#divider credit: saradika-graphics

[voxofthevoid]

Shibuya Swap Wednesday #1. Let me start by putting on my clown makeup 🤡

My plan was a few chapters of fun, filthy porn, with the dimension travel adding a particular kind of spice. One chapter each for Canon!Satoru/Alt!Yuuji, Alt!Satoru/Canon!Yuuji, Alt!Satoru/Alt/Yuuji, and Canon!Satoru/Canon!Yuuji.

I'm 6.5k in, and not only has there not been a single dick in sight, but I've also somehow outlined a scene where Nanami, Shouko, Megumi, and Nobara meet alt!Yuuji. I haven't reached that scene either.

This is going to be more than four chapters. Titled this (this is also part of the story) how the story changes, and well, the story sure is changing on me.

But I'm having fun! Click through to find around 1.6k of SFW Yuuji porn, ft. all my favorite JJK characters—Yuuji, Gojou, and Kenjaku.

“Good night, Gojou Satoru. Let us meet again in the—”

The parasite in Suguru’s body falls abruptly quiet, familiar eyes widening in an expression that should be familiar, is familiar, except Satoru’s mind keeps rejecting it, desperate to divorce everything about the creature in front of him from the long-gone reality of his best friend.

It’s distracting.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice the other person until there are hands on his shoulders and legs pressed against his back, somehow evading the uncomfortably warm, fleshy grip of the cursed object restraining him to bracket him in human warmth.

“What are you doing to my cute little student, Mum?” says a semi-familiar, impossible voice. “And why are you wearing Suguru-kun?”

The parasite’s face is frozen in an expression that’s half shock, half rapture.

“Oh?” they say, little of their evident shock showing in their voice. “What is this?”

“Why is the wrong question, I guess,” the newcomer says, and it’s there again, a pervasive sense of wrongness at the sound of that familiar–unfamiliar voice. “How? When, maybe.”

The parasite’s grin widens, exposing a revolting amount of teeth. It’s an expression of pure delight, utterly deranged.

Satoru’s self-aware enough to know he shouldn’t judge, but that’s never stopped him.

“Not quite,” the parasite tells the newcomer. “When isn’t enough either. Gojou Satoru is your student, you said? That doesn’t sound right to me.”

“That so?” the newcomer says mildly, their voice still making the insides of Satoru’s skull ache. One of the hands on Satoru’s shoulder slides along the slope of it, gently skimming up the side of his neck to fist tightly in his hair. His head is yanked back, the world briefly a blur. “He has grown a bit. What have you gotten yourself into now, Satoru?”

Even upside down, the newcomer’s face is distinctive, unmistakable, even as it makes Satoru’s mind writhe with the same eerie dissonance of his voice. Pink hair, warm eyes—familiar. Scarred flesh, four eyes—unfamiliar.

“Huh,” Satoru says intelligently.

The Six Eyes are just eyes now, the blockade on Satoru’s cursed energy stripping them of their extraordinary perception, but even with this disconcertingly pared-down vision, Satoru knows what he’s looking at—who he’s looking at.

Familiar lips with an unfamiliar scar on one corner curl into a kind smile. “You still get into the worst situations, don’t you? Some things just don’t change.”

That’s unfair. Satoru hasn’t been in situations in years. He is the situation.

But all that is stuck in his throat, every second he spends looking at this person cementing the reality of him in all of Satoru’s remaining senses.

“Yuuji,” he breathes.

It is and it isn’t. This is Yuuji’s face and Yuuji’s voice and Yuuji’s smile, but the man looking down at Satoru has unfamiliar scars and four active eyes on a face as old as his own, maybe older.

Man, not boy.

Yuuji, not his Yuuji.

“Me,” Yuuji agrees calmly. He’s still smiling, and it reaches his eyes too—all four of them, all that warm brown. “Don’t look so worried, Satoru. I’m here. Everything will be alright.”

No one’s said that to Satoru in a long time. No one’s needed to.

He’s not enjoying the role reversal.

The way this drastically different Yuuji is touching him doesn’t help. The hand fisted in Satoru’s hair is still there, pulling at his scalp as it keeps his head tilted back. An experimental attempt to straighten his head yields nothing. If Yuuji notices the resistance, he doesn’t show it, continuing to hold Satoru by the hair and peer down at him with that eerily serene smile.

And his other hand has crept from Satoru’s shoulder to his face, cupping the side of it. The fingers are curled under his chin, digging delicately into the underside of his jaw. The thumb is moving, butterfly-soft strokes along Satoru’s cheekbone. There’s an unconscious ease to the motions that makes Satoru’s skin grow hot and electric under them.

It’s not a reassuring touch. It’s possessive.

It’s certainly not the way his Yuuji has ever touched him.

This one looks and acts like he’s never known anything else.

“I hate to interrupt this…moment,” the parasite says, not a hint of apology in their dry voice—Suguru’s voice, even his tone, and it strikes Satoru that their desecration of his friend’s corpse, while revolting, doesn’t make his head hurt the way this older, darker Yuuji does. “But would you terribly mind telling me precisely how you got here, Itadori Yuuji? You’re making a bit of a mess, you see.”

There’s a low thud from the side, and another voice calls out, “Getou?”

Yuuji’s eyes shift to the left, all four narrowed. “Oh. It’s still alive here.”

The patchwork curse steps into Satoru’s limited line of vision—normal enough, human enough, he’s sure, but his eyes have been more since he was born.

It says, “Hey, what’s this? Itadori—”

It dies.

One moment, it’s there, tall and manic. The next, there’s just blood splatter on the floor, unusually red for a curse.

“Now I’ve made a mess,” Yuuji says. “In my view, it’s a cleanup, but I’m pretty sure you won’t agree, Mum.”

Mum.

Yuuji called them that earlier too. Satoru didn’t not notice, but he was understandably preoccupied with cute little student and Suguru-kun and the fucking dissonant voice.

“Why are you calling them that?” Satoru asks, and the angle of his throat doesn’t allow for easy speaking, his voice coming out strained, but Yuuji makes no move to release his grip on Satoru’s hair, and another attempt to wrench free of that grasp only earns him a tighter, differently angled grip and a frown that looks more confused than anything.

“Because—”

“Years of planning,” the parasite cuts in, and their voice is quiet, even soft, but Satoru recognizes very well the way Suguru’s voice would get when he was furious. “Centuries. Do you know what you’ve done?”

Two of Yuuji’s eyes flicker up; the others stay on Satoru.

And Satoru’s eyes are immeasurably weaker in this state, but he’s dead certain he’s not imagining the flash of red in the eyes Yuuji’s trained on the parasite.

“You used to say a wrench in the plans was an opportunity,” Yuuji says, and his smile is finally gone, but the considering expression on his face is just as alien. “You can’t have changed that much. What year is it anyway?”

“Twenty-eighteen,” Satoru answers, an automatic response. It’s not even the grip on his hair that’s keeping him staring at Yuuji now; he can’t look away.

“Thank you, Satoru,” Yuuji says warmly. His voice is far less warm when he adds, “You’ve lived too long, Mum.”

“What a cruel thing to hear from one’s son.”

That’s what snaps Satoru out of it.

He wrenches his head to the side, a hell of a lot more violent than the half-hearted attempts earlier, and Yuuji’s fingers do tighten at first, sending sharp pain shuddering through Satoru’s scalp, but then he lets go, even the hand on Satoru’s face falling away. Satoru still struggles to look away, strangely mesmerized by how Yuuji’s familiar face has been shaped into alien lines by the passage of time, but he manages, glaring at Yuuji and then at the parasite.

“Either get this over with or explain yourself. I’m not in the mood for games.”

It takes the parasite a long moment to pry their eyes away from Yuuji to look at Satoru, but Satoru’s briefly disgusted by how well he understands that reluctance.

“I have no explanations for you, Gojou Satoru,” they tell him. “Why don’t you ask your student—except he’s no longer that, is he?”

“Oh.” It comes from behind Satoru. He doesn’t look up. “Is that what I am here? I never thought you’d be a teacher, Satoru.”

“I hear he’s not very good at it,” the parasite provides helpfully. The earlier anger is entirely gone from their demeanor, both their voice and expression sporting the same faux-friendliness with which they were talking to Satoru before Yuuji showed up, but Satoru’s spent a lifetime living in the details, and he doesn’t miss how the whites of their eyes show a little too much, the edges shot with thin red veins. There’s a fervid edge to the way they look at Yuuji—a fascination that borders on hunger.

It flares again, that perverse understanding.

“I’m sure he’s trying,” Yuuji says. He pats Satoru, a light touch at the top of his head like he’s a puppy. It stuns him silent. “You always work hard when it matters, don’t you, Satoru?”

“Of course I do,” Satoru says without thinking.

Yuuji fucking ruffles his hair. “I’m not sure I’d like to be your student though.”

“Hey!”

Yuuji laughs.

And that—

Satoru knows that laugh. It’s Yuuji’s laugh—loud and full-bodied and real.

It’s no revelation. Satoru has seen and accepted a myriad of miracles and horrors over the course of his life. And there have been no explanations yet, no answers, but this surreal conversation has revealed enough.

This isn’t his Yuuji, but it is Yuuji, from a world where Satoru’s the student. And it’s not jujutsu theory that flies through his head, but pure science fiction—the multiverse, mirrored souls in worlds that splinter further and further apart.

The hunger in the parasite’s eyes says they also know.

Satoru hates how they look at Yuuji.

“What did you do to him?” they ask suddenly, in the resounding silence following Yuuji’s laughter. “I can’t sense him at all, but that was his technique you used.”

The hand in Satoru’s hair flexes, nails digging into his scalp. For a moment, they feel unnaturally sharp.

“I ate him,” Yuuji murmurs, barely loud enough to be audible. “Everything he was now belongs to me.”

[ruins-of-babylon]

Harry Potter Masterlist:

Blaise Zabini

Draco Malfoy

Lorenzo Berkshire

Mattheo Riddle

Pansy Parkinson

Theodore Nott

Tom Riddle

All of them!

[mxqiulin]

✦ lily ◦ 26 ◦ she/her ! ✦ main blog ◦ fruitscato ✦ previously lordeiland

✦ main fandoms

◦ stardew valley ◦ fields of mistria ◦ our life ◦ dungeon meshi ◦ hunter x hunter ◦ omori ◦ keyframes ◦ avatar the last airbender ◦ legend of zelda ◦ degrees of lewdity ◦ the coffin of andy and leyley ◦ the sims

✦ icon credit ◦ lichedits ! ✦ divider credit ◦ saradika !

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Series Synopsis: A series of (mostly) unrelated one shots, featuring Oliver Aiku somehow getting involved with the love lives of various Blue Lock characters — whether he wants to or not.

SHOEI BAROU | AO3

SAE ITOSHI | AO3

TABITO KARASU | AO3

REO MIKAGE | AO3

SEISHIRO NAGI | AO3

EITA OTOYA | AO3

KENYU YUKIMIYA | AO3

OLIVER AIKU | AO3

[oftenwantedafton]

A New Afton - Stepfather Steve Raglan/William Afton x Stepdaughter Reader

Chapter 3

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - sexual content, daddy kink, praise kink, food kink

Also available on AO3

taglist @yellowbunnydreams

You glance at the digital display on the alarm clock beside your bed and groan internally. You haven’t slept a wink and it’s time to get up for school.

A quick shower. You’d forgotten to iron your uniform. The pleats of the skirt don’t lie flat. Your blouse is rumpled. You frown at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. Your sclera are bloodshot, the fragile skin beneath your eyes smudged. You can hear your stepfather making coffee in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Princess.”

Steve has transformed back into the geeky social worker version of himself. Striped shirt, matching tie with a small diamond pattern. Gold framed aviators dominating much of his face.

“Hi,” you greet him. You don’t really feel like eating. You start to sit across from him but he clucks his tongue.

“Too far away. Why don’t you sit here,” he begins to drag out the chair your mother usually occupies, then stops. “Or better yet right here.” He pats one long stretch of thigh invitingly.

You stand uncertainly. The chair legs scrape across the floor. Last night, there had been a kind of aura around you. A moment when you’d just surrendered and enjoyed it. The sunlight spilling through the kitchen window this morning feels too bright, too cheerful. It contradicts the dark secret you’d shared with your stepfather last night.

You approach the seated man and sit gingerly on the offered perch. His arm slides around your waist, holding you against him. How neatly he’d just shoved your mother’s place aside to make room for you.

“How are you feeling? You look tired.”

“I didn’t sleep well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Did you?”

“Like a rock.” He grins wolfishly at you and you wonder how his conscience is so clear and carefree. Did he feel any remorse at all for cheating on his wife with her daughter? “Stay home today, if you want. I’ll call the school office and write you a note for tomorrow.”

“I…I think I’d like to stay home, yes.” You can’t process sitting through classes today. Trying to concentrate on schoolwork. The image of Steve looking up at you as you’d climaxed in his mouth won’t leave your mind, playing on an endless loop. You’d halfway been expecting him to come to your room in the middle of the night. Hoping for another taste of that mouth. Wishing he’d put some part of his body on yours. Inside yours. Your eyes stray to your mother’s reading glasses tucked into the basket on the table and guilt wrenches your stomach.

“Alright then. Consider it done. I’ll make us dinner when I get home tonight, okay? Whatever you want.”

You nod. You stare at his lips. You wish he’d kiss you. You’re not brave enough to make a move yourself.

The older man glances at the clock on the stove and sighs. “I have to leave now. Let me get that note written before I forget and I’ll give the school a call.” He pats your knee and you leave the warmth of his lap. One last sip of coffee and then he withdraws one of the notebooks out of your backpack resting on the counter, tearing out a blank page near the back. He has a pen in his shirt pocket: silver, slender, heavy looking. His handwriting is precise cursive. He folds the note and tucks it into the folder on the inside of the front cover, then slips it back into your bag. He retrieves the number for your school from the fridge. It’s there among a list of emergency contact numbers, important sequences like your physician and the office your parents work at.

You pick up Steve’s coffee cup and rinse it, setting it on the sink mat. His voice on the phone is warm, concerned, convincing. He folds his jacket over his arm and lifts his briefcase, reserving one hand to lift your chin. His thumb presses on the shallow divot below your bottom lip. You will him to kiss you, pleased when your desire is fulfilled. He tastes like hazelnut coffee.

“Have a good day, sweet girl.”

The front door closes behind him.

***

The phone rings around noon. Your stepfather is on his lunch break.

“How are you feeling? Did you get any rest?”

“Yes.” You had. You’d undressed and closed the blinds and gone right back to bed. You have an appetite again. For food. For him.

“That’s great. Have you given any thought to what you want for supper?”

You want something sweet. The breakfast meal you’d missed this morning. “Pancakes.”

He hums in amusement. You love his voice in your ear. “Pancakes, huh? I can manage that.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” You can hear him grinning from here. “I’ll try to be home as soon as I can. Maybe wrap things up a little early. My afternoon client load looks a little sparse today.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

He huffs into the receiver, a pleased sound. “That’s my good girl. See you soon.”

The lustful ache within you flares to life once more.

***

William Afton returns home three hours later to find you on the living room couch. You’re wearing seersucker pajamas with a small strawberry print and lettuce edge ruffles. He likes these dainty, feminine things you wear. Better than something overtly adult like lace or satin. They still retain a sense of innocence and youth that arouses him.

He enjoys how your gaze is always heavy on him, as if you’re mesmerized, captivated. You can’t seem to look away. You can’t conceal the want.

He bends to kiss your mouth, threads his fingers through your hair. A weaker man would surrender right then and ravage you. But he’s not a weak man. He takes his time removing his work clothes and steps into the shower. A few quick lazy strokes of his erection, just a little tease of the pleasure he’ll be receiving from you later. Loose pajamas that don’t entirely conceal his firm cock, this material thinner than what he’d worn last night.

He returns to the kitchen and begins preparing the meal. You hover in the doorway, watching him gather ingredients and utensils.

“You really can cook,” you say.

He glances at you mid leveling off a measuring cup and smiles. “They’re only pancakes.”

“But you know what you’re doing. Like, you’ve got practice. The way you’re handling things. I don’t know how to phrase it.” You frown at him. “You owned a restaurant once, right?”

William nods. “I did.” The flour spills into the batter bowl. “Actually, I’ll let you in on a little secret if you promise not to tell anyone. I mean anyone,” he emphasizes.

“Okay, I promise.”

“I still own it. It’s been closed for years, but I just couldn’t bring myself to let it go.”

He dusts his hands off and walks over to you. “You should visit with me some time. It’s not an ordinary restaurant. There’s an arcade. Animatronics. A lot of very interesting things I could show you.” He plants a kiss on your jaw and nibbles your ear lobe. He feels you shiver.

***

You stare at the array of toppings available before you. Steve had stopped at the store on the way home and had gotten some groceries. Whipped cream, strawberries, blueberries. There’s also powdered sugar and butter and chocolate and maple syrup.

“Wow. You really went all out.”

“If you’re going to do something, you should commit one hundred percent to the task at hand.”

He picks up one of the strawberries freshly rinsed in the colander and walks over to you. “Open your mouth,” he instructs gently. The texture from the external seeds is rough against your bottom lip as he sits the fruit there. Your lips part and he pushes it forward, your teeth sinking into it. A burst of sweetness and tartness sparks along your taste buds as the offering moves over your tongue.

Your stepfather makes a little satisfied humming sound, his eyes transfixed by the movement of your mouth as he consumes the remainder. There’s a slight red stain from the juice you notice tucked into the nail bed of his index finger and your mouth waters.

You sit at the kitchen table, in your mother’s usual seat, this time without any prompting. Your bare foot touches Steve’s as he settles into the chair beside you, setting plates with a stack of the griddlecakes before each of you. It’s just a gentle brush of skin against skin but you feel it strike you like a matchstick scraping red phosphorus, igniting your core.

The pancakes are delicious—light, fluffy. You chew around a forkful smothered in chocolate syrup and whipped cream and strawberries and your eyes stray to the older man’s bare scarred forearms, the sleeves he’d shoved up to his elbows when he’d started preparing the meal still gathered around the crease of his arms. Your stepfather has opted for the more traditional butter and maple syrup—the real kind, not that synthetic chemical laden variety—and you watch fascinated as he swallows in large bites, making short work of what’s in front of him. You wonder if he’s starving, or if it’s simply the way a man consumes things, because everything with a man is larger, stronger, more aggressive…

“Is it good?” His eyes haven’t moved from your face.

“Yes, Daddy. Thank you.”

His lips twitch. “You’re welcome, baby girl. Do you want more?”

“I’m full.”

“Are you?” A full on smirk and your stomach flutters. “I’m not.” He stands, offering a hand to you. You let him pull you to your feet. He slides his fingers into the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging your head back gently. “Did you miss me today, Princess?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you say softly. Your pussy is absolutely throbbing. Just like flicking a light switch, he’s got you instantly worked up.

“Good girl. I missed you, too.” He releases his hold of you, arm sweeping across the island still dotted with ingredients and cookware and utensils to clear a space for you, some of the items falling to the linoleum. “Let’s get you up here, hmmm? Take everything off.”

Your heart thuds in your chest. You pull your pajama top off, hearing the whistle of air sucked into Steve’s lungs. The bottoms and your panties follow. You leave everything in a pile on the floor. Calloused hands wrap around your waist and he lifts you easily, sitting you on the end of the counter. The surface is cool against your heated skin.

“Lie back, sweet girl.” You obey, gasping slightly when the granite touches your bare shoulder blades as you recline supine along the length of the island, your legs dangling off the end of the counter.

Steve’s warm hand drags over your naked body admiringly, caressing you from knee to hip, kneading the curve of one breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers and tugging slightly.

“Where to even begin…” The bearded man sighs heavily, as if the dilemma is a weighty one. You hear him lift something from the counter above your head.

It’s the maple syrup.

He unscrews the cap then tips the glass bottle at an angle. The amber liquid within begins to spill out and he drizzles it over your torso, the first drops pattering against your collarbone, then across one breast, trailing a stripe down your abdomen, letting it pool in your umbilicus.

His eyes are lidded. He looks drunk off the sight of you, completely intoxicated by your naked body lying there sticky sweet beside him. When his face descends for that first kiss along the stretch of bone near your throat you think you’ve rocketed straight to heaven; try to mentally prepare yourself for the torment of hell your sin warrants.

You feel the rasp of that muscular organ stroke along the liquid nectar he’s just poured there, a slow, incessant drag. He lingers over your breast, sucking on your nipple and your back arches, your hand reaching to thread through his hair. You’re whimpering already and he’s barely begun.

Your stepfather moves from the side of the island to the end, dipping down once again to lav at the sweetness gathered in the divot above your mound, one hand caressing the back of your knee. You’re torn between craning your neck to watch what he’s doing and letting your head flop back against the hard surface, staring at the ceiling sightlessly while the man continues to lick you.

He kisses your abdomen and then he hooks his arms around your thighs, dragging you closer to him. You hear the scrape of one of the kitchen chairs as it’s pulled from its place beneath the table nearby and the older man settles into it, his fingers stroking your hips.

Then his mouth is finally there, where you need him most. You both moan together at that first taste. His tongue swirls around the bundle of nerves. Strokes between your lips and thrusts against your entrance, meeting resistance as the interior of that sacred place is still shielded with the skin that protects your virginity.

“Please…Daddy…I need…”

“What do you need, baby girl?” His breath is warm against the crook of your leg.

“I want…I want your fingers inside…”

Another gentle kiss. “It’s going to hurt.”

“I know,” you say softly. You’re afraid, but your desire for that forbidden destruction into your hollow is too strong.

“You’re sure you’re ready?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He’s right. It does hurt.

It burns when that index finger—maybe the same strawberry juice stained one from earlier—thrusts forward. You can feel your body resisting the intrusion. His mouth covers your clit and it distracts you from the discomfort a little. He advances a bit further, and then abandons the gentle motion abruptly to finish stretching, tearing, driving his finger forward until it’s completely sheathed inside you. Like ripping a bandaid off, just getting it over with. You cry out. All of that supply of moisture from arousal seems to have been depleted, replaced now with hot, sticky blood. Steve extracts that digit and then shoves it right back in. Repeats the process. His tongue strokes along your lips. You feel saliva dripping down and it makes the passage of his finger easier. It burns and aches but beneath it, there’s something. An ease of tension. It feels better when you relax, when you let him fuck into you. You weave your fingers between the ones resting on your abdomen and he squeezes your hand.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

You want to be a good girl. His good girl.

***

You never cease to surprise him.

William had thought he’d merely be eating you out on the kitchen counter but here you are, asking him to violate you. You’re so tight. It’s going to take a lot to work you open and grant him better access for more fingers and his fat prick in the future. That knowledge excites him.

He withdraws his finger and sucks the blood off of it. Metallic, musky, bitter. Eases the wet phalange back inside your canal. Sucks your clit and feels your body responding, relaxing. Curls the finger when he violates you again, seeking that sensitive spongy tissue. Your thighs tremor violently against his cheeks. A series of moans, whimpers, cries, as if you cannot decide on which sound to make. He loves pulling them out of you.

“Daddy…”

God, does that turn him on. His cock lurches at the title and he redoubles his efforts, letting his mouth grow more slack, letting saliva ooze over your cunt. He can tell you’re enjoying it again, the pain fading beneath the waves of pleasure. His tongue strokes outside and his finger plucks along your g spot and you cum, the hand holding his squeezing painfully but he enjoys it, tasting and feeling you come apart, lost in the haze of the feeling he creates deep within you.

William allows you time to recover, rising from his seat and walking to the side of the counter, bending to kiss you. Your mouth is slack, open, ready for him. He steals the breaths you gasp. Assists you down from the slab of granite and hugs you against him, his erection pressing along your lower spine. Your hands brace against the edge of the counter. He shoves the waistband of his pajama pants and briefs down, stroking that impatient rosy flesh. Wipes a smear of precum against the curve of your buttocks.

“You’re such a good girl for Daddy. Such a good daughter…” The words seem to come from a distant place, as if he is lost in the echos of a past memory.

He tugs until the pressure building within finally releases, a thick spray of hot seed painting your ass cheek. You turn in his arms and he kisses your mouth and that is how the meal concludes.

[taintandviolent]

For the ask prompt game:

"Don't say that" w Kit Walker

tw: infertility, angst, brief smut.

Kit opened the door, setting his coat down on the chair nearest to it. You felt him searching for you, felt his eyes scanning over the small of your back and the curve of your ass. His heavy steps echoed in the small house as he made his way over to you. Wordlessly, your hand moved in circles, sudsing up a plate. 

His warm chest pressed against your back and Kit began peppering little kisses along the nape of your neck. Knowing what was coming next, you immediately felt petulant and stiffened as you continued to meticulously scrub at the dishes. It wasn’t that you didn’t love Kit – you did, with everything you had. It was just that he wanted something you didn’t, and something that you’d never ever be able to give him. Still, he tried, thinking that his potent virility would puncture your insufferable, sterile womb. 

“Miss me, baby?” 

“Sure I did. I always miss you when you’re gone, Kit.”

“Mmmmfff –” His words disappeared into your skin. 

His large, warm hands explored your plush hips, squeezing the flesh hard. Teeth clenched, you bit back your words. They continued to venture further, into the crease of your thigh, heading straight for your cunt. His middle and ring finger moved together, caressing the slit. His whisperings were hot on your ear, his breath rushing down over your neck. “I wanna’ fill you up, baby.” 

“Oh, Kit - stop it!” You twisted your body away from him, furiously scrubbing at the pan.

Kit’s eyes softened, searching for a glimmer of sarcasm, of joviality. He found nothing but hardness. “Sugah’, don’t…” 

“No! Kit!” You threw the pan down, the sound of it clattering in the sink startling him. “ I’m tired of ignoring the elephant in the room. It makes me sick!” 

“Baby, listen,” he shushed, his hands clamping onto the sides of your arms. He rubbed the flesh there, trying to pacify you. He hadn’t meant anything by his casual remark, he was just trying to get you in the mood. After a long day, all he wanted was to have you to his own. As any man would. 

Bracing yourself on the sink, you leaned over it, watching as the suds sloshed back and forth, tiny bubbles popping. Tears welled up in your eyes, stinging the corners. You hadn’t wanted to cry today, you were so tired of feeling this – every time he came onto you, the worry was in the back of your mind. Finally, you turned to him and spoke, struggling to keep your voice steady. 

“Kit, you know damn well that filling me up isn’t going to do anything. And even if it did, you know how I feel about that. I’m broken. I’m broken and you know it.”

“You’re not broken, sugah’ - there ain’t a damn thing wrong with ya’.” 

“Maybe I ought to go to Briarcliff. Maybe if they fry my brain long enough, it’ll fix me”  

“Don’t say that.” He squared his shoulders. “Don’t say that.”

[cherryberry-sugarandspice]

Master list of this sexy daddy 😋🤤

Fluff:

Something cute 💕 Husband 💕 King of Aftercare

Smut:

Sugar Daddy 🤤 Neighbor 🤤 Pleasure 🤤 Drabble 🤤 Drabble 2 🤤 Drabble 3

[bangtanhoneys]

MASTER LIST

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[4th-make-quail]

QUAIL. Genus sleepy

she/he ~ 30+

Your local old man enthusiast and villainfucker extraordinaire! Writer of unpopular ships in unpopular configurations, gifmaker, and general all-round menace.

Your Kink is Not My Kink and That's Okay - antis can go get fucked, basically! Functionally "proship" but I really hate the label, so make of that what you will. If you're into policing morality, I don't want to know you, and I am extremely free with my block button.

ABOUT QUAIL

info page ~ tags page (wip)

TAGS OF NOTE

quail's fic ~ quail's gifs ~ quail's edits

old man bone zone ~ eric bogosian/assad zaman ~ ffxii

[beatsboy]

8.18.24 / week 8 of being a delusional artist

day 4 of moon time

how did i live like a delusional artist today? maybe in photographing my period stains on my bed maybe in journaling my dream about my ex the minute i woke up at 7am before going right back to bed because i can’t stand to be awake for another moment after having to freshly remember that they’re not here again (these dreams are like waking up to a fresh bandaid being torn off the wound over and over again) maybe in procrastinating, for they say that all artists do this, and while i know this is true, i am struggling to get unstuck and stay unstuck lately. it’s hard to fully break out of the cave, when you’re stuck, when you’re by yourself. sweet pea helps, licking my face (i swear) to remind me to go to the bathroom, to eat, to go outside. all he does is lick my face, so i have to interpret these as signals to get moving. last night, for instance, i was sitting on my computer for far too long, on the couch next to sweet pea. and promptly, as my bladder started to nag at me to go to the bathroom, he started to lick my face, inhibiting me from using my computer.

i’m starting to think he parents me more than i parent him, and i only pretend that it’s the other way around to feel better about my lack of self-sufficiency as a human adult. my fucking goals for tomorrow are to eat 3 meals, first one before 11. like, come on.

i just feel so slow while i’m bleeding, and i know that it will be over soon, but i think part of the reason i need to spiritualize it, to give it meaning, is because it’s just so fucking painful, physically, emotionally, and generally in relation to my gender.

i was supposed to leave the house today, and i did get all ready to do so, another sunday where i put my swim trunks on and waited. this time, it never came time to go, the party wrapped early, and i remained, having spent time getting ready, covered in sunscreen, with nowhere to go. and instead of quickly pivoting to art, which was very possible at that time, i got stuck. i got stuck waiting to go to bri’s to return their keys, for no reason at all, and then got stuck when i got home, and finally unstuck enough to make myself some food at 10pm, do the dishes, change the sheets (i did do some cleaning today, just very slowly, like imagine a slug doing chores, very slowly, and getting caught on corners), and sit here and journal.

i have therapy tomorrow, and tomorrow, i swear to god, i will continue working on music again. i had a good groove of working every day, basically until i finished boypop, which some have suggested i rename (which, yes, maybe, but what?) then, i got out of it, because it is so hard for me for some reason to maintain a consistent practice with my craft while working and socializing fucking still even though i don’t even work a full-time job like that. it’s truly not that i don’t have the time, it’s that i don’t have the energy? the focus? the routine?

healthy habits start small, though, right? i am believing in my future self, that i can make the new dates i’ve set for the release timeline. and i am giving myself these deadlines because i deserve to share my work with the world and i can’t wait any longer. i believe in the artist i want to be, in the artist i will be, because i am building toward it today. i am building my practice. i know i am good at what i do, i know i can do what i need to do to finish this project. i just need to focus and finish.

i’ve never completed an album before (unless you count the collection of phone demos i dropped on soundcloud for the lore) that’s like comparing publishing a fanfic on ao3 to getting your debut novel published, there’s a lot of extra steps that separate the two. it’s all i’ve ever wanted, so why am i waiting? why would i put off becoming the pop star i have dreamt of being since i was a fucking child? i am alone in my own apartment that i pay for with my own fucking money, why am i not spending every second making art in it? this is what i have always wanted for myself, space and time to make art, and i feel like i am wasting it spiraling and cleaning and pinteresting and tumblring and cleaning and looking up if the chemicals in my soap are poisoning me (pretty sure everything is poisoning me at this point)

i want to be fair to myself, i have not been completely idle. i redid the release timeline last night. i made a pitch deck for the next photoshoot the other day. i watched alien, for research (lol, but seriously!) i have been brainstorming the entire vibe/aesthetic/characterization of this persona, trying to mend together what we initially envisioned and what the music video shoot is giving (which are kind of different things but it’s ok)

the thing is, though, these things are part of the art, they are necessary to the art, to communicating the art to the people, to the audience. that does not make them art, though. the job part. the industry part. and sometimes i get so lost in these parts, that i forget that the whole point is to be able to sustain making art for the rest of my life. and none of this bullshit is worth it if i’m not making art. and if i’m not making art, it’s not going to feel like it either.

here is to tomorrow, to getting back to a daily practice, even if it’s in the form of small steps.

[voxofthevoid]

New Wednesday, new mefic! Nicknaming this one Demon/Hunter Horror Wednesday #1—you'll be shocked to hear it has demons and demon hunters and horror. It's sukuita+goyuu, but the first several chapters will be solely sukuita. Gojou won't show up till around halfway through.

On top of this being my first (modern) fantasy AU for JJK, I'm taking a stab at tropey horror. It'll shift into erotic horror and assorted fuckery quickly enough, but the first chapter is mostly scene-setting and foreshadowing. I'm trying to get better at creating a sense of place; it's something I enjoy a lot when reading but don't really focus on when writing.

Enjoy? Enjoy!

CWs for creepy churches and blasphemy.

He has the passing thought that Sasaki and Iguchi would have loved this shit, and then he’s pushing the door open, stepping into the church—and freezing, immediately.

“…Creepy.”

It’s not worse than the outside. Mostly because the outside makes this look like the kind of place where some of the weirder, bloodier stuff Yuuji’s seen in all those horror movie churches would actually happen. There’s no blood or bodies—at least not where he can see. But what’s there isn’t much better either.

There’s a long, narrow aisle leading to the altar, lined on both sides with lit candles.

Candle after candle after candle, with flickering flames that cast strange shadows on the walls. There are candles mounted there too, thicker ones with globs of wax both dried and dripping down the sides. They’re the only sources of light in the room, except for the moonlight pouring in through the large, uncovered glass windows behind the altar. And where the candles’ lighting is violently warm, the moonlight is cool and soothing. But their combined effect is just eerie, light and shadow twisting together strangely everywhere Yuuji looks—the walls, the floor, his own arms.

There are rows and rows of wooden pews on each side, all empty.

Yuuji squints at them, checking extra carefully to make sure they actually are empty. He can’t see anyone. And he sure can’t imagine why anyone would want to be here at this hour. This place is just—

“Brat.”

Yuuji yelps, jumping a foot in the air. He backs off the moment his feet touch the ground, except he just rams his back into the half-open front door, shutting it behind him with a resounding crack.

“Shit,” Yuuji gasps, pawing blindly at the wood till his hand finds and clutches metal. “Who the hell’s there?”

“You,” says the same voice as before, coming from a thick layer of darkness near the altar, where neither candlelight nor moonlight penetrates, “came into my church.”

“H-huh?”

A figure melts out of the shadows—a man, tall and broadly built, his face a sharp-angled thing with strange shapes on it.

It takes Yuuji a very long moment to realize that the shapes are tattoos, not just shadows.

The man comes closer—and closer and closer, till he’s filling out the aisle, the hem of his dark, flowing outfit dangerously close to the flickering flames of candles.

Yuuji’s tempted to hold up an arm, ward him off from coming any closer, but he’s just as tempted to throw the door behind him open and book it. He can’t help scanning the man either, assessing his build and the way he holds himself and the space between them, and his own body winds tighter in response, the tension in it changing shapes.  

As if sensing it, the man’s face twists into a sneer; there’s ink under his mouth too, dark lines that slope along his jaw to end in crescent curves under his eyes.

“Who are you?” Yuuji asks, more mystified than anything now.

“Are you stupid?” the man asks, giving Yuuji a look that makes it clear what he thinks the answer is. “You’re in a church, brat. What do you think I am?”

Yuuji blinks at him. Then he looks, really looks, taking in everything he tuned out in his shock earlier. The man’s clothes are dark all over—black, for sure. The upper half is practically molded to his torso, showing off shoulders and pecs that threaten to burst out of the restraining fabric. There’s a high collar too, covering his neck almost entirely. But the lower half is loose like a skirt, the hem almost touching the floor, and Yuuji doesn’t know what this thing is called, but he definitely recognizes it.

“I didn’t know priests could have tattoos,” he says dubiously. “Or swear. Is that allowed?”

The man’s mouth curls up at one corner, the expression anything but pleasant. “And if it’s not? Who the fuck are you gonna complain to?”

“God?” Yuuji ventures.

“You see any god here, brat?”

“It’s a church.”

“And?”

Yuuji opens his mouth and closes it. What the hell can he say to that? Plus, the guy’s right in the most literal sense too. He can’t actually see anything…godly around. There’s an altar, sure, but there are no paintings or carvings anywhere near it. The windows behind it are plain glass, without any colorful images of Jesus or whoever. And Yuuji’s familiarity with the insides of churches is also limited to stuff he’s seen in movies or manga, so this could be normal for all he knows.

But it’s still a house of god, isn’t it?  

“You’re the new boy,” the man says suddenly. “I was wondering when you’d have the balls to show up.”

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me.”

Yuuji scowls and takes a step toward the man, finding they’re already closer than they were when the man stopped moving. Yuuji doesn’t know when he unflattened himself from the door and moved forward, but there’s only a few feet of space between them now, and he can see the man’s features much more clearly.

And his hair is a dark peach in the dull golden light of the candles, but Yuuji’s seen himself in that kind of dim lighting enough times to know what it does to bright-pink hair.

It’s a stupid little detail to notice given…everything else, but somehow, it’s the most unsettling part of this whole thing. Yuuji’s never met anyone else with pink hair, except for very vague memories of his dad back when he was alive. Even the pictures of his grandfather from before his hair turned grey showed a head full of thick red hair, clearly related to Yuuji’s coloring but not really the same.

And it’s just coincidence, plus the priest might be sporting a different shade of pink—but Yuuji has pretty good eyes, even in the dark. He knows that color. And he doesn’t like it.

“I…should go,” he hears himself say.

The priest doesn’t move, but Yuuji can feel his attention sharpen. It’s there in the air, like little knives.

“Leaving so soon?” the priest says softly; his voice grates Yuuji’s spine. “That’s not right. Especially after you came inside without permission.”

The hairs on Yuuji’s nape prickle, and he trusts his gut too much not to understand it as the warning it is.

But while Yuuji might run from some horror movie bullshit, he’s not fleeing from a creepy priest.

“You’re not really doing much to keep me here,” Yuuji tells him. “This place looks like something out of a shitty horror movie. What kind of a church is this?”

“Mine,” comes the reply, predictable somehow. “You’re here anyway.”

Yuuji can’t really deny that, but he doesn’t know what compels him to say, “Not my fault I had creepy dreams about it.”

A slow tilt of the head, a narrowing of the eyes. “Did you now.”

It doesn’t really sound like a question, but Yuuji still says, “Since I saw this place. Like it was calling me or something. Figured it’d go away if I just came here.”

“Calling you,” the priest echoes, his voice dipping further into something that turns every syllable obscene. “Who, brat? God?”

Yuuji waves it off irritably. The words are easy to dismiss, but the man’s voice clings to the inside of his skin. “I know it’s stupid, but I just needed to see.”

The priest huffs; the amusement brightening his expression only makes him look more cruel. He moves closer to Yuuji, his robes flirting with the candle flames, and more than once, Yuuji’s convinced that the hem will catch fire, but it never does, and the man comes to a gliding stop barely a foot away from Yuuji, looming over him with that cruel smirk.

This close, his eyes are a dull, deep red.

It must be the light.

Yuuji hopes it’s the light.

“A bold dreamer,” the priest says, his voice low and strangely rough—raspy, like it’s scraping up his throat. “Have you seen what you came to see?”

Yuuji wouldn’t know where to even begin to answer that.

He says, “I’m leaving.”

The priest says nothing, and when Yuuji takes a stumbling step back, he does nothing to stop him, only watching with eyes that gleam red around the candles reflected in them. Yuuji finds himself backing away without turning around or taking his eyes off the man, but those unblinking eyes and crooked mouth might just be worse than any unseen blow would be.

He finds the doorknob with the small of his back, hissing in surprise.

Call it pride or stupidity, but Yuuji can’t bring himself to open the door while facing the priest. Somehow, he just knows it’d amuse the bastard, and Yuuji refuses—a little too late but still—to give him the satisfaction.

He whips around and yanks the door open, stepping back—into a solid body that yields neither flesh nor space.

Yuuji freezes.

“Go on,” murmurs the priest. “Leave.”

[ceoegos]

Greetings! Welcome to the show~

We are the Saturn System (24) and this is our sideblog where you'll be seeing more of: Actor, Wilford, and Engineer and maybe Mark. (Possibly more if headspace has to say anything about it)

{We'll be posting content about us, talking or even roleplaying as ourselves with others. Chances are we might not act or behave completely from our source and that's okay.}

Rules:

- Please be patient with us, sometimes not all of us will be in front to talk. But you'll usually know who by the tag and emoji used and colored text if requested not to use it.

- Keep it PG-13 as I know minor tend to cross here and if certain discussions or rp threads get a bit rated R then it'll be tagged.

- Don't be creeps and harass or it's immediate block were not going to put up with it.

Tags:

🎭 - actor.txt, same snake different skin (thread interaction), (aesthetics and music), (ego art)

🪩 - warfstashe.txt, that's everyone's journey to the top baby (thread interaction), (aesthetic and music), (ego art)

* ego art is fan creations we reblog about us.

☕ - engineer.txt, hello Captain!(thread interaction), (aesthetic and music) (ego art)

🎮 - mark.txt, aesthetics, ego art

🪐- saturn/host.txt

DNI:

-Proship/Comship, Incest/Pedo, anti LGBTQ+

[chronicvagabonds]

🔴 - introduction

chron┆25+┆any pronouns┆lgbtqia+┆multifandom┆★ hallo there, you can call me chron. this sideblog is centered around reblogging & commenting on fandom, kpop media and fanfiction. i used to write fiction myself and have been reading online for more than half my life. the main reason i set up this account is to engage with the fanfiction community and to appreciate authors and their creations by leaving nice messages. ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

🔵 - warnings

n/sfш┆mdni with #18+┆dms open┆slow updates┆★ i read and reblog both sfш and nsfш fiction. mdni when: posts are marked nsfш by the author and/or tagged #18+ by me! i check in regularly but occasionally have extended periods of time when i am inactive due to reallife responsibilities. however my dms and letterbox are always open for chatting and sharing. ◛ˎˊ˗ dear authors: please interact or reach out to me if you have any questions or something i've said or done has made you uncomfortable. i enjoy annotating and yapping endlessly over your works and never carry the intention to confuse, harm or critique others. we're all strangers on the internet but nobody says we have to stay that way. ˙ᵕ˙

🟡 - navigation

my most common tags & their meanings┆★ #★ ┆ chronic: any post, text or thought written entirely by me #★ ┆ chroncom: fanfictions i have commented and given feedback to #★ ┆ chrononymous: questions/threads i asked anonymously often as 🃏 anon #afternote: followed by keywords from an author's response to my reblog ♡ #inspiration: prompts and ideas that make me want to write #appreciation: good vibes for authors and readers #advice: tips and tricks for writers and readers #my bells: [name]: my lovely mutuals 🫶

last updated: 28/09/2024

[global-kawan]

Here, I post/reblog world news and donation links. Please message me if there needs to be corrections made to any post.

[oftenwantedafton]

Maybe - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - sexual content

Summary - Your coworker Steve Raglan hates you.

You’ve no idea why, only certain that he does, blatantly evident in his every word and gesture.

So when you find yourself locked in the mail room with him after hours one evening, you’re not expecting much to happen. Boredom. Silence.

Certainly not his body pressed against yours. His hands on you. Wanting.

Also available on AO3

Steve Raglan hates you.

You’re not sure what you’ve done to deserve it, precisely. The impression of that emotion had been apparent from the first moment you’d met him. There hadn’t even been a proper introduction, really. Just instructions to bring a client back to the career counselor’s office. Friendly enough towards the young man you guide through his open door, his nasally rusted voice beckoning the job hopeful further inside. The inviting smell of fresh brewed coffee permeating the interior of the room. The friendly smile on your own features wilting when you see him moving to close the door for privacy. The hard line of his mouth. His eyes dismissive. You could pass it off as your imagination except it happens again whenever you see him. The break room. The copy room. The parking lot. Wherever you happen to encounter one another. The weight of his disapproving stare makes your shoulders droop. You check your appearance in the restroom, lift an arm to make sure your deodorant is working. You even mention it to one of the other girls in the office, someone who’s worked there for a while. She shrugs. Says he’s always been polite. You try to nonchalantly inquire with a few other individuals and receive a similar response.

So, no. You have no idea why Steve Raglan hates your guts. You just know that he does. So you try to avoid him as much as possible. And that actually sort of works. You can even almost forget that the middle aged man despises you for absolutely no valid reason as the weeks pass into months.

***

It’s late.

The office officially closed an hour ago. But you’ve still got work to do. Things that you could leave for the morning, you suppose, but you dislike starting the workday behind schedule with cluttered backlog. So you don’t completely notice the lights getting dimmed, the reduced noise, the failing daylight outside the office windows. Your fingers continue to fly across the keyboard. You’ve finally finished the last of the mail correspondence. You print the page and fold it twice, sliding it inside a business size envelope and sealing it shut. The taste of the envelope makes you wince. Why can’t they make the adhesive more pleasant? Sweeter. Like a mint or hard candy. Anything would be preferable.

You switch off the monitor and tuck your chair beneath the desk. All you have left to do is put this batch of letters in the mailroom. You decide to leave your purse and jacket behind. You’ll grab them on your way out the door.

You can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights, louder than normal now that the office is devoid of the bustle of business activity. No conversations, no ringing phones, no sounds of typing or printing. Just stillness. You don’t think you’ve ever stayed here this late before. You think you might be one of the last ones left.

You’re not.

Steve Raglan is inside the mailroom. Standing beside the rows of cubbies for inter office mail. The copier behind him suddenly spitting out pages. You haven’t had to interact with him recently. You’d almost forgotten that haughty glare of his over the rims of his gold framed glasses.

“I’m just going to drop these in the outgoing box.”

The room is very small. The cubbies, the copier, a waste paper bin, a cabinet with a slot for putting materials to be shredded. That’s all. Narrow confines. The closest you’ve ever been to him. He’s wearing cologne, a pleasant fragrance that’s earthy yet almost sweet. Underlying notes of citrus. You have to press close to reach the correct box and the smell grows stronger. You should have just waited. But who knows how long he’d be there. The copy machine is still running.

In your attempt to be stealthy you trip and reach out for something to stabilize you. The edge of the open door. You manage not to fall. The door swings shut behind you and you hear a click.

A sound of disgust from the tall man. You turn and jerk on the door handle, shoving. You just want to retreat. No movement. You push harder, really wrenching on the brushed nickel fixture. Nothing. It’s sealed shut. You’re locked in.

Your bearded companion seems to realize what’s happened a heartbeat after you do. He shoves past you and tries the door handle himself. You’re pressed against the shredder bin, the uncomfortably sharp corners digging into you through your pencil skirt.

“You idiot. We’re locked in.”

“I…I’m sorry.” You don’t know what else to say.

He tries hammering on the door. His voice is louder than you’ve ever heard it. Confirming what you both already know. You’re the last two people in the office.

“Now we’re going to have to wait for the cleaning crew to come in. Which will probably be…” He glances at his wristwatch “…six hours from now, at least.”

Trapped in this confined space. You’re not strictly claustrophobic, but you think you could develop that condition rather quickly if you dwelled on the situation you’re currently trapped in for too long. Stuck in something marginally larger than a closet, with a man that loathes you.

And now he’s actually got a reason to. Nice going.

The copy machine goes silent. You move to stand across from the social worker, the most distance you can put between you. He leans against the door and folds his arms across his chest, scowling at you. The room is unpleasantly warm already. Or maybe that’s just your nerves, a little rush of adrenaline making the capillaries in your limbs have increased blood flow, your elevated metabolism generating more heat. You always get hot when you’re nervous. You feel your scalp prickle. Your palms are damp. You try to shrink back against the copier further.

You don’t know how much time passes but the awkward silence and staring contest are too much. Your lower back is burning already. You step out of your heels. Let your toes curl in the carpet. A little relief. Steve continues to glower.

You’re going to attempt to sit. It’s difficult, between the limited space and you wearing a narrow skirt. You ease down until your buttocks makes contact with the carpet. Keep your stockinged legs straight in front of you, maintaining your modesty. You fiddle with the charm bracelet on your wrist.

A sigh. The middle aged man joins you on the floor. His long legs bent. Head knocking back against the wood surface behind him with a soft thump. The hem of his pants slightly raised so you can see his socks. Dark purple, and are those little rabbits printed on them? You frown curiously. It’s so out of character for anything on this stern figure to be whimsical. Maybe they’d been a gag gift. Laundry day and nothing else to wear. You’d already checked on a previous occassion to see if he wore a wedding ring. Nothing. His forearms rest on his knees. His hands were massive.

“Can’t you find something else to stare at?”

You blink. Neither of you has spoken in awhile. “I’m not staring,” you protest defensively. “There just isn’t a lot to look at in this room.”

“Find something.”

You chew your bottom lip, your cheeks flushing. There is nothing. The walls are blank. The cubbies and shredder hardly warrant much attention. You know the logo on the reams of paper stacked on the floor by heart now. “I don’t know why you hate me so much. Aside from tonight I’ve never done anything to you.”

The man barks a short laugh. “Hate you? I have absolutely no emotion towards you at all. Nothing.”

Somehow this makes you feel much worse. Now you’re desperately looking anywhere but at the career counselor. You reach for one of the sealed stacks of copy paper, unfolding the end and sliding a blank page free. Begin folding it in random directions. Just something to keep your hands occupied. You notice Steve squirming a bit in your peripheral vision.

“I can move so you can stretch a bit,” you murmur. You fold your legs without waiting for a response, tucking them to one side. You see him hesitate, attempting to stretch but it’s impossible. His legs are too long. “You’re really tall.”

A grunt. You push yourself back into a standing position. Roll your shoulders. Bend and touch your toes. You don’t know why you’re trying to accommodate him but you see him relax. A little sigh of relief.

You kind of need to pee. You were going to hit the John before you left for work. You’re eyeing the wastebin and thinking if worse comes to worse... No. No way. You can wait six hours. Less than that, now. “What time is it?”

“Eight. Almost.”

So another four hours, then. Steve stands again and you sink back down. Your stomach growls. You’d only had a salad for lunch. You think about the steak and lo mein noodles and stir fry vegetables you had waiting for you at home. You’d been planning on curling up on the couch with a bowlful and relaxing in front of the television. Instead you’re stuck here. With him. The man who hates you.

***

Later now. The only conversation inquiries about the time until your coworker informs you you’re asking too frequently and making things worse. Requesting silence. Raglan removes his glasses at one point, folding them and tucking them into his shirt pocket. Massaging the reddened indents on the bridge of his nose.

You’re both sitting on the floor again. His legs sort of half folded, angled slightly. You attempt to stretch yours. Just a gentle easing that you misjudge, your stockinged foot sliding across the carpet, stroking against the inside of Steve’s leg.

You freeze. You hadn’t meant to touch him. You can feel his body heat through the nylon covered extremity. Your eyes meet and his hand curls over your foot, trapping you there.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Now you know how those large hands feel. Strong. Warm. Vice grip. Unrelenting.

“Are you?” His voice is different. Soft. Almost a purr of sound. His eyes different, too. Darker. Pupils dilating.

The hand abandons you. He rises, and you struggle to stand, much less gracefully. Something’s happening. You don’t know what yet. A shift in the atmosphere. The rift of tension merging into something else. One of those strong hands now closing over your forearm. Snapping over it like a manacle. Dragging you towards him.

Your back is to him now. Against him. The hand on your arm moving now to the hidden zipper on the side of your skirt. Your heart is pounding. His breath rasps loudly. You don’t think yours is much shallower. The waistband of your skirt loosens. His fingers are splayed against your sternum, the pinky and lower edge of his palm pressing along the tops of your breasts. His other hand invades the charcoal material covering your lower half. Tucks beneath the pale pink panties that match your blouse. Dips right through the damp flesh of your sex and you whimper.

Steve heaves a heavy sigh when he makes that intimate first contact. Satisfaction. Lust. His fingertips feel calloused. You wonder what career he’d held previously, the thought dashed away when he begins circling your clit, using your arousal for lubricant. You’re on fire. How is this the same man that had told you hours before he had no feelings towards you whatsoever? Had he just been frustrated? Wanting you but thinking it was improper for some reason or—

One finger dips inside your entrance, his thumb now working your clit. You should have been embarrassed by the amount of fluid you’re spilling over his probing digits but you’re not. You just don’t want him to stop touching you. Maybe it’s because you hadn’t had a boyfriend in awhile. Maybe because you hadn’t masturbated recently, usually too tired by the time you make dinner and shower and go to bed. Or maybe it’s because it was Steve Raglan specifically. The man that loathes you taking you apart with expert precision. You’ve never been intimate without kissing, without cuddling, without some foreplay. To skip straight to this…

The sound of a pair of fingers invading your body is loud. They curl inside you. You can feel his erection digging against you. The breath coming in short pants. Yours, his. A cacophony of struggling air exchange. The perfect pressure of your partially hooded nub rolled against the bone beneath. The fingers tucked inside stroking curved tissue. Your full bladder making the sensations even more intense. Your nails dig into Steve’s forearm through his dress shirt. You’re on the brink of orgasm. You recognize the feeling building inside of you. That trapped pressure that needs release. His fingers increasing the pace. Pressing harder. There. You cry out and his grip on your torso tightens as your climax wracks your body. You feel dizzy. Spots in front of your eyes. Christ. The best one you’ve ever had, hands down. The aftershocks are still pulsing through you in tingling little bursts of pleasure.

You begin to come down off your high, you body limp and liquid, still supported by the man behind you. His hand leaves your pussy, dragging the fabric of your skirt up. Something feverish and hard pressed against your buttocks. His cock, out of his pants. Dragging against your bare skin where the underwear doesn’t cover. Now tucked beneath the legband. Thrusting against you, constricted into that tight space, like fucking a virgin cunt. The arm still bracing your body against his shakes. A curse and a hot spill of fluid. A lot of cum, filling that pocket he’s created between your panties and your buttocks.

You eventually move apart. You can feel his semen seeping into the fabric. Adjust your skirt. You hear his fly being zipped back up.

The rough breathing subsides. Post nut clarity, isn’t that what men called it? The reality of what you’ve just allowed to happen washing over you. You let this man that’s old enough to be your father finger you to orgasm. Let him use your panties like a sex toy and dump a load against your body. And you’d liked it. Fuck. You shiver at the memory. You’re too shy to meet his gaze. Another stretch of silence.

***

A band of light beneath the door. Someone is in the office.

Steve sees your sharp gaze and turns to face the door. Banging loudly. Yelling. It takes a few moments for the custodian to unlock the door, looking very surprised to find a pair of workers trapped in the mailroom.

You make a beeline for the restroom and grab your things. Steve doesn’t say a word on your walk to the parking lot. So back to this, then. Radio silence. Whatever the hell his issue is with you. Whatever had just happened in the mailroom. A quickie. Boredom or what. Who fucking knows. You skip dinner, opting for a shower and bed.

***

The next morning you get ready for work at your usual time. Telling yourself you’re not being selective about the lingerie you’re wearing. Not choosing a flowing button front dress because it’s easier access. You’re not expecting anything to happen. You don’t want anything to happen. Do you? A throb between your legs at the memory. Okay, fuck. Yes you do. You’d barely slept. Remembering what he’d done. Gotten so worked up thinking about it you’d had to have another round just to take the edge off. Thinking about those big hands on your body. Imagining the feel of his beard abrading your thighs, those dark lustful eyes watching you as he goes down on you. What had felt like a very generously sized cock stretching you. Pumping you full of his cum. Nope. Not thinking about that in any great detail at all. Sure you weren’t. Another tingling pulse as you look at your reflection in the mirror. You really need to stop. This is the guy that hates you that you’re fantasizing about. Or is indifferent towards you, allegedly. Except you can’t reconcile that idea, the juxtaposition with your intimacy making no sense whatsoever. Maybe he just liked playing head games with people. You’re an easy target for that. Too sensitive. You cried over sappy Hallmark movies. Got sentimental on the holidays. Donated every time you saw one of those commercials pleading for funds for animals in need. A big softie. So yeah. You made for easy prey, you supposed.

You don’t even have to wait long to see him again. He’s got the first client of the morning. You have to pass the mailroom on your way to Steve’s office. You’re trying very hard not to think about what had happened in there. Trying to be professional.

Your resolve shatters the instant you see him. The way his hand looks when he reaches for the doorknob. That glare above his glasses. The slightest smirk, that brief twitch of lips so rapid you think you might have imagined it. It’s no good. He’s ruined your ability to concentrate. The paperwork piles up. It’s noon. Break time, the office closes for an hour. You have to pass by Raglan’s office to get to the break room. His door is open. You tell yourself you’re just going to check to see if he’s there, some bullshit excuse about the time his next client that’s a last minute add on is arriving at the ready. A perfectly valid reason for you to be there.

He is inside. Slouching slightly in the brown leather office chair. Thumb depressing the end of his pen, driving the nib from the barrel. Another click and it retracts. Watching you. Waiting. “I just came to tell you there’s been a last minute add on. You have someone coming in at one.”

“Shut the door.”

You hesitate, wondering if he intends for you to close it behind you when you leave. The faint smell of that morning’s coffee still lingers in the air.

A sigh. He straightens and stands and the chair creaks. He shuts the door himself. You’re still in the room. So he wanted you here. With him. Wants you. Something. You’re unsure.

He settles back behind the desk. A slight curve of fingers beckoning you. You stand beside his seated frame. Heart beating like mad. It was happening again. This time during the day. With people nearby. The blinds were open. Warm bands of sun across his desk, against your skin. “Kneel down.” You don’t even question it. Just let yourself descend. The carpet protector hard against your knees through the stockings and layer of your dress. Still waiting. Watching you. His eyes dark again, full of desire. Another little sigh of exasperation. You decide to take the initiative and rest your hands on his thighs. There’s so much of them. So much mileage to go before you reach your destination. You jerk on his belt and the metal releases from the leather. Button unfastened. Zipper peeled down. No reaction from Steve. You debate whether to use the flap of his boxer briefs or just shove the waistband down. Opt for the latter. He’s even bigger than you’d suspected. Long. Thick. Cut. Fat head dripping precum. Fuck. Your cunt is already responding. Pink nails against his dark pink skin as your hand curls around. Leaning forward, tongue swiping along the opening. A sharp inhale. A response at last. A faint musk. Soap tinged. Masculine. Clean. You take him further in.

A mouthful already and you’ve barely begun. You feel his body shifting positions, slouching a bit more, getting comfortable. Your stretched lips slide over him. In and out. Just shallow attempts for now. Getting accustomed to Raglan’s cock in your mouth. God that’s a sentence you’d never thought you’d utter. Think. Whatever.

The phone rings and the head slips from your mouth. Another sigh. “Don’t stop.” He leans a bit and lifts the phone off the cradle. Yellowing plastic thing that had maybe been light gray once like the computer monitor and mouse and keyboard. Very out of date. You have newer ones at the front end. You wonder why he hasn’t requested upgraded models.

“Steve Raglan, may I help you?” So polite. His timbre much lighter. Friendly. Jovial, even. He clears his throat. Fingers of his free hand patting his thigh to remind you to continue. You’re not expecting those fingers to knot in your hair and hold you in place. Your nostrils flare in protest at the limited air as his hips move, pistoning his cock into your maw until he’s touching your throat. You’re gagging, coughing. Feel saliva thickly pooling. He keeps you there. His voice above you so light and airy, so different from what’s happening beneath his desk. “We offer a variety of services. Yes, we’re used to working with candidates with less than ideal backgrounds. The success rate of our job placements…” You lose track of the conversation. He finally jerks your head back and you gasp for air. Your lips are tingling. So is your pussy. Fuck if he doesn’t have you wound up. Wetter than the cock you’ve just slicked up with your spit. Your throat is burning already.

“I’d be more than happy to take a look at the applicant’s job history. Our fax number…” You’re shoved onto his dick again mercilessly. Your nails dig into his thighs. “Sure, I’ll hold.” The fingers in your hair tightening. The chair creaking loudly in protest when he shoves himself back inside. You’re a little better prepared this time. Manage to work up and down his length without much guidance. Concentrate on resisting your gag reflex. Keeping your jaw loose, your lips tight. His fingers curl over the bottom of the phone, blocking the speaker. “You’re going to swallow every drop.” Your eyes widen and you attempt to nod your understanding. Rather difficult considering the position you’re currently in. The little smirk is back, lingering this time. “Hi, yes, I’m still here. Yes, it’s coming through right now. Another question? I’d be happy to help if I can.” You recognize the irritation underlying the false accommodation. He doesn’t really want to help. You hear the fax machine behind Steve’s chair. Dial tone and connection made and pages printed before a longer beep to announce it’s finished. Your head continues to work on as much of the career counselor’s prick as you can manage. Edging a bit more of the shaft inside. Testing the absolute limit. A momentary panicked gurgle before he eases up again. Another loud gasp. There’s no way the man or woman on the other end of the line isn’t hearing this. Steve’s breathing has gotten louder. His voice a lot coarser and lower pitched. “Yes, that’s right. Pleasure to assist. We’ll be in touch.” The phone slams down and he fucks deeply into your throat. Repeats. Again and again, hammering away until he withdraws and you suck in air. You can feel the saliva coating your face, smearing your cheeks and chin. You think your mascara might be running. The lip gloss you’d had on has certainly been chafed right off by now. “Look at me.” Your eyes lift. It’s exactly what he needs to send him over the edge. Your helpless captive mouth and throat around his cock. His taste filling those places. Bitter. Thin. Another great quantity, like the previous evening. The softest little moan of sound, stifled behind the fist he presses against his mouth. Something about that excites you to no end. The fact that you’d made him feel so much pleasure he’d had to stop himself from making too much noise.

You lean back on your heels. He’s still staring. You wipe at the spit coating your face.

“Panties off. Sit on my desk.” It never occurs to you to refuse. Rational thought beyond you. Just that one solid wood door between you and discovery. Maybe that was part of the enjoyment for him. A touch of exhibitionism. Like how he’d had you blow him while he was on the phone just now.

You grab handfuls of the material draped around your hips and tuck your fingers into your panties. Step out of them, leaving them on the floor at your feet. You still have your heels on. Your bare ass settles on the ink blotter, your dress bunched around your midsection.

His fingers hook underneath the edge of the desk and he drags his seated form closer to you, the wheels of the chair grinding along plastic. Those calloused fingers stroke your thighs. Another pair of thigh high stockings today, these ones a soft navy to coordinate with your dress. He strokes along the lace trim. Shoves at the draped fabric still concealing your sex. Another of your fantasies from late last night about to come true.

You’d suspected Steve was going to be a master at eating pussy and God were you right in that assumption. The tip of his tongue—this longer than average as well, it seems every feature of the man’s body ran to the extreme—curling and flicking across your clit. A needy whine escapes you. That muscular organ now dividing the petals of your pussy, driving into your entrance. A muffled moan at your taste. Your head rocks back. The mouth of your entrance waters in response to his jabbing tongue. He’s barely begun and you’re already about to explode. His nose digs into your mound as he slurps the sensitive pink flesh into his mouth. His beard not rough against your skin as you’d expected. Much silkier. Soft. Your bundle of nerve endings being sucked. Stroked. Teased. He brings you close then backs away. Each time the impending orgasm feels more intense. Even just his breath against your damp cunt is enough to stimulate you. You let your fingers sift through his graying hair. The glasses have been tossed aside. His hands are curled around your thighs. He continues to languidly sup at the place between them. Your lunch break must be nearly over now. A combination now of tongue flicks and sucking centered directly on your clit. This time he doesn’t hold back. You bite your lip hard, keening when your release finally washes over you. Someone has surely heard. You try to stifle the next moan of pleasure. He is unrelenting, persisting even when your trembling thighs attempt to close and you push at his head. Somehow your body survives the onslaught and the fire is kindled again. He’s going to make you cum again.

A second climax wracks through you. Steve finally moves away. His bearded face is damp from your juices. You let your legs drop over the edge of the desk, hands bracing yourself to remain sitting. You feel absolutely wrung out. And it’s amazing.

There’s that awkward silence again as you both recover. Adjusting clothing. Subtly removing body fluids from obvious places. At least there’s a restroom right across the hall. Your eyes dart to the clock on the wall. One hour exactly. Raglan remains silent. You don’t know what to say. You end up leaving his office, more conflicted than ever.

The afternoon passes. A few clients directed Steve’s way. Everything strictly professional between you. You’ve got to work double time to make up for your distracted performance earlier that day. The display on your computer monitor confirms what you already know. You’re late again.

This time you’re going to use the restroom before you leave work. Just in case. You never know what could happen. You pass the mailroom. It’s empty, the door open. Steve’s office door is shut. You don’t recall seeing him leave but you hadn’t exactly been watching the entrance the entire time.

You finish in the bathroom and head back down the hall. Car keys successfully withdrawn from purse, the strap of which now sits on your shoulder. Cardigan on. You turn to leave.

He’s there. Leaning against the open doorway that leads to the reception area. Those dark eyes watching you. You feel the strap of your handbag already sliding down.

“What happened to being indifferent?” You’re surprised when the words leave your mouth. Maybe he’d just expected you to keep going along with his sexual whims. Playing whatever game this was.

“Maybe that was a poor choice of words.” He pushes off of the molding covered frame, walking towards you. “Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

You stand your ground. One of his big hands now rests on your cheek, rough thumb drawing an invisible line under your bottom lip. “Maybe…”

He doesn’t finish the thought with words, his face lowering to yours.

[seberries]

꩜ .ᐟ SEB: tired loverboy. twenty four. they/he.

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