier making out with your pussy as it doesn’t need to get up for air. 

Neither does he, it seems.

He groans loudly and releases your clit from his pinching grip—but keeps his whole mouth on you—lips, tongue, and all—nose and chin too, buried there while his hand moves down to slip three digits inside, filling you up with little regard to the stretch.

Your breath flares and shudders with a whimpery moan, toes curling along with his fingers, biting your lip at how he hooks them right into the soft spot of your gummy walls, then fingerbangs you fast, right down to the knuckles each time.

“Fuck, baby—so, so good, always so good,” he slurs out into you, tongue otherwise too engaged to bother sounding coherent, yet you understand nonetheless, even though you can never really get used to it—how utterly unashamed he is. “Come on, baby, cum f’mo—cum on my face—” he all but happily begs, tongue out, slurping your slit brazenly.

He’s not a very classic Alpha—how he worships you on his hands and knees with a throat full of plead and praise. He doesn’t even touch himself—cock left hung and bobbing against the bedsheets, hard and strung up with a net of veins, pilling pearls of pre that all go to waste—too busy with you. 

It’s stupid how you’re the one who ends up feeling ignored as the unwanted and overwhelming pleasure manhandles you into submission.

“Cum, baby, give it to me.”

You mewl as his tongue draws something out from within you, making your clit blare and thrum with your heartbeat. You struggle to enjoy it, you always do, feeling forced to surrender, and yet the more you try and deny it, the firmer his hold gets, relentless as he sends you right over the edge. You yelp and seize up once it takes you—clenching tightly around his digits as they unknot your insides, turning you into utter putty in his palm. 

And even then, he doesn’t stop—as if he doesn’t know how—sighing with elation as you quake on his tongue. That crooked smile on his face, nothing short of predatory and vile as he maintains the motion of his fingers, moaning in turn at your cute spasming and all the wordless babble that leaves your lips as you shake your head, crying for him to leave it alone. “Plea’ no more—stop, too much—”

He just chuckles against you—you really are too cute for your own good. Silly little Omega, don’t you know what your pheromones do to him? But okay, fine, since you asked nicely. He gives the slit one last thorough lick before wiping his smile while sitting up.

You haven’t even started coming down when he dabs the weight of his shaft upon the sensitivity, cooing at the lewd little plaps it makes, all slick as he slides the length between your flustered pussylips—fucking through the fat of the mound, running over your full clit, again and again, while listening to you squeak more nothings.

He only croons, “Yeah, I know you like that, baby—this pretty pussy of yours just loves my attention, doesn’t it?" His eyes seem to glow with something sickly, his voice thin, just shy of unhinged. "Always so cute, I could die.”

He can’t get over it—you’re too adorable like this. Watching you pleasure him was a welcome surprise, but ultimately, this is how he always wants you—flipped and pinned with your cunt exposed to his every wish—his favorite toy that never disappoints.

“Your pretty pussy’s always such a crybaby, y’know that? Look how it weeps f’mo—so needy to get stuffed. I bet you want my knot, huh?” he keeps mumbling while using his cock to play with your overworked cunt without yet entering it. “Alright, baby—don’t worry—I’ll give it to you,” he rasps, drooling.

You can’t keep from whimpering when the bed jostles, accounting for his repositioning as he moves to mount you with his feet planted down flat on the bed. Your ankles are pinned passed your head at this point, tipping your cunt up higher than your head.

“Yeah—I’ll give you what you want.” His voice darkens, and so does the look in his eyes—soaked in something you don’t like—something wild and downright terrifying. “And I’ll give it to you good.”

You almost protest, but you know there’s no getting through to him—not with that expression. You hate Alphas, you hate him, and you really hate this awful pose—this mating-press pile-driving overkill where he always bullies into the backroom of your cunt, insisting on fucking your cervix as he digs his cockhead right at the mouth of your womb, knotting you and filling you up with the full worth of his load. It never fails to make you feel utterly wrecked and bedridden in the morning.

But he doesn’t care about that. You have no places you’re supposed to be anyway—nowhere aside from right here, in his bed, where you belong—his sweet Omega bride who’s going to give him lots of pups.

He lines himself up, pressing his head past the ring—watching it swallow around him and biting his lip at the sight. “Look at it, baby—look as I stuff that perfect pussy all the way up—”

He sinks in slowly, revering your cunt for every inch you receive—watching it in awe as it takes the entirety of his length right down to the base. It’s like a magic trick how it all disappears—you’re so tiny, and yet you’re built for this, to take every part of him in, hugging his shaft with velvet heat, milking him as he kneads the spot inside you that always makes you cry out so good for him.

“Yes, baby—that’s my girl—take it all,” he coos, all but sitting on your ass with his cock down your cunt. “It’s like your pussy’s made for me, isn’t it? Perfectly tight, perfectly deep, perfectly wet and chunky to feel like I’m fucking heaven itself—”

You feel no different from a toy when he does this—a squeaky toy manufactured for a Chihuahua puppy, yet mistakenly given to a full-grown Rottweiler. He straight dogs your cunt through several peaks—so soaked now that it fossettes down both the slope of your belly and the cliff of your spine. And still, he keeps going, rambling on like usual—all words that fail to reach you.

You’re so lightheaded you’re on the brink of passing out—overheating and out of strength, numb and tingly, beyond happy when you finally feel his knot swell within, propping you to take his seed. 

He keels over—his thighs pressed down tightly atop yours—panting above you—eyes half-mast and glazed, almost crying in bliss while feeding you his cum, knowing it's flooding your womb, breeding you full of warmth and love.

“Yes, every drop, baby—it’s all yours.” He keeps a thumb rubbing over your clit as he croons. Voice beyond lovesick, “Let’s make too many pups to count.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Bachira ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[mbari-blog]

When MBARI’s exploration meets @MontereyBayAquarium’s innovation 🤩✨️⁠ ⁠

Bloody-belly comb jellies, Lampocteis cruentiventer, are ctenophores, not true jellies. Like other comb jellies, they navigate through the water by beating their shimmering, hair-like cilia. These crimson beauties are found in the twilight zone, using their blood-red stomachs to hide a belly full of glowing (bioluminescent) prey. At these depths, red is nearly invisible, turning their vibrant color into the perfect camouflage.⁠ ⁠

This species was first observed off the coast of San Diego in 1979, but MBARI researchers, including Senior Research and Education Specialist George Matsumoto, officially named and described it in 2001.⁠ ⁠ The Aquarium’s husbandry team worked for years to decode the mystery of caring for these jellies, becoming the first to display them. Aquarium experts like Senior Aquarist Evan Firl have been able to extend the captive longevity of this species by reducing oxygen concentrations and mimicking the bloody belly’s deep-sea habitat. ⁠ ⁠ By combining our deep-sea and animal care expertise, the Aquarium and MBARI have made it possible for everyone to see these tiny translucent treasures in person and learn more about these captivating denizens of the deep.⁠

[janumun]

Painted Red (LaDS Sylus - NSFW ABCs Headcanon]

Rated: NSFW/18+

Words: ~4k

Tags: oral, vaginal and anal sex, usage of toys, fingering, enemies to lovers dynamic/passing usage of guns, bondage, semi-public sex, improper use of Evol, switching power roles, dirty talk, masturbation, mirrors, orgasm denial, praise kink

Author’s Notes: A little treat to myself right before Sylus’ release. Please take careful note of those tags and content warnings before you proceed.

I hope you enjoy your read as much I enjoyed myself writing this!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)   

With the state of indecent disarray one usually ends up in —  quivering, drenched thighs, nerveless arms useless by your sides, a flushed face and an inability to catch your breath — after a single night spent in Sylus’ bed, aftercare is a necessity post-coitus. And fortunately, the man, damn him, knows and understands so, very well.  

And so, he has a pitcher of cold water, prepared well beforehand — even on days your dalliances are not what the two of you intend when you meet — ready and at your disposal by the bedside.  

The moment he pulls out of you, another short one spared to ensure you are still there, with him and well, he’s moving off of you. A clean robe he throws on, loose, over his body before striding over to the nightstand to pour you a glass.  

A cool, pleasant palm he eases against the back of your head to raise, as he encourages you take those big, long gulps of fluid to quench your thirst and replenish your energies. “There you go, well done,” his low baritone settling deep within your belly, your core instinctively clenching in on emptiness to hear his unexpected praise for something so very mundane.  

Truly, you do not know what this man is doing to your body and mind.  

Extra 

Sylus slides into bed with you for the remainder of your night and tucks close under the covers, for your much needed repose.  

Morning afters, you greet with a fresh shower (and on days you insist, with him), a pair of clean towels and a pressed outfit, ready for you to change into and later settle in for a healthy, fulfilling breakfast, whipped up to perfection by his personal chef. All of his house-staff, professional, discrete and well-versed in handling affairs of the Onychinus scion’s household. Whatever the two of you share within the confines of your privacy — animosities or amourous rendezvous —  remains entombed, within that very space.  

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)   

Sylus takes pride within his dexterity, particularly that of his limbs (...particularly that of his hands, his fingers when it comes to matters of the bedroom).  

One would hardly expect a man of his body stature to possess the nimble flexibility that resides compacted within his body. An erroneous judgment that often proves fatal to foolish foes within a fight.  

And with you, he puts that lethal agility to use: within the push of thick digits up into your clenching walls, the roughened pads of them swiftly seeking and pressing up against the spot at your frontal walls that makes you wail, makes you twist. Makes that body of yours gush against his insistent palm in an orgasm vehement enough, you see dark blanket across your eyes for the scarcity of mere seconds. Truly bringing upon you, as they call it, la petite mort. A tiny death.  

Sylus is extremely fond of your face. It’s not because of the way you look, a mere pretty face in the crowd he would simply gloss over; it’s the striking catch of your facial tells that steal his gaze and keep it captive.  

The wary intensity of your eyes the first time you laid eyes on him. 

Or the way your brow knit in firm concentration when you had him tossed to the ground, once. Nearly taking him by something almost akin to surprise, the weight of your gun, incessant, against his chest. Your mouth turning sour in restless irritation when he dared try tease at your sensibilities, a harsh knee you plunged deeper into his torso.  

The quick work of your mind — a testament of its well-endowed intellect and wit, a Hunter of good repute —  channeling brilliance in crisp words uttered from rouged lips, when the two of you, on one certain occasion, found yourselves in a particularly dire situation. One you’d agreed to accompany him to, undercover, as an associate of the Onychinus’ head.   

Truly, he has been snared with your fascinating mien since the day he laid his eyes upon you, your expressions spinning — amusing — as if placed upon a carousel, the longer he spends in your company.  

And from there on, is born a desire to witness even more.  

When you drive him back into the covers with the force of your wet kiss, parting untimely before he has the proper chance to put his tongue into your mouth and taste for himself (there will be further opportunities, he holds himself). 

The way that well-coveted, devious tongue sweeps a slow path against your upper lip —just out of reach — edge to edge. The harsh dash of red, high across your cheeks, the intensity of your breaths, untamed as his. And those beautiful eyes, a riotous mix of vexation and desire so incinerating, it turns Sylus’s cock to unbearably hard stone beneath the cleft of your ass, he bucks up against you just to see that wheeling carousel within your gaze, shift forms for him, watch that mouth swear at the exhilarating stimulation of your combined symphony, he knows, you too feel. Just for him alone.  

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)  

Sylus enjoys the slick feeling of your skin stained by his cum; that exact moment he pulls out of your quivering walls to release himself in thick spurts down the length of your folds. Slips the head of his cock against the smears of his release, before pushing back, slow, once more into your depths.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)  

There is no secrecy or shame involved with a man in possession of as poised a self-assurance as Sylus; his sexual tendencies he not only owns up to and understands but has no qualms about elucidating his wants in great... obscene detail, to his partner, you.  

He wants you to be knowing exactly what it is you are doing to arouse him and exactly how to get him up to that stage.  

His palms curving about your thighs, scaffoldings of heated flesh that climb up and slink slow beneath the cut of your dress. Covetous fingers that trace delicate patterns against the lining of your panties and yet you quiver underneath that feather touch alone. “Such fine lace.” Garnet gaze, sharp, as it meets yours within the tight, much too confined space of his car. 

The chauffeur in front, separated a mere layer away from the two of you as Sylus wrenches you onto his spread lap, the firm muscle of his thighs unyielding beneath as they shift, subtle, to press you deeper against a broad chest.  

Index and middle scouring a hot, glancing path against your clothed slit before withdrawing, leaving you to scramble for purchase against the fine pressed collar of his shirt, creasing it within your hold.  

Your question snipped short with the soft, soughing whisper at your ear, voicing his true intentions. “I’d very much like a memento, to remember our evening by. Your panties...” Devious fingers pinching at the apex of your heat. “They will do well, sweetheart.” 

A moan tumbles past your lips before you can smother the sound —   you break it against the sweep of his mouth, welcoming —  at such a scandalous request, bold, without a lick of remorse. Just as the man himself.  

“I trust you will help me then, yes?” A long, tapered finger, pressing above underwear, right at your slit. Course thumb leisurely stroking its fire against that tight bead of pleasure. A rumbled groan he breaks free against your ear to feel the wanton slick of your arousal, soaking right through fabric. “That’s right, drench them well. I want your fragrance long on my gift, even after your departure.”  

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)  

Sylus has been out and about. He isn’t capricious enough to have changed sexual partners as frequently as the rumors around Zone N109 might paint him to have, but he is certainly no stranger to sex.  

His preference before you, usually having been for casual, short-lived, discrete dalliances, to indulge in bodily pleasures and no more beyond. With a man as committed to his goals as Sylus is, with a clear concept of how he wishes to manipulate the underworld to his liking, he does not spare much attention to subsidiary gratifications. 

With people at large, he is apathetic to that which does not catch his interest. There is very few within this world that truly does.  

And you, now, stand among those rare few treasures that have all of his attentions arrested. 

He finds himself wanting to captivate you, in turn, not just in body but mind. Truly, he finds you a fascinating being.  

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)  

Seated within his lap, cock nestled warm within clenching depths. 

Hair, a spread of wild locks across the coverlet, mirroring the writhing state of your sweat-drenched body underneath his, as he thrusts into you. 

Hungering fingers clawing at the expanse of his chest, down the strength of his shoulders as you furiously grind upon his cock, intoxicatedly chasing an orgasm just within reach. Strong fingers, he rushes down the length of your clenching abdomen, inquisitive palm digging just beneath your naval to feel for the vibrations that ripple across pliant skin with the vehemence of your thrusts onto his cock.  

Sylus relishes the privilege of your private, salacious unravelings, brought upon by him alone, by what he does to you and what you force out of him, for your singular pleasure. Desires heightened to witness you using his body to bring yourself to shattering ruin, it floods his veins with inebriating arousal so heavy, his body aches with the force of his want. 

As such any which way he takes or lets you take, which allows him privy to your raw, unfettered emotions rushing across your face [See above: B, Body Part] is what he enjoys most. Bringing him to completion the fastest when he is able to witness your mouth breaking apart in moans, watch sex mussed strands of hair stick to your temples, mixing in with the sweat of your body, tear-streaked pleasure smeared vivid across your cheeks. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)  

Your sexual escapades are hot, often times competitive and cathartic; an unfettering of strangled desires. Bursting to the surface within the fever of your intimacy. Arduous cravings that are hardly scotched in a singular session. 

Vocal and perverse though he may be in tongue when it comes to your love-making, Sylus is not one for poetic romanticisms waxed within the bedroom. A man of action rather than ornate words. 

His regard for you exhibited in the grip of sturdy arms that clutch you back against his body, feeling for each part of you pressed against his. In the tongue that laves at sweat soaked skin in soothing mercy, from the relentless assault of his hips against your ass.  

Roughened thumbs that swab at tears from red-rimmed eyes, post-coitus, a gentle towel that skates soft down the quivering length of your ruined body before tucking it clean into fresh robes.  

The manner in which he chooses to stay close and warm your bed, instead of leaving right after, even after the fire within your veins has long cooled itself. Foregoing his own personal mandate, to never spare a single trace of himself behind.  

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)  

Sylus takes exceptional care to maintain good hygiene at all times; a man who looks and smells just as good, the pleasant, sharp undertones to his cologne, having you canting your nose into the space of his neck, as you breathe. 

 Right at that tendon wrung taut with the press of your teeth into a harsh bite, to choke the scream that climbs up your throat with the hard propulsions of his cock into your depths.  

Downstairs, he is fairly clean; a shave on the regular, a mere fine dusting of ivory tracing a path from navel, downwards until it disappears beneath the stretch of his pants.  

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)  

[Also see above: G] Choosing to bury his skewed smiles against your wet moans, the bite of restive teeth you sink into his lip, pulling it wider.  The anchor he throws forwards for both your sakes in the entwining of digits, meshing tight against the other to ride out your highs.  

Sinking a bite in farewell right above your left breast before you part, so he knows how that heart bears its frenzied beats for him alone. A reminder he leaves upon your body to ache by, until the next time he finds himself buried within you.  

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)  

Sylus lies in possession of an exceedingly high sexual drive. And herculean, in-humane self-control to boot. Experienced though he may be, due to the course of his sexual history; he’s been able to keep his casual encounters to a minimum due to how well he is able to compartmentalize his needs.  

Overwhelming desires at times, he often spilled within the confines of an oiled fist. At others, tamping down the more primal parts of himself, until he felt it turn a necessity.  

After you, he allows himself release from that tight-fisted restraint more often. Finishing himself in white relief, trickling down his fingers on the days (...hours) he does not have your warm body to sheath into, does not have the symphony of your cries to help him along.  

Your visage in mind, sharp, jagged; he’s already expecting your next meeting with bated pleasure. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)  

Sylus loves the color red on you, appreciates fiercely how becoming it is on you.

Loves to buy you dresses — scarlet as his eyes, as his desires —  to put on, when you let him. Personally ensures, first-hand, they are well-fitted, within the confines of a cosy dressing room. 

When large hands reach to flit past the split of your dress, cup about your ass, fingers drifting about your waist. “A perfect fit.”He praises, to your reflection within the body-length mirror. Skating further up your body to finger the strap of the outfit, skirting it, slow, down your shoulder. Indolent digits, index and thumb, pinching at the hardened peaks of a breast. Curving a hefty palm about the clothed flesh. “You’re a sight to behold.” 

Red, when he curls a palm in between the cleft of your legs, leaves your flesh smarting with the short, pinching grinds against an increasingly swollen clit, stimulated for hours on end. Ruby, to match the flush at your cheeks. Scarlet, down the crescent of your breasts.  

Wine, when you make his color spill with the bite of harsh teeth into his lip, bursting blood in between your mouths, as you withdraw on panting breaths.  Tipping down in willing obeisance — he gifts just to you— with the violent tug of your fingers, directing him back against your mouth. Lapping at his wound, marking him for your own.  

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)  

Anytime, any place, any where.  

There isn’t an authority powerful enough on Earth to stay his hand, once the two of you decide you want your bodies against each other. Sylus does not shy from an opportunity presented, and if there is none, he makes one.  

In seclusion, or in public— 

Crowds melting away the moment his fingers whip about your waist, stealing you away into private silence. The weight of his Evol has barely scattered from your shoulders, before the strength of his body replaces it, driving you back against a carved pillar. Mouth pulsing against yours in a slow, heavy kiss. Wet, hot; parting from your tongue on a conjoined string of damp pleasure, that bows and breaks under the weight of gravity.  

There isn’t a moment he does not desire you and he certainly has no specious sensibilities to appeal to, when it comes to the chance to indulge you.  

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)  

Curses, nothing quite turns Sylus on than to see you flourish in the place you shine best. When you are dedicated and singular-minded, in pursuit of your target. When you are forced to contend against situations far out of your control, compelled to navigate the perilous dangers that come with your line of work, be it the Tenebrae, Wanderers or something else entirely. And rise above it all, through the sheer drive you possess, a stubborn nature unable to give up on what you believe in. Not unlike his own, a kinship he finds within you.  

A desire to obtain that fire for his own. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)  

There is little Sylus would ever deny you. Certainly, keep from you, briefly; demands he may not fulfill immediately, in the pursuit of your combined pleasures. 

Sharing you with another, however, is a stringent boundary. 

Despite that first impression he settles, of immovable composure, he’s territorial, rather like a murder of crows, over you. Your heart, your sole focus, he desires to monopolize for his own. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)  

Having your mouth on his cock is stimulating. Having your positions swapped and your ass grinding hard against the strength of his jaw, however, is what truly incinerates the blood within his veins. The leverage it bestows within his hold, to have you. Manipulate your pleasure to his liking, set the blood thrumming high within your own body.

Sturdy arms that cord about the plush of quivering thighs, garnet gaze that rolls up to capture yours, accompanying the wicked bite of teeth into the pliant flesh of your thigh. The flat of his tongue running from base to hood, ensuring not a single drop is wasted.  

Relishing his victory in the slow sweep of lids falling shut, the open grin that pulls taut, with the harsh, fluttering pull of your fingers at his hair, shoving him deeper into your pussy. Signaling your utter defeat. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)  

Sylus is in it for the long game. And no matter what it takes, no matter the cost, he sees to it that he gets what he wants.  

Oh, him fracturing from that torturous tug-and-pull you’ve got going on, is but a feverish wish on your part. Sylus lives for the pleasure of your ruination, delights in the number of times he can crest you to your climax. And when not. 

Part desire, part the necessity to have you well and utterly drenched before he even thinks to breach that soft, quivering flesh. Extended periods of torturous teasing foreplay, obligatory if he is to have penetrative sex with you. His size, he understands, not an easy burden to accommodate.  

He often starts out slow; long, deep thrusts into your body as it clenches and moulds against the shape of him. Stimulated eventually enough, you drip copious against him, pleasure over-riding any remaining scraps of  fleeting discomfort entirely until you’re clawing at the sturdy strength of his back. 

Fingernails pulsing at the firm flesh of his ass, his name tumbling incoherent from a parched mouth, until he’s driving into you with the vehemence of an untethered beast. Guttural groans and whispered sighs, splintering against the give of your neck in tandem to your mounting screams. Quenched against the bite of a breast.  

Letting your desires burn in between you until the moment they’re blanketed, hours later, into the dark of night.  

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)  

Sylus does not wait. When he witnesses desire pool within that provoked gaze, watches the fire that burns parched, as you seek for moisture with the slow slide of a pink tongue against your rouged lip.  

Helping you along into a dark crevice, if you’re out in public. Drawing your panties down against your thighs to reach for the place in between your legs. Roughened fingers plucking at wetness, dragging an indolent path from your slit to the apex of your sex. Curving one long, tapered digit into your clenching walls, stroking, until he brings you crashing for him.  

Proud mouth pulsing a kiss in hushed laughter against your temple, as he assists you in putting yourself back in spruced order.  

Sylus never goes the entire way, when the two of you are rushing against the clock. Ample time, he requires — and makes certain he’d have that, later — to unwrap and uncover the entirety of you, piece by piece.  

An early aperitif, however, is one he isn’t opposed to, especially when it is served, as intoxicating as you are. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)  

He’s willing and he’s game; a word from you is all he requires before granting you exactly what you desire, in spades.  

There isn’t a thing you could throw his way to turn him off you, Sylus is the kind of man to take it all in stride.  

[See also: L, N and K] 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)  

Oh, he possesses a generous, infuriating amount of discipline; immovable rock in the face of obvious temptation. That does not, however, imply there isn’t a savage beast caged, restless, underneath that cool, tempered demeanor. Sylus merely maintains inhumane control over the leash of that sexuality beneath. And he knows how well to untether it too, once he allows himself to let loose his inhibitions.  

Infinite stores of stamina (for daaays), an extremely brief refractory period and an overwhelming desire to wring you dry, entirely for himself, make for a terrifying combination.  

Your hips would long break before Sylus’ cock ever begun to lose its vigor.  

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)  

Sylus knows an opportunity when he sees one and the chance to have you utterly devastated, is one he never lets up on, and toys are just a welcome addition to his arsenal.  

Pretty little baubles, the two of you purchased together on one of your dates — a discrete, neat store tucked within one of N109’s infamous districts, the way he’d encouraged your fascinated survey of the store’s à la mode selection of vibrators and jeweled plugs, a vaguely amused smile plucking at his mouth. Pulling up every single toy that sparked your fancy for a detailed overview from the ever-present staff, more than happy to answer all your enthused questions.  

Rounding a firm hand about your waist to tug to his side, at the end of your purchase trip, breathing a sensual promise into the cleft of your ear, to let you try them all out in due time. 

And he fulfills it, in equal enthusiasm. 

Deft fingers that press up to slide against the insistent vibrations of the object settled snug into your wet walls. Toying, indolent, at the intensity of its stimulation with sporadic flicks of his Evol. Your stuttered moans clawing higher the longer he keeps you suspended within this torturous state of denial. Rejecting your babbles to let you come, that he’s been at it for hours.  

“Not yet,” he instructs, slipping a cool hand onto the shell of your hip to hold down your senseless bucking.  

It is only several, excruciating denied orgasms later does he tug free the plug at your ass, pressing his cock in lieu of its emptiness. And the way your hole clamps down in a vice at the base of him drags a shuddered, guttural groan from him. Your body stimulated so beyond sense, it drags an exhilarated laugh from his chest, in conjunction to your lost moans. 

“This is it, lovely. Are you enjoying yourself that much?” Mouth pulling wider at your vehement nods. “Do you desire more?” Sinking three fingers up to the knuckle into your pussy, without warning. A quick tug of them upwards, has his energy tinkering at the vibrator’s intensity, sending it buzzing higher and you wail your curses at him. “Hah.” He shudders above, pressing deeper against your back. “That’s it, I like those sounds.” 

“Sing higher, darling.” 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)  

Oh, his craving for riling you up and goading you is infinite. 

Even when you have him physically bound and at your mercy; the gorgeous, insouciant pull of that mouth into a skewed smile —  a crafted calculation — has you feeling as if he still holds the entirety of a winning deck within those trussed hands.  

Through each singular groan, every heaving breath and grunt, a disquieting, infuriating grin tugs constant at lips that demand further of your cruelty. As if a perverse beast actually enjoying the cage it belongs in.  

The ram of a harsh heel, deep into his abdomen, has his grunting a long, gravely sound, Sylus’ body driving further into the savage crush of your shoe — pleasure so intoxicating in the knot of strong brows, that parted mouth —  it stirs fiery arousal deep within your own belly.  

Traitorous wetness trailing down the length of your thighs, arousal that Sylus convulses against the binds of his shackles for. Manages to dip forwards just enough —  the brute —  to catch the trickle of wetness against an adept tongue, at your thigh, and lap. Garnet gaze seeking and capturing yours in a haze so vicious your fingers fist harsh into his hair, in an unforgiving pull. Your moans, he steals — victorious — for himself.  

“That is surely not all you can manage to do with me, can you, darling?” 

 And you can’t be too dishonest with yourself any longer; your orgasms far more fervid and ruinous when he’s had you both dancing along to his little cat-and-mouse game for hours on end, teasing you both with the pantomime of the act. Until, finally, finally, his cock plunges past aching, swollen folds and into your drenched, clenching walls.  

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)  

Sylus’ moans are low, licentious burrs; throaty whispers he secretes right against your ear, to turn your legs to quivering flesh. He doesn’t require his voice to rise above a certain octave, not when he has you gushing on his face with the vibrations that buffet deep into your pussy, when that pleasured rumble of his breaks right in between your legs. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)  

Sylus does not care much for binding or detaining you — restraining your senses — for personal pleasure.  

He allows you use of your precious fetters and restraints, for what it does for him — an opportunity to maneuver your pleasure — and for the two of you, that is... if you can manage to bring him under, to begin with.  

It merely isn’t something that works for him, in roles reversed, when he finds himself sufficient enough to draw forth the pleasure he can achieve for the two of you, with his body alone. 

He has innumerable ways within his arsenal he can bring you to mind-numbing finish with, and he doesn’t require the comfort of a rope for that.  

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)  

Sylus’ cock is a beautiful, symmetrical thing — rather intimidating at first glance. He teaches your body to take it well, in long, pleasurable lessons. Curving, slight. towards his abdomen. A thick shaft running up into a flared glans that burns in pleasurable penetration the first time you take him in. Numerous, undulating veins along the length, that bump perfect against the surface of your tongue when you swirl around it. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)  

[Incredibly high as detailed at great length in J and S] 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) 

Sleep is the farthest thing from mind when the Onychinus’ head has you tucked at last, exhausted, within his bed. His body — long programmed — hardly permitting the scope of vulnerability slumber brings, in your presence.  

And so, he puts that time to other pursuits. Often nights, choosing to watch over your sleep, carding the occasional stray strand of hair back against your ear. At others, he brings work to bed, spectacled scarlet gaze scouring over lines of text and diagrammatic compilations.  

Not choosing to desert your side, even once, throughout the entire night, protective over your own vulnerability, for as long as it lasts. 

End Notes: Once my fingers actually started on this man, I could not stop even if I wanted to. Sylus has me gripped by my very throat and that worries me greatly LOL.

If you’d like to be added to my tag list for future stories, please fill out this quick form.

[spinus-pinus]

White-bellied Go-away-bird Crinifer leucogaster

10/7/2023 San Diego Zoo, California