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cheekypriest · 5 months ago

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"Me too. As ridiculous as it might sound... doesn't feel completely terrible to finally admit it to someone. Especially someone outside the usual conscription." By that, he primarily meant those of the supernatural community. At least, that was what James liked to call them, though he knew the Vatican and many of his peers had far more colourful terms for them. But admittedly, despite everything, despite his orders, what he was taught to think about the sometimes seedier sides of the world, he couldn't hate them. Vampires, werewolves, fae, the list was endless, but it didn't mean that every single one of them was evil. He'd met beings from either side, the good, the bad and some who seemed to linger somewhere in between, viewing the world and everything in it with a sense of neutrality. The funny thing was, he could understand every single side, they all had their reasons, he'd seen some for himself, but at the end of the day, it was their actions that really defined them and ultimately made James' decision about whether or not to hunt them down or turn a blind eye and let them go about their business.

That was another layer he may ease the detective into. Demons being real was one thing, but reminding him that it meant Heaven, Hell and angels were real was another, only to be topped by the fact that all manner of other beings existed too. He really meant it when he'd said that it all changed a person's outlook on the entire world. Darkness had a different feel to it, knowing that once the sun went down, it wasn't just mortal night owls that came out for their nightshifts, there were vampires seeping out into the world to start their day only to recoil back into the safety of their homes once the sun began to rise again. Or something as simple as looking up at the breathtaking sight of the full moon and knowing that somewhere, there were people in agonizing pain as their bodies twisted and contorted into a massive beast. That was just the surface, the most known types, the Brit could do on forever about all the different variations of those as well, then keep going for everything else that was blundering around on the planet that didn't quite fit into the human or seemingly 'normal' world.

A conversation for another time. The first hurdle was letting the guy wrap his mind around the whole exorcist thing, any further details could wait, so long as the reality of it didn't hit the guy like a train and send him scampering off as far away from the priest as possible.

Not that he'd entirely blame him, of course.

"I don't know... who am I to judge someone on how their mind works? Coming from someone who's fluent in sarcasm, I reckon there's more than a couple people out there who'd have a thing or two to say about how mine works as well." Perhaps further proven by those few sentences, as if that was even needed at this point. His wit really was the thing that kept him going, softened those hardest moments, whether for him or for others around him. It had worked so far and he wasn't about to try and shed it now. He wasn't even sure he could even if he wanted to, that old saying 'can't teach an old dog new tricks' quickly came to mind. Of course, James could pretend, he could act like someone else for a while if it got him where he needed, or the information he was looking for, but it wasn't something that could keep it up for long, that smart tongue of his was just too sharp to keep restrained for any real amount of time.

"'But the lord said unto Samuel, look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; because I have refused him: for the lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the lord looketh on the heart'." Even he found himself amused at how easily the words came to him, smirking a little as he prodded at the battered fish on his plate with his fork. "Sorry, seems my priestliness comes with me even when I'm not in uniform." He teased a little, an evidently amused look sweeping across his face as he cut a piece of fish and shoved it into his mouth. Though after a few happy chews of it, that smile returned again, slyly glancing back down at his food. "Just something you'll have to get used to..." If the guy decided he didn't mind it, or felt that he could stomach all of the clergyman and his little quirks.

It seemed the pair of them already had visions of seeing one another again, maybe even on something of a regular basis, something more than just friends, maybe? Or perhaps he was being too presumptuous, once again needing to remind himself that it was never that simple. For a moment, he could enjoy it though, right? Pretend as if they could go off into the sunset hand in hand and nothing could touch them? "Well, next time I pop back across the pond to the old stomping ground, I'll let you know. A night in the town, couple drinks at a local watering hole, some greasy fish and chips from a late-night takeaway then back to a hotel where we can sin to our heart's content." There was no veil about those last words, barely even an innuendo as he made it quite clear that he did indeed have somewhat -- - carnal, leaning about the man opposite him.

One more sin to add to the list. He'd soon run out of ink at this rate.

He half lamented the fact that he didn't have a house back in England now, long since selling up and making his primary residence in Rome. Most of the time when he returned to the UK, if he was nipping back home to the north of England, he'd reach out to his old friends and let them know he'd be in the area, usually being welcomed with open arms into their homes for the few days that he'd be there. When he was elsewhere in the country, or even in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, he just booked himself into a hotel, mostly sticking to the cheaper side of things. It was mainly when the Vatican itself tried to take some control of where he stayed that he'd be thrown into somewhere a bit more luxurious, making the Brit feel rather out of place. Not that he'd say no to some luxury while it was there, maybe go for a swim, a few bottles of champagne, just to round things off.

Was it wrong that he was already toying with the idea of Connor being there with him? The pair of them lounging around in some fancy suite, wearing big fluffy dressing gowns, with a bottle of champagne on ice next to them? He really needed to slow down, ground himself, feeling not too unlike a young man again with all these fanciful notions springing to mind.

"If you think tomato sauce is beyond the pale, you should see what we put on them at three in the morning." Notably thinking back to many a night merry night that rounded off at a local chip shop where the group would drown themselves in ridiculously battered foods and sauces that would likely be the last thing someone should consume after a hefty night of drinking. "Curry sauce is usually top of the list. Pour that sucker over it and... there you have it, some fine British cuisine. Partly borrowed, mind." A smirk left him at that, not being able to hold it in any longer as he put another piece of fish in his mouth. The only reason he hadn't asked about curry sauce there was because he didn't imagine they had any, and if they did, he'd probably get some strange looks for asking. If they weren't British, there was a strong chance they wouldn't really understand it. He didn't fully understand it himself, now that he thought about it, it was just normal back home.

Yet as he looked back down at his food, going for a few chips this time, it was the foot against his ankle that had the Englishman pause for a moment, sly blue eyes lifting to stare across the table. His smile grew to match his gaze, thoroughly amused as he popped a few chips into his mouth. "Mmm, sfacciato..." The man purred in fluent Italian, not minding whether or not Connor understood him, he liked to think that his manner made it quite clear what he was saying, transcending spoken language altogether. With a growing curve of his lips, he turned his foot, running the toe of his shoe up the inside of the detective's leg a little higher, never breaking eye contact for a single second. "Keep going like that and I just might have to skip to dessert right here and now..." He'd let Connor's mind envision what he meant, already having more than a few ideas himself.

Of course, the detective did have his own thoughts on the concept of exorcism, & it had far less to do with filmography & more to do with new age practices. Apart from the horrific cases of abuse of power in years past, an overreach of church authority & hysteria-fueled reaction in a time where the upper midwest was still firmly rooted in the religious institutions of yesteryear, there had grown a more substantial wave of counter-culture & subcultures in Detroit. While the rest of Michigan could be divided, given the rural nature of their unique northern state, the city was a place for idealists & freethinkers to congregate. While Connor had grown up in a relatively conservative, yet strictly atheist household, the triplets were open minded boys. Connor, especially, as he had a great thirst for knowledge of all kinds. He had known plenty of spiritual people from all different faiths & ideations while attending university, more than a few who dabbled in witchcraft & santeria. Jericho, Markus’ organization, had within its membership a woman who claimed to be a psychic, & had offered some stunningly accurate readings in the past. In his short life, the detective had had his fair share of exposure to spiritualism.

To him, it all came down to personal beliefs - every culture had some kind of ritualistic practice to expel oppressive spirits from an unwitting host, to ward off bad intentions & grant protections. It was just that, in modern times, the catholic church seemed to have a monopoly on exorcism, as it was most recognizable. It brought forth imagery of Blatty’s work in media, though the detective was less inclined to reference it, considering that it all seemed laughable. Just a bit of fun at the cinema. He expected that James had anticipated that this confession might spark such assumptions about his work, or perhaps that he feared Connor might see him as one of a great many so-called faith healers, akin to the con artists posing as exorcists throughout the American bible belt. People who used performative trickery & the power of suggestion to convince their congregations of their ability to heal, & swindled the masses out of their money.

James wasn’t one of those people. True, Connor recognized that, in the present moment, he had no real proof of anything. But he trusted his instinct, & it told him that everything this man said was completely genuine. He was the real deal, & while Connor didn’t know what that meant exactly, he understood that it was a difficult thing for the priest to admit. He didn’t have the heart to ask why, not when it was clearly causing him grief. Again, the detective felt the regret surge inside of him at having let go of his hand & a deepening urge to reach for him again. In time. For now, it was best to let things settle down again, let James relax into a less anxious state of mind. Just looking at him, Connor could tell that his parasympathetic nervous system was absolutely tingling, even when the older man seemed to take his companion’s responses in stride. Calm as always, passingly witty as a means to relieve tension. The younger wanted to ease his mind, as he decided within the first few minutes of their meeting that James deserved peace, as he seemed to rarely get it.

“I’m glad that you told me.” His dusky voice held a soothing quality to it, visage placid as he watched his date from across the table. He wanted to convey just how deeply appreciative he was that James could be open with him, that he was willing to share this secretive part of him. Though Connor had pushed him, the priest was under no obligation to tell him anything. Nevertheless, this small admission felt absolutely monumental. & it did certainly explain some of the things James had told him, as well as the impressions the detective had been getting of him as things progressed. Connor believed that he now understood the reasons why his companion was so lonely, as he might have chosen isolation as a way to protect others. The thought of it made him sad. He felt for James. He didn’t want him to be alone.

Not that it was his choice, by any means. Even so, the detective was a presumptuous little shit, & there was very little that could stand in his way once he got an idea in his head.

He wouldn’t allow his date to see any of these machinations outwardly, intent on shifting the mood into something less introspective & more amiable. He chose to tug a bit of that attention towards himself, wanting to alleviate James of his trepidation. He could leave any ruminations involving the man’s profession for a later time. Right now, he just wanted to be in the moment. “Besides, I think that it's just as remarkable that you didn’t write me off when I told you about my mind.” It was said with mild jest, a sweetness to his smile that gave the illusion that this was merely Connor teasing. But he was being honest, & that showed in his eyes, how they looked at the priest with warmth & endearment that hadn’t faded with his confession. “Most people assume, you know. So it’s easier not to say anything.” Mental health was still such a taboo subject, only having become mainstream with the younger generations. Even so, people like him were easily misunderstood. He was glad to have met someone like James, for a multitude of reasons.

His suggestion felt like a redirection, one gladly taken in the moment. While food wasn’t usually a distraction for the detective, for the time being it was an easy path to return to normalcy, to something pleasantly mundane. The two had been looking for an escape from their demanding lives, a space they could be themselves without having to think of outside circumstances. Where they were just two people on a date, enjoying each other's company. Connor smiled at that, & quickly took up his cutlery. “If this is so egregiously inauthentic, then I think I might have to insist that you take me home sometime,” he teased, though he wasn’t being frivolous with his words. He sincerely wanted to go there with James, to his home country, as he wasn’t one shy of the unknown. “You know. For the cultural experience.” A small shrug. He chuckled lightly to himself as he began to cut himself a small piece of fish, neglecting to offer admission that his intentions were more about going somewhere that held meaning to his date & less about personal benefit. He imagined that it was implied.

He also knew that the man was watching him expectantly, & he wasn’t about to disappoint. The batter was golden & crisp, & held a distinct sheen of oil that made him a little wary. But the fish was flakey & it smelled delicious. Having an admittedly tentative taste, the detective wasn’t displeased. Definitely not something he would eat on a regular basis, but he decided that he liked it. “It’s good,” he assured the priest once he’d properly chewed & swallowed, setting down his knife to reach for a chip. “If this is what you consider passable, then I’ve definitely got to try the real thing.” Hopefully with James in tow. The chips were similar to steak fries as far as he could tell, thick cut & practically a meal on their own. They also had no seasoning on them as far as he could tell. Boring. He eyed the condiments at the side of the table before looking to his date with something of a sheepish smile.

“Please don’t judge me. I’m going to put ketchup on these.” A little laugh fell from his lips at the absurdity of that request, though it felt fitting in the moment. He shyly ran the inner curve of one foot up the side of James’ ankle from beneath the table - a flirtatious gesture, one which served to quell the need for physical connection as well as a means of persuasion. Cute. The detective really could be very cute.

#replicantdeviancy #𝙞𝙘 #𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚: 𝘐 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘥𝘰𝘮 && 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 #{ can't take this pair anywhere lmao }#{ Connor and his ketchup }#{ and James wanting curry sauce xD }#{ i used to like vinegar on chips }#{ but some places put way too much on }#{ so i ended up stopping lmao }#{ same with brown sauce }#{ they either give you a tiny drizzle }#{ or they smother them in it xD }#{ james will also need to teach Connor about brown sauce lmao }

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yandere-daydreams · 3 months ago

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Screening: Rosemary's Baby (1968)

Pairing: Yandere!Ieiri Shoko x Reader (JJK).

Runtime: 3.2k.

TW: Fem!Reader, Non/Con (False Pretenses), Mentions of Pregnancy, Cheating (Reader is in an Established Relationship With Gojo), Fingering, Medical Malpractice, Manipulation, and Overstimulation. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

The examination table was cold as ice against your back.

She’d been nice enough to put down a sheet of sterilizing parchment, but not much more. You fidgeted with the hem of your skirt as you waited, too nervous to check your phone and risk seeing the newest addition to Satoru’s never-ending barrage of texts, too obedient to do anything other than stay where you were and stare blankly at the chipped, white tiles of her ceiling. That was what she told you to do – or, at least, what you thought she’d told you to do. It’d been difficult to understand her through her surgical mask, only pulled down slightly to accommodate the cigarette she was holding up to her lips, and come to think if it, she might’ve just meant to wait near the table, not strictly on—

The door opened, creating a break in the silence just long enough for you to pull yourself back together, and you bolted upright before your thoughts could start to slip, again – the stiff parchment crackling in protest underneath you. Your eyes found Shoko just as she slipped inside, letting the door fall shut on its own behind her.

Out of all of Satoru’s friends, Shoko had always been your favorite. There was obviously the gender bias (you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t have gravitated towards any woman in Satoru’s overall civil, but absolutely male-dominated social sphere), but even if that hadn’t been the case, you liked to think that you would’ve gotten along with Shoko, regardless. She was always so calm, always so level-headed, rarely smiling but slow to lose her temper, too. Being around her made you feel a little less like the awkward, oblivious non-sorcerer who’d stumbled into a world you still didn’t completely understand and a little more like someone who knew what they’d gotten into and who to rely on, when your own limited abilities fell short. You trusted Shoko, even if you’d only talked to her alone a handful of times. If you didn’t, you never would’ve come to her for something like this.

She stopped at the nearest counter, retrieving a pair of latex gloves from a nearly empty container, before coming to stand next to your table. You knew she’d been smoking, but the heavy scent of disinfect and rubbing alcohol smothered any traces of lingering smoke there might’ve been. You were thankful. You’d been sick with nerves for the better part of the past week, and you didn’t need another reason to feel like you were on the verge of throwing up.

(In the back of your skull, something cruel and vile whispered that there might be another explanation for your sudden bouts of nausea – something less ignorable than pure, ungrounded anxiety. You drowned it out before it could reach your conscious mind.)

Shoko broke the silence without prompting. You were grateful for that, too – you really didn’t have the courage to speak up first. “So,” she started, leaning on the edge of your metal slab. “You wanted to see me because of a… late period?”

Her mask hid most her expression, but you could make out the faint hint of a chuckle underneath her bedside manner. Your eyes fell into your lap. “A missed period,” you corrected. “I haven’t gotten it this month, either.”

She hummed, but didn’t respond. You sighed. Shoko was grounded, but she wasn’t kind. You should’ve known she wouldn’t make this easy for you.

“I’m worried I might be pregnant.”

To her credit, if she was surprised, it was impossible to tell. “Have you been taking your birth control?”

“Yeah, obviously, but I’m terrible about remembering condoms and Satoru never manages to pull out.” It felt strange to describe your sex life to your boyfriend’s closest friend, but you soldiered on. She was a medical professional, a doctor. Your preferred methods of protection (or lack thereof) couldn’t have been the worst thing she’d heard that day. “I’ve already taken a test, but I just want to make sure. Cursed energy is already so complicated, and I know Satoru exceeds a lot of expectations. I don’t know if he, like, has—”

This time, she cut you off with an airy, but blatant laugh. “You think he’s got magic sperm?”

“He fights invisible monsters and teleports,” you snapped, your anxiety turning into irritation in the blink of an eye. “I don’t think ‘magic sperm’ is that unrealistic!”

For a moment, she seemed to regard you – her dark eyes boring into your wrinkled clothes, your disheveled hair, the bags under your eyes nearly deep enough to match her own. Even if she didn’t understand why you were worried, she’d have to recognize that you were, in fact, worried. And, if she really was your friend, she’d at least offer to help.

You held your breath until finally, she cracked, straightening her back with and audible sigh. “And why, exactly, couldn’t you go to a standard obstetrician about this?”

“Because you’re the best doctor I know and I’d trust you with my life?”

“Try again.”

“Because I can’t afford the co-pay and if I use Satoru’s card, he’ll find out.” You deflated after finishing, crossing your arms over your chest. “I… I really just want to know. If it turns out I did have a reason to worry, I’ll figure out what to do next, but—” This time, your voice cut out all on its own. You forced yourself to swallow before going on. “I just want to know, first. Satoru doesn’t have to be involved.”

It was an awful position to put her in, you knew. For as much as you trusted her, she’d known Satoru for years. She had every right to go to him about this, even if you really, really wished she wouldn’t. She didn’t owe you anything, much less her help. Much less her silence.

But there was a reason you trusted Shoko, that you felt as unreasonable close to her as you did. Above her mask, you saw her eyes soften before they flickered away from you, landing on the counter she’d already visited. “Lay down and take off what you need to,” she said, her gruff professionalism back in full force. “It might not be conclusive, but the most I can do is a physical examination. It’s not much, but if you don’t trust a real test, it’s the best thing I can offer you.”

You couldn’t help yourself – nearly falling off the table as you pulled her into a bone-crushing, lung-flattening hug. “Ieiri, you’re the best,” you nearly shouted, your voice bouncing off the blank walls of her office. You moved to thank her again, and again, and again, but she pried you off of her before you had the chance, muttering a curt ‘you’re welcome’ before turning away to make her preparations and escape your unwanted gratitude. You managed to stop yourself from chasing after her, and yet, you were still smiling as you settled back onto the table.

Still, embarrassment quickly dampened the brighter edges of your relief as Shoko glanced over her shoulder. “Are you comfortable with undressing here, or would you rather leave the room?”

You blanched, and Shoko was kind enough not to laugh before going on. “You did know you were basically coming to be for a gynecological exam, right?”

“I mean, yes, but—” You hadn’t, but then again, you weren’t sure what else you’d expected. This made sense, even if it was leagues beyond anything you thought to brace yourself for. If Shoko thought it would help, then it’d help. “Do I get a gown, or…?”

Her eyes fell to your skirt, long enough to fall just an inch or so above your knee. “That won’t be necessary. Take off your panties and lay down – I’ll be over in a second.”

Your face burnt, but you nodded, and she turned away. Biting your inner cheek, you swung your legs over the side of the table and kicked off your shoes. Shoko pretended to be preoccupied while you shrugged your panties down your legs and, with no other option, stuffed them into the pocket of your jacket. It was awkward – lying down and spreading your legs with Shoko less than a full ten feet away. It was one thing to ask your acquaintance for medical advice, and another to let your boyfriend’s friend act as your pro-bono gynecologist.

You heard a few tools clatter onto a metal tray, the padded feet of a stool scrape across the tiled floor, and wordlessly, Shoko positioned herself at the foot of the examination table. “This should only take a few minutes,” she said, as her gloved fingers skirted along the inside of your knee, then your thigh, before reaching your pussy. Your labia, you corrected, internally. If she could be a professional about this, so could you. “Let me know if you feel any pain.”

You nodded, keeping your eyes focused intently on the ceiling above you. Even if you had looked down, your skirt would’ve blocked most of your view, which was how you preferred it. You couldn’t see Shoko, and hopefully, she couldn’t see the way you flinched as she spread a cold, pricking sort of lubricant over your entrance, as she eased two fingers into your otherwise dry cunt. You’d assumed she would use a tool, but then again, you couldn’t imagine what kind. And besides, you really shouldn’t have been questioning a doctor.

Shoko’s voice was gruff, distracted. “How’s that?”

“F-Fine,” you squeaked. “Please, do whatever you need to.”

“Satoru’s got you that worn down, huh?” She let out a breath of a laugh, but leaned in, easing her digits into until she was knuckle deep. Her fingers were thin, but long and graceful in a way that made them difficult to ignore when paired with the strange tactility of her gloves. Her free hand curled around your ankle, as if to hold you in place. “I’m going start the test. It might feel a little strange, so try not to move.”

She gave you a moment to brace yourself before spreading her fingers apart, inadvertently pressing against the sensitive walls of your pussy. On reflex, you snapped your thighs shut, but Shoko caught you by the knee before you could attempt to break her arm. “Easy there.” And then, as her thumb pushed slow circles into your skin, “Think you can hold these open for me?”

You didn’t try to say anything, but with more than a little effort, you spread your legs – planting your feet more firmly on either corner of the table. “Thatta girl,” Shoko muttered, seemingly more used to comforting scared pets than nervous patients. “Remember – we’re here because you wanted to be. If you want to back out, just say the word.”

You shook your head furiously, instinctually. You’d never do that to Shoko, and she seemed to know that – not waiting for verbal confirmation before starting to move. She seemed to need to stretch you open, judging by the repetitive, scissor-like motions of her fingers, the way she huffed in irritation as she slipped yet another digit inside of you. You knew it was inappropriate, but it would’ve been impossible to stop yourself from heating up, from squirming, from dampening around her in a way that you couldn’t entirely separate from arousal. You kept your hips still and dug your teeth into your bottom lip with enough force to break the skin (you would’ve rather died than moaned during a medical exam), but your cunt wasn’t as easily reigned in. It wasn’t long before a sickeningly slick clicking-type noise accompanied every little movement of her fingers. Hopefully, she’d just assume she’d used more lube than she’d meant to. You didn’t know what you’d do with yourself, if she didn’t.

“Like I said – it’s a quick procedure, not a comfortable one. Most patients have a difficult time staying still.” It was humiliating – how steady her voice was while you were falling apart, fighting just to keep yourself from bucking into a medical professional’s hand. It took everything you had not to whimper when the scissoring slowed, then stopped altogether, only to be immediately replaced by the awful, terrible, embarrassingly wonderful feeling of her fingers curling inside of you, grinding against the most vulnerable part of your cunt. “It’s important to be thorough, though. I’m sure you understand why this is necessary.”

She couldn’t have done it on purpose. Nothing about this could’ve ever been intentional, and yet, when her wrist slipped, the heel of her palm seemed to land perfectly onto your neglected clit. It wasn’t much, just the hint of stimulation, but it was enough for you to seize-up – your nails scrambling helplessly over smooth titanium as you came, silently, around her fingers. Shoko, ever the professional, didn’t so much as slow down.

She only hummed, keeping her hand where it was – her palm now grinding broad, harsh patterns into your clit. “Are you usually this easily stimulated?”

You opened your mouth, but all you could seem to choke out was a single, jagged whimper. Shoko clicked her tongue. “I’m sorry, I should’ve phrased that in a way you’d understand.” And then, as she spread her fingers apart cruelly, “Do you normally cum in less than a minute with Satoru?”

This time, a strangled cry was as much of an answer as you could’ve possibly given. You weren’t sure why she was asking, but… this wasn’t normal for you, was it? And now that she mentioned it, you did feel more stimulated than you should’ve during anything remotely medical. Your skin felt hotter, more sensitive where it’d come into contact with her lubricant, and it was getting hard to think, hard to justify not grinding into her hand as she curled and twisted her fingers inside of you. God. You knew you’d been a wreck, lately, but you never would’ve thought that it gotten this bad.

The nails of Shoko’s free hand bit into your ankle, and too strung-out to stop yourself, you let out a whine by way of protest. She chuckled, and suddenly, you were empty, left bucking your hips into vacant air as she drew back. “Poor thing,” she muttered, her sympathy tinged with a sardonic sort of condescension. “I’ve got one last test. Think you can bear with me?”

“Ye—Yes,” you chirped. At that point, it was meaningless – you would’ve agreed to anything so long as she was the one suggesting it. You’d shut your eyes at some point, but you could still hear Shoko’s footsteps, feel her standing above you as she positioned herself at your side. One gloved hand cupped your cheek while the other pressed something blunt and thick against your cunt and, with no warning other than a mumbled reminder to ‘breathe, pretty girl, breathe’, thrust it inside of you.

Her reminder, sadly, proved useless. The air hitched in your lungs as a ribbed shaft filled your overeager pussy, the object curved in a way that made it feel like it was pressing into every fucking part of you at the exact same fucking time. Your hands shot to Shoko’s wrist, searching for something more forgiving than cold metal to ground yourself with. You tried to pull yourself together, and you might’ve been able to if two distinct, silicone-wrapped prongs hadn’t slotted against your clit or, even more damningly, if whatever tool Shoko was using hadn’t started to shake.

Saying you came embarrassingly quickly would’ve been an understatement. There was no pretense of dignity, this time; just grit teeth and twitching legs and one long, miserable sob. Shoko nursed you through it, rocking her vibrating tool inside of you gently until your climax had died into total limpness and the occasional, unsteady gasp. The tool was drawn back, but Shoko’s hand lingered, her thumb tracing patterns into your cheek. “Such a good girl,” she mumbled, and you melted into her touch. “Feeling a little tired?”

It was sickeningly guilt-inducing, just how nice she was being to you after you’d done nothing but humiliate yourself in front of her. “A little,” you admitted, smiling sheepishly. Shoko smiled back. You couldn’t remember when she’d taken off her mask.

“Close your eyes and catch your breath. I’ll finish up while you get a little rest.”

It was all you could do to nod before slumping into yourself, your body going slack despite your best attempts to hold yourself up. Her reassurance was nice, but unnecessary.

In less than a full second, you were out like a light.

In Shoko’s defense, she did actually take the time to check. After you passed out, as delicate as Satoru had always bragged you were, she tested the blood sample taken prior to your “exam”. It took a total of three minutes, and left her with good news and bad news to deliver when you woke up.

The good news was, predictably, that you’d been right. You were pregnant. About a month along, in fact. Congratulations, mazel tov, etc.

The bad news was, of course, that you were pregnant, and that Satoru had finally managed to knock you up. Thoughts and prayers, get well soon, etc.

From her make-shift desk on the far side of the room, she spared a glance to where you were still sleeping on her autopsy table. You’d rolled onto your side since she last checked on you, your pleated shirt bunching at your waist as you used your arms as a rudimentary pillow. It’d be a lie to say she didn’t understand why Satoru had gone so crazy about you so quickly. What you were – an ordinary human with enough cursed energy to see, but not act – was rare, your continuous ability to gloss over the uglier parts of their world in favor of perpetual, delusional optimism even more so. It’d be impressive, if she didn’t know it was going to get you fucked over eventually.

You were cute. It’s surprised her when she first met you in-person, when she first realized that.

It’d surprised her a little less when she realized that you even cuter mumbling gibberish as you came around her fingers.

Her eyes fell back to the phone in her hand. Her messages with Satoru were already open, what she’d been deliberating on telling him already typed out. She sighed, checked the picture she’d taken of you sprawled out on her table, three of her fingers buried in your cunt, and hit send.

[1 attachment]

your girlfriend has something to tell you.

sending a bill for my time btw.

Three dots appeared at the bottom of the screen, signaling that Satoru was typing a response, before disappearing just as quickly. He tried calling her a second later, and she muted her phone before tossing it half-heartedly in the nearest drawer and turning back to you. Judging by your durability (or lack thereof), she’d have a few more minutes before you woke up, and another half an hour before the aphrodisiac gel she’d used on you started to wear off. You’d likely want to rush home to Satoru, when you finally got your hard-earned results.

Again, Shoko sighed, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

It’d just be a waste not to have a little fun while she could, right?

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #yandere jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #yandere ieiri shoko #ieiri shoko x reader

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r4spb3rr13s · 7 months ago

Note

juicy couture + shinsou please !! love your blog 🎀💖

real or cap??

♱ shinsou x reader, fake dating stylez 🫢

♱ 1000 follower special ♱

♱ 2.2K words!

Hitoshi had so many other things he could be doing - studying for a class he actually took, for example. Instead, he sat stuffing his face with chips as you ranted at him about something called 'The Doppler Effect'.

This poor psych major's head was about to explode.

You faltered at the bewilderment on your friend's face and slumped down next to him with a groan. "I'm so fucked, 'toshi."

"You're notttt," He yawned. Hitoshi lifted his arms up to stretch, and you looked away quickly - ever since Mina pointed his happy trail you crumbled a little inside.

It was extremely distracting.

You cleared your throat, and pushed yourself up, snatching the bowl away from him.

"Hey!"

"'Scuse me?" You huff, "I need to eat too so I'm not drunk after two shots tonight."

Hitoshi froze. There was a pause. His voice came out meek, like a scared mouse.

"What."

You snorted at his blank face. His eyebags weren't as bad today, but they still cast a shadow on his pale face. The panic on his face made him look like a horror movie character at that moment.

"We're going out tonight? With Mina and Denki?"

Hitoshi's eyes widened, and let out a small 'fuck' under his breath. He desperately avoided your gaze, but still he shook his head in protest.

"Nope."

"Fuck you mean 'nope'?" You scoffed. It was a struggle getting Shinsou to come out with you all, but you knew he did actually enjoy everyone's company. His intense lack of energy balanced the other three of you surprisingly well.

He slumped back into the cushions and smothered himself in one of the pillows, groaning into it like a teenage girl. You chuckled at the adult baby and poked his shoulder. "You're coming. You even agreed on the group chat!"

"BUT I DON'T WANT TO-"

"TOO BAD."

:::

As Hitoshi stood at the entrance of 'The Three Boars' he'd never wanted to turn into a turtle and sink into his shell more.

You, on the other hand, stood beside him with a bright grin. And a very small outfit, he'd noted when he picked you up. He'd spent the Uber over gulping every time your skirt rode up and good god when you walked in front of him-

"Ready?"

He broke out of trance and looked at you. A frown crept on his face, but no real ill intent sat behind it because the smile on yours stopped it. He nodded.

Your hand brushed against his, and for some reason the hairs on the back of his neck stood attention. Your fingers reached out hesitantly, like you wanted to curl them into his palm and tug him along. But you didn’t.

Instead, you strode forward in front him and he found himself staring up, because he know if he didn’t, his eyes would find themselves glued to the backs of your thighs.

It was loud in the bar with music thrumming through the floor and people hollering at each other at the tops of their lungs. Two people managed to stand out in the crowd though - those two obviously being your two friends.

Mina and Denki are scream-laughing at strangers dancing, clearly already off their tits. Mina catches your eye and screams - the whole bar jumps at the shrill sound, but she pays no mind and hurtles towards you.

You laugh and hug her. "Y/n, I have a secret, c'mere," she mumbles. You stifle a laugh and lend her your ear. She cups her hand around your ear and... makes a fart noise.

Denki comes up behind up the two of you and cackles at the both of you. Shinsou can't help but let out a little snort at the sight. Seeing you smile would always make him the smile, anyways.

"Should we get drinks?" You ask. It's pointed at Shinsou, but Mina screeches 'yes' and drags you to the bar. You send a ‘sorry’ look at Hitoshi, and he just shrugs with a smile. You order your drinks and sit with Mina at the stools.

She's patting her hair back into place, eyes searching for the yellow-haired boy in the crowd. God knows where he's taken poor Shinsou.

You can see the look on her face - it's more obvious now she's drunk. Furrowed brows, jutted out lip and she's curled into herself a little bit more. "You still haven't told him?" You pry.

She jumps at your question and moves a pink curl from her eye. "No..."

"He's crazy about you," You sigh. The bartender puts your drinks down, you thank him, and take a sip- fuck, it's strong.

She raises a brow and rests her clumsy head against her hand. "Nahhhhh, he isn't."

"Yes, he is!"

"No, he isn't!"

"Mina-"

"Plus, can you even talk?"

That shuts you up, and your face twists in confusion. You let out a breathless laugh, "You're so drunk, dude-"

"Okayyy?" She says, an evil grin lighting up her dark eyes. "Hitoshi still has a big, fat crush on youuuuu," she sings. Her finger comes up and boops your nose, much to your dismay.

You waft her finger away and take a glance at the boy across the room. Both boys are sat down, Denki on some rant that includes waving his arms around like a car dealership blow-up. Your eyes drift to the purple haired boy.

He's sat back in his chair, his jacket off and arms straining at the short sleeves of his cotton shirt, and he does his signature stretch - the one that you 'hate' so much. Your eyes betray you, and your glancing down at the dark strip of hair leading to his belt-

"Jesus, just ask him out already. The whole room can feel you eye-fucking him, Y/n," Mina slurs. You snap your attention back to her with hot cheeks and shove her lightly. She's stuck between giggling at you and looking at something behind you.

A hand on your shoulder makes you jump out of your skin. You let out a small shout, and spin around. A tall guy looms over with a leering smile - it makes your skin crawl - and eyes drawing everywhere but your face.

He’s got dark, greasy hair and black eyes that look like pits into whatever ‘soul’ he has. There’s an air around him filled with arrogance, douchery, and frankly, danger.

"You single?" He drawls. He's uncomfortably close - nearly caging you in against the bar, with one hand on the counter behind you. The other hand is busy holding an empty pint of beer that you're thinking hasn't been his first.

Mina's watching the both of you with wide eyes, mouth opening and closing like a fish. You shake your head and laugh with anxiety. "I'm not interested, sorry," You mutter and slide off the stool.

Mina joins you and you're pushing through the crowd. She's in front of you, and you're nearly at the table, but there's a hand on your arm. It's holding tight.

A yelp leaves your lips but Mina's already through the crowd, probably at the table. You’re pulled back into the chest of the guy, and his face reeks of alcohol. A horrible grin spreads across yellow teeth and he flips his dark hair out of his face.

"I asked if you're single, so answer the question, sweetheart." He slurs, nose almost touching yours.

You tried to wrench your arm out of his grip, panic rising. The thrumming in your ears is getting louder, but your throat is so dry that nothing will come out. The few sips you had of your drink are making you foggy, but you know you need to move.

You managed to push some words out. "Listen, I just wanna sit with my friends-"

He presses himself against you, and your heart feels like it's going to burst out of your chest when he moves his mouth next to your ear. "Why can't we be friends?"

There’s a beat where you’re not really sure what happens, but something does.

You blink and you're free, a waft of air making you shiver for a second.

There's a back in front of you - a back you recognise immediately as Shinsou's, and his familiar smell of lavender and cedarwood fills your brain with the same feeling second-hand smoke from Denki’s blunts do.

The guy scoffs loudly and peers around Shinsou, gesturing at you with a pointed finger.

"She didn't fuckin' tell me she had a boyfriend! She was leadin' me on-"

Hitoshi let’s put a groan and puts his hands to his temples, “Shut the fuck up? Please?". He’s scowling, arms crossed, looming over Creep Mcgee. It's apparent he's a foot taller than the moron, the width of his shoulder making the two of them look like a comical before and after gym-plan ad.

If you hadn't been so shaken, you'd have laughed.

Instead, you found your hand subconsciously wrapping around Shinsou's bicep and glancing up at him. His gaze was steely and dark through narrowed eyes, and his tongue poked through his cheek.

The guy moved to say something again, but Shinsou shook his head. It was a warning, if anything.

Creep McGee just sighed and left, muttering things about you.

A few people had been watching, but they got bored and went back to their dancing and drinking. He looked down at you and his face softened, clenched jaw turning into a small smile on his lips.

"You okay?"

You nodded and tightened your grip on his arm. Your legs were shaking a bit, but you were alive so you couldn't complain.

He gave you a once-over and took your hand off his arm, holding it instead in his own. He looked at it for a second, and Mina's earlier words flashed in your mind.

"Hitoshi still has a big, fat crush on youuuuuu."

The memory made your face go hot again. Shinsou huffed, and started leading you to the door.

"No- I don't want to ruin it, I wanna stay for a bit-"

Hitoshi let out a chuckle in front of you and looked back with a smile you thought you'd swoon over. "We're jus' gettin' you some air, kay?"

His voice was soft and warm and felt like a million hugs and lit you on fire. You nodded obediently and let him lead you outside to sit on the curb a few steps from the door.

You sat clumsily, tugging your skirt down while Shinsou shook his head at you.

"Why do you even wear that stuff? It's always stressful for you," He asked as you finally sat next to him.

"'Cus it's cute? What, do I look bad?" You asked with a cheeky smile, nudging him.

He went quiet for a minute and looked out into the street, eyes following the passing cars. "Nah. You look beautiful." He admitted quietly.

Your heart jumps into your throat at his words. Your hair stands on end, and you feel like you've been electrocuted by Denki with the tingles and shivers flying across your skin.

You turn into Mina for a minute, and open-an-close your mouth like a fish. "...Thanks, boyfriend."

Hitoshi snorts and pushes your shoulder with a teasing smile. "Yeah, you wish, Y/n."

"Yeah, I do," you reply without a beat. You don't even realise what you've said before Shinsou turns to you with wide eyes.

Your hands fly up to smack your mouth in panic. What the fuck? Why would you say that! Y/n, for fuck's sake-

But a grin breaks out on his face, lighting up his violet eyes and they shine in the lamppost's light above him. Fuck, he looks like an angel with the white light halo-ing him, outlining his silhouette like a movie screenshot.

"Yeah?" He asks, and his voice has lowered a bit. His teasing tone is gone, and there's something different, you've never heard before - it's electrifying.

Hitoshi's inched forwards, and his eyes are flitting from your eyes to your bitten lips, making your body shake in anticipation. You know you're doing the same, watching his gaze on you darken and his lips form a shit-eating smirk he'll use to annoy you later.

But you don't give a fuck, because you nod.

He moves fluidly, hand snaking up to cup your neck, half in your hair, and rush you towards his lips. A muttered 'fuck' leaves his mouth before he kisses you, and it's everything you've ever imagined.

He tastes like tobacco - a habit he pretends he doesn't indulge in - and minty gum, making your head spin more than it already is. He's soft, moving with your mouth slowly and taking you in.

Your hand rests on his chest, and you can feel his heart hammer at an unhealthy rate. Air is rushing out of you, so you force yourself to separate from Hitoshi. It’s reluctant, and you wish you could spend all your time against the soft pillows that are his lips, but unfortunately you require oxygen to survive. A cruel reality.

You're both panting into the cold air, staring at each other. A little giggle escapes you, and Hitoshi laughs, and then you both end up in a fit of laughter with your hands still cradling the other.

"Boyfriend?" Hitoshi asks contemplatively, pretending to think it over. You snort and hit him on the chest.

"Take me out on a date, first, pushy."

He grins and pecks your nose, hand still cradling the back of your neck. "I guess I'll have to, then."

"Well, in that case... can you go get me another drink? I left mine on the bar-"

"Good God, Y/n."

taglist: @todoslutbyheart @aespie @itzlittlemissperfect @im-so-tired-sorry @mangalovesanime-blog @livingmydreamlife5555

#{ 1000 special }#bnha #bnha x reader #mha #mha x reader #mha fluff #bnha fluff #shinsou #hitoshi shinsou #shinsou x reader #hitoshi shinsou x reader #shinsou fluff #shinsou x reader fluff #bnha x reader fluff #bnha fake dating

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scarletssienna · 6 months ago

Text

I Only See Daylight

Summary - Weekends in with your girlfriend are your favorite. They’re even better when she makes your favorite cookies. 1.3k words

Warnings - fluff, fluff and smut, dom!sub undertones, mommy Wanda, fingering, orgasm denial, biting, praise, hair pulling, begging

AN- mommy Wanda is my absolute favorite. Can be read as a standalone or as a little blurb of the mommy coffee shop fic

18+, minors/men dni

Mundane summer mornings were always your favorites. The simplicity in the days when Wanda didn’t have work. The way her footsteps would fall gently across the wooden floor. When she would wake you up in the morning with gentle kisses and promises of pancakes. The sun would just barely peek through the curtains. When you would yawn and rub your eyes and she smothered you with love. Those were the best days.

Today, you laid on the couch, snuggled up with your favorite blanket while Wanda hummed along in the kitchen to one of her favorite songs. You had assumed she was just making an afternoon snack but when she took longer to return accompanied by much noise of pots and pans banging around you curiously went to investigate. You wandered into the kitchen, pink socks with tiny bows sliding across the floor. You had simply deemed getting dressed on the weekends to stay in was unnecessary. So there you stood, in a long t-shirt and panties, smiling at the girl in the kitchen in front of you. She hadn’t noticed your quiet approach so you took the surprise route. Quietly you snuck up behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist and peppering kisses across her back. She yelped softly at the surprise of you before turning around and wrapping her arms around you closely.

“Hi there Detka,” she hummed happily as she pressed a kiss to the top of your head, letting you snuggle in close to her chest.

“Whatcha doin?” You asked, closing your eyes as you leaned into her embrace. She hummed above you and kissed the top of your head, her hands wandering across your body.

“Making your favorite cookies.” She said with a smile as her hands rested on your ass, grabbing a handful. Her wandering hands were no distraction to you. It was typical and you were used to her groping and grabbing hands as she had told you many times ‘Mommy shouldn’t have to keep her hands off of what’s hers.’ Your head lifted and your eyes glistened when she told you.

“Chocolate chip!?” You exclaimed excitedly as you looked into her eyes. Though a frown formed across Wanda’s face.

“Chocolate chip? Oh darling, I thought your favorites were the sugar cookies.” She said, biting her bottom lip. You quickly looked away from her, settling your head back on her chest to hide your disappointment.

“That’s okay.” You mumbled quietly, causing Wanda to grin and squeeze your ass again.

“I’m just teasing, pretty girl, I’m making the chocolate chip cookies.” She chuckled and reached over grabbing a chocolate chip off the counter and placing it in your mouth. You looked back up excited and happily took the chocolate into her mouth, biting her fingers before she could pull them away quick enough. She chuckled and pressed her fingertip to your nose and shook her head. “Wanna help Mommy finish them up?” She asked with a smile. You nodded in response and pulled back from her embrace a little so that you could help her. She walked over to the counter, grabbing your hand softly to pull you along. She stood behind you, arms wrapped around you as she measured out a few of the ingredients, handing them to you to pour in the bowl. One of her hands worked along with you while her other one rested happily holding and playing with your tit. Your happiness was undeniable. Though it quickly faded when she handed you the whisk and you immediately spilled half the dry ingredients all over. The guilt of messing up the cookies took over and you instantly stepped back, forgetting she was right behind you. She caught you in her embrace and pressed a kiss to the side of your head.

“It’s okay, here. We can clean it up.” She stepped to the side and scooped the ingredients back into the bowl. You nodded a little as you watched her. She grabbed the other ingredients and cracked an egg into the bowl before passing the other to you. “Here.” She hummed with a smile. You smiled a little and walked over, cracking the egg into the bowl. Except there were several egg shells that made their way in as well. When you messed up again tears filled your eyes and you stepped away. Wiping your hands off onto your shirt.

“You finish them.” You said in only a whisper causing Wanda to quickly walk over to you. She cupped your face in her hands and pressed soft kisses across your face.

“Shh Detka, it’s okay. The cookies are going to be just fine. You sit here while Mommy finishes these up.” She said as she held you closely in her arms. You sniffled and settled in her arms. She then walked over and tapped a clean spot on the counter for you to sit. She set a small pile of chocolate chips next to you to keep you occupied while she finished up the cookies. When the cookies were finished and on a pan she put them in the oven before setting a timer and walking over to you. She pushed your legs apart, settling between them as her hands began to wander across your body again. “You were feeling some big feelings back there weren’t you pretty girl?” She asked in a sultry tone as she pouted out her bottom lip. You nodded and sighed at her touch. Her fingertips danced between your thighs before sliding up your chest and under your shirt. “You have no reason to be thinking Detka, pretty little girls like you don’t need to do that.” She hummed, pinching your nipple between her fingers causing you to arch your chest towards her with a moan.

She slid her other hand into your hair. She tangled her fingers and pulled you into a sloppy kiss. You eagerly kissed her back. Your tongues moving at a messy pace you couldn’t quite follow. With a swift tug she pulled your head to the side, kissing and nipping at your neck, leaving ample marks as she moved.

“Mommy please.” You whimpered desperately as you bucked your hips into her. Her hand moved down into your panties. A grin spread across her face as she watched your pleasure grow. You moaned at her touch, her fingers tenderly swirling across and around your clit. She was careful to avoid, wanting to tease. You closed your eyes, letting your head fall onto her shoulder as you moaned. Groaning out her name, your moans became frequent as she worked you up quickly. Her fingers slipped inside you slowly causing you to buck your hips again. She softly tisked and halted her movements. When you stilled she continued, moving at a slow, painful pace. “Mommy.” You whimpered. She couldn’t resist your sweet sounds for too long. Her hand picked up speed and her thumb went to your clit. The change in pace and rhythm caught you by surprise. You let out a loud moan as you softly bit at her shoulder to stifle it. You grew towards your orgasm quickly. But just as quickly as it started suddenly it all stopped.

The timer went off with a loud annoying ding causing Wanda to step back from you. She pulled her fingers out and pushed them up to your lips. Whimpering loudly when she pulled her fingers out you complained.

“Mommy no.” You whined, causing her to stick her fingers into your mouth. You took the fingers into your mouth, sucking them clean before releasing them with a quiet pop. With her other hand she turned the timer off before walking away from you. She put on an oven mitt and pulled the cookies out of the oven. You watched her, pressing your thighs together as you whined, impatiently for her to return.

“Hush sweetheart.” She hummed and walked over with a cookie while she blew on it. “We have to be quick, I have some work in the garden to do.” She hummed with a smile. “Have a treat while Mommy has hers.” She said with a smile as she passed the cookie to you and squatted down, settling her head between your thighs.

#mommy wanda #wanda #wanda maximoff #wandavision #wanda marvel #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maxmoff x y/n #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x female reader #elizabeth olsen #lizzie olsen

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moonstruckme · 4 months ago

Note

Apple pie with spencer read and qn airport terminal qt midnight

Thanks for requesting!

cw: mention of bad eating habits, mentioned unease around germs

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 729 words

“Spence.” Your voice is soft, your fingers combing through his hair even softer. Spencer’s head rests heavy on your shoulder. You shield his eyes from the harsh lights with a hand, hoping to rouse him gently. “Honey, wake up.”

Spencer’s eyebrows furrow. Or, one does, the other already squished towards furrowing by the way it’s laying on your shoulder. You hate to wake him—Spencer tends to have a hard time relaxing at airports, what with all the germs—but your window to get something to eat is closing.

“Aren’t you hungry?” you ask him, coaxing.

“No,” he mumbles, but he’s blinking awake, looking up at you with soft, sleepy brown eyes. “Are you?”

You give him a sheepish smile. “A little. Sorry, do you mind if I get up to go look for something? Everything’s closing.”

“No, don’t be sorry. I’m sorry I almost made you miss dinner.” Spencer sits up, stretching his neck. He pushes his shoulders back lazily, and you can hear his bones crackle. “I’ll go with you.”

You protest half-heartedly but ultimately capitulate, picking up the heavy backpack before he can and leaving your boyfriend to tow the suitcase. At this time the airport is near empty, the only people to be seen the sad band of vagabonds sitting at your gate waiting for your plane to arrive. You’ve been delayed two hours by the weather. Spencer will have to wake up four hours from when you get home to go to work, you only a half hour later.

You realize as you walk that you may be too late. While the websites you’d checked had said their airport locations would be open until midnight, the employees are already cleaning out machines, wiping down counters, pulling metal gates closed over their entrances.

Spencer makes a worried oh sound, realizing the same thing.

“There’s an Auntie Anne’s down there,” you say hopefully, starting to walk faster in case they’re closing, too. That glowing yellow sign is your light at the end of the tunnel.

Spencer speeds up with you, but protests, “A pretzel isn’t a meal, sweetheart.”

“It might be my only option,” you point out. “Also, I saw you eat a bag of salt and vinegar chips for dinner last week. You don’t get to talk.”

You hear a soft, slightly petulant huff behind you. You might give him shit for it if you weren’t in a rush.

You try to order as quickly as possible, feeling guilty for making the employee serve you just before close. But then the cup is in your hand, warm and smelling of cinnamon, and you think you probably would have vaulted the counter to get it yourself had she refused you. It’s heavenly.

You wait until you get back to the gate to start eating, wanting to savor every bite. When you do, you have to close your eyes, forcibly smothering a moan. They’re everything you wanted and more. You shovel them into your mouth faster than is probably safe and definitely faster than anyone’s mother would approve of, and it’s not until you’re more than halfway done that you notice Spencer’s stare.

You give him a wry look. “So now you’re hungry?”

“What?” He looks startled. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re practically drooling.”

“No, I’m not,” he says, though you notice him tighten his lips as though checking to be sure.

You sigh, holding them out to him. “It’s okay. Have some.”

“No.” Spencer frowns with his eyebrows. “They’re yours.”

“It’s seriously okay,” you say, more genuinely this time. “I’d hate for you to miss out. They’re really good.”

He can only resist temptation for so long. He takes one, and his reaction is nearly the same as yours had been, expression going soft at the perfect, delicious warmth of them.

“In exchange,” you suggest as he reaches for more, “can I take a turn napping on your shoulder for a while?”

“Yeah, of course,” says Spencer, managing to sound smitten even though a mouthful of cinnamon pretzel bites. He settles back in his chair, trying to give you as comfortable a pillow as possible.

“Thanks.” You sigh through your nose as you lay your head down, pulling your legs up onto the chair with you and closing your eyes. “I can’t believe we have to go to work tomorrow morning.”

“This morning,” Spencer corrects you.

You groan.

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milk5 · 1 year ago

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Somehow god has allowed the lousiest pita chip in the world to be granted the honor of a delightful roasted red pepper hummus smothering

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hansel-blimp4 · 25 days ago

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Was so stuffed last night, large chips, large sausage in batter, large roll and all of it smothered in grease and sauce. My belly was packed full in agony but my greed got the better of me and within 5 minutes I’ve got half a Yule log, vine of grapes and cream making me into a Christmas balloon! X

#gaining fat #belly gainer #feeding kink #get me fatter #gaining weight on purpose #gainer boy #fat belly #feedee belly #fatboy #fatty

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ohimsummer · 11 months ago

Text

STRESS RELIEVER ft. SATORU GOJO

— minors dni, stressed! satoru, afab! reader, creampie, established relationship (you're married), slow sex, fingering, pussydrunk! satoru

wc 1.4k

Some days are harder than others, especially for your husband.

It’s immediately evident when Gojo's had a bad day. He leaves grinning and lively—as much as he can be anyway with complaints of having to abandon your company rolling off the tongue— and returns abnormally quiet, depleted of his usual energy and blue eyes muted with fatigue. The stress of defeating curses and going back and forth with the higher-ups has chipped away at his nonchalant facade until there’s nothing left. All that remains of him is frustration, and worry, and exhaustion.

Despite his lethargic and closed off demeanor tonight, Satoru wordlessly pleads for you to grace him with your presence with a slight squeeze of your hand. He doesn’t yet smother you in his routine, after-work hug, but you’re still content with his slow, relaxing caress of your lower back. An arm cast over his eyes and blindfold loose around his neck, tension deflates from his body as the hours tick by, and the rhythmic sounds of your low breathing act as a soothing background noise to ease the furrow of his brows.

“Baby?”, he whispers against the crown of your head. The moon has long risen since you’ve joined his silent lounging, so he’s not even really expecting an answer.

“Hm…?”, comes your murmured response, and it’s somewhat of a surprise to him. “Yes, Satoru?”

The heavy hand on your back drifts lower, closer to the hem of your pajama shorts. Curious fingers prance at the bottom of your ass, cool against your warm skin to send a shiver up your spine. “Can I feel you?”

It’s a vague question, but you know what he means. With your slow nod for confirmation, Satoru’s dipping a thumb below the fabric of your panties, pulling before letting it snap against your skin; a smile threatens to tug at his lips when he does it again, and prompts your small whine in complaint. His fingers are eager—dancing along the edges of your panties to grope at your hips, ass, and thighs—before then slipping between your puffy folds. He’s soon greeted with your wetness coating his digits, and begins rubbing slow circles on your throbbing clit. A small moan escapes you at his motions, hips needily raising for more before getting ahold of yourself. You can’t afford to be selfish right now. This is for Satoru’s sake after all, not yours.

“Attagirl.,” he cheekily mutters, and presses harder against your swollen nub as a little reward.

Your indecisive grip wrinkles Gojo’s button-up, brows creased against his broad chest at the sickeningly slow pace. But you're determined not to complain, and only honor him with the shameless whimpers and moans that spring free from your lips, a melody that sends blood rushing straight to his length. Satoru readjusts his free arm to wrap around your waist and hold you snug, hips shifting beneath you so the prominent bulge of his hardening cock grinds against your tummy.

“God, you’re driving me crazy…” is all he can admit; it comes out somewhat as a raspy whine and that speaks volumes. Satoru’s been pent up since his first mishap of the day, and if he’s not careful, he’ll blow a load in his pants just from a little dryhumping. Embarrassing, but that’s just how much he’s craving you.

A finger traces your spasming hole and Satoru groans out a ‘fuck’, head thrown back on the arm of the couch as your pussy sucks the digit in with ease. The wetness of your cunt soaks his fingers and warmth floods to your cheeks as a squelching sound breaks the silence.

Satoru hisses into your ear. “Fuuck, angel, you’re makin’ such a mess. Hear that?”

The pace of his fingers picks up, tips just nudging your sweet spot, and lewd, wet noises reach your eardrums.

“You-you’re so–,” a cry breaks through your sentence and tears begin to dot along your lashes, thighs trembling as your husband rapidly pushes you to your first orgasm. “–gross.” The statement is muffled as you bury your face back into his chest.

He at first chuckles in reply, before teasing further. “Oh, don’t be mean, sweetheart, it’s not my fault this pussy is so in love with me.” One finger, and then two as he scissors open your hole, stretching you out in preparation for his swollen cock. “Just look at her drooling all over my fingers, she’s obsessed.”

Satoru halts his fingers at the worst moment, right on the edge of your orgasm, and he knows it. He loves edging you, he selfishly wants you to feel as desperate as he does right now and he has no problem making that happen. You follow his hand with dazed vision, watching your own slick flow down the contour of his hand. Captivating, blue eyes reel you in, and Gojo doesn’t break your gaze as he wraps his lips around two fingers, moaning as he makes a show of sucking them dry. He takes your chin in his hand and you meet him halfway, pressing your own lips to his in a kiss and licking the taste of yourself off his tongue. A smirk widens on his face, mouth open to swallow the needy whimpers of his name from your throat. Satoru’s hands go back to toying with you, gripping and kneading the flesh of your ass as you both grind against eachother, your thighs rubbing together for any bit of friction you can get.

A few agonizingly long minutes go by before Satoru finally tugs his stiff cock from the confines of his pants. On a normal day, he’d take more time to tease you, rub his dribbling tip over your thighs and pussy to smear precum and slick and make a bigger mess all over the place. But you receive some leniency today. Your boyfriend doesn’t have the time, energy, and certainly not the patience for some extra fun.

“Oh–h, fuck, Satoru…,” you moan into the crevice of his neck, pussy tightening around him as he breaches your entrance.

“Mm, I know, baby.,” he hums into your hair. One hand caresses your head while the other continues massaging your ass. “F– fucking shit, love this pussy, can’t get enough of it.” And you’d tease him about his earlier comments if the stretch of his cock didn’t leave you speechless.

You gulp down deep breaths as Satoru sinks into you inch by inch, gradually burying his length into the welcoming heat of your walls. Lids clenched shut, your whiny moans of Satoru mix with his low, unfinished praises; words stuttered from his plump lips as he tries not to cum so soon. A high-pitched, broken cry exits your throat when he bottoms out, and you feel so full of him, throbbing length easily reaching that euphoria-inducing spot along your insides. Satoru’s fat cock fits in perfectly, lubricated with the heavy flow of your juices; he’s big, a lot more than you could handle but his teasing words and thick fingers are always more than enough to prep your little hole.

Satoru takes a moment basking in the warm, snug feeling of your cunt. You clench and flutter around him, pussy begging him for any kind of movement. The impatient squirming of your hips doesn’t help; his dick twitches, already on the verge of painting your walls white but he’s determined to relish in the feeling of you for a little longer. Gojo begins a leisurely pace of thrusting, which very quickly turn to needy ruts into your heat. The vice grip of your pussy has him whining lovesick praises against your skin; they’re topped off with rough kisses that help tighten the coil in your tummy as you lazily move to meet the hammering of his hips, clit grinding against the base of his crotch. He’s so conscious of every inch of you: your tits pressed against his chest, fingers curling into his hair or tugging his shirt, thighs tightening around his waist, lips brushing against his own as you feed him the noises that escape from within.

On tiring days like this, Satoru loves to be greedy, squeezing and grabbing the fat of your thighs and waist, selfishly indulging in your body as you allow him to use you. He’s dealt with long, exhausting hours, and Satoru is so grateful to come home to you, his gorgeous little wife, who lets him play with her body however he sees fit just so he can relieve some steam. You’re so kind, so patient with him even on his worse days. As he drags his veiny cock along your walls, feeling you clench and grip his dick as you both approach your first orgasms, Satoru can feel his stress just melting away.

tagz: @staryukis @anthoosies :3

#satoru gojo smut #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader smut #satoru x reader smut #satoru smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut

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maskosis · 23 days ago

Text

copper sutures, open wounds

Simon Riley x Reader

You've always belonged to each other even when you weren't sure what it meant.

Back when you'd shove clumsy fingers into your panties after he'd call, uttering awful, terrible, heart-aching things like been thinkin' 'bout you, pup and fuck, can't stop thinkin' 'bout you, pup.

Words meant for the ears of a lover, not you.

But the lines between the two have never been parallel, have they? Even when he was just an idea tucked inside gyri. A stranger that weaved in and out of your life: a haunting spectre on the edges of your periphery. Intangible. Each one an inchoate pin added along a growing, nebulous surface; pointillism in hindsight. The evolution of semelparity.

He's yours and that's all you've ever known. The rest just doesn't matter.

OR: two people who were probably lovers in a past life end up as siblings in this one. except. it doesn't really change much.

DDDNE—incest. smut. dirty talk. shame. slight bully!Simon. slight breeding. size difference. slight coersion. dubcon. mean dom Simon and the lil sister he bullies

You've always been close.

Something that strikes people as odd considering he's been gone for the majority of your life—military dog that he is—but despite the distance, the age gap, it's easy to wrap yourself up in him. Copper sutures over open wounds.

And that's what you are. Wounds. Gaps, gashes. Deep canyons of cleaved flesh, severing muscles and tendons, chipping off bone.

He wears his as scars, an eerie blankness in his eyes—flat, stagnant water. Crocodilian. Predatory. Black humour. Vile jokes whispered in your ear—what d'you call a dead dad? anything you like, he can't 'ear you. Disappearing when things got too real. Too serious. Not running. Not Simon, no. But a strange, untameable thing—becoming a ghost again. Drenching himself in mission after mission. Icecold distance in his eyes. Polynyas. Arm's length is too close. He needs an ocean of space to sew himself back together. Lap at old, aching lesions until the taste of iron subsides into peatsalt flesh.

It's something you have to wait out. Return to some sense of normalcy without him—because even when he's gone, he's always watching—and struggle through the loneliness until whatever is metastasizing inside of his head is clawed out with the tips of his fingers, and he crawls home to you, bloodstained and hungry—

And you patch him up. Feed him. It's what you do best. How you wear your hurt—becoming the caregiver you wish you had. Taking on roles too big for yourself, for your trembling knees. Hefting him up on the shaking legs of a girl in over her head. Treading water even when you know the person clinging to you is going to be the reason you drown.

You just can't let go.

And you wonder, sometimes, if he knows that.

Simon is a lot of things, and almost none of them are good. A part of you does lay awake at night wondering if he's purposefully pulling you down.

The sea, you know, is a hungry, untenable thing. Voracious is her appetite. She's greedy with her dead, clinging to old bones even when they turn into vapour under her daunting weight. Smothered by a mother's everlasting love.

You can't blame her, though. She let you go, crawling out of her womb until your feet touched soil, leaving her empty and aching. Mother without a child to feed. And when she pulls you back, it's only because she doesn't know any better. Can't, in her unerring elation, understand that your time apart from her arms has turned gills into lungs, and when she tries to nurse you, it's a smothering, deadly thing. Too big is her bosom. Too tiny are you. Choking on the milk she offers until your ghost glides inside her waves.

And Ghost—

Sometimes you wonder if he ever left her womb at all.

Even if he was, though—you made your bed when you were eighteen. When he came back from deployment and met you as an adult, not a small, impish little child who hid behind Tommy's legs. Too afraid of your own shadow to even say hi. He was too big. Too intimidating. A monster of a man—something that made his marred lips curl up in an ugly smirk when he heard you whisper this into Tommy's ear.

But like most things in your life, it started with a cut.

Thirteen and tiptoeing through the grass to sneak back into your bedroom window. A rusted nail sliced the bottom wide open. Tommy was at work. His wife sleeping after staying up all night with their baby. You sat on the porch and clutched the bottom, holding the skin together until he happened to find you. Curled over yourself, biting back whimpers.

It wasn't bad. Not really. But he just crouched down, grabbed your ankle in his massive hand, and grunted. Seen worse, pup. Ain't gonna kill you.

You didn't ask about the wounds no one could see. The ones that ached in the middle of the night when you heard Tommy yelling from behind closed doors. Body tensing for something you can't remember—muscle memory, maybe. You escaped the worst of it. It's something everyone around you is so quick to say.

But he doesn't. Not even when you sink your teeth into your knuckle as he prods at the torn skin. He just looks at you, impassive and distant—this massive man folding his body into a curled fist held low to the ground, accommodating—and hums.

"don't ruin your pretty skin, pup. Got enough scars f'the both of us."

Your fingers were pulled from your lips. His own slipped between the gap of your teeth, too thick for the split of your mouth. Tasting bitter—saltpetre, ash. Sweat. Iron. Works with his hands. Smokes reds at the dinner table with Tommy until the scent of smoke, cheap tobacco, is heavy in the air. Had to breathe.

"Go on, chew on me if y'need to. Must be teethin'."

When most people spoke down about your age, it made you bristle. Made you sneak out at night and hang around bars you shouldn't have been. Talking old men into giving you and your friends sips. A drag of their cigarette. Got anything stronger? I'm not a kid—I can handle it.

Still. You haven't learned to hold your tongue yet and as he lays your heel on his thick, hard thigh, and pinches the sore, swollen skin between his thumb and forefinger, rifling around in his pack pocket for a needle and thread, you can't help the petulant huff that spills out, reedy around the bulk of his knuckles.

They slip free when you move back, but he chases. Hand twitching back towards you, like a babe seeking warmth.

"I was out,” you bluster, swallowing down the tang of seawater and loam that clings to your tongue. “Partying."

Tommy would have been stupefied. Mad. His face turning blotchy red, purple. Listen 'ere, I might not be the best goddamn guardian f'ya, but y'can't jus' do what y'want—y'grounded, alright? Grounded!

But he isn't Tommy. The look he levels you with is flat. Even. But something sparks in those murky depths. Humour, you think. Leonine pleasure. A well-fed lion pawing at a gazelle just to see it kick.

"I know, pup."

You don't ask how. You think, even then, that you knew.

Simon’s hand moves again, pressing cold, spit-slicked fingertips against the soft give of your lips. You part for him easily, the bravado cracking under the pressure of his deep, unfathomable insouciance.

Cowed. Docile. Or maybe—

Absumed. The tension inside of you—this near constant state of hyperarousal, innate; congenital—is dimmed, snuffed out, under his big, warm hands. A lonely child lulled into a latibule. This clawing, aching thing inside of you, hunger, is a lacuna. Filled, suddenly, by his ferric touch.

The silence that lapsed between you became a staple, a constant, in your evolving relationship. Neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, it just is. Quiet. Words unsaid. Actions learned. Understood.

You communicate better in silence. Shared looks. Touches. And when he brushed his thumb over the tender slit in your heel, you hear the things he won't say. Sewn up with spare wire, a needle. Sterilized with the worn, red Zippo he kept in his back pocket.

Wound knitted back together.

A trick he taught you with fishing wire and a needle (—burn the tip jus' like tha' and thread it in deep, birdie—)

Something about you both just clicks.

You were seventeen when you moved into his lonely apartment (one o' many, he grunts; but the safest one he has). It's closer to your school. You're older, mature. You've been making your own decisions since you were thirteen—things like therapy and custody, and signing off on restraining orders to keep your parents away. Not that they bothered about that much anymore—not when Simon came around and threatened them. Dad dead, but mum—she hovers. Floats in and out of your life; a poltergeist that slams doors and kicks over furniture, sews discord just because it's the only measure of control she ever had.

("'nore her," he grunts into your ear when he finally calls after disappearing two weeks ago. Mexico, he rasps. Need'ta know. "She ain't gonna touch you if she knows what's good f'her."

"I know," you murmur, shivering at the brittle char in his voice. You miss him but you won't tell him because he already knows. "Bring me back something from Mexico. A souvenir."

"'ow 'bout a muzzle? For that smart mouth o'yours."

"only if it's pretty."

"fuckin' hell, pup. Gonna start makin' me wish I never left.")

You take care of yourself. Always have. And he—

He takes care of you.

It's easy to slip into these roles. Shedding skin. Dutiful college student, diligently studying away to careening headfirst into a proper, working adult meandering through life that passes too quickly now that you're older. Happy little sister. Dedicated auntie. You know how to contort yourself into these shapes. Let them live and breathe around you, through you, until you both stumble into his dark, quiet apartment. Your feet ache from wearing heels all day. His hands itch from holding himself back.

But here, in this quiet space, nothing matters.

And when he presses your back against the door, chest heaving from the pent-up desire brimming in his dark, unflinching gaze, you know nothing ever will. Nothing ever could.

Except—his eyes on you at dinner. Rapacious. Unnerring. Even as Tommy nudged his arm, brows furrowing as if to say, whatcha starin' at, mate? Almost did, too, when the topic of your boyfriend (this mysterious, phantom figure you spun lies about since you were eighteen) came up and he growled, deep and dark over the idea of you moving in, sometime soon, with another man.

(Something has come between you, you suppose—)

And it leads you here.

Dot, dot, dot.

But his face is a perfect mask of neutrality. Carefully blank. Marred skin carved into marble—impenetrable. Unknowable. But you can feel his anger humming through the whipcord spooling between you. Moonglade you trace with the tips of your fingers, feeling the taut pull of his shoulders when you rest your hands on corded muscle.

In typical fashion, he doesn't say anything about it. Leaves it to rot as he bends down, lips fastening against the heated apple of your cheek—more teeth than affection; nips flesh, and groans.

His hand is big and broad when it slips up your thigh, chest rumbling with a quiet purr when he finds your skin already slick, slippery.

"all f'me?" He grunts, dropping down onto his knees in the foyer, rucking your skirt up to your belly button, a harassed 'old it, pup, tha's a good girl tumbling out. Eyes drilling into the apex of your split thighs, darkening with a desire so thick, you can taste it on your tongue. "Been like this all night, 'ave you?"

Huh? He demands, angry now. All fuckin' wet thinkin' 'bout my cock, pup?

"Simon, please—"

His fingers slip into the hem of your panties. Yours tighten around the bunched fabric of your skirt. It's always so electric when he touches you. Illicit—

But that's just wishful thinking, isn't it? Because nothing about the way Simon feels is wrong. Verboten.

It was there long before you were aware of it.

(—skin of mischmetal just waiting for the oxidized iron and magnesium of his touch to ignite. Little pyrophoric heart stuffed inside a tinderbox.

Inevitable.)

You've always belonged to each other even when you weren't sure what it meant. Back when you'd shove clumsy fingers into your panties after he'd call, uttering awful, terrible, heart-aching things like been thinkin' 'bout you, pup and fuck, can't stop thinkin' 'bout you, pup.

Words meant for the ears of a lover, not you.

He's yours and that's all you've ever known.

But at the time—it was just that. Words. Needles in skin. Thread closing the wound.

You're not sure when it, when this, started. When it changed.

Gone half of your life, and then blinking in and out like a phantom. A spectre. An idea. Half-formed in childish nightmares. In glossy, wet teenage dreams. Fingers slipping over your mound, his voice in your ear. A needy ache in the pit of your chest whenever he had to leave. Goodbye to don't go. Don't go to come home quick.

The lines didn't really blur because they were always there to begin with. Innate. Congenital. The first brush of your lips against his—him, stiff and unmoving; watching you with those flat, predatory eyes as you shuffled closer, peeled back the balaclava he sometimes forgets to take off, and pressed your mouth to his. Chaste. Damning. To this.

Him on his knees, pulling your damp panties down. Rocking on his haunches to shove his face into the seam of your cunt, breathing in deep. Gulping down the scent of you. Nuzzling his chin into your flesh, all hot and tender and aching for him.

"gonna eat this pretty cunt, pup," slurred into the wet, slick folds he parts with the crooked, hooked tip of his nose. "been starvin' for it all night."

At one point, you think you tried to stop it.

This morbid, twisting thing growing inside of you. Swallowed down anything to kill the mass that tightened up in a needy, aching knot whenever he was around. Poison. Medicine. Carving it out yourself. But it was all palliative. Quick remedies to soothe the burn, but nothing healed the damaged skin.

Holy places, prayers. Men, boys. Ethanol. Bad choices.

But he never let you go too far.

(how'd you know?

m'always watchin' you, pup. remember tha'.)

Tidied up the mess you made. Helped you into bed. Lied to Tommy about where you've been and what you've done. Scoured the blood from your nails, the viscera from your skin. Listened to you bable about shame and disgust like it was a phantom limb. A third man. Never you—just a friend of a friend. Said nothing as you curled around the mass, shaking in your bed. Just set his hand on your head, and let you heave it out. Expelling all from within.

"go t'bed," he'd say whenever you tried to bring it up, talk around this thing eating you alive. "Talk in the mornin'."

But that never happened. He was gone when you woke. A ghost seen only in the middle of the night. The corner of your room. He had to have known, though—

"s'wrong, pup," he'd said after the kiss, but he still let you pull him down into the sheets. Let you push his hand under the hem of your panties, groaning in your ear when you urged him on so sweetly touch me, touch me—

Somewhere in the tangled, muddled mess of feelings and silence and touch, it just started to make sense. To fit. He belonged to you, and you—got my goddamn blood, don't you? 'course you're mine.

Wounded beings bleeding out, riddled with coagulopathy. It just makes sense to suture them together. And that's what you do—just like he taught you. Copper wire. Golden needle. Dress the wound. Hide it.

But here, in this dark apartment that smells like you, like him, home, you rip the bandage off and let the wound breathe.

Your hand sinks down, nails raking over his shorn scalp. "Then do it," you whine, curling your palm over his crown. "Eat me up, Simon."

"Fuck, pup—tryna make me pop in my goddamn trousers?"

It startles a giggle out of you, breathless. Wanting. "You said you were hungry."

Simon buries his face into your inner thigh, groaning low in his throat. Humid breath ghosting over your heated flesh, dampening skin. "Cheeky fuckin' thing," he drawls, teeth shaping the words against your twitching muscle.

It's little nips, beestings, just enough until the playful laughter in your throat is smothered under the weight of desire. Burning kindling in your belly that pops, crackling sap blistering in the heat each time his marred, mangled lips brush closer to the slick, sensitive crook where leg meets groin. A sliver of flesh the width of a thumb. A hidden valley between tendon and the sloped fold of your cunt. He licks there. Scorching. Wet. Tongue soft as he laps the slick from your skin.

Moans, a little, at the taste. A mangled noise echoing in the broad expanse of his chest. Throaty. Wanting. He nips there too, sinks his teeth into the skin until you whimper, hand grasping futilely against his buzzed scalp, sliding over welts of raised skin, scars.

"Simon—" it comes out reedy. Petulant. "Stop teasing me or—"

"or what, pup?" Huh? He adds, mocking. Mean. Nose scraping over the shape of your sticky, wet fold. His eyes are bedrock. Solid obsidian. So dark, so deep, you think one slip and they might just swallow you whole. "What are you gonna do?"

"I'll—ah—" he sucks your labia into his mouth, sawing softly teeth jagged teeth. "Ah, Simon—I'll go back to Tommy's."

It's a hollow threat, empty words, but his eyes narrow like you uttered a promise. Held a knife to his throat. A gun to the back of his head.

"That so?"

It isn't jealousy that strips his tone raw, has greed dripping down glazed charcoal, staining midnight black green, but something far hungrier. Even though it's his younger brother, even though Tommy is nothing to you except kin—older brother, guardian, the man who gave up his life to raise you after your father was killed and Simon barely made it home in time to save your mother; all things that Simon knows very well—Simon has always been a selfish, possessive bastard. Hackles rising at anything that even hints at taking you away.

This, you know, is no different.

And when he sinks his teeth into the meat of your thigh, eyes narrowed at you the whole time, you suppose you deserve it.

Comeuppance doesn't stop you from keening at the fresh, hot spread of pain when his canines pierce flesh, draw blood. From digging your claws into his scalp, dragging them over his skin until he groans, eyes fluttering at the taste of your blood on his tongue, the feel of your nails scratching his head.

His maw drips with it when it peels back, rocking on his haunches to stare up at you with a renewed fever in his eyes. A sharp want that cuts a jagged line down the middle, bleeds black when he tips his head back, exposing the thick of his throat, and hums when he swallows the taste down. Letting you see for yourself the shift and pull of his muscles as he drinks you down. Blood—inside and out.

"s'tha' what you're gonna do?" He mutters, head still tilted back. "Gonna run from me, pup?"

The look in his eyes makes a shiver drip like hot oil down your spine. "N-not if you touch me—"

It's waging a deal with the devil. Taunting a basking saltwater crocodile. Sticking your hand in the maw of a lion. Danger. But in that—

A thrill.

"Jus' want me to touch you, huh?" He coos, mockingly plangent as he tightens his hands around your hips, holding you steady as he rocks forward until his mouth is a sliver away from your slick, throbbing flesh. His hot breath ghosting over your wet slit makes you keen, all low and pitiful. Whining in the back of your throat. "Need my mouth on ya? Wanna hump your needy little cunt all over your big brother's face?"

His name stutters out in a warbling cry—the coalescence of shock and shame that bubble inside your chest, frothing over at the hideousness of it all, but cowed (and secretly pleased) at how easily he can say something like that. Rough and gritty. Scree raining down—sharp stings. Little bites. Embarrassment and elation an ugly, mouldering thing in your belly.

"Don't—don't be crude," you hiss out instead, catching his crown once more in your hand to give a warning squeeze. Mouse nibbling on the toe of a lion, all he does is huff, blowing warm air over your drenched cunt.

"Crude," he mocks, but lets you lead his head to where you want it most. Buried between your thighs. Long, thick nose pressed tight against your pebbled clit. But you should have known better—his compliance always comes with a cost. He carves his pound of flesh with the sharpened edge of a mean smirk, dropping his mangled maw to let his tongue snake out. Just a taste, a tease. His tongue flattens against your parted seam long enough to coat the tip before he pulls back, your wetness glistening on his lips. "Ain't nothin' crude 'bout eatin' my baby sisters, pussy. 'pecially when she's beggin' for it so bad."

"Simon—!"

"s'where 'er big brother belongs, ain't it? Buried between these sweet thighs."

He cleaves his tongue up your slit—aching, drenched hole to swollen clit—and huffs when you yowl, back arching against the door. His mouth has always been an awful, awful thing. This is no different. Sawing it roughly between your folds, groaning at the taste of you. Peeling back long enough to dart his gaze upward, cutting, until you meet his stare. See the wetness around his chin, covering his lips. Pale pink lips turning blood red with how eager he devours you, eats you up.

Simon swallows again. Tongue flicking out to catch the drying droplets of your blood still tucked into the corner of his mouth.

"Want my mouth, pup?" He demands, words mangled in his throat. Raked over coals. "Want your big brother to eat your sweet pussy?"

You're not sure how he says these things so shamelessly—and that's exactly what they are: without shame. Drenched in desire. Want. He glares up at you, heaving, hands flexing around your hips as you war with the part of you that still likes to pretend he's a stranger sometimes. Waiting.

He won't touch you again until you give him what he wants.

But what he wants—

Well.

You're not sure there's enough of you left to give away.

"Simon," you try, angling for needy because that's exactly what you are: wanting. Hungry. Sick with the same fever that burns through the palm of his hand. Desperate. "Simon, come on, please—"

You try tugging him. Pulling his head back to your aching, empty cunt. Arching your back. Rolling your hips. But he stays, impassive and immovable as ever despite everything you try.

"Please, just—"

"Thought you wanted to go back to Tommy's?"

"Simon—"

"Tha's what you said," he trails his fingers down your hip, dragging the tips through the slick smeared over your mound. Featherlight touches. Chaste kisses. Slides his hand over your cunt until it's cupped in his palm, long, thick fingers pressed against your rim. Heel on your clit.

It's torture. It isn't enough—

"I won't go," you heave, panting when he starts to stroke his fingers over your fluttering, empty hold. The movement pushing the ball of palm into your clit that sends little frissons of pleasure down your spine. "I won't leave—"

"Wha'd'ya want, pup?"

"You—"

His hand on your hip flattens over your belly, stopping the desperate rolls you make with each brief, not enough touch. It's mean. You whine that to him, pouting when his lips pull up in a vicious smirk.

"Can stay here all night, pup."

You don't doubt him for a second—awful, awful man—but it's hard to breathe around the shame sometimes. This polluted feeling in your chest. Tarlike. Oozing from the wound you left to rot. Infectious. Greedy.

He knows it, too. Listens to you bable out your worries to him in the dead of night, and only ever when he's gone. Spitting up the ugliness that festers in your chest is easier to do when there's an ocean between you. Words that are swept up in the morning—forgotten. Bad dreams.

Finite maladies. Bloodletting. Something that recedes when he's here, holding the fraying sutures closed with his hands. Keeping you together.

And it's fine. You need him. Can't separate yourself from living inside the heat of his hands. But it's easy when he lets you pretend. Let's you act like the stranger, the girl he picked up off the street and brought home. Little stray out in the rain that no one wanted tucked inside the pocket of his coat. Live inside the parallels where he's just a man. Flesh and bone. And not—

Blisters on your fingers. Gonna teach you 'ow t'fight back, pup. Get some claws on you yet. A gash on your foot. Too clumsy f'your own good. Skinned knees. Bruises on the apples of your cheeks. This is Simon. You remember 'im, don't you? 'course you do. He's—he's family. Dancing around the behemoth in the kitchen bent over a warm beer. Eyes sliding in every direction until they landed on you. 'smatter? Scared of your older brother? Don't worry—red eyes, indents in your bottom lip; he never asks who did it, just says—I'll hurt anyone who touches you, pup.

And it's a fact. Truism.

The next morning: coffee instead of a beer (s'not black, Tommy whispers in stages, half conspiratorial, half pleading please, please love him back: "he takes wif' three sugars. Gots a sweet tooth;") but still hunched over the table, eyes gliding around the room—the exits. Muscle memory, he'll bite out three years later when you finally gather the courage to ask. Habit. Normal—

His knuckles are bruised. Bloodied. His hand stiff around the mug, fingers too swollen, cut up, to close. Catches your gaze over the rim, but you don't bother pretending that he hadn't known you were there the moment you walked in. Gives you a wink.

"told you, didn't I? I'll hurt anyone who touches you, pup."

You think about that time in the kitchen and wonder if that was when these parallel lines started to collapse. Cave in.

Run into the ground. Into this.

Or was it this inevitable. A statement of fact. Something meant to happen regardless of blood.

"Simon."

"don't keep me waitin'," he says your name then. Not pup. Not birdie. Your name. "Tell me what you want."

Words unsaid, you think. Tell me what this is.

"I want you." It comes out shakier than you want it to. Your nails rake over his crown. Hips twitching futilely in his iron hold. "I want you, Simon."

"Gotta be more specific than tha'. What do you want me t'do?"

It feels like dancing along the edge of a precipice. The canyon floor is a vertiginous drop some several hundred feet below, stopped only by jagged rock. Exposed travertine. Rocky terraces. Stepping off the ledge and into the chasm is a daunting task even though you've been flirting with the abyss long before you even knew what the fear of falling was.

Words well, swelling over your tongue. It's easy to whisper them in secrecy, in cloaked darkness. Buried beneath blankets of a Stygian night. Tenebrous folding hands over your eyes. Make-believe on worn, cotton sheets that smell like heady musk—animalic. Arctic Angelica. Geosmin. Wet copper. An old, dirty cloth stained with guncotton. Sex. Loam. Stale sweat. Simon.

Your tongue is looser when he's been gone for a while. Willing to give in to his whims, the ugly shape of his mishappen desire.

And you know it's not about the substance. Not at all. The taboo doesn't rankle down his spine the same way you—just you—do.

This is a manifestation of his greed.

Like your loving seamother, he isn't content with halves or quarters. It's bones, blood, and viscera: all or nothing. Life or death. You can't cleave the limb to save the body with him.

Just like you can't pretend he's something he is not. Flesh and bone. Blood.

All or nothing.

But there's a difference between uttering those words when he lets you hide your sins from the world, tucked under the bulk of his body. Protectively cradled in the dark. And this—

You still smell Tommy's cologne in your nose when he went in for a tight, consuming hug only hours before. The taste of gin and pot roast on your tongue. Wapish barbs thrown back and forth like darts when Tommy's wife pried into your life—when are you movin' out on your own? Si must be tired of ya, ain't he?—and how it felt like the floor was dropping out from under your feet when he kicked his foot against your ankle, eyes prairie fire, feverish, and waited to see what you'd do.

Simon doesn't seem to care much for decorum.

"clawed my way outta the dirt to get back 'ome, t'get back t'you. This," he stamps his finger into your chest, laying claim over the thudthudthud of your trembling heart. "Ain't gonna change nothin'."

You thought of that then when you glanced down at the overcooked potatoes leaking a river of golden butter into the marshy peas, and rolled your shoulder. "I pay rent. It's cheaper. It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?" He'd said, dangerously low. Thick arms folded over his broad chest.

You should have known then that this was the inevitable conclusion. But—

Wounds. Sutures. Second skin. Copper solder.

Your head thrums with the aching pulse of a low-grade fever. Thoughts sluggish through the want.

And god, do you want.

Tactile: his hands, his mouth, on you. The way he pushes into you, filling you so perfectly that you always weep. Body on yours, crushing. All heat. The way he kisses you when he's about to cum, teeth and tongue, sloppy and wet. Chest rumbling with the groans he smothers against your lips. Hips working, pounding into you. Filling you up. Pulling on the threads, the seams, keeping you together. His rough voice in your ear (gonna cum, pup and—lips glued to yours, eyes burning in the dark—beg me not to do it inside o' you, not to cum in this sweet pussy). The pulse of his cock when you try to push him off, hands shoving against his broad, thick shoulders as you whimper beneath him, pleading just like he asked. Don't Simon, don't—not, not inside and, tears in your eyes, please don't cum inside me, Simon, please—

His groan in your ear when he does just that because nothing—not even you, pup—will ever tear him away from this perfect little cunt.

(his perfect little cunt—)

And impossibly: him. His hand in yours. Leaning over to steal kisses from you when Tommy isn't looking. A house you together without questions like when are you going to stop depending on your older brother, grow up, settle down—

You just want him.

The rest—

Doesn't matter.

But it can't stay like that, like this, whispers in the dark. Vespertine. Not with the sheer vastitude of his unerring appetite for you.

You huff, hand curling in the damp fistful of your skirt. Gripping tight. All of nothing.

"I want you, Simon," you plead, and a liquid heat fills you when his eyes flash, widening a touch before his kids droop down, half-mast. Listening. Waiting. Bringing out a shiver when the hand cupping your pussy possessively twitches, the tip of his finger dipping inside just a sliver. "I want—" you swallow down the shame that prickles in the back of your throat, keeping your gaze fixed on him as you tremble through the unease and let the feverish pin of his stare pull you in deeper. Flay you alive just to stitch you back together again. "I want my—my big brother to eat, eat my pussy—"

When he groans, it sounds like you've gutted him. Vivisection in the dim foyer where you can still smell reality on your skin. Tommy's looming disgust, his anger, that snakes around your neck because Simon doesn't do quarters or halves. Flesh, blood, bones. All or nothing. And the next time the shadowed lover comes up, he'll pounce. Staking his claim on you. Laying ownership down in the shape of his spare dogtag he makes you keep around your neck. The next best thing to a ring.

(already go' my last name—)

Awful man.

He lurches forward. Springing like a tiger in the underbrush, all thick, corded grace. Muscled agility. Snatches his jaws around you, canines digging in. His face against your mound, breathing in deep. Fingers pushing, pressing into you. Tongue laving over salt-slick skin.

The thick line of his cock lays flat against his thigh. A terrible sight, really, considering you've only just learned how to take him to the root without clawing at him to get away. An impossible stretch that leaves you feeling achy and sore—the onset of a fever. Waking up with a bellyache and soaked in sweat. Him behind you, pushing his cock inside again, desperate for you ("go back sleep, pup—I jus' need your cunt—") despite the burn. Making room in a place that begs for clemency, crying out: he just doesn't fit.

Pleasure and pain are tetherbound with Simon. Tidally locked. You can't have one without the other, and slowly, slowly, he's teaching you how live around this paradox. And that's what it is

Two fingers stretching you. His mouth sealing over your clit. The sting soothed by the wash of his tongue. The hard, tight suck quelled with the graze of his knuckle over a cluster of nerves inside of you that make your vision blur.

Quiddity: hurt and bliss weaving together, sinking deep into bathic depths; becoming this ineffable thing shared between the two of you. Demersal. Subsumed deep in your marrow. Mother's embrace. Your own special temenos.

You wonder if he knows. If he feels it when he grips your hip tight, feasting on your cunt. This urgency. This need. This gnawing ache in your belly that wants, wants, wants—

"c'mon, pup," he grunts against you, brontide. "Ride my face 'til you cum."

He rives his tongue through your folds until your knees quake, threatening to buckle. Pulls your clit into his mouth, laving it with the flat of his tongue in tandem with the thrusts of his fingers. He knows your body perfectly. Renders it into a finely tuned instrument, strumming between his fingers and tongue. That mangled, awful mouth.

Pleasure thrums down your spine.

You can't do much, can't even move, when he lifts his hand and curls it under your thigh. Wrenched it up, hefting your leg over his shoulder. Opening you up wider for him.

His name spills out. A choked whisper, distant and ignored, under the noises he pulls from your body. The squelch of your cunt swallowing his fingers to the knuckle. So wet, so wanting, it puddles on the floor between his knees—

Makin' a fuckin' mess, pup—

And you are. His face is soaked. Covered in you. It drips down his chin, but he just licks his marled mouth and dives back in for more. Stroking against that spot inside, a lacuna he carved out himself, until you see stars.

Deliquesce in his hands. A pretty ringdove with his fingerprints around your neck, cooing for him as he tugs on your seams. Unravels you with too much teeth and tongue, fingers pistoning inside of you as you break into pieces in the foyer. The lights are still on.

There's no hiding in the shadows. No playing pretend.

It's Simon on knees opening you up. Glaring at you through cracked obsidian, naked hunger spuming in the ink-filled depths: heavy drapes of amorphous clouds, nimbostratus, that rumble through the room, closing in around you. Inescapable. Tangled in this nebulous web that spools around you—

Copper wire.

His tongue feels electric when it rakes through your folds again—from rim, stretched around two thick, long fingers, to your pebbled clit—and the hot, clenching pulse behind your navel intensifies, coiling into a tight knot. A balled fist.

Simon groans into your swollen cunt, jabbing the tips of his fingers cruelly into that spot inside that makes your knees feel weak, liquid. Over and over and over—

“Come on,” it's barked out between sloppy licks over your clit, fingers rubbing, rubbing. “Be a good little sister and cum all over your brother's face—”

The knot breaks. Bursts into a series of gut-wrenching, bellyaching throbs. Pulsing molten as your nails dig into his scalp, body tensing with the viciousness of your release. Less unrelenting pleasure and more relief because when it rips through you, pulsing and throbbing like a heartbeat, a bellyache, there's a thread of pain woven in. Hewn against the clench of your muscles, the spasms that burst behind your navel.

Made worse when he doesn't stop—

Fingers pushing, shoving. Mouth sloppy against your cunt, grunting into your wet slit about how he can feel your pussy squeezing around him. S’tight, pup. Feels like you're tryin’ t’strangle my fingers, but he keeps forcing them into you, bullying through the vice-like clench to rub over your spasming flesh, merciless and cruel. Tongue laving over your clit, sucking it into his too hot, too sharp mouth. All jagged teeth, and—

Too much, too much—

Giving a messy, slurping suck, then ducking down to shove his tongue into you, sliding it between his spreading fingers, drinking down the thick, syrupy taste of you until it aches. Burns—

“S–Simon, please—can’t—”

He peels away with a grunt, ugly and bullish, and the relief is so sweet, you nearly weep. Whining in the back of your throat when he blows over your heated, swollen cunt. The tears spill when he leans over, rubbing his wet, sticky face into your inner thigh before opening his maw and sinking his teeth into your skin. Claiming. Branding.

It's different from the times before even though you know it's the same—same shape, same teeth, same spot. Something about it sits on your skin, digs into your flesh, differently than before. Less subtle. Less—

Restrained.

Carnivorous. Possessive. Even if the press of his jowls fits like it always has—a tattoo you'll keep for a few weeks before it heals; open wound, scab, shiny new skin. Ephemeral.

But maybe it doesn't have to be.

In the malformed face of this engineered, coerced epiphany, he stands in a fluid motion.

Your thigh slips down his shoulder before getting caught by hand, trapping it against his waist as he pushes against you, fingers locking in a bruising grip on the meat of your thigh.

Simon cages you between his body and the door. His other hand trails wet fingers over the column of your throat, wrapping around the vulnerable slope until the heat of his palm is pressed tight against your jugular. Holding firm.

Possessive.

It's a reflection of the look in his eyes as he gazes down at you, mouth wet. Pinked from heat, from the smothering clench of your thighs as he buried his face between them. The sight blisters. You want to taste yourself on his scars.

"want all o'you," he rumbles, timber low and fried. A brassy rasp that tickles your ears, and blooms fresh heat in your belly. Leaves scorch marks over your skin. "Get that, pup? All o' nothin'."

All or nothing.

Your legs are shaking. Natant. It feels like being eaten alive. Swallowed whole by the sea, dragged down, down—

“Got it,” you breathe when he gives a little shake of his hand. A pinching squeeze. Eyes on me, birdie. Don’t you ever fuckin’ look away. “All or—”

His mouth is on yours, stealing the words out from between your teeth. Half-formed, inbred. A hitching gasp, a quiver. He eats it whole.

And that’s how he kisses you, too:

but it's never really a kiss so much as it is being devoured. Eaten alive. The same way he gorges himself on you whenever he's between your thighs. Hunger. Famine. All consuming. Immutable want.

It’s in this kiss—sharing spit, sharing blood—(or this mockery of it) that the tendrils of his ravenous desire manifest, growing limbs. Teeth. Bites the hand that feeds it.

Hindsight blooms in the black clots of hypoxia, screaming this:

Tommy’s approval (and surefire lack thereof) doesn’t matter, has never mattered, because in Simon’s head, his family is dead. Died in a massacre some eighteen years ago. Living ghost—

(Ghost, is that what they call you?

Why are you so curious, pup? Wanna try screamin’ that out tonight instead, huh? Call me Ghost when I go’ my cock buried deep inside that pretty little cunt. Go on, then. Let’s give ‘er a go—)

—and out of that, the ashes, the blood on the cigarette-burned carpet, you were the one he reached for, grabbed onto. C’mon, pup, ain't gonna lose you too.

The you too in that has always been a mystery, the misshapen shape of a bad dream because the reality is that it’s impossible for you to remember, isn’t it?

And yet—

You have the most vivid memory of him pulling you into his arms, tucking your face into his chest. Breathe, birdie. Ain’t done with you yet.

Like now, when he slips his fingers over the curve of your asscheek, following the slick seam until his knuckle is pushing against your sore, tender hole, slipping inside with a groan that tickles along your tongue where it’s trapped tight between his teeth. Ain’t done. Two fingers, knuckle deep. Swallowing the whimper you make, canines digging into the soft give of your flesh until the kiss turns from loam—the salt-soaked, algae-like tang of your pussy on his lips—to iron. Blood.

(But really—

A little more between you never hurts.)

He holds you to his chest, smothering. Suffocating. Playing god, tempting death, with just a kiss. Eyes open. Staring at you.

And you:

Eyes open, staring back at him.

He sinks his fingers deeper, hooking them into your abused flesh until you whimper into his mouth, pulling away with a sharp cry. Don't and stop on your tongue, leaden, but he follows you, breaking them between his crooked teeth before they form.

“Come on, pup. Gimme one more.”

But it's never just one more with him. Never sated. Never full. He groans into the soft skin under your lip, nipping there when you drop your head back against the door, panting. Breathless. Dizzy. So full of him, you don't remember what it's like to be empty anymore.

“Simon, Simon, please, just—”

“Gonna gimme this pretty cunt instead, birdie?” Gonna ride your older brother, huh? Make ‘im cum inside you. He slips is other hand between your bodies, fingers dancing cruelly over your belly. Little circles. An oval. Some macabre pastiche of a heart. “Ain't safe,” he drawls, all bark, bite. “Could knock you up—”

All or nothing, you think suddenly, something whitehot burning behind your navel. Promise me that, pup. All or nothing, yeah?

Sometimes, he really makes you sick.

“What?” He taunts, breath rolling over your cheek as he digs his fingers into that spot inside that makes your knees turn liquid. The space below your hips melting. Natant. “Cat go’ your tongue o’ somethin’? Gone all quiet on me. Gonna make me think you don’t want me, pup.”

“Want you Simon,” you slur, dizzy. Delirious. As long as he keeps petting that place that makes everything sound a little fuzzy around the edges, that makes the space between your thighs feel syrupy with heat. Pleasure. “Want you so bad—”

“Then beg.”

It’s cruel. Mean. But even so—

You think of his hand on your foot, pinching the wound closed. Copper sutures. Jus’ like that pup. Jus’ me an’ you.

“Go on an’ beg your older brother not to knock you up.”

The words form, moulding on your lips. They taste of seawater when you flick your tongue across their shape; ichor and salt. Blood, maybe. You remember the adage, fill the rest in: thicker than water. It comes out like a plea in the back of your head.

You make it around please and Simon, before he bucks into you. Cock hard—a mallet. Battering ram. Inescapable.

“Oh, pup,” he coos, strumming against that dizzying spot until you clench tight, unravelling around his fingers. Awash in pure white. Fuzzy around the edges. Cotton in your ears—

Sinking deep below the surface. Back in mother’s arms

But it’s just his lips against your skin, teeth nipping at your cheek, mocking and mean. “Gonna have to beg me better ‘in tha’—”

Tommy will be so disappointed, is the passing the thought as he pulls you down, down.

The other—

But he's yours and that's all you've ever known. The rest just doesn't matter.

#at this point i have GOT to start paying ethel cain royalities before she comes for my ass :/#anyway listen to two children in a motel while reading this or whatever #dddne; incest #cw: incest

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