#compressed black hole

[bongreviewbd]

Black Hole: How the Smallest Black Hole is Created and its Scientific Causes

The concept of black holes is one of the most mysterious and fascinating topics in science and space research. A black hole is one of the most powerful structures in the universe, pulling almost everything into itself, even light cannot escape its gravitational pull. But the question arises, how small can a black hole be? In this article, we will explore in detail what the smallest possible black hole might be and how the scientific principles behind it work.

What is a Black Hole and Its Characteristics?

A black hole is a cosmic object that is so dense and has such a powerful gravitational force that even light cannot escape from it. Typically, black holes are formed when large stars reach the end of their life and explode, creating a black hole at their center. This process is known as a supernova.

The main characteristic of a black hole is its structure. At the center of a black hole lies a point of extreme density, known as a singularity. Surrounding the singularity is an invisible boundary, known as the event horizon. This is the region where the gravitational force is so strong that light itself gets trapped.

The Process of Creating the Smallest Black Hole:

If you compress an object with enough force, it can turn into a black hole. In this process, the object's mass is concentrated in one place, and the gravitational force becomes so strong that a black hole can form. For example, if the Earth were compressed to the size of a marble, it would become a black hole.

Scientists believe that there is no limit to the size of a black hole. A black hole can be smaller than a proton if enough mass is concentrated. In this case, the object becomes so compressed that its gravitational force becomes strong enough to trap even light, creating a black hole.

Black Holes and Gravity:

The key to creating a black hole lies in gravitational force. Gravity is a natural force that attracts objects toward each other. If an object is compressed, its gravitational force increases. For instance, if the Earth is compressed, the atoms within it will come closer together, resulting in stronger gravitational force.

This is how a small black hole forms when a large mass is concentrated in a very small area. The gravitational force becomes so strong that even light cannot escape from it.

Small Black Holes and Their Role in the Universe:

The idea of the smallest black holes has been a topic of discussion among scientists for many years. Many scientists believe that during the beginning of the universe, in the time of the Big Bang, numerous small black holes were formed, known as primordial black holes. These black holes may still be roaming the universe, and finding them is extremely difficult.

Additionally, scientists believe that the presence of small black holes can explain the thermal properties of the universe and the role of dark energy. The smallest black holes are deeply connected to cosmic radiation and the distribution of energy.

Conclusion:

The concept of black holes, especially the smallest black holes, is important for understanding the deep science and gravitational theories of the universe. To create a black hole, an object needs to be compressed in such a way that its mass is concentrated, and the gravitational force becomes infinite. This process helps scientists gain new insights into the structure, energy, and other complex features of the universe.

Research on the size of black holes and their smallest form will provide more comprehensive information about space and the universe. Future studies in this field will help answer various unknown questions about our universe.

Watch More: How to Cut a Sandwich Perfectly 🤔

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ব্ল্যাক হোল, ক্ষুদ্রতম ব্ল্যাক হোল, ব্ল্যাক হোলের বৈজ্ঞানিক কারণ, ব্ল্যাক হোল কিভাবে তৈরি হয়, ব্ল্যাক হোলের মাধ্যাকর্ষণ, ব্ল্যাক হোলের গঠন, ব্ল্যাক হোলের আকার, ব্ল্যাক হোলের সংকোচন, ব্ল্যাক হোলের সিঙ্গুলারিটি, প্রাথমিক ব্ল্যাক হোল, মহাবিশ্বের ব্ল্যাক হোল, ব্ল্যাক হোল মহাকাশ, সুপারনোভা ব্ল্যাক হোল, ব্ল্যাক হোলের তত্ত্ব, ব্ল্যাক হোল মাধ্যাকর্ষণ সম্পর্ক, ক্ষুদ্র ব্ল্যাক হোল, ব্ল্যাক হোল সংকুচিত, ব্ল্যাক হোলের প্রভাব, মহাবিশ্বে ব্ল্যাক হোল, ব্ল্যাক হোল ব্যাখ্যা, ব্ল্যাক হোলের ধারণা, ব্ল্যাক হোলের প্রক্রিয়া, মাধ্যাকর্ষণ বল, মহাজাগতিক ব্ল্যাক হোল, ব্ল্যাক হোল গবেষণা, ব্ল্যাক হোল সম্পর্কে, ব্ল্যাক হোল মহাবিজ্ঞান, মহাবিশ্ব এবং ব্ল্যাক হোল, ব্ল্যাক হোলের সৃষ্টি, ব্ল্যাক হোলের তত্ত্ব, ব্ল্যাক হোল এবং মাধ্যাকর্ষণ, ক্ষুদ্র ব্ল্যাক হোলের তত্ত্ব, মহাবিশ্বে ক্ষুদ্র ব্ল্যাক হোল, ক্ষুদ্রতম ব্ল্যাক হোল ব্যাখ্যা, ব্ল্যাক হোলের ভূমিকা, ব্ল্যাক হোল মহাবিশ্বের বিজ্ঞান, ব্ল্যাক হোলের প্রভাব, ব্ল্যাক হোল সংকোচন প্রক্রিয়া, ব্ল্যাক হোলের মহাকর্ষণ বল, ব্ল্যাক হোল কী, ব্ল্যাক হোল গঠন, ব্ল্যাক হোল মহাবিশ্বের শক্তি, ব্ল্যাক হোল এবং আলোর মাধ্যাকর্ষণ, ব্ল্যাক হোল কিভাবে কাজ করে, মহাজাগতিক শক্তি এবং ব্ল্যাক হোল, ব্ল্যাক হোলের ইতিহাস, ব্ল্যাক হোল গবেষণা প্রবন্ধ, ব্ল্যাক হোল মহাকাশের রহস্য, ব্ল্যাক হোলের প্রভাব এবং মাধ্যাকর্ষণ

[bradleymarchandenjoyer]

Goddddd papa marchand bringing his kids up with him to make his speech, and handing his scrawny teenage son the cup to barely lift

[narwhalandchill]

the unfortunate thing abt the narwhals 4.2 appearances is that both in those kind of dynamic cutscenes and bossfights alike there are set limitations in terms of scale given the model kinda. Has to actively be there moving in game environments . and as huge (& beautiful 🥰) as the narwhal Is even within those (particular props to how the model dimensions warp and get way bigger during the swallowing animation kinda implying how big its Actually intended to be). its also just Not That Massive for a creature whose whose sheer size in lore is p much described as like. genuinely incomprehensible . that casually consumes entire worlds and hosts newborn ones within its stomach. Like its just a Bit tiny for what youd expect (but very cute and stunning!!! With lovely animations!! Dearest)

But that also makes the subject of its Actual In Lore Size very funny bc it lets you kinda. Forget about that aspect for a little bit and then you go back to the 4.1 scene like

Right. Right.

THATS the all-devouring narwhal we are talking about . Thats the real deal 💀

[agent-oo-z]

Trying so hard not to commit a felony as I sit packed like a sardine in the back of this car. There are smells and sounds and people in my space and dinner was just as bad and there is only so much oingo boingo blasted through my earbuds can fix

[sisyphus-prime]

Tbh i will never get gender. In general. Any of it. Its all a mess and I just know im floating aimlessly somewhere in the grand soup of identities at any given point.

Makes me real happy to see people have fun w it. Even if I'll never get it.

[sixeyesonathiel]

you should’ve read the damn contract.

but you were desperate. truly desperate. broke to your bones, barely scraping by on instant noodles and tap water. you had holes in your socks, a phone with a shattered screen, and a wallet so empty it echoed. the idea of splurging on a sex toy? laughable. you couldn’t even afford a second-hand toothbrush. so when the sign-up form for "assistant tester" promised fast money with zero qualifications, you didn’t hesitate. clicked agree. no reading. no questions.

and now?

you’re strapped to a glossy, too-clean chair in a sterile lab with your legs spread wide, bound in place. and between them, humming softly with unholy precision, is a goddamn vibrator from the future.

silver, contoured, sleek—latched in place by soft restraints, the head of it resting firm and perfectly angled against your clit. it’s warm from its internal thermal sync, fitted with pressure-reactive gel pads and frequency mapping. you hadn’t even known vibrators could do this. it’s more machine than toy. and you are its first test subject.

“no offense,” satoru drawls, voice impossibly casual as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “but you’re twitching like a virgin in a wind tunnel. and this is literally the lowest setting.”

he grins around the end of a candy stick he’s been chewing for the last ten minutes, bright blue eyes tracking the shivers running down your body. his lab coat hangs off one shoulder like he forgot it halfway through putting it on, and his black compression shirt clings tight to his lean frame beneath it. his pants ride low on his hips where he’s slouched, thighs spread, casual in posture but intent in gaze. the goggles meant for "serious" testing sit uselessly on his forehead, pushing back his mess of white hair, strands sticking out in static waves.

his eyes flicker with amusement, mouth quirking as he watches your body react, fascinated. “don’t tell me,” he says, spinning slightly in his chair with a nudge of his heel. “you’ve never used a toy before.”

you jerk when the vibrator pulses, and your breath shudders. your thighs tremble as you try to close your legs on instinct—only to be kept wide open by the straps. your brows knit, lips parting in a soundless gasp, skin flushed from your cheeks to your collarbones. “i... haven’t,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

satoru blinks. then brightens. “what? oh my god. you’re serious?”

his grin widens—vicious and delighted.

“holy shit, this is even better than i thought. you signed up for high-grade prototype testing and your poor little pussy’s never even met a toothbrush’s vibration mode?”

“satoru!” you cry, humiliated, squirming against the relentless buzz between your legs. your hips twitch with every pass, toes curling in their restraints, spine arching slightly as the pleasure sneaks up your nerves.

he laughs like this is the best thing that’s happened all week. “nah, this is so good. write that down,” he mock-mumbles, pretending to scribble on his tablet. “subject is hopelessly inexperienced. results? extremely promising.”

he rolls his stool closer, the wheels creaking as he leans in. his breath fans across your thigh. he moves with lazy confidence, legs spreading slightly wider, hands loosely folded over his knees.

“can you even tell what part is making you moan like that? is it the pulses? the heat setting? or is it just the fact that someone’s finally paying attention to that sad little clit of yours?”

your hands grip the armrests harder, knuckles white. your face twists with the effort to stay composed, but another whimper escapes, and your lashes flutter from the building sensation. every hum of the vibrator sends your hips bucking.

“stop staring,” you choke, voice breaking from the mix of shame and pleasure.

he snorts. “what, you shy now? sweetheart, you’re on my table, strapped open, soaking my tech. i’m doing you a favor.”

he flicks a finger against the side of the vibrator casually. it twitches in response.

you gasp, whole body jolting. your eyes fly open wide, lips quivering as your muscles lock up for a moment.

he watches your back arch, eyes sharp and entirely too smug. “god, that’s adorable. you really don’t know what to do with it. how long you been walking around with a cunt that’s never been spoiled?”

beep.

he taps the tablet.

the vibration intensifies.

your whole body jumps, a startled moan ripping from your throat. your eyes squeeze shut, face contorting as your chest heaves in shallow gasps.

“ohhhh yeah,” he says, eyes gleaming. “now that’s the sound i needed on record. keep goin’, princess.”

you shake your head furiously, tears pricking at your eyes. your shoulders twitch with every wave of stimulation. “satoru—i c-can’t—”

“you can,” he says, nudging your thigh with his foot. “that’s literally the point. now stop whining and let the tech do its job. unless you want to redo all the calibration logs.”

he leans forward suddenly, forearms on either side of your thighs. he’s close now, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, the sharpness in his gaze as he watches you break apart. “you’re already crying and we haven’t even hit auto-rhythm. wanna see what happens when we let it pick the pattern it thinks you like best?”

“no—!”

beep.

too late.

he watches you twitch and writhe, cheeks flushed, lips trembling from overstimulation. your cunt is soaked. the toy hums louder. your jaw slackens as you pant, barely holding onto your sense of self.

“god,” he mutters, not even trying to hide the awe in his voice, “you’re gonna short-circuit the sensors with how wet you are. is this what happens when broke girls finally get some tech between their legs?”

you let out a strangled sound—half moan, half sob—as your body twists against the restraints, chest heaving in shallow bursts. your head tosses to the side, hair clinging damply to your temple, strands sticking from the sheen of sweat along your brow.

satoru tilts his head, one white brow arching lazily as if he’s genuinely puzzled. his lip tugs up in amusement, eyes gleaming with mischief under the fringe of silver bangs. “what’s wrong? you wanna stop?”

your voice breaks on a whisper, barely audible through your trembling breath. “yes,” you whimper, eyes glassy, lashes wet.

he flashes a grin—wide and obnoxiously bright, the corner of his mouth dimpling as he leans back on his stool, spine stretching in a casual roll like he’s just lounging at a bar, not orchestrating your unraveling. “too bad. you signed a full-cycle clause. twenty minutes minimum.”

his wrist lifts casually, tablet tilted toward him with a flick of his fingers. his thumb scrolls the screen like he’s checking a grocery list. “we’re only at seven.”

“satoru, please—” your voice cracks on the plea, lip quivering as your hips instinctively try to shy away from the overstimulation.

he doesn’t even blink. “oh now you’re begging. yeah, that’s goin’ in the notes.” he mutters it more to himself than you, tapping something in lazily, though his eyes never leave the way your body squirms.

his hand comes down slow, deliberate, resting lightly on your hipbone. the heat of his palm spreads through the thin fabric of the gown they’d given you, and his fingers flex slightly, just enough to feel the way your muscles tremble beneath his touch. you flinch—just barely—but he catches it, and his lashes lower in interest.

“try to keep your voice down, though,” he says, tapping your thigh twice like it’s nothing. “walls are thin. or don’t. up to you.”

then he leans back again, reclining just slightly in his seat, one knee bouncing idly, clipboard resting across it. the corner of his smile twitches as he watches your face twist again, eyes fluttering shut. “science is beautiful, huh?”

[tired-momfriend]

I'll never forget the time I thought my best friend (and then crush at the time) was confessing his feelings for me. It took until his very last sentence for me to realize he wasn't talking about me 💀

[akatalepsi]

I'm staring at his lips so much i feel like i'll be arrested for loitering on the post 😔

everyone's favorite hunky lad @mabaki 💖

[utisticgator]

also i really wanna make a shitty pokemon romhack or something where like its just a regular pokemon game but if you go to some random corner of the map you can encounter "just a regular fucking coelacanth" and its like some shitty compressed jpg of a coelacanth and it has three useless moves that dont do shit but also one called "outlast" where an animation plays where the day night cycle passes really fast over and over, time is flying by, your pokemon levels up and evolves until it hits level 100 then it dies. You black out, because the move killed your whole party. When you wake up, you're in the ruins of a pokecenter. There's no one around, holes in the walls and ceiling. You step outside. A vast, dead desert surround you. There is no more life. Everything is dead. You wander, the only one left to witness what time has become. As you wander, your curiosity and terror brings you to where you found the coelacanth. You find it. It's still here, still the same as it was. Just you and coelacanth, nothing else. You can interact with the fish: "the regular coelacanth is still here. coelacanth will always be here". Nothing else remains. Just you and coelacanth. Until you die. But you know that coelacanth will still be here. Your existance is nothing but a blip to coelacanth. And that's all you have. Just you and coelacanth.

[heavenbarnes]

anyways, as i was saying about older bf!simon and his willingness to please learn

pt 2 to this

“you ever heard of a nut video with sound on?”

obviously, he hasn’t- far as he’s concerned, if you haven’t told him about it then it doesn’t exist to him.

no skin off your nose, you’d spend the rest of your life teaching him about the ‘latest trends’ if it meant he kept sending those filthy fucking videos to your phone.

(your favourites on tiktok were purely filled with ideas)

he’s holed up in a remote location, killing time till he can be home and actually do something to you rather than send you a bloody video about it.

your instructions come through clear and concise, just how he likes:

“it’s what’s written on the can, si- you can pick the setup but i just want to see you cum and, most importantly, i want to hear it”

you’re lucky simon is such a practical guy and maybe you could thank price one day for making him so good at following orders.

when he’s got his alone time he’s setting his phone up to record on the edge of the window sill, moonlight fighting through the curtain to illuminate him.

he’s lost the bulkiest of his gear, down to his tactical trousers and a compression t-shirt. the images in his tattoo sleeve almost move when the light catches them right.

balaclava on (the one that just shows his eyes above the painted image of a skull) and he’s standing up to undo his belt (that you think looks like an airplane seatbelt).

you can hear his boots against the floorboard as he steps back to give you the full view of him undoing his trousers, taking his sweet time because he knows it drives you fucking batty.

he’s so big that the phone is working overtime to get all of him in the frame but you see exactly what you need to- thick thighs at your eye line and massive hands drawing down his fly.

on (you assume) the other side of the globe, you’re at home in your shared bed and you’re propped up right in the middle with the smell of simon engulfing you as you watch the video play out before you.

(if you’d thought about it you should’ve cast it to the bedroom tv, hoping the neighbours didn’t mind)

simon sits back down with his legs spread wide, one hand gripping his thigh as the other rubs himself over his boxers. his eye contact with the camera was fucking intense, like you’d hoped, just like when he’s on top of you.

he’s dressed in all black and the moonlight is obscured but you can still see him firming up in his pants. his eyes flutter, an infinitesimal amount but you’ve been tuned into his every move since you met him.

your thumb leans hard on the volume up button and you can hear the diegetic sound of the building expanding and that usual technical hum that comes with a video. but at this pitch, you could hear him.

his breathing was chopped, chest expanding visibly as he pulled his cock out into clear view. jeeeeesus christ, it was never something you just got used to.

long, reasonably straight, fucking thick. even his hand struggled to make it look smaller as he wrapped around it, giving one dry tug.

as he closed his palm over the tip, you saw him make a swipe before he brought his hand back down considerably smoother than before. you’d had your hands down his pants enough times, man leaked like a fucking faucet.

simon’s head tipped back as he started to pull himself off, balaclava raising just enough to expose some of his throat. if you were there you would be perched in his lap, letting him do the work but running your tongue under the lip of the fabric.

one of the best things about the videos simon sent was, he didn’t really understand how sexy he was. he didn’t think any of the videos particularly watchable so he’d just send them on first take. if you liked them, you liked them- yours was the only opinion that mattered.

what that meant was, you never got b-roll. everything he sent you was unbridled perfection. captured exactly as it happens with no faffing about.

always whatever you’ve asked for, whenever you ask.

(simon’s nothing if not inexplicably obedient)

he brings his hand under his chin to spit into the wide span of his palm, wrapping back around his cock and tugging. his foreskin moved over the head, rolling back down and thick veins bulging under his grasp.

you’d almost forgotten the conditions of your request, totally fucking enamoured by the sight in front of you when it caught you off guard.

a guttural moan ripped out of simon’s chest as he twisted his wrist.

his free hand moved to cup his balls, big and heavy, he rolled them in his palm as another groan sounded out of him. what you wouldn’t give to be knelt between his thighs with the whole lot in your mouth.

you knew how much of an ask this was, you really had to work him up to making noise when it was just you two in bed. these days? you couldn’t shut the man up when he was balls deep and his face was buried in the crook of your neck.

but this was another step, this was him on his own with his crew just through the walls. he’d be a plain liar if he said there wasn’t that rumbling trepidation in his chest. he’d put it to bed though.

all he had to think of was you, one hand gripping your phone and the other between your thighs as you watched him through with a hazy smile- that kept him going.

with the thought still heavy on his mind, you didn’t have to strain to hear your name drift off his lips. his hips bucked into his hand as he did, speeding up the motion of his strokes.

you were going to black out, his tattoos flexing and his chest expanding with every stuttered breath. simon looked like a god among men and he fucking sounded like one too.

“fuck, sweetheart- you’re so fucking filthy giving me orders like this”

your cheeks were burning, he wasn’t wrong but you weren’t expecting him to call you out quite like this.

“what does that make me? always so fucking eager to do what you say? make a dirty old man, yeah?”

wheeeeeew that’ll do it, your thighs snapped together around your hand as your eyes nearly rolled back in your head. whenever you thought you couldn’t take any more, he was always there to do you one better.

“only for you, pet- you can always get whatever you fucking want from me”

and you knew he was serious, that’s what made it all the more debilitating. simon was unshakeable, you’d seen him go out of his way to defy orders if he didn’t think the person worth his time.

when it came to you? you could tell him to kill and he would.

(he probably had)

simon’s hips were twitching, back arching in a way he’d rather die than have anyone else know about. his mouth was hanging open beneath the balaclava, your name and a string of expletives falling off his tongue.

so quick you nearly missed it, the hand that was cradling his balls moved to grip the fabric of his shirt and push it up his toned front. you couldn’t call his abs cut and defined, there was aged layer to them, but they were undeniably there.

you’d rested your head on them, pressed your palms against them, even ridden them enough times to know they were there. regardless, he looked fucking perfect under the moon glow as he stroked himself hard and long.

eyes locked onto the camera, broken moans on his lips, you saw his hips lift one last time as thick spurts of cum began to paint his stomach and chest.

scars illuminated under the night sky, mirrored by shiny patches of hot cum splattered across the same stretch of skin. the hairs on his chest were matted with sweat and were now being splashed with how far he was shooting.

you could only watch with your mouth hung open as he tugged himself through his orgasm. soon it was only the sound of his laboured breathing, chest rising and falling as he tucked his soft cock back into his pants.

just when you thought that was it, you found one of his hands lifting up the edge of his balaclava till his lips were exposed. two fingers of his other hand swiped up some of his spend before he lay them on his tongue.

knuckles in your mouth, biting down to suppress a scream, simon readjusted his clothes as he stood and took a heavy step towards the camera.

one hand braced on the window sill, the other gently gripping himself through his trousers- his voice was so fucking gravely it could’ve reverberated round your room.

“what’s next sweet’art? you name it, it’s yours”

[laceyfaeryy]

MDNI 18+

mentions of: bondage, gagging, vaginal sex, unprotected sex

hunter! simon riley taking his sweet angel in the middle of the forest.

“don’t worry swee’heart, no one will find yer here.” his voice low slightly muffled by the black skull balaclava, his large tatted hands wrapping the thick coarse rope around your wrist. “jus’ be a good girl yeah?” gently stuffing your mouth with a gag, muffling your small whines and moans. simon knew that you had a thing for having sex in the forest, it was dirty and filthy, the thought that anyone could simply walk and see turned you on more than it should.

“‘m gonna ravish yer here luvie.”

your chest pressed against the rough tree trunk with your small boy shorts discarded on the forest bed along side with your cotton panties. simon absolutely adored fucking his angel here, in a place where he dominated. he knew the forest like it was the back of his hand, every turn , every hideout from hunting. it stirred something primal in him, like he was claiming you in a place that was his, his own playground. he pulled his cock out of his boxers, it thick and heavy in his hand as he gives it a few messy pumps.

simon knew about how easily turned on you got, all it took was for him to to remove his tight compression shirt and hunt shirtless, sweat glistening down his chiseled chest as he got all dirty. it also gave simon an excuse to give you a pair of the tiniest boy shorts, your cheeks peeking out whenever you walked in front of him. it meant that he walked around with a boner, his crotch area tight as it stained against his cargos. though it usually meant dry humping whilst he cooked the meal - you bouncing and grinding on his lap whilst he watched the meat cook on the grill.

“havin’ yer around makes me hard swee’heart, walkin’ around with a boner.” he grumbled as he rubbed his cock along your cunt, watching it as it glistened with your arousal, the wet sloppy sound filling his ears. he has barely touched you and yet here you were dripping all over him.

your cunt was welcoming, his fat tip nudging inside your soppy hole as your gummy walls clenched around him, snuggly fitting him in. “fuck luvie, yer need to loosen up.” simon hissed as he grabbed your hips, lifting one of your legs allowing his cock to plunge even deeper into your cervix. your moans came out muffled, drool dribbling down your chin as you were convinced that your jaw was locked.

the sounds of skin slapping filled the forest, squelching sounds from your needy cunt taking him in as your arousal dipped down his length and to his pubes. his dog tags making a slight jingling sound with each thrust, his rough scarred hands on your sides. simon knew you well enough to know when you were going to come from the way your warm walls clenched, almost milking him dry.

with the gag your moans came out broken, your sobs muffled with slight hiccups as simon grunted. “‘m gonna make you come alright swee’heart? don’t cry.”

simon always ensured that he had your legs wobbling as you limped out of the forest after, his cum dribbling down your thighs and to your legs making a sticky mess as he carried your thin cotton panties in his back pocket for a keepsake

[starboye]

"tojiiii" your moaning could be heard through the whole apartment floor at this pont and toji didn't care whether the neighbors heard or not, he was to busy slamming his thick cock so deep in your hole that you felt it in your stomach

"that's my name baby, keep moaning it for me" he tilted your back upward to deeper fuck you, your arms twisting and messing up the sheets of the previously perfectly made bed, you were just trying to get the house all clean for him before he got off a long mission

but he was more in need of a certain person when he got back, you had barely got to welcome him back before he had you on your back taking every inch of him "fuck fuck fuckkkk" you whined, your head was spinning at this point, getting every pretty little thought fucked right out of your mind

lips all puffy and red from how much toji was making out with you, his multiple loads dripping out of you and onto the already soaked bed, but you gotta say he does look so hot like this, his loose gray sweatpants barely down with his thick cock sliding in and out of your ruined hole

his tight black compression slightly brought up, sat perfectly on top of his beautiful pecs, leaving his rock hard abs out for you to stare at, the way they contort and flex every time he thrusts into you "oh shit baby, you want another load in you hm" he wipes some of the drool from the side of your mouth and licks it off his finger

you lazily nod your head, you could barely make out what he said you just know he was fucking your harder and harder until he came, his thrusts not wavering one bit, it felt so good and neither of you wanted it to stop anyways

xoxo, starboye💋

[i-hate-gravel]

there’s always fucking something. isn’t there.

something just has to fucking occur

[mischivousvoid]

You will never be her

SYNOPSIS : You've been in love with your coworker forever, you sadly discover he's in love with someone else. Except, she's shattered his heart to pieces.

PAIRING : Zayne x Non-MC!Gender-Neutral Reader

TAGS : Hurt/comfort, Oneshot/Drabble, kinda-sorta-slice-of-life

❄️🍧☃️🍧❄️❄️🍧☃️🍧❄️🍧☃️🍧❄️🍧☃️🍧❄️

The first time you saw how he looks at her, it stung. I mean, it hurts, watching the man you've been pining for for the last few years be so desperately in love with someone who isn't you.

Yet somehow, what hurts even more, is that you can see from a mile away that she doesn't look at him the same way. How could she not?

Your coworker, Zayne, is perhaps the kindest, most thoughtful and caring person on Earth. He speaks in a cold and professional demeanor most of the time, and does not seem to emotionally attach to the patients, but his actions speak so much louder than his words. He stays late just to make sure things go smoothly, he checks up on patients in his free time, he stops stops by to help out people he doesn't know when he can. On the rare occasions he brings snacks for everyone, he remembers exactly what everyone is allergic to and what their favourite is.

It really is outrageous that the woman he lights up when seeing and keeps a picture of on his desk doesn't like him back. You almost think to yourself that how dare she hurt him like that. But I guess when you just don't feel the chemistry, you just don't feel the chemistry. Life is cruel sometimes...

Your heart feels like it's being squeezed and compressed into a black hole every time you look at him talk to her. One time it was so bad you almost scheduled an appointment with him to see if there's an underlying physical issue. But, no, sadly your heartbreak is emotional and has quite the obvious source... You doubt you had a chance before, you know. Zayne tends to keep his personal life out of the hospital and the hospital out of his personal life, he'd probably never go out with a coworker. And fat chance you were his taste. But seeing him so... enamoured with her. Right in front of your salad. Well, it really crushed your ribs from the inside. She didn't show up often, only some evenings to meet him after work and head off together, or occasionally as a hunter assigned to clean up when there was an incident at your hospital. But you still couldn't bear seeing them.

You sat with the feeling many evenings after work, suppressing it in the moment and putting away for crying into your pillow late at night. It sucked. It really sucked. Many sleepless nights of chest pain and close calls of being late to work because your meltdowns made you oversleep. But thanks to you processing your feelings and not ignoring them, over time, it got easier. At least, the pain didn't feel so suffocating and you made peace with the fact that you'll never have him. You felt... mildly content just seeing him happy.

Except, that didn't last. The more time passed, the more apparent it became that the woman he loved only saw him as a friend and would never "warm up and like him back" the way you thought. You don't know if he noticed that too, or if she outright rejected him, but you watched him slowly wilt. It was subtle, many people wouldn't even notice, but it was the little things. He'd eat his lunch just a little too long staring off into space, end conversations just a little too soon, stay so late at work that it wasn't just to check up on the patients anymore but quite clearly to distract himself. One day, she showed up with a man and cheerfully introduced him as her boyfriend, and said he'd be tagging along to their outing and that she hoped they'd all get along. The next week, her picture was gone from his desk. And the whole following month Zayne stayed late at work on every day and had bigger eyebags on him than you've ever seen.

This had to stop. You can't... You can't watch him destroy himself anymore. It was one thing to have your heart broken, but seeing him fall apart into pieces was so much worse.

You gathered up whatever courage you had, and invited him for coffee and pastries right after your shift ends on the day your schedule alligned. Made an excuse as to why it cannot be any later, apparently the cafe won't serve any cake after a certain hour because the owner believes sugar before bed will kill you. No, it can't be another cafe, it has to be that one, it has that special edition dessert you wanted to try forever but had no one to go with. Your treat, of course.

Somehow, he agreed. He wasn't very talkative, but you still had a good time. Doctor Zayne when he isn't a Doctor is a sight to behold... You had fun seeing all his reactions. His scrunched-up nose when he tried his drink before adding 5 spoons of sugar, his satisfied expression when finishing his 3rd slice of cake. You feel a little bad, enjoying this so much while inviting him to make sure that *he* feels better. But hey, he seems happier and he didn't overwork himself again, so maybe you deserve to enjoy this a little bit. At the end of the evening, you nod and go your separate ways.

You do this again the first time you have an opportunity, make some other outrageous excuse why it has to be right after work. And then again. And again. And every time, by some miracle, Zayne says yes. You talk more and more each time. By the third time, Zayne asks you if you'd like him to accompany you to your house. It is late, after all. In twice the time, you don't even have to ask, and he's ready to head off with you when your work is done. It becomes routine, you finish work, you go get some sweets and coffee, Zayne walks you home.

It feels like a privilege peering into his private life, to hear him talk of things other than patients and surgeries and scheduling. You learn of his terrible sweet tooth, his favourite foods, his interests out of work. You learn of his sarcastic and playful-jabs kind of sense of humour, his smile engraved to your memory. His outward cold demeanor seems like almost a facade with how warm being around him makes you feel.

You're so happy to see him better and to know these new sides to him that you don't even notice when he starts to linger around you, when it looks like he doesn't quite want to leave after walking you home, how he stands just a little closer when you walk next to each other. You're just glad to give him some company that you can tell he needed.

One fateful evening he does something you've never thought possible. He kisses you. Your mind melts while you try to process what's happening, but you instinctively kiss him back before you can even tell. You've wanted this for so long. You're not sure what you expected him to feel like, but his lips are soft and a little chilly before they warm up to yours. When the kiss turns open-mouthed, he feels much more like warm cocoa, even tastes a little like it, sugary flavour lingering after you two had your desserts earlier in the evening.

You pull away and try to hold yourself together. Emotions circle through your head, and you only manage to force out the dumbest thing you could possibly say right now.

"You know I'll never be her, right?"

You're afraid you ruined this for yourself when his face falls and he stares to the side into blank space. But he looks back at you and smiles.

"I know."

He looks a little melancholic, but he kisses you again and your worries melt away with the rest of your thoughts.

——————————————————————————

Sometimes, he still looks at her like he did before, but with an additional layer of sadness and melancholy to his expression. It doesn't hurt though. Because he looks at you with the same warmth and shine, and at least, you make him smile as well.

[colouredbyd]

The Great Honey Heist

poly!marauders x fem!reader

synopsis: in which flicker (you) teams up with raccoon!barty for a midnight honey heist in the kitchens, only for things to spiral when barty becomes a walking sticky dessert tray, the great escape turns into honey-covered chaos, and both of you are caught red-pawed by the marauders—and a furious regulus with no patience.

warnings: racoon animagi barty, chaos, magical mischief, animagus shenanigans, food theft, excessive food, sticky situations (literally), bickering boys, lots of fluff, mild language, a very dramatic regulus black who did not sign up for this

w/c: 3k

part of my mini blurb series flicker & the marauders masterlist

"Shhh, Barty, they’ll hear us," you whisper, barely containing a laugh as the raccoon at your feet lets out an ecstatic little yippee and spins in a joyful circle, his striped tail flicking like a banner.

He’s practically vibrating with glee, his little raccoon body lit by the silver wash of moonlight pouring through the high castle windows. You crouch beside him, lips pressed tight to stifle a grin, and extend a hand toward the shimmer of fur twitching with excitement.

Barty nuzzles your fingers for half a second before bouncing back with an eager chirp that clearly means Hurry up! The biscuits won’t steal themselves.

With one last glance toward the Gryffindor portrait hole to ensure the coast is clear, you draw in a slow, steady breath. Magic pulses through your veins like a warm ripple—bones compress, limbs twist, your vision shifts and sharpens.

In a heartbeat, you fold into the form you know best: thick red fur wrapping you in warmth, rounded ears flicking toward every sound, paws soft and nimble against the stone, and that ever-rebellious russet tail that’s more trouble than it’s worth.

You are Flicker now.

Barty, already halfway down the corridor in a gleeful scuttle, pauses dramatically at the top of the moving staircase. His tiny paws tap against the stone with the impatience of someone who believes time is being gravely wasted. He glances back, eyes wide and expectant, waiting for you to catch up.

You dart after him, nimble and nearly silent, tail swaying with practiced precision—until, inevitably, it betrays you.

Your tail snags on the edge of a suit of armor.

Clang.

You both freeze. The armor groans under its own weight, metal trembling ominously. You yank your tail free and hurl yourself beneath a nearby tapestry, heart thudding like a war drum. Barty follows with a startled bleep, flinging himself in after you and landing in a graceless heap that tangles both your limbs in a furry mess of panic and poor decisions.

Smooth, you huff, flicking his ear with a paw, tail twitching in irritation.

He chirps back, entirely unfazed, and bolts off again—racing toward the staircases like a raccoon on a mission, tail high and limbs flying.

You sigh and follow, paws thudding softly as you weave between floating candles and shadowy corners, nearly colliding with a wall and skidding past a dozing portrait whose stack of books teeters dangerously.

Barty, of course, is in his element—letting out bursts of delighted chirps and squeaks, tail swishing behind him like the baton of a sugar-crazed conductor orchestrating pure mischief.

At last, you reach the portrait of the fruit bowl, breathless despite not needing lungs in this form. Barty rises on his hind legs and eagerly jabs the pear with both paws. It giggles, squirms, and swings open, revealing the warm, golden heart of the Hogwarts kitchens.

Light spills into the corridor, and with it drifts the heavenly scent of honey, melted butter, and fresh bread. You and Barty exchange one gleeful glance.

Then you’re inside.

The kitchen is quiet, save for the soft clink of cooling cookware and the gentle snore of a house-elf nestled in a bread basket. The hearth casts everything in a haze of honeyed gold, and for a fleeting second, it feels like you’ve stepped into a dream made of sugar and steam.

The plan is simple: quick, clean, quiet. Two jars of honey—three if the coast stays clear. Grab, vanish, leave no crumbs.

That’s the plan.

You head straight for the tall shelves at the back, where the honey sits tucked away like treasure. With a light leap onto the counter, you nose open the pantry door. Rows of golden jars gleam in the dim light. You choose two with swift, practiced precision and turn, tail flicking with quiet pride.

Only to see that Barty is absolutely not following the plan.

He’s across the kitchen, a raccoon-shaped embodiment of chaos. Perched on a top shelf, wobbling dangerously on the rim of a copper pot, he’s clutching at least four buttered biscuits, a wheel of cheese, and—somehow—a treacle tart balanced on his head. And still, impossibly, he’s reaching for more: a jar of something suspiciously syrupy and poorly secured.

You chirp sharply, whiskers twitching with alarm. Barty, you're going to fall.

He glances at you mid-stretch with a look that can only be described as smug, idiotic bravado—like a raccoon who believes, against all odds and evidence, that he was born to defy gravity.

And then he falls—spectacularly, catastrophically, like a raccoon-shaped meteor plummeting toward inevitable, sticky doom.

It is not a graceful tumble. It’s a full-bodied, limbs-splayed catastrophe of a plunge, right into the massive pot just below the shelf—filled, unfortunately, with something dark, viscous, and profoundly sticky. 

The squelch of impact is so loud and so utterly grotesque that you physically recoil, ears flattening in secondhand embarrassment.

Barty surfaces a moment later, drenched in molasses and looking like someone tried to deep-fry a stuffed animal.

You scamper across the tiles and peer into the pot. You absolute menace, you squeak, swatting him on the head as he attempts—and fails—to scale the slick metal wall. He slips again with a pathetic slop, paws scrabbling helplessly like a greased-up goblin in a bucket.

With a resigned sigh, you grip the rim and lean in, latching your teeth onto the scruff of his neck. It takes all your strength to haul him upward.

He flops over the edge with all the grace of a dropped pudding, molasses oozing off him in slow, syrupy defeat. His biscuit collection is gone. His pride, probably too.

You open your mouth, ready to scold—because, frankly, he looks like a half-melted tart someone forgot in the sun—when your ears twitch at the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

Someone’s coming.

Footsteps, loud and deliberate, echo through the corridor, nothing like the soft, scuffling tread of a house-elf. These are heavier, sharper.

Human.

You both freeze. From the other side of the kitchen, the door creaks open.

A voice, sharp and curious, cuts through the warmth like a knife. “Who's in here?”

The honey jars in your paws tremble. Barty lets out a betrayed little bleep. You don’t move. Don’t breathe. Only stare at the tall shadow spilling across the floor.

You are very much caught.

Barty doesn’t hesitate. The moment the voice echoes through the kitchen, he lunges upright with all the ungainly speed of a raccoon dipped in syrup and grabs your paw with a wild look in his eyes.

You both bolt, paws skidding on the tiles, jars sloshing wildly as you scramble for an escape—but in the chaos, Barty misjudges the corner of a low shelving rack. He crashes into it shoulder-first, sending the entire unit swaying ominously. You try to veer out of the way, but it's too late.

With a tremendous clatter, three heavy containers on the top shelf tip forward and crash down over your heads.

You are immediately and thoroughly buried—one with a collapsing stack of chocolate cake, another spilling a full basin of raspberry jam, and the third dumping a shocking amount of cold ham in wet, smacking slices.

The impact knocks the breath from your lungs. Jam oozes down your ears. A slice of ham slaps over your eyes like a greasy eye mask.

Barty doesn’t hesitate. The moment the voice echoes through the kitchen again, he lunges upright with all the ungainly speed of a raccoon dipped in syrup and grabs your paw with a wild look in his eyes.

He takes off like a shot, dragging you behind him.

You stumble after him, jars of honey clutched to your chest, paws thudding against the tiles as you scramble to keep up. The jars slosh dangerously with every step, threatening to slip from your grasp, but Barty doesn’t care. 

As you both sprint through the kitchen, weaving around tables and swinging past spice racks, Barty begins his descent into further madness. Whatever it is, it sends him grabbing wildly at anything remotely edible within reach.

A baguette? He rolls against it and it sticks to his back.

A fistful of dried cranberries? He belly-flops into the bowl and comes out looking like a fruitcake. A slice of chocolate cake? He rams his shoulder into it like a battering ram, frosting now smeared across his cheek and clinging to his side like a battle wound.

Stop collecting food! you squeak in a desperate whisper, jars still clutched as you leap over a dropped spoon.

By the time you reach the kitchen exit, Barty is twice his normal size, lumpy with ill-gotten goods. Biscuits trail behind him like breadcrumbs. A sausage dangles from his tail. He looks less like a raccoon and more like a rejected dessert trolley on legs.

And that’s exactly the moment the door to the kitchen bursts open.

There’s a shriek. Not from you or Barty—yours is more of a strangled yelp, his is more of a delighted whee!—but from the figure now staring in horrified disbelief at the scene before them.

You don’t stop. You both dart past the intruder, who yells something vaguely accusatory and disgusted, and then you’re back in the corridors, paws pounding, the jars still somehow intact in your grip.

You bolt down one hallway, then another, dodging moving staircases, leaping over stairs, slipping around corners. Barty lags slightly behind now, not because he’s less determined, but because he’s carrying roughly the caloric content of a Christmas feast on his body. He pants heavily, legs wobbling, one eye squinting beneath a dollop of marmalade.

You’re almost at the portrait hole. Almost—

And then a hand shoots out of the shadows and snatches you mid-leap, plucking you clean out of the air like a misbehaving child.

You scream, high-pitched and startled, the jars of honey clutched like precious treasure against your furred chest. Barty slams into your side a second later, a sticky explosion of jam and cheese. He squeaks in protest and flails his sausage-covered tail.

“What the fuck, Flicker?” growls a voice that could only belong to one person on Earth.

You slowly turn your head, heart hammering.

Sirius Black looks murderous.

He’s got you by the scruff, eyes ablaze, one brow twitching dangerously. His hair’s a mess, his dressing gown is half-off one shoulder, and he’s barefoot, which somehow makes the fury worse. 

His hand is sticky now from grabbing you, and he looks personally offended by it.

From the far end of the corridor, a voice yells, “BARTEMIUS CROUCH JUNIOR WHAT THE BLOODY HELL—”

You all turn just in time to see Regulus Black, storming toward the kitchen corridor from the dungeons, robes flapping dramatically behind him, wand half-raised. He freezes mid-step as he takes in the scene: his brother holding a honey-covered red panda by the collar, a raccoon with an abnormal amount of food fused to his side like armor, and what appears to be a pie slowly sliding off Barty’s head.

For one perfect, silent moment, he takes it all in.

And Barty—mid-gallop, absolutely covered in what looks like the full dessert table from dinner, a pie slowly sliding sideways off his head like an ill-fated hat.

Without a word, he steps forward, grabs the raccoon cleanly by the tail, lifts him up like he’s an old sock, and takes a long, horrified look at the molasses-glazed disaster in his hand. Jam, frosting, cheese, breadcrumbs, possibly ham—it's really hard to tell. 

He drops Barty with absolute disgust immediately like a cursed object. Barty hits the stone floor with a grotesque squelch and lets out a high-pitched, deeply wounded raccoon yelp.

You blink from Sirius’s grip, where you’re dangling like a shameful sugar gremlin. Barty blinks up at you from his sticky puddle of defeat. You both flinch in unison, instinct kicking in.

You bolt left. Barty bolts right.

But Regulus moves like lightning.

His wand is pointed before your paws even leave the ground, voice sharp and cold as steel.

“If either of you,” he says, quiet and dangerous, “even thinks about running for a single bloody second—”

You both freeze.

He takes a step forward, slow, precise, the way predators move when they already know you won’t escape. His eyes, dark as ink and twice as cutting, pin you in place.

“—I will hunt you to the ends of the Earth. And I don’t care if you’re a raccoon, a red panda, or a flaming hippogriff!”

Regulus lunges forward and grabs both of you—one sticky raccoon by the scruff, one red panda by the tail—with the sheer fury of a man who’s done cleaning up other people’s messes and has reached the end of his perfectly pressed rope.

He lifts you both a few inches off the ground, arms locked, nostrils flaring.

“Shift. Back,” he growls, voice low and venom-laced.

Barty whimpers. You glance at him. He glances at you.

And with matching expressions of deep, tragic guilt—you both shift back.

A shimmer of fur becomes limbs, paws become fingers, ears fade, tails retract—and suddenly you’re just two sugar-coated disasters sitting on the cold stone floor, one of you clutching honey jars with sticky fingers, the other hunched under the weight of his biscuit-crusted shame.

Barty, panting, wheezes, “Hii, Reg!”

Sirius drops his head into one hand and sighs. 

Before anyone can process that visual assault, two more figures appear from behind the nearest corridor, both out of breath, both armed with wands and worry.

James skids to a stop. “You found her?”

 Remus slows behind him, eyeing the honey jars, your guilty face, and Barty’s war-ravaged state. “Is that… is that honey in his ear?”

Sirius sighs even louder. “Where else would she be except the bloody kitchen,” he snaps, voice thick with exasperation and something far too close to fondness.

You blink up at him, still holding the honey, and whisper, “Worth it?”

“If you think for one moment that you’re sleeping anywhere near me tonight,” Regulus hisses, voice razor-sharp, “you’re gravely mistaken.”

Barty, ever unbothered and absurdly pleased with himself, straightens up and winks. “You’ll miss me.”

“I’ll exorcise you,” Regulus deadpans, backing away as if Barty might fling jam in his direction.

You finally climb to your feet, still clutching your honey jars like cherished offspring. Barty dusts himself off, then slinks an arm around your shoulders like this has been a roaring success. The squelch is immediate.

You recoil. “Ewww, Barty, you’ve got jam on me!”

He grins, the picture of innocence beneath a frosting-smeared forehead. “Relax, Trouble. It’s raspberry. You love raspberries!”

You glare up at him, unimpressed, and swipe at your now-sticky arm. “I also love not smelling like an exploded dessert cart.”

Behind you, Remus steps closer, giving both you and Barty a long, exhausted once-over. His jumper is askew, his hair rumpled, and his face reads exactly what everyone else is too tired to say aloud: Why am I always cleaning up your messes?

“You need a shower,” he says flatly.

James, who’s just catching his breath, nods in agreement. “More like three.”

Sirius, still holding his sticky hand out like it personally offended him, chimes in with a grimace, “I’m going to bleach my skin.”

You step away from Barty, only for his jam-coated tail of crumbs to swish against your leg as he tries to look suave again. “You know, for two sneaky animagi, I think we did pretty well.”

“Pretty well?” you echo.

“You only got caught once.”

You scoff. “Barty, we almost got murdered by Regulus and disowned by Sirius.”

“Almost, Trouble.” He wiggles his brows. “It’s the almost that counts.”

Remus sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Come on, both of you. Showers. Now.”

You groan, trying to twist out of James’s grip, but he has you firmly by the wrist and is dragging you down the corridor like a grumpy older brother. “No arguments,” he says, eyes ahead. 

“You’re going straight to the showers before you start attracting ants.”

Behind you, Barty is putting up a very different kind of fight.

Regulus has him by the back of his robes, hauling him like an unruly toddler while cursing furiously in French under his breath

Barty, unfazed and still somehow cheerful despite the fact that half a treacle tart is sliding down his back, twists around to wave at you with a jam-coated hand. 

“Best honey heist ever!” he calls, grinning like he’s just won an award.

You grin back and wave with your free hand, the other still wrapped protectively around your precious jar of honey. “See you later, Junior!”

Regulus lets out a hiss of disgust and mutters, “Non, tu ne la reverras plus, elle mérite mieux—”

James snorts. “I think he just proposed murder,” he says to Sirius, who nods solemnly.

“Romantic,” Sirius deadpans. “In a Slytherin kind of way.”

At the end of the corridor, Remus waits, arms crossed, tired but patient. As James steers you in his direction, you slow, holding out one of the jars of honey. “Here,” you say, cheeks still warm from laughter. “For you.”

He blinks. “Me?”

You nod. “Yeah. I heard you saying last night that you ran out of honey for your tea. So… I got you some.”

Remus stares down at the jar in surprise, like it’s something precious. His lips part, clearly touched—but before he can form a response, Sirius howls with laughter behind you.

“You know,” he gasps, leaning against the wall for support, “there are easier ways to get Moony honey!”

James practically chokes.

You whip your head around. “Sirius!”

“What?” he grins. “I’m just saying, less trouble.”

You shake your head, cheeks flushed, and mumble, “I was trying to be sweet.”

Sirius wiggles his eyebrows. “Oh, love, you’re sweet. The method, though…”

You finally laugh, breathless and bright, as James pushes open the bathroom door and steers you inside.

Barty’s probably still arguing with Regulus in the Slytherin dorms, leaving sticky footprints for Regulus to clean up.

You try to dig your heels in at the threshold, making a noise of protest. “Do I have to shower? I’m already, like, seventy percent dessert. What’s the point?”

Sirius pokes his head in behind James, eyeing the jam in your hair with a smirk. “Because if we let you go to bed like this, you’ll wake up glued to the sheets.”

“You smell like a fruit basket, dovey,” Remus says gently, already turning the tap with a resigned smile. “And I say that with love.”

You pout, dramatically, arms still wrapped around your jar of honey like a child clutching a toy. “I risked my life for this.”

“And we adore you for it,” James says, pressing a kiss to your temple even as he tries to peel off a glob of frosting from your shoulder. “But we’re not sleeping next to this.”

Sirius grins, arms folded. “Speak for yourself. Personally, I think it’s kind of hot.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “You thought it was hot when she transfigured a spoon into a squirrel last week.”

Sirius shrugs. “What can I say? I have a type.”

You roll your eyes, heart warm despite the sugar-crusted state of your limbs.

Because even though you're stickier than you’ve ever been, molasses in your hair and your dignity somewhere between the chocolate cake and the raspberry jam, they’re all still looking at you like you hung the stars.

And they’ve never loved you more.

Laughter bubbles in the tiny bathroom, warm and alive and sweet as the sugar clinging to your skin.

And as you finally give in and step under the spray, their voices tangled in affection and teasing behind you, you can’t help but smile—because no matter what Regulus says, this will go down in Hogwarts history as The Great Honey Heist.

[riveredmoon]

release date | t. fushiguro

pairing: toji fushiguro x afab!reader

synopsis: one drunken (lonely) night leads you down a rabbit hole of a prison pal website — where you come across none other than toji fushiguro. after a flirty email exchange, you find out his release date and decide to pick him up. turns out, he wasn’t the only thing getting released.

warnings/genre: modern au, smut (mdni), very little plot, prison system, unprotected p in v penetration, fingering, dry (?) humping, gets a little rough, dirty talk, spitting, cursing, car sex, pet names, cream pie , reader and toji are essentially strangers, no aftercare.

a/n: last month i was obsessed with love after lockup and been sitting on this since. this was suppose to be a gojo fic but toji’s wicked spirit took over. and i know i have other fics to work on, the freak just wanted to come out. lmao, enjoy!

wc: 5.3K

your burning hot laptop is balancing on your lap as you lean into your couch. one of your hands is aimlessly on the mousepad looking up god knows what. the glass in your other hand is all empty. the wine rushing into you and making you think about the stupidest things that you know you would not give second thought to sober. 

but... you’re in your mid twenties, all of your friends have found their partners. your ex cancelled, again (as if you should really be seeing him). it’s a saturday night and the only thing your eyes are burrowing into is the bottom of the wine glass and this website that keeps making you giggle. 

writeaprisoner.com

you’re not sure how you even got here or if you’re fully aware of what you’re looking at. 

it’s just a joke you tell yourself. you’re just going to swipe and see what it’s all about. maybe find some true crime cases that you heard about from the podcast you listen to on your way to work. 

you straighten yourself up. bringing the laptop a little closer so that you could really see and make out all of the crimes these people committed. and maybe, you’ll get some eye candy to giggle over before shuffling off to bed and making you forget about your stupid ass ex, or the fact that you ran out of wine. 

you swipe up on your mousepad, passing by names, pictures of buff men in prison orange and blues. some of the taglines scaring you more than inviting you to send an email.

not a ‘killer’ but i’ll kill for the taste of you. 

(this person is serving three life sentences for killing three people.)

here for twenty more years and would like someone to keep me company. 

(how the fuck would you be able to keep him company…. in prison?) 

you sigh and start to regret your life choices. maybe even more than these prisoners are regretting their crimes. but, your fingers are swiping at the perfect pace, walking to your bed seems like too much work right now, and you just need to see at least ONE good looking prisoner. 

god, what will your mother think of you now? 

you ignore that and continue on your aimless quest.

and after what seemed like half the night. your eyes become blurry and the voice in your brain calling for you to close up shop, go to sleep, and maybe never drink a bottle of red wine alone again — your mouse clicks on to the next page and you’re sure this is where your night is going to end. 

with the page buffering, and the color orange burning in the back of your eyelids — the first account that loaded up dragged a breath out of you that was so strong you almost scared yourself. 

toji fushiguro

dob: 12/31/19xx

gender: male

sexual orientation: straight 

height: 6’2

“out soon. might need a ride. and a reason to behave.”

staring back at you (not in prison orange) is a man in a black compression shirt. as if he was granted the access to have a miniature photo shoot in the prison. 

toji fushiguro is built like a man who can ruin you — broad chest, thick arms, and a body carved from grit, not glamour. he doesn’t look like the instagram model boys you meet out at bars on friday nights. not sculpted by ab workouts at equinox. he’s dense, functional — the kind of strength you don’t just see, you feel when he’s on top of you. if you ever meet him, of course.

you would’ve thought you’ll be distracted by his body alone, but his face is another story. all sharp edges and shadows. a strong jaw that’s clenched, a scar on the right corner of his mouth, shaggy black hair littering in front of his narrowed eyes. 

eyes which even in this picture are unreadable. like their assessing anyone who looks at him. regardless if you’re in front of him physically or clenching your thighs as you look at his profile off a website in your one bedroom apartment. 

you shift closer to the laptop, placing your wine glass down so that you could use both hands to bring him, you mean the laptop closer to you. your cheeks burning along with the top of your thigh because of this laptop working as hard as it could to show him to you. 

you’re so convinced it’s the wine talking and making you act. or maybe also the fact that your best friends have told you you need to just find a good looking man and fuck him or have him fuck you, whichever floats the boat — but your fingers are flying over to the message portion of his profile. 

you skip the crime section. regret it a little. but how bad could it be, really? 

also he needs a ride and you’re all for helping fellow human beings — ones who look like they’ll fuck you so good you could possible give him the pin to your debit card directly afterwards. 

you stop. your cursor blinking over the message icon. toji fushiguro’s picture still assessing you, like he’s making a mental bet to see when you, or whoever else comes across his profile, breaks. 

you close your eyes, wondering how crazy this is. 

also, you start to make a checklist of things you need to do directly after this message: 

never bring this up to your mother. she will disown you faster than you could believe toji could make you cum. 

never bring this up to your friends either. as their view on instagram beach blonde boys will not see the vision of this man you’re hoping to get. 

make a wax appointment with your wax girl.

add this red wine to your grocery list every week. 

maybe book a boxing class at your ex’s gym just in case you do meet this toji. 

you open your eyes, meeting toji’s again. and you’re pretty sure that is the wine playing tricks on you — his lips look like they ticked up into a slight grin. inviting you to take the jump. 

and because you care about people getting home safely, you did not plunge down this website for nothing (actually exceeding what you wanted), your thighs haven’t unclenched themselves since he’s been blinking on your laptop — the cursor clicks the message icon. 

to: tojifushiguro@writeaprisoner.com

from: ynln@gmail.com

subject: i may have a ride for you 

message: 

i probably shouldn’t be the one helping you behave. but if you’re lucky, we’ll figure that out in person.

(attachment: picture of yourself)

you press send and immediately shutting your laptop. all you could do is laugh, at your boldness, the website, at how much you are expecting an email from him whenever you get back to your laptop. 

to: ynln@gmail.com

from: tojifushiguro@writeaprisoner.com

subject: what type of ride are we talking? 

message: 

it must be my lucky month then. im getting out soon, and you’re cute.. so we should find out just how well i behave. 

you got more pictures or do i have to earn them in person? 

to: tojifushiguro@writeaprisoner.com

from: ynln@gmail.com

subject: any ride that gets you where you need to be

message: 

how soon? and i think you could earn a lot more than pictures in person. 

(attachment: another picture of yourself) 

to: ynln@gmail.com

from: tojifushiguro@writeaprisoner.com

subject: how big is your car?

message:

next week — (address to prison). 

they let me out at 7 am. 

wear whatever you wore in that last picture. 

the clock on your dashboard reads 6:49 am. you should be exhausted and downing three cups of coffee right now — but you’re nervous and extremely horny. two emotions you never had the pleasure to feel at the same time and definitely not before the sun was completely up. 

you’re in the outfit you had on in the picture you sent toji last. a black mini skirt and plain cropped tee. easy access, you thought to yourself when you threw it on this morning. 

you’ve been watching the gate like it owes you something. getting here a whole hour earlier than you had to be to make sure you were exactly where toji was going to be released from. you’re the only car in the lot — which somehow makes it feel more dangerous. or more intimate. you are not sure which.

6:53 am. 

you reach for your cellphone to make sure, for the sixteenth time, that your location is off. the last thing you need are your friends or god forbid your mother to interrupt your little rendezvous with a criminal you met from a prison pen pal website. 

6:56 am. 

you’re gripping your steering wheel as you notice some commotion happening at the gate ahead of you. a couple of men in uniform and a man behind them. one man — even from here, you know it’s toji fushiguro. you have studied his photo enough times to recognize the tilt of his head.

you actually want to laugh at yourself, already out of the car before you even realize it. checking over yourself in the reflection of your car windows. 

“they let you out early,” you say loud enough for him to hear. 

and walking towards you is… him. 

toji looks taller than you imagined he would be from his photos. his arms hugged by the tight compression shirt he had on his profile picture. his lips curved in a grin, not welcoming whatsoever, but inviting if you’re into someone luring you somewhere where you shouldn’t be. 

his eyes look you over, like you’re prey. you ignore how much you want to squeeze your thighs together because you want some control over this. 

“you have a problem with me coming early?” 

you huff out a quiet laugh. toji’s slight smirk makes you feel a little dizzy. 

“i’m sure they had their reasons,” you smile, though your eyes stay on his feet — worn shoes, heavy steps, like he’s still getting used to the ground again.

he’s finally close enough that you smell that faint, clean scent of whatever soap they offer to them in prison. you didn’t expect his scent alone to make your stomach tighten, but it does and you’re trying your hardest to not pounce on him like a dog in heat. 

you tilt your head up to finally meet his eyes and you didn’t expect the stillness that comes with you both just looking at each other. 

his gaze drags over your face and then drops — slow and deliberate, over your chest — pausing on the goosebumps rising on your bare stomach at the hem of the crop top. that grin on his lips growing more as his eyes rake down your body and on the outfit he asked for you to wear. 

your gaze starts at his face. your eyes linger a beat too long on the scar just above the right side of his lip — lips you’re aching to know the feel of. his solid frame draped in sweats and that damn compression shirt. every ridge of his body calling out to you.

you don’t say anything. you don’t know what to say. your mouth is a little dry. you don’t trust your voice, not with how hard your pulse is thumping. 

“fuck,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “i think they let me out at the right time.” 

you ignore the moan stuck in your chest at the rough edge of his voice saying that curse.

“you earned it,” you shrug, proud of yourself for not letting it slip. not yet. 

“like i earned this ride?” toji grins, wider this time — sharp enough that it makes your skin prickle. “where should i sit? back or front, baby?”

you shiver under his stare and the pet name. you’re not sure how you’re going to wait to get to wherever it’s private to have him touch you. 

“mhm, where would you like to sit?” your tone playing casual. 

“back,” he says, stepping past you. his hand on the door handle of the car you’ve been standing in front of for what felt like thirty minutes. “unless you want me fucking you with the gearshift knocking into my spine.” 

you blink at his back as he opens the car door. you want to pretend you didn’t hear that sentence. like your knees didn’t buckle a little. like you’re not thinking about getting fucked in a prison parking lot.  

toji’s big figure shuffles into your back seat and you look over your shoulder. the parking lot is still empty and you hear the birds chirping in the still morning air. it feels almost surreal. 

“i thought you were offering me a ride sweetheart,” you hear from the open door. he’s patting the space next to him. 

you told yourself you’d wait — let him touch you when you got home. but your panties are damp, and the way he’s looking at you makes the seat feel too tight, too hot, too hard to ignore. 

you swallow the lump in your throat, and shuffle in behind him. your hand grazing his thigh as you settle in, closing the door behind you. 

“here?” you ask lowly. your knee is grazing his firm thigh. 

he takes a moment to stare at you, smugly. like he knows just how wet you are and he is just excited to know he got you there. and with how much space he’s taking up — your bodies are slowly entangling with each other. 

his hand reaching for your bare thigh. your hand grabbing his forearm to ground yourself. 

“did you really think i was going to wait?” 

you open your mouth to respond — something sarcastic, a joke to land to make this moment feel less desperate than you feel. but, all that comes out is a shaken breath when his big hand starts to slide up your thigh.

slow. hot. demanding. 

his fingertips stop just beneath your skirt, dragging up the soft, goosebump littered skin of your thigh like he’s got all the time in the world. as if you two aren’t in the parking lot of the prison he just got released from. 

“c’mere,” he roughly mutters. he shifts his legs wider, one of his thighs now pressing so hard into yours, you’re sure it’ll leave an indent. with one of his hands still on your thigh, his fingers so terribly close to where you really want him — he guides you to move. having you straddle him, your knees press into the seat on either side of him. 

“fuck,” he mutters again, eyes dropping between your bodies.

your skirt is bunched up high on your hips now, barely covering anything. and your soaked panties — god — they’re pressed against the thick stretch of his sweatpants, leaving a dark, obvious mark.

his hands slide down to cup your ass, fingers digging in with a firm squeeze. 

you roll your hips, desperate for more friction — the drag of his sweats reches your clit, and your breath stutters, sharp and humiliatingly loud in the quiet car.  “you’ve been this wet since you saw me?” his voice is low, like he’s fighting to stay calm — like your body is testing his patience.

you nod, because your throat’s too tight to speak.

he chuckles, slow and dangerous, tilting his head back to look up at you. his eyes flick down, lingering on the wet spot staining his pants, and then back up to your face — smug and greedy all at once.

he leans in, lips grazing your jaw, your cheek, your ear.

“then be a good girl,” he murmurs, “and let me taste it.”

before you could react — his fingers are already slipping beneath your panties. two thick fingers dragging through the wetness between yours folds like he owns it. 

you let go of the gasp that’s been lodged in your chest since he first touched you. your hips stutter forward, and his other hand grips your waist to hold you steady on the growing tent between your legs. 

“shit,” he breathes out. his eyes locked on your face. his narrowed eyes watching the way your face scrunches at the slow pump of his fingers. he curls a finger in your heat and you forget about the soreness in your outstretched thighs. 

“i knew you’d be tight,” he whispers. his nose touching yours as he breathes in the whimpers you’re letting out. 

he keeps you spread open over him with nothing but the strength in his hand that’s firmly holding your hip. the pads of his fingers pressing in tightly, your thighs trembling where they cage him in. 

your hands, not knowing what to do in the moment, run along the curves and edges of his solid abs beneath you. you feel him heave in a breath as you let one out.

his fingers start a slow rhythm, dragging through your folds again before pressing up into you. your breath catches, a low moan slipping from your lips.

he hums low and deep in his chest. pleased with himself, or at how soaked his fingers are. as if he expected nothing less from the girl he sent a few emails too before this. 

your nails dig into his shoulders — not just for balance, but to ground yourself, too. because the stretch of his fingers, the pressure in the pit of your stomach, the sounds that aren’t only spilling from your mouth but so from the wetness of your pussy — it’s growing unbearable. 

and before you could let go, toji’s fingers slipped out of you with a pop. you let an airy whine out before you could stop yourself. 

he chuckles. his thick fingers glistening with your juices between your faces. and without breaking eye contact, he lifts them to his mouth — sucking them clean off like the starving man he is. 

you watch him watch you. the pool in between your legs getting wetter by the second. 

your eyes drift from his to his fingers slick with your juices, then to the scar on his lip. every single thing making you want him even more.

there’s a beat of silence. the only thing being heard is your heavy breathing as you slowly start to slide your hips forward for some friction. 

“just wait,” he says as his finger falls from his mouth. he’s eyeing you like he has every intention to ruin you. 

the hand steadying you on your hip reaches for your hair as he tugs your head slightly back. his other hand reaching for your jaw.

“open your mouth,” he says lowly, thumb dragging over your bottom lip. “wide.”

his fingers on your jaw are firm and demanding. 

you do — almost too quickly. 

he spits right on your waiting tongue. keeping eye contact as the juices he just lapped up from you runs down your tongue. 

and before you could completely close your mouth to swallow, the hand in your hair pushes you towards him. his mouth is roughly on yours. 

you moan into the kiss, rocking your hips instinctively. the drag of your soaked panties over the thick bulge in his sweats makes your thighs twitch.

“how am i meant to behave when all you want me to do is fuck you?” he mutters against your mouth. 

your hands that were on his shoulders are now wrapped around his neck and you lean forward. chest to chest. 

“i think you’re behaving just fine,” you whisper back as you start to plant small kisses along his jawline. 

he groans, just slightly. his firm hands on your hips gripping a little tighter. pulling you a little closer… as if that’s possible. 

you trail your kisses a little lower, brushing down the column of his neck — stopping right at the pulse point that’s thumping just as hard as yours. you lap your tongue over the spot, sucking there lazily. 

you hide the smug smile threatening to stretch across your lips when you catch the thick swallow he barely manages to choke down. his hands twitching at your sides, hard enough that it sends you forward a bit. allowing you to fully feel his sweat-covered cock along your aching cunt. 

“should i start the ride now?” you murmur as you start to shift your hips to be right on top of his cock. in perfect position for him to slip in if you both were unclothed. your pussy stretching over him the thick shape of him, dampening his sweats under you even more. 

as you back up, using your hands to push off his chest — the top of your head brushing against the ceiling of the car. 

you watch as his jaw clenches. his eyes shifting from your face to the heat coming between your legs. you almost think he may want this more than you do. 

you roll your hips.

the friction sends a jolt right through your core. you weren’t even trying to make a sound but a soft gasp slips out anyway. your fingers find his shoulders again, nails curling into the solid bulk of him as you do it again. slower this time.

his breath hitches. his hands squeeze, forcing you down harder.

“again,” he says. voice tight. like it’s costing him.

so, you roll your hips down on him again. and again. 

each grind is obscene — the slick sounds of your wet pussy, your panties so wet that they’re sticking to your clit, barely moving when you drag another pass along his hard cock. but with the added pressure of your panties clinging to you, your clit catches every ridge his dick had to offer beneath his sweats. 

he’s so hard you wonder if it hurts. 

your thighs are starting to tremble from soreness. you want to say it’s too much, but in reality it’s not enough. not even close with how badly you actually want him in you. 

the windows around you are so foggy, that when you move one of your hands off his chest to the window next to you to get some balance, your hand is met with pure condensation. 

you start to find a pace that’s so achingly slow, the tick in toji’s jaw telling you so. 

soft rolls. soft grinds. you can’t help the tiny gasps that are escaping your swollen lips. 

toji’s hands start to roam, leaving from your hips. one trailing up the side of your ribs, lifting your shirt up in the process, you’re so grateful you didn’t wear a bra today. his demanding hand palming your tit, using his index finger and thumb to flick your nipple a little too roughly.

“fuck toji,” you gasp and he grins at you. pinching your nipple just a little harder causing you to arch your back. 

he lifts his hips slightly to meet yours — a subtle thrust that makes your breath catch. 

he leans his face closer to yours, his pupils blown out and you could just imagine how you look. 

“the first time hearing my name from your lips,” he gruffly mutters. the hand at the base of your back quickly making its way to the back of your neck pushing your face closer to his. 

“and look at you,” your noses are brushing against each other. “what a short ride this is going to be,” he mumbles. his eyes blinking down to your moving hips. 

you whimper. your hips twitch like they’re moving on instinct now, guided by the burn in your gut and the wet sounds between your legs.

“i need you to fuc-“

you don't even get the words out before toji’s hands are under your thighs, flipping you fast and rough. your back pressed into the car seat, the seat buckle burrowing into your hip. 

one knee pressed into your chest, your other leg extended over toji’s broad shoulders. your panties stretched miserably over your leaking cunt. 

the way he manhandled you like nothing, excites you more than it scares you. 

“what did you think i was going to do?” he whispers as he leans forward. his chest pressing into the back of your thigh, the burn matching the heat twisting low in your stomach. 

you let out a quick breath as he quickly leans back. one if his hands delicately skimming over your wet panties one second. the next, forcefully ripping it from your hips. 

your gasp is as loud as the rip of your (favorite) underwear. 

now, without anything in between your cunt and the humid air in the car — toji gives it a long look. his tongue licking over his lower lip. 

“look at her,” he muffles. the hand on your hip tightening. “dripping all over yourself and we haven’t even fucked.” 

all you could do is watch him. your chest heaving out quiet breaths. your hands clinging onto the seats on either side of you. the coldness of the buckle bringing you back down whenever you got too caught up in his stare. 

he leans closer before spitting down between your bodies. the wad of spit hitting your clit as it drops down between you.

you buck your hips, causing toji to get the hint and shimmy his sweats as low as they could go. his hard dick springing up as soon as it’s free from its confinement. 

and god, what a dick this man was blessed with. you sat and stared at his pictures more often than you’d like to admit. and even then, your mind could never quite conjure how his cock would look.

and here it is, pressing at the entrance of your leaking cunt. it’s big — curved just slightly near the tip, a vein standing out along its side. all you want is to feel it deep inside you.

with your leg still high on his shoulder, toes curled, and the other one pushed into your chest by his weight. you’re completely folded — and you almost want to laugh because no way does this stranger have you folded up like this in your own car. 

your breath is caught right in your chest when you feel the head of his cock drag through your soaked folds. so deliberately, slow on purpose. like he’s trying to savor this. or punish you. you're not sure what his motive is at the moment. 

you look up at him and his eyes are intently watching his own cock play in your folds. his upper lip snarled into his mouth. 

“so fuckin’ wet,” he shivers as he drags along the wetness again. you huff a breath out of your nose, your nails clawing into your back seat.

his dick throbs right at the head of your entrance. you suck in a breath, preparing yourself. he pushes in, just barely. 

and then one look at your face, he pushes in fully. a rough thrust follows, one hand steadying your thigh, the other reaching for the head of the seat behind you as leverage.

your mouth falls open, no sound following. your eyes squeezed shut. the stretch, the burn of having him fully inside is overwhelming. it’s so him. 

“you were grinding like a little bitch in heat,” he groans, hips snapping hard into yours. the sound of skin slapping against skin sharp in the foggy silence of the car.

“and now look at you.” you keep your eyes shut. your hands scrambling for anything to hold on too. the seat belt, toji’s thick arms, your own legs. 

he fucks you fast, deep, almost cruel. your leg on his shoulder slipping off and quickly being placed where toji believes it belongs. not letting you miss anything. making you take it. 

the sound of his heavy balls smacking your ass competing with his groans and your high pitched gasps. 

“toji-“ you moan. that growing burn in your stomach reaching out and taking over your body. you were so close. “i’m going to cum,” 

with this position, your clit is catching every movement he makes. every grind, every moment his hips meet yours. the angle allowing him to stuff you so deeply he almost feels like he’s a part of your body naturally. 

one of his hands finds its way to your jaw. grabbing you a little too roughly, with enough pressure to keep your face turned up towards his. 

you open your eyes to meet his that are filled with so much hunger, you shiver. 

“open.” 

knowing — you don’t hesitate, tongue already out. he spits down into your mouth again. and he watches you as his hips still drill into yours. you seductively swallow it down before he’s pressing into you. his mouth hungrily overtaking yours. a nip at your bottom lip as you buck your hips to meet his bruising pace. 

“i want you to cum just like this,” he demands. his lips still brushing yours as he speeds up his thrusts. 

you arch your back as much as you can, letting out a string of moans. 

“folded and drooling just for me? what more could a free man ask for?” 

your thighs start to shake with the pressure of his body still pressing into the back of your leg. 

the sounds of your slick wetness and your hips hitting each other over and over again are so loud, you think those officers who let him out must be hearing this. 

you feel that spasm coiling deep in your belly. all you could do is reach for his arms to ground you. and pray to god that the tears pooling at your lash line stay in. 

you feel him lean back, letting you see what’s happening. your body curled, pussy split open on his cock, slick dripping from where you’re stuffed so full.

his thumb presses to your clit. tight little circles that make you cry out — loud and sharp.

“yeah, let’s hear you baby,” he mutters, pressing on your clit cruelly. “lets hear you cream on my fuckin’ cock.” 

and that’s all it takes for you to finally be pushed over the edge. 

your hips bucking, thighs trembling, every curse you could mutter falling from your lips in loud moans. 

your orgasm ripping through you so forcefully, your vision gets all hazy and you’re thrown back to the night you went on this prison pen pal website and oranges burned behind your eyelids. 

“don’t stop,” you groan out. toji’s hips still slapping into yours. his thrusts getting sloppier. a little rougher. 

and he doesn’t stop. keeps fucking the mess you’ve made on his cock back into you. chasing his own high. 

your nails scratch down his arms as he leans forward again. his face lodging itself in the crook of your neck. his hair tickling you chin. his sweat mingling with yours. 

his hold on your thigh is so tight, you’re sure you’re going to have toji imprinted on your body for weeks to come. 

“fuck,” he stutters. his hips fucking into you erratically now. 

his grip on your outstretched leg is bruising and that’s how you know he’s about to cum.

jaw locked, his tongue marking your neck and you feel him pulse in you. a low groan weaving out of his mouth as you feel the warmth of his cum pumping into you. 

he stays buried inside you for a moment, your heavy breaths mingling with his. everything is still besides his heaving chest and the slick slipping down your thighs and on to his. 

he lifts his head up, his eyes meeting yours. his hand sliding up to your jaw, cupping the side of your face. thumb dragging on your bottom lip, inviting himself to more of you.

you blink up at him. dazed and extremely satisfied.

“… why were you in prison?” you whisper. your tongue lapping over your bottom lip and catching his thumb accidentally. 

he watches the movement, his eyes tracing your tongue. that grin on his face. 

he lets out a low laugh and you feel it in your stomach and you try to ignore the need to clench your thighs with him still in you. 

“we could talk about it after i eat,” he murmurs.  

you pull back slightly to get a better look of his face. your eyebrows are rising in question. 

“what will you like to eat mister free man?” you joke. 

his grin spreads. slow, sinful, and convincing. 

“your pussy.” 

and because all you want is to bury his head in between your legs as if you’re serving him his death row meal — you don’t miss a beat, surprising yourself in the process. 

“let’s get out of here.” 

he growls, his free hand dropping from your outstretched leg and gripping your thigh. the sound running straight to your dripping pussy. the one he’s slowly pulling out of you. 

“your car is too small,” he mutters. “need to get you somewhere i can really take my time.”

dividers: @bernardsbendystraws