#he’s going to be a big bear it seems like

[wileys-russo]

sending this to distract us from the transfer window (it has my stomach in the pits of hell omg)

alessia, “how many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”, bedroom

part of the maternal instincts series

two second surprise II a.russo

"thank you!" you smiled politely as your pass was scanned and the usher moved aside to let you inside the family and friends box, doors closing after you as you scanned the room trying indeed to find your family.

"boo!" you jumped about a foot in the air as fingers zapped your sides and a familiar voice sounded as you turned around and smacked giorgio on the shoulder before he pulled you in with a grin.

"i didn't know you were back yet!" you laughed as your girlfriends brother lifted you up in a bear hug before placing you back down on your feet. "landed last night. haven't slept a wink but i wouldn't dare miss a game!" the boy beamed as you flicked his lanyard.

"or a free feed and some drinks?" you teased as he held his hands up unable to argue your point. "i didn't think you were coming though! less said something about a girls weekend?" gio questioned as he practically dragged you over to the bar with him.

"girls day trip more like it." you forced a pained smile as the middle russo winced. "that bad huh? you women." he tutted with a shake of his head, making a strange noise as you punched his arm and he almost spilled the beer he'd just picked up.

"you were raised by a wonderful woman, watch your mouth russo." you warned with a playful glare, the two of you chattering as you followed him to where everyone else was, greeted with a cheer and pulled from one hug to another.

"alessia didn't say you were coming darling? whats happened?" carol pulled you aside with a concerned frown as you sighed and shook your head.

"trip was cut short. lets just say one night out together unearthed some home truths and old wounds!" you summarised what had been a very draining twenty four hours playing peacekeeper on what was supposed to be a chance to catch up with some old school friends.

"drunk minds and sober thoughts as they say hm? well its a lovely surprise to see you. lessi will be thrilled!" the woman smiled pulling you in for another hug as you rejoined the group.

"where's bella?" you questioned once you had a chance to get a word in, unable to see her hovering about anywhere. "oh! alessia organised for bella to be her mascot today. she didn't tell you?" luca advised as you shook your head.

"to be fair she told me she'd only contact me in an emergency, forceful relaxtion she called it." you chuckled at your girlfriends stern warnings you weren't to worry about anything this weekend but having fun, and look how well that had seemed to work for you.

carol informing she was just about to go wait downstairs to bring bella back up after the walk out, she was more than happy to shoo you off in her space as you now found yourself in a back room with the parents of the other mascots, watching the walk out on a big screen projected on the wall.

your heart swelled about ten times its normal size watching alessia lead your daughter out hand in hand, bella unable to wipe the grin off her face and you knew this was something she'd remember for years to come.

after all its not everyday you walk out to a sold out emirates for a champions league match, and you were almost certain this would be making the rounds with all of bellas school friends and your neighbours, and coworkers, and your parents, practically anyone with ears that would listen to your daughter.

suddenly you were being lead out toward the pitch with the group, advised the mascots would take a quick photo with the starting 11 and then head back over.

"what?" alessia mumbled as she felt an elbow suddenly in her side, leahs chin pointing to the sidelines and as alessia caught your eye and you waved she felt her stomach drop, cautiously raising her hand to wave back.

"oh you are a dead woman." leah snickered to herself, bella too busy looking around in awe at the thousands of people cheering and yelling to even clock your prescence, alessia squeezing her hand gently and lifting her up onto her hip for the photo.

now normally, if this was any other game day, any other weekend, frankly any other situation at all, alessia would be over the moon that you'd shown up and were there watching her.

but today, today that was not the case and a profound sense of dread was fast seeping into her bones.

today alessia had a secret, something she'd kept from you with hopes of having the weekend to come up with a plan on how to tell you, and now with those hopes blown right out of the water, she was panicking, hard.

"is that mummy? mummys here!" bella gasped as she finally spotted you, alessia tightening her grip on the six year olds hand as she tried to race across the pitch where you stood waiting.

"mama you're being slow!" bella groaned as sure enough alessia was taking her time to cross the mere ten or so metres between the pair of you, but with the stubborn girl pulling her along she eventually had to land in front of you.

"hi trouble." you laughed as your daughter crashed into you, already word vomiting everything she'd been doing for the past day you were gone. "you can tell me all about it tonight!" you promised, barely able to keep up with what she was saying it was coming out of her so fast.

"-and mama took me to get my ears pierced!"

but those words, those registered with you and in a split second you were bending down, hands grabbing her face and eyes wide as you tilted it side to side, sure enough the glint of tiny diamonds in her ears that had not been there when you left yesterday.

"alessia." your head snapped up toward your girlfriend who'd gone pale, eyes wide and features dripping with guilt as you stood and narrowed your own eyes at her.

you paused as you felt a tug on your shirt, meeting bellas curious gaze. "should i cover my ears?" she questioned, doing just that as you smiled and gave a curt nod before your glare landed back on the blonde in front of you.

"alessia how could-" you started, taking one step toward her as she took one back. "thanks for coming so glad you made it see you after the game babe!" was all that came tumbling from her mouth before she took off sprinting away from you.

"russo!" you yelled after her as she glanced at you with a wince and what was supposed to be an apologetic wave, but really seemed more like a shoo of dismissal as you scoffed and shook your head.

"come on bell." you swallowed your anger for the time being, tugging your daughters hands off her ears and taking one of them in yours, lead back through the tunnel and toward the elevator to head upstairs to watch the game.

~

"mama you did it!" your daughter cheered, racing across the room to greet her as she appeared, freshly showered and smiling as bella hugged her leg before spotting a few of the other girls coming in and darting off to say hi.

having had the best part of the last two and a half hours to calm down you weren't quite as infuriated with her as before, but still you made no move to go and greet your girlfriend, rather following after bella and leaving alessia to speak with her family, all of whom had been clued into the mounting tension between the pair of you.

"-maybe i'll take you one day!" kyra grinned messing up your daughters hair who huffed. "pest!" bella pointed back up at her as you laughed and kyra feigned offence, bella tapping her leg and yelling tag and suddenly the pair of them were off zig zagging and chasing around the room.

"hi." you turned at the soft voice beside you, glancing briefly at your girlfriend who stood there with an awkward smile, humming and fixing your gaze back on isabella who'd now roped manu and laia into her game of tag with kyra.

"are you still upset with me?" alessia blurted out, wincing at the frosty silence that followed, your head not even turning to acknowledge her as she sighed. "thats a yes then."

"am i supposed to not be upset with you alessia? i told bella when she asked about her ears last week she was too young, i leave for a day and come back and you've of course given her whatever she wants." you quipped coldly, leaving her behind as you went to collect the girl in question, alessia rubbing the back of her neck and trying to think how she was gonna dig herself out of the hole she was currently in.

especially since it was her own hands on the shovel which had buried her in there in the first place.

several hours later and things were just as unresolved, the tension still taunt and air around the pair of you uncomfortable and stiff, so much so that alessias parents had offered to have bella for the night to give the pair of you a chance to talk it out.

but all alessia received was silence in the entire car ride home, any and all attempts at conversation ignored as you stared out the window, immediately shut out as you made a beeline for the bathroom.

she hadn't even gotten out of you just why you were back so early from your girls weekend, and knowing that since you were something must have gone wrong, stomach tied up with guilt that you'd already clearly had things go wrong and now you'd come home to find out she'd gone against what you said.

a very long shower and perhaps an overly extensive skin care routine to give yourself some space and time alone to think later, and alessia finally heard the lock click, sitting upright in the chair she'd been lounging in eagerly awaiting your return.

at first she knelt down on one knee, rapidly realizing that would signal something much different than what was going on as she scrambled to her feet, almost toppling back to the ground as the door opened.

"what is this?" you questioned bluntly as the striker gestured much more awkwardly than intended to the bed once you stepped out of the bathroom and flicked the fan off, eyes scanning the large love heart and 'i'm sorry' made up of uncooked pasta shells covering the duvet.

"an apology." alessia gestured again to the bed as you only hummed, barely acknowledging it as you tossed your clothes into the dirty hamper in the corner of the room.

"how many times do i have to say i'm sorry? i'm really really really sorry!" alessia groaned, dragging her hands down her face but sticking consistent to your stubborn nature you ignored her all together.

"can you clean that up please? i'm tired." you nodded to the bed as you scraped your hair up into a half bun, refusing to meet the footballers pleading gaze as it followed you around the room.

"i even tried to write i'm sorry i put holes in our daughters ear without asking you, but i ran out of pasta." alessia admitted with an annoyed scowl. "my daughter." you muttered, missing the way the blondes face shattered at your misplaced words.

only as you were trudging into the kitchen to make a cup of tea did those words register with you, flicking on the kettle to boil and pausing, exhaling heavily and quickly turning on foot to return to the bedroom.

you found alessia on her knees with her back facing you, ever so carefully picking up each shell of pasta one by one and placing it back into the packet, making sure not to miss a single one.

but right as you heard the kettle go and you went to leave her to it you heard it, the unmistakable tiny sniffle, alessia pausing as her hand moved to wipe at her eyes and your lips turned downward.

"alessia." you spoke quietly, taking a step closer as she sniffled again, straightening up suddenly and clearing her throat, quickly moving to scrape the remaining pasta shells into a small pile.

"less." you spoke softer now, clearing the distance between the pair of you and arriving by her side, an uncomfortable feeling settling in your chest as you tapped her shoulder and she glanced up at you, eyes red where she'd clearly been trying to hide her emotions.

"our daughter." you corrected gently, the blonde only nodding and quickly averting her gaze, hands with an ever so slight shake as she continued to pick up the pasta shells.

"hey, less. stop." you ordered, one hand falling atop hers as she again glanced up at you, your remaining anger melting away at the cascade of guilt, frustration and hurt that swirled in the strikers bright blue eyes that met yours.

"come here." you opened your arms, your girlfriend up on her feet and all too happily accepting the hug, hunched over with the height difference as your face pressed into her shoulder and her chin hooked over yours.

"i am really really sorry for going behind your back." she whispered sincerely as you rubbed her back, exhaling at the feeling of her tight embrace. "i know you are, i'm sorry too." you felt her press a grateful kiss to your cheek as you just stood there holding one another for a moment before gradually breaking apart as you tugged her down to sit on the end of the bed with you.

"i should have called and asked, really i know i should have. its just-well bell came home from that party yesterday and she was quite, upset." alessia started as you frowned, nodding for her to continue.

"she said some of the other girls were picking on her because she didn't have her ears pierced, calling her a baby and saying she was too scared, said she was lying about not being allowed since all of their mums took them to get their ears done already." alessia revealed as your frown deepened.

"trust me i was ready to go in there and raise hell!" alessia huffed with a scowl and a shake of her head. "but well i could hardly go in there and yell at a bunch of six year olds that they're a pack of bitches, so instead i just took her to get them done so she didn't feel left out. but i should have called you and asked and-" you cut her off with a kiss, the blonde tensing up in surprise before you pulled away.

"did you just call children, a pack of bitches?" you cracked a smile, the tips of your girlfriends ears going pink as she gave a shrug. "not to their faces! their mums however-" alessia shook her head as you let out a small laugh.

"-pack of bitches." you finished for her, the girl meeting your amused smile with a nod of her head and a grin. "i wish you'd at least told me what happened and that you were going to take her, but i understand why you did it, and i'd have done the same thing if the roles were reversed." you assured, pulled into another hug and exhaling into alessias chest as your arms looped around her torso.

"if it helps all she could talk about was how she had to have silver studs, and not gold because you only wear silver." alessia mumbled as you chuckled. "thank you." you broke apart as the blonde gave you a curious frown.

"what for?" "for being a good mum." you leaned in to kiss her again, amused by the way her cheeks now flushed pink at the compliment.

"not the best because that title belongs to yours truly-" you started as alessia laughed but made no move to argue. "-but bella and i? we're both very lucky to have you less." you added on with a soft smile, laughing at the way she surged forward to hide her face in your shoulder, your back hitting the mattress.

"softie." you teased as she pinched your side, the two of you just laying there wrapped up in one another, limbs entangled and the only sound the rhythmic pumping of your heartbeats.

"wait! what happened on your girls trip?" alessia suddenly remembered, head popping up to frown down at you with concern as you groaned at the memory, alessia gently hitting your thigh and begging you to fill her in as you pulled yourself to sit up.

"do we still have that half drunk bottle of vodka?"

[avianconcept]

Thank you!! Someone had to say it!

I actually liked that they didn't handle it well in the book simply because it made sense in the narrative, and for who the characters are. Its 2007, and none of them (as far as we know) have a frame of reference for Jean's type and scope of trauma. If they responded perfectly, I think I'd honestly find it kind of hard to believe. I'm a fan of authors being very logical in their character's responses like that.

But I'll go a step further, and look at it from a more...emotional? angle. I don't understand why people hate on them for handling it badly. When I read the book, I found it almost...endearing? In the sense that -to me- their occasionally badly executed attempts at handling Jean reflect such a determination to care and to try.

As always, bear with me.

A major theme of the book, in my opinion, is that looking away, be it literally or metaphorically, when something is wrong and someone needs help, is an act of violence. To me, the floozies ‘bad’ handling of Jean’s trauma is just a product of them not looking away. The easier thing is always to look away, or worse, to push the thing that makes you uncomfortable away as fast and far as you can.

Trauma is often reacted to this way. Most people are not used to seeing people get triggered, especially when the resulting behavior is violent or frightening in nature. People aren't sure how to deal with what are clearly serious issues, so they respond to that discomfort by pulling away. They put distance between themselves and this person they don't understand, and in the process, alienate the victim further.

Cat, Laila, and Jeremy seem to be aware that they are in over their heads, with Jean. They can see that he's got shit going on that they have no idea how to deal with.

But they don't drop him, they don't pretend it isn't happening, and they don't hold him at arm's length.

They try.

They use what limited, ill fitting knowledge they have, and they try to meet him where he's at. They do not respond like trauma therapists because they are not trauma therapists. They are twenty-somethings in 2007 who understand very little beyond knowing that there is a person in front of them who is clearly not alright.

Over and over again, they choose to do the uncomfortable thing, and try to offer him what they can. What he needs is probably intensive therapy- but he's has (or will have, come TGR) Betsy for that.

The Floozies are offering something less clean cut than a therapist, but no less well intentioned or valuable. It's friendship, and warmth, and a chance at normalcy. They challenge his harmful thinking, and try to prevent him from retreating within himself so far that no one can get to him. They push him to do new things, and provide a contrast to what he believes life to be.

And yeah, sometimes they mishandle things. They're also young. But they do not quit on him. They very determinedly do not look away, even as the pile of Big Scary Concepts To Reckon With gets bigger and bigger. I think they're meant to be a contrast to the Ravens, in a lot of ways. Instead of picking on his weakness, they refuse to leave him behind. They don't let him stay trapped in his own head just because it would be easier for them.

In my opinion, their well intentioned, somewhat poorly executed attempts at trying are a hundred times better than not trying at all.

"the floozies are terrible at dealing with Jean's trauma!!?!!!"

the floozies are twenty years old

[transformers-spike]

You put Breakdown with a gutbuster in my head, and now I need. For him to use it. On me. (Aka reader)

Bonus points if it's disgustingly cute and sweet and BD gets lots of love and praise. 🥹🥺

I overdid it. Again. Thank you @drunkeninlovesailor for beta-reading this fic and smacking some sense into me when self-doubt reared its ugly head. And I will go on to say @ss-shitstorm made me adore Breakdown so much more through Breaking Bread. I look up pictures of him and cry And yes, this is a sequel to Visitors - so back to the heatverse

Knock Out always goes first. Breakdown doesn’t mind it. At least he shouldn’t. He knows he’ll have his turn with you. Everyone does.

Second or seventh place, it doesn’t matter. He should be grateful to have a chance. Just like he should be grateful he didn’t lose more than one optic. Or the feeling in his left arm. Or his honor.

Again, it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. It’s his turn. No superior waiting at your habsuite, no humiliating dismissal (obviously, they don’t mean for it to seem humiliating – they’re his superiors after all, and he has to obey them) – only you in the midst of your heat cycle.

The “breeding room”, as you jokingly call it, is actually Knock Out’s old habsuite. Repurposed, yeah, but he’s been here enough times to recognize it. Any Con worth their ball-bearings can upgrade after reaching third class. Knock Out used to be a first class. Then he was promoted to Chief Medical Officer and skipped a rank. Breakdown is stuck in second class. Better than first. Better than being a vehicon. He should be satisfied.

You’re curled up in your oversized berth on top of the heating pad. “Hey, squishy,” he whispers, taking his usual place next to you. “Don’t tell me Knock Out tired you out.” Your answer is a snort. You stretch, flesh poking out from under your frame coverings. A common sight by now, but his cooling fans didn’t get the memo. His frame vibrates with their familiar hum.

“Like what you see handsome?” you ask and scuttle up to him, wearing that precious spark-warming smile. He returns it full force.

“What can I say? Even a one-opticced oaf can recognize true beauty.” “Careful, partner. There’s only so much I can take before jumping on your spike.” He barks a laugh. “It may come sooner than you think.” “Bring it. I’m ready to deepthroat until your system reboots. But first -” you huff as you climb into his lap, waving away the servo he’s offering. Once comfortably seated in his lap, you cheekily rub your aft against his interface panel.

“Spill the tea, sis.”

“Hmph…” He drums his digits over his thigh. “We’ve had a record break in the mines! I haven’t seen them this happy in quartexes. There was a small party at homebase, squad’s been celebrating with engex.”

“Homemade?”

“Nah – I’ve checked. I won’t let them pull that stunt again.” He winces at the memory. B15F. Poor scrapper’s been euthanized well before his time. There wasn’t much left to save. The engex melted right through his fuel tanks. Breakdown didn’t pride himself on morality anymore – none of them did. But it was the right call – even if the uncertainty is tearing through his circuitry like a horde of scraplets. Could Knock Out have fixed B15F? Or maybe it would’ve just dragged out his suffering for a chance at nothing. His conjunx had studied at a bigshot academy – Breakdown’s knowledge’s based around rushed medical training. “You okay, big guy?” He snaps out of it. “Yeah! Everything’s good.” You can’t see his reassuring smile with his massive chassis in the way. But maybe if he keeps it up he’ll really mean it.

“You sure? You’ve been doing that a lot lately.” His smile falters. If a human has noticed it… who else has? Is this why Dreadwing’s been especially tolerant of his mistakes? Scrap, Breakdown almost misses his commanding officer’s reproaches. Could he get any more pitiful for frag’s sake? Proving himself after losing an optic to fleshies is bad enough. He’s not an invalid – he won’t be demoted to janitorial duties after working his aft off to make it this far.

“Workload’s been pretty intense. Been on my mind a lot.” He adds a chuckle to convince you – but he can’t see your expression with his chassis in the way.

“Bad enough for the vehicons to get blackout drunk again?”

“Found them recharging in mine carts.”

“Just like a college frat party, huh?” He has no idea what that means. Doesn’t stop him from laughing, though. “You should’ve seen them getting out! The sight brought lubricant to my optic.” “Scrambling like turtles stuck on their backs?” Oh – those, he definitely remembers. “Better. Remember that video you sent of the cat-looking thing surrounded by fermented fruits?” “The raccoon?” “Yeah! Struggling to sit up, then falling back in again!” You snort louder. “Ah. An absolute classic. You should totally film it next time, I would kill to see it.” “Oof. I’d love to, but I’m not sure I can do that while on shift. Ask Soundwave. Nothing escapes him.” Especially any contamination of the medbay – his processor shudders at the memory. At least it wasn’t Commander Starscream. Fooling around’s been kept to Knock Out’s habsuite ever since. And outside the ship, but that’s not the Intelligence Officer’s business.

“More than you know…” you say. Your tiny digits sneakily stroke the protomatter between his hip and thigh. The touch isn’t sensual. At least he doesn’t think it’s supposed to be. You’re not shy about squeezing, biting or running your glossa over it. This feels different. Hesitant.

“You know… you rarely visit first.” He sputters. “It’s not that I don’t want to or anything!” He shifts his frame and cranes his neck to take a good look at you. No success. “It’s that… I’m still a soldier, and they’re my superiors.” “I know that, silly. I’m talking about how you always let Knock Out have the first go at me before either of your shifts start. Why is that?” “I…” He shakes his helm. “Come on, second place doesn’t make any difference. As long as I get to pay you a visit, I’m happy!” His vox is strained. He meant to sound cheerful. What came out felt like rust being scraped off mesh.

You sink your digits into his thigh. Not enough to hurt. Never enough to hurt. A single fleshie can’t hurt a Cybertronian. But it’s clearly meant as a warning. Even he can tell that.

“Dude, just ask to go first. Knock Out is lovely and all, but you shouldn’t neglect yourself for his sake. I want you to come around and let loose before anyone else. Hell, you deserve it. Do you want me to ask Megatron personally? I can do that, no prob-” “No!” It comes out too desperate. “No,” he repeats. Softer. “The others don’t do well with favorites. Uh… except maybe Soundwave, but he doesn’t count.” Breakdown cringes. He wants no part in their power struggles, especially Commander Starscream’s. Else he’d end up at the barrel of his Master’s cannon.

“Okay… but my point still stands. Ask Knock Out to reschedule next time orr I’m bringing Megatron into this.” His vents huff, servos drawn into fists.

“Got it,” he relents. “I’ll talk to him, but if he refuses-” “He won’t refuse,” you say none-too-softly. “We’ve had a chat post-coitus.” He blinks. “You cannot be serious.” “Low and behold, I am. What? Did you expect me not to address it?” “He’s going to be furious at me.” “Like hell . If he so much as lifts a digit, I’ll be happy to inform Megatron and get him put in his place. He’s your superior in the medbay, not outside of it last I checked. And trust me, I’ve been checking.” He clenches his jaw and offlines his optic. “We’re not…” he starts gently, leveling his words carefully. “We’re not Newsparks. There’s a balance we’ve established on the Nemesis. All of us. Bringing Lord Megatron into this won’t offset the balance. It’ll destroy it. What we have here,” he gestures at the small habsuite. “Is thanks to his generosity. I don’t want to lose this because of some petty interface stuff. If he intervenes… I doubt we’ll still be able to visit.” There’s a long pause. He gives you the time to mull it over. An apology already on his glossa. “I understand. I know it’s not my place to call the shots. Part of me wishes that…” You swallow. “Part of me wishes that I could make things easier for you guys. You’ve all been through so much, and I know I’m only the ship’s resident pet or whatever, but I can throw my weight around a bit. You know, use my position for good?” “For good? Primus, you’re already doing us enough good!” “Hm, not exactly. You’re the ones helping me with my heat when he’s not around. Ugh – I would be suffering without you guys.” You squeeze his thigh. “Man-” you laugh nervously. “I hope I’m not getting too sappy. You’re, like, the only one I can have these conversations with.” His fans stutter. “Really? Not even Lord-” “Not even,” you repeat with finality. There’s a comfortable silence. Breakdown is smiling to himself.

“Hey, big guy.” “Yeah, squishy?” “Wanna kiss?” “Is that even a question?” he asks as he picks you up from his lap, servos cradling your fragile human frame. “Mmm, you know the answer.” You touch the sides of his face. His cooling fans flip to the second setting. Your hands are soft. Incredibly soft. His vents cease functioning entirely as you kiss him. Your glossa is warm and wet. His circuits crackle with charge. How could something so small push his systems into overdrive? When you pull away, he’s left cold and yearning. You don’t waste a klik undressing yourself, tossing your frame coverings over his servos and onto the berth. His lips find yours again. You devour his intake like your fuel tanks are empty.

Knock Out satiated you groons ago, but you’re already running hot with want. His heavy engine purrs. “Someone’s eager to get spiked,” he mutters against your intake. You ex-vent sharply and kiss again, grinning against his lips. He slides a digit between your legs, which you immediately part. There’s still feeling in this one, taking in the heat of your slick valve. There’s no trace of your last interface, only a craving for more. A hiss escapes you as he rubs the digit over your minuscule anterior node. Your hips buck into him, teeth grazing his lip.

“Please, stop teasing already. You know I can’t take it.” “I’m not a tease - that’s Knock Out’s job.” He swipes his glossa over your intake. “I’m the total opposite. So, what do you say? Is your little valve ready to take my spike?” Your optics widen, lubricating in excitement. “Oh finally!” You press your helm against his. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this! I’m so glad the recent energon haul got you enough to mass displace.” “Actually, I’ve been rationing my energon for a deca-cycle!” You step away from his helm and look at him in… strange horror. “You what?” There’s pity in your optics and disappointment furrowing your optical ridge.

Oh frag him! Why did he have to open his intake? “It’s nothing to worry about, I swear! I’ve done this plenty of times in the past – there was this time my unit was stranded in the Sea of Rust and there was no energon for almost a whole deca-cycle! Impressive, right? You don’t see any seekers surviving that!” Your horrified expression worsens. “What do you mean you’ve been starving yourself for weeks just to mass displace and fuck me?”

“Come on, it’s not really starving! We bots can deal with it better than you humans!” he stammers, engine revving in panic. “It’s not about that – it’s about sacrificing yourself for… for this!” you gesture at your body. “Fuck’s sake, you could have told me! I was waiting for you to ask! I could have gotten you the energon ages ago!” “Then why didn’t you?” The words smash through his intake before he can stop them, leaving him to clean up the mess.

His spark tightens when you flinch. It’s the first time he’s startled you. The first time he’s seen you scared. “I… I didn’t…” Your gaze falls. “Scrap, I’m so sorry! It’s not my place to say it, I didn’t mean-” “It’s fine,” you gently stop him. He immediately yields. “You don’t have to apologize. I just… didn’t expect it to be this bad.” A sigh leaves your intake. “I still want to help, though. If Knock Out can mass displace almost every time he visits, isn’t there plenty of energon to go around? Don’t you also work in the medbay on top of everything? You deserve at least the same amount of rations.” “It’s more complicated than that,” he mutters. “Knock Out outranks me.” “So? You’re just one bot, it won’t drain the reserves.” He presses a servo to his helm. “My frame type’s the issue. Us warrior class bots need far more energon than the average vehicon.” “Yes, and? You’re still just one more war frame. Who else is there? Megatron, Dreadwing – that makes three.” You bite your lip when you meet his optic. “Let me give you a hand. I’ll leave the whole thing with Knock Out alone if you let me help with this.” “I…” His vents huff. “Okay. I’ll let you take care of it. But, please tell him not to summon me. Else it’ll seem suspicious.” A smile tugs at the corner of your intake. “Got it. Easier done than said.” Hesitating, you reach out to touch his cheekplate. He leans in. You take a deep in-vent. “I’m sorry for blowing up like that. I’ve been so worried about everyone lately, I’ve overstepped so many boundaries. The energon thing just… drove me off the edge.” “It’s okay,” he says, unsure of his own words. “It happens to the best of us. If it’s any comfort,” he grimaces, “Knock Out’s been riding my tailpipe about my energon intake for the whole deca-cycle. That’s why I… tried to keep it a secret. Until now.” “Did it work on him?”

“Frag no!” He laughs. “For all his drawbacks, he’s the closest thing to a doctor on this ship. Noticing something’s wrong’s part of his primary code!” His laughter dies down. “Sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I definitely ruined the mood.” “Not at all.” You press your cheek against his. “If it’s any comfort on my part, I’ve been called someone else’s name during interface.” His optic buzzes in its socket. “Who?” he demands without meaning to. “Who?” He repeats, far softer – now a polite question. “No one in High Command, sadly,” you say like you’ve read his mind, adding an apologetic shrug. “Another human before the alien shebang happened.” “Ah.” He averts his optic to hide his disappointment. “Come on, man. You know I would have immediately rung you up if Starscream had been moaning Megatron’s name during overload.” He cracks a smile. “I guess you’re right.” “Gossip girls forever?” You offer your fist. “Gossip girls forever,” he agrees, tapping it with his digit. You both mimic an explosion and draw your servos away in slow motion. “Still not sure what explosive punches have to do with gossip.” “Shhh - it’s a human bestie thing.” You kiss him again. Gently at first, then harsher with his wordless encouragement – your hunger makes his engine rev. “Want to start with valve to glossa action? How about we keep mass-displacement for the final course?” “Like I’ll ever refuse a free refueling.” You snicker. The noise is so precious it makes his joints weak. Lying on his abdomen with you in his servos, you writhe as he presses his glossa to your valve. “Fuck,” you hiss. “You okay?” he’s unable to hide the smugness in his tone. “I thought Knock Out had the first taste.” “ Fuck , Knock Out. I need your glossa right now. No one else’s.” His fans shudder. Once, handling someone so small was circuit-frying. He’d been with plenty of minicons, but never an organic. Those bots could take a good pounding. Fleshies? Not so much.

“Fuck.” You shiver as his glossa rubs up and down your pretty valve. Your hips buck into it. He grins between your legs and licks again. And again. And again. Until he feels your servos on his crest. “I need to ride your face,” you say – more declaration than request. He blinks, grin widening. “That desperate, huh?” “Shut up,” you growl – too adorable for your own good. How he wants to squeeze and smother you against his face. Your legs are soft on either side of his cheeks, servos gripping onto his crest with impressive strength for a creature so small and frail. He holds his glossa out for you to use as you please, two digits holding your hips in case you tumble off. “How…” You pant. “How are you this good?” He shrugs with his free arm. His vents blast harder. “I’m not even doing anything,” he mumbles with his glossa out. “Of course you are. You’re being your sweet himbo self,” your words falter as you keep riding. 

His cheekplates heat up. “Uh, a what now?”

There’s no answer, only your legs shaking as you furiously grind against his intake. You grip onto his crest, your entire frame shaking. “Breakdown!” you call out, vox breaking. A sudden burst of charge travels down his interface array. His pressurized spike clanks against his panel. “Frag,” he groans. His spike’s throbbing, Ugh, it hurts like he swung it against a wall.

At least you’re oblivious to his, uh, mishap – twitching against his glossa while trying to slow your ventilation. The plating of hips shifts and his panels release his array. His valve is soaking with transfluid, steam almost emanating off of it after overheating for half a groon. The cold air makes his spike twitch. “Is it… is it time?” you ask weakly, turning around to look at his lap. “Oh hey, so that’s where the noise came from.” He cringes, but still helps you get down. You scurry towards the middle of the berth and cheer out “Show me the goods, big boy!” Mass displacement is something he’d done in the past – back on Cybertron when there was plenty of energon to go by. Now it’s just a waste. Not for you, obviously! Primus, you’re worth every last drop. His working receptors buzz with sensation. System diagnostics appear at the corner of his vision. Mass conversion: successful

Warning:

Minimum energon required: 70%

Current level: 93% His joints are calibrated, there’s no ache in his processor, subspace feels fine – everything’s in working order. He can rest easy and focus on the important stuff. “Woah.” you beam at him. It’s uncanny to see you… so much bigger than he’s used to.

The hug is sudden but not unwelcome. Your helm comes up to his chassis, but only barely. It doesn’t take long for you to pull him on top (the close view is to offline for), and drag him into a kiss. His spark pulsates like never before.

“Please, spike me,” you beg. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.” He looks down at his spike. Then back at you. There are many things he’s learned as a nurse, one of which being: pick the smallest pair of forceps when operating on minicons. Sadly, he cannot replace his spike with a smaller one. But he can prepare you for the operation. “Hey, how about I get you started with something else before you get the hammer?” He lifts up the servo with functioning receptors and flexes his digits. “Promise you’ll rail me afterwards.” “Promise.” He grins.

He’s a denter first and all, but he’s always been careful with his servos back when brushing debris off his comrades after a busted demolition job. It felt like second nature to him. They were at the bottom of the scrapheap. Caring for others, even in small ways, made their plight bearable. His own at least. He pushes in, chuckling as you furrow your optical ridge, intake slightly agape. “Does it sting?” “No.” Another digit is carefully added. You whimper and grit your dentae. One digit and a half then. “What about now? How do you rate your pain on a scale of 1 to 10?” “Oh shut up…” Your tiny valve is absolutely soaked, slick with human lubricant, struggling to accommodate him. If you’ve taken the entire High Command, you can take him. Sure, he’s been told his spike is a “weapon forged by Solus herself”, but Megatron’s definitely bigger. And you’ve fragged him. Everyone knows that. Your valve’s more durable than it seems.

You clench around his digits, expression so lovely it’s clear you’re about to overload. He cautiously curls a digit inside of you. The gentle pressure’s an easy way to make your valve calipers clam down on him. Another whimper escapes you as he rubs at the spot. Your pedes push against his thighs, a desperate plea to stop. But he knows better. “Cute,” he thinks as your sweet noises intensify. He never expected fleshies to be so adorable – but then again, you’re not like the other squishies. Lord Megatron picked the best one. “Please,” you whisper. “This is torture.” “Aw, I thought you wanted to overload.” “You and I…” You swallow. “We both know damn well you’re teasing me. I need your spike, not… not this .”

He laughs. “I keep my promises, don’t worry about it.” He pulls you flush against him, legs over his hips. Bracing himself on one servo, he’s got an arm cautiously wrapped around your waist. “Comfortable? How do you rate your position on a scale from 1 to-” “Breakdown, I swear to fu-” “Got it. It’s hammer time.” He grins. You grip onto his digits and offline your optics. He pushes in. You suck in a sharp in-vent. He pauses.

“Go on,” you say after a moment. “I can take it. I guess I didn’t expect it to be so big.” “Big?” He blinks at you. “You’re the one taking Lord Megatron. He’s larger than me.” “Not his spike.” You chuckle. He looks up at the ceiling in wonder. “Wow.” “Wow indeed. Now please put that spike to good use.” Like a good soldier and seasoned interface partner, he follows your orders. Ridge by ridge, you take him, grip tightening and dentae gritting until he reaches your limit. He shudders. You’re clenching around him like a cold press, crushing his spike harder than any minicon valve. You seem on the verge of shutting down. “You okay?” “...yeah.” “Do you want me to stop?” “Don’t you dare.” “Got it.” His smile widens.

The pace is incredibly slow. Yeah, Knock Out likes having his circuits rearranged – and yeah, most vehicons he’s been with want to get railed into oblivion. But taking his time with you feels just as good. Charge is building along his array. He wants to tell you so many things – how you’re so beautiful holding onto him like he’s the center of your universe, whimpering and repeating his name listlessly – or how he wishes this could last forever, that he can forget the war when your arms are wrapped around his frame, no matter how small.

Your optics come back online and meet his. Wordlessly, you beckon him closer. He leans down, now bracing himself on his arm. Your servos find his face. “Have I ever told you how handsome you are?” you ask, nuzzling his cheekplate. It’s not the first time you’ve done so. But at this moment, either from mass displacement or the sight of you sprawled out before him (or both), his spark throbs in his chassis. His array is pulsating with charge. He presses his forehelm against yours. “Yeah. You always do.” “Good. Because I love you.” Your lips meet his. The charge explodes. Your valve clamps down on his spike. Sparks shoot through his sensors – his engine roars. The world stands still.

Then, he breaks the silence. “By…” his vox crackles with static. He recalibrates his vocalizer. “By Alchemist Prime…” there’s still a buzz to his words. “What was that?” “You tell me,” you answer shakily. Neither of you move for a while. Diagnostics report: Energon level: 87% He pulls out of you, earning a wince. You loosen your grip on his neck and fall back. His optics widen at the load of transfluid trickling out, valve still twitching. He feels equal parts pride and wonder something so small took his spike. Should he tell you about it? You appreciate greatly when he says what’s on his processor. Not everyone does. “Good job,” he tells you, petting your helm like the human he saw congratulating its furry companion. Your expression spells confusion. Then, you grin wider than he’s ever seen and pet him back. His engine rumbles in content. “I would die for you,” you declare without a hint of sarcasm in your vox. He laughs nervously. “Please don’t, Lord Megatron would kill me.” “Then I’d kill him first.” “But you’d already be dead.” “I’d come back as a ghost.” He laughs again, twice as nervous. “Anyway, was it… good?” “You blew my back out.” “I – what ?” “You rearranged my guts.” “Wait, are you about to offline-” “Human euphemisms.” “Oh.” “It means it was the best frag of my life.” “I… oh wow.” He allows you to pull him back on top. “You’re the best I could have asked for.” His cooling fans are blasting. “Um…” “You’re my favorite blueberry popsicle.” “Uh, thanks?” “I love it when you’re blue in the face.” More energon rushes to his cheeks.

“Oh, um – you too!” Frag - that didn’t sound smooth. He hasn’t been this bad since he was newly forged. “Raspberry and blueberry,” you press your helm against his. “My favorite mix.” You kiss him again, less desperately – finally satiated for the next cycle. Or at least a few groons. “Can you cuddle in this form?” Or…do you have to turn back?” He hits his chassis with pride. “Another groon won’t hurt me – I’ll do just fine..” “Aw hell yeah!” He lies down and you quickly take your place at his side, burying your face in the crook between his neck and his chassis. You let out a hum when his digits stroke your back. He can sense the minuscule hairs on your plating. They tickle.

A klik passes by, but you can’t seem to sit still. You push his arm away, readjust yourself, then pull it back in, only to start again a nanoklik later. “Everything ok?” You make a noise of frustration – so adorable it makes his spark ache.

“Give me a sec,” you mutter.

He watches as you get up to fetch your blanket and pillows. “Uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I barely managed to clean up before coming over.” “Don’t matter.” You cover his side in them. “I just want to cuddle you.” He bites his glossa. You’re too sweet for your own good. Once comfortable, his servo comes back to stroke your skin. You shiver. “Are you cold? Do you want me to get the heating pad?” “No. You’re warm enough. It just… feels nice to be with you this way. I meant what I said. I do love you. Maybe not on Knock Out’s level – he’s known you before my great grandparents were even born.” He affectionately taps your helm. “I mean, yeah – but what does that have to do with us? Do you humans have a monogamous contract or something?” Your expression says it all. “Oh,” he drawls. “Uh – it doesn’t mean that you can’t be with us, it’s that-” “I’m Megatron’s first and foremost,” you say, looking away from him and straight at the wall. “I… yes. But I mean that-” “I’m together with everyone. I know that.” You turn your attention back to him. “And no, it doesn’t bother me. I simply want to give you the praise you deserve. And the energon. Man, you need that so badly.” Resting your helm atop his chassis, you flash him a warm smile. “I love you. Don’t you ever forget that.”

[shy-canadian-snowflake]

Hi! I’m the anon that asked for 46. I think you did really well considering you might have never watched the Nanny before. I have another for you.

Poolverine 1.soulmate au. Here’s a soulmate prompt if you want; All the nicknames your soulmate will eventually call you is written on you. Logan would have the most embarrassing nicknames on him from Wade, they would be sugary sweet or just ridiculous. The x-men reaction to seeing them, the image of a big, scary man being called the most sugary pet names by their soulmate would be hilarious. You don’t have to do it of course just a funny idea I have in my head.

Logan didn’t take his shirt off often. He was always in a tank top and some heavy jacket, covering his chest and arms. None of the X-Men seemed to notice at first, until summer came around and still the man was seen in heavy clothing. During training, during game time, during everything, his body was covered.

That was until Rogue crept into his room, again, and woke him from a nightmare, again, and he skewered her, again. He couldn’t help but scream as the light started fading from her eyes. He held her close, allowing himself to be drained again. All the commotion caused the X-Men to come running in to see Logan in sleeping shorts, holding a now healed Rogue with all his future nicknames written across his skin. 

Ororo was the first to react, grabbing a blanket and pulling the passed out girl from Logan’s hold. Logan sat there on the floor panting as Rogue started to come to, being held by Ororo. 

“You okay kid?” He asked breathing hard. The girl slowly nodded.

“That really hurt.” She half mumbled before pulling out of Ororo’s hold. She shook herself out and stood up. Logan did the same, allowing the rest of the X-Men to see the words scrolled across his skin. 

Sugar Tits under his pecks. Sweetpea down by his right hip. Babygirl above that. Sugar Plum Princess going down his left side. His whole torso looked like a game of scrabble, words connecting to one another. Darling, Sweetheart, KittyCat, Mr. Stabby, Babycakes, Big Spoon, Sweetcheeks, Peanut covered his chest while his arms held Baby, Stud Muffin, Hubba Bubba, Angel, Handsome Man, Hero, Sir-Stabs-Alot Beloved, Heart,  Pooh Bear, McSteamy. Those were the one’s easily seen, Logan knew his back was covered with even more words. 

“Not a fucking word Glasses.” Logan hissed as the other X-Men took him in. Scott couldn’t help the smile on his lips. 

“Of course Peanut.” There was something in the way Scott said that nickname that had his blood boiling. 

“Stop it Scott.” Jean scolded lightly. “I think it’s sweet Logan. You should show off your endearments. Someone really truly does love you.” He scoffed and grabbed a jacket to cover up his marks. The room slowly filtered out after that as he lit up a cigar and started puffing on it. 

No one brought up the words after that. Logan kept them covered much to the chagrin of curious eyes. His fellow X-Men never mentioned them, though there was always a teasing smile to Scott who’d occasionally dropped one of the nicknames, spitting it out as if it was an insult. Logan would turn away and find something to destroy when it became too much. 

That’s how he found himself in a warehouse on the other side of town. Goons were thrown around the place as he slowly picked off a group of thugs. All he knew was this group needed to be taken down, and he needed to blow off steam. 

“Well damn Mr. Stabby, you took this group down like Harry Potter took down Voldemort.” Logan looked up to the rafters where the voice was coming from.  “Usin’ the same damn move over and over again until it somehow worked out.” 

“Do we have a problem here, Bub?” He asked with his claws still out. He bared his teeth at the other man in the tight red suit. The man jumped from the rafters, doing a backflip like it was nothing. He landed with his arms up as if he was a gymnast who was ready for their score. Logan only raised an eyebrow.

“No problem here. Well kinda no problem. A tiny problem.” The man jabbered on as he looked over the bodies. “One of these motherfuckers has a USB stick. Kinda super important.” 

“Not my problem.” Logan turned around to leave.

“Oh come on! From one Merc to another, did you see it at all?” 

“I’m not a Merc.” He snapped over his shoulder. The man in red let out a huge sigh and started shifting through bodies. 

-

“GodfuckingDamnit!” Logan didn’t know why he recognized that voice at first until he saw the man in red again, this time he was punching a wall over and over again as he spoke. “My god damn cocaine! You Goody-Two-Shoes can’t come up in my warehouse and take my cocaine!”

“We can when it’s in connection with missing mutants.” The man mimicked Scott for a moment before leaning back. 

“I don’t have anything to do with missing mutants. I’m a good little boy who gets his cocaine from the same drug lord on East Street that everyone else does. What he does besides sell cocaine is none of my fucking business.” It was then that the Merc saw Logan and yelled over at him. “Babycakes! Tell these ‘nice’ X-Men I’m innocent!”

Logan glared and made his way over to the pare. Scott gave him a raised brow but Logan ignored him to deal with the man in red. 

“What the hell are you doing here, Bub?” 

“This is where I store my extra cocaine. And guns. And stuff I've stolen, not the point. The point is you have no right to touch my shit.” He dramatically crossed his arms. 

“We are just looking for a thumb drive. Tell us where it is, and you can get back too…this.” Scott waved his hand over the mess of the warehouse. 

“It’s up my ass, or is that my prostate?” Scott looked disgusted at the man’s words. 

“I will stick my claws up there to find it, Mouth.” His claws snikt out as he moved his hand down the man’s body. 

“Well Darling, buy me dinner first and you can put whatever you want up there.” The man’s mask winked at him.

“Fucking jokes.” Scott stopped him before he could claw the guy open. 

“You tell us where the thumb drive is, and we won’t report you to the police.” The man in red tilted his head as if he was thinking about it for a moment before dramatically sighing. 

“Fine, only because this shit is expensive. Not everyone gets a private jet to cause crime.” Scott looked like he wanted to correct the other but was shut up by the man in red talking again. “I sold it to get more cocaine. Nabbed it off a dead guy and sold it back to my cocaine guy. Got half of this shit for doing that. Don’t say Deadpool isn’t helping the local economy.” 

“So we are back at square one. Can you tell us where his hideout is?” 

“No point. Sir-Stabs-Alot here took out those guys days ago.” Scott gave Logan his ‘We are going to talk about this later’ look. “Can you guys go now, I have cocaine to do and people to kill.”

“Don’t get in our way.” Was all Scott said to Deadpool before calling the team to head out. Logan left his middle claw out to the man who blew him kisses as they left.

“Care to tell the class what the fuck is going on?” Scott said the moment they were back on the plane. Logan strapped himself in tights and gave a hard swallow. Don’tgetsickdon’tgetsickdon’tgetsick. Flying was never something he liked doing. “How do you know this Deadpool guy?”

“Few days ago, needed to blow off steam. Found a warehouse where some low level gang was- at least you tagged them as low level.” He glared at Scott before swallowing hard again as nausea came up his throat. “He was there. Said he needed to get a USB stick. He called himself a Merc. That’s all I know.”

“What about the nicknames?” It was Logan’s turn to raise a brow. 

“The hell you going on about Glasses?” Everyone turned to Scott for a second. 

“Babycakes, Darling, Sir-Stabs-A Lot.” 

“It's a coincidence.” Logan hissed, looking away from everyone. The plane ride was silent after that. 

-

“Hey there Babygirl” Deadpool said casually as Logan entered the building with his claws out. “What’s a place like this doing with a guy like you?” Logan looked up to see the man sitting at a counter in the middle of the room. It looked like a lobby of some sort, dead bodies thrown around like dolls covered the floor. Logan could smell blood, and a lot of it. 

“Okay Red, what the hell is going on here?” 

“Welcome to the big bad’s HQ. Little cheesy being an old office building. Heard they did a reno on the basement 6 months ago. Happen to have the blueprints right here.” Deadpool waved a thumb drive in the air as he spoke. Logan groweld. 

“You had that this whole time?” The man jumped off the counter before putting the thumb drive back into a pouch around his waist. 

“Sure did! I told you where it was. Not my fault that you didn’t believe me.” He wiggled his hips back and forth. 

“You are disgusting.” He took another step forward with his claws out. Deadpool raised his hands in mock surrender. 

“Down Kitty Cat. I want to know how you found the hideout. Did you have to join the crew and level up in rank? Or did you triangulate the last three pickup sites of mutants and found that his building was in the middle of everything? Or-”

“We know his name and looked up what buildings he owns.” Deadpool instantly deflated. 

“That’s so not fun, Peanut. Oh well.” He jumped back up looking ready to fight. “Want to take this downstairs and take down the big bad together?”

“Fine, but don’t get in my way.” 

Deadpool did in fact get in Logan’s way a few times. After accidentally stabbing the man twice, then stabbing him on purpose three times, they finally made it to the basement where they released all the mutants and were left with the big bad. Deadpool killed him while he was in the middle of a monologue, saying something about runtime and only one monologue per chapter.

It was when they were headed back upstairs that Logan finally saw it, right where the man’s costume was cut open on the chest. Written in his handwriting ‘Bub.’

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” Logan hissed, pulling down more of the man’s suit. 

“Hey woah hey, I wasn’t kidding about dinner, Stud Muffin.” 

“Shut your mouth Red. Look.” Logan pointed to the word Red under the Merc’s peck. Deadpool looked on in confusion. Not wanting to play this game, Logan took off his own suit top, showing off his scrabbled upper body. 

“No fucking way.” Deadpool’s jaw dropped behind his mask as his fingers started brushing along the words Logan had littering his chest. 

“Yes fucking way.”

“Damn. I got really fucking lucky. Hairy tits and all, you are a solid 10/10. You are stuck with a -10/10.” He paused for a moment before pulling up his mask so Logan could get his first real look on his so-called soulmate. 

The first thing Logan noticed was the pretty eyes the other man had. Pretty eyes and a sad smile. It took him a moment to realize the other was bald. And it took a few more after that to finally notice the scars. His own hand came up, his thumb brushed along the Merc’s bottom lip. 

“You are something pretty, Darlin’” Was what Logan said before pulling away. “Come-on, let's go get dinner.”

This was meant to be less than 1000 words. Oh well! :D I enjoyed writing this one a lot, thanks for the Ask and the amazing prompt!

[mlmvoreconfessionals]

My friend, you have some great choices! Although i didn't expected Fortnite, but i have to agree that it has some hot furry men.

I bet Wendell would fall in the "himbo that can't stop eating his comrades". He feels horrible about that, but he just can't resist.

I like to think he would! F.ortnite is honestly one I think I could write for since it doesn't seem too complicated...and I wanna so I will.

W.endell whines but the sound is drowned out by his belly making a much louder one. It gets him a few looks from the others sitting on the bus, waiting for the match to start. “I’m so hungry…” he murmurs. “I forgot to eat before this…so you think they’ll have catering?”

“Doubt it,” O.scar says with a slightly amused smile. “The only meat around here is sitting around you.”

That makes W.endell’s ears perk up a bit. That made sense. His belly groans again and he puts both paws to it with another whine. He really needs something in his stomach…

Everyone else is distracted from W.endell’s condition by the back of the bud opening. Everyone gets up to go jumping out. P.olar ends up in the back with W.endell. He feels a tug on the back of his vest before he can get to the hatch, though, and looks back to find himself staring into wide, drooling jaws.

No one is around to hear the muffled shouting or all the wet, sloppy gulping. W.endell ends up being the last to get out of the bus, much later than the others, with a very heavy and polar bear-shaped gut to help give him a bit more weight for his drop down. He already felt better…

W.endell ends up landing on his gut, which knocks a rather loud belch out of him. His gut squeezes in tighter, making P.olar Patroller grunt in discomfort. He’s a lot of weight to have to heft around, so W.endell is left to waddle awkwardly as he goes to find somewhere to hide and figure out where to go next.

Though, it’s awfully exhausting! W.endell manages to find a rock big enough to hide behind and sit down. His gut is sitting heavily in his lap, still stretched tight over the polar bear. It churns and groans loudly, and if that wasn’t enough, P.olar Patroller is starting to wriggle around inside and yell. W.endell whines softly and presses down softly on the bear’s face. “H-Hey, settle down! You’re going to expose my hiding spot!”

Judging by the muffled yelling...it doesn’t seem like W.endell’s pre-game snack is all too concerned about that. W.endell looks side to side, ears folded down. This is really bad. It’s all so noisy, he’ll definitely be found like this! He looks back at his gut and begins to press down hard on it. “Sorry, sorry! Just please digest already!” His stomach squeezes and flexes over the mass of bear inside while his paws shove down roughly wherever something was bulging out. It gets lots of loud roars and more thrashing from P.olar Patroller, but that doesn’t serve him much use.

W.endell’s gut shrinks down smaller and smaller around the polar bear. Thick belches blast out of him, steaming slightly in the air with white fur fluttering out. P.olar Patroller’s body strains under the pressure, forcing him into a tight ball that can barely even twitch. A popping sound rings out, and the bear lets out a roar. W.endell flexes his gut again, forcing it down a few more inches with a wet crunching sound. He shoves down on a bulge and it sinks down with a squelch, giving way under his paws. P.olar Patroller can barely make a whine when W.endell flexes his abs tight and folds the bear inside like a wet piece of paper.

A deep, thick belch roars out of the dog, catching him by surprise. Something solid comes up, and a black, slimy helmet rockets out of him and flies across the field. W.endell puts his paws to his mouth after that, blushing. His guts burble and groan deeply, much smaller and rounder than before, with various hard lumps at the bottom from P.olar Patroller’s bones. He’s a lot quieter now, though.

W.endell lets out a soft sigh, finally feeling his meal settle. Now he can get into the game! He starts by getting up again and looking over the rock he’s hiding behind…just to find himself staring down M.eowscles. The dog yelps and, without thinking much, grabs the cat by the suspenders and drags him over the rock.

Anyone who might pass by would end up seeing the calico’s legs kicking around wildly from behind the rock. Then sinking downward with wet slurping and sucking noises. Barely a few minutes later, a wet belch rings out, and W.endell huffs and puffs as he waddles out from his hiding spot. “Gotta…find somewhere else…” He’s made too much noise over here. He doesn’t want to get spotted…again.

Lugging this sloshing gut around is a real chore, though. Especially when his snack keeps wiggling around like this! He’s barely keeping his balance! W.endell looks around a bit before he ducks into a small thicket. He wraps his arms around his gut and squeezes while he presses into into a wall. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, so—HWWWWWOOOUUUUURRRRRPPPPPPP!!!!!” A giant belch roars out of W.endell as his guts crunch and bubble. M.eowscles is very quickly crushed into belly slop much like P.olar Patroller was. Finally…

W.endell feels like he’s about ready to get into the game now! He’s got lots of food to help keep him full of energy and it’s getting easier to manage as his belly steadily pumps them away. It’s making his normally lithe form thicker, but he’s not paying much attention to that. He’s looking for someone he can target…

…O.scar hums softly as he looks around through the scope of his sniper. It’s been awfully quiet lately. Normally, he’d have expected to hear some gunfire or even just see another person at this point. But there’s been nothing.

Lowering his sniper, the tiger sighs. His tail is flickering with annoyance as he gets down from his vantage point. Something strange is definitely going on here and he needs to figure out what it is. Preferably before something bad happens.

As he’s looking around, O.scar can’t help but notice some odd things. Mainly, random weapons or accessories laying around the arena, dripping in slime. What really gets his attention is when he finds a large polar bear skull resting on the ground. Isn’t that..?

“HHWWWWWOOOOOUUUUURRRRRPPPP!!!!” A massive belch splits through the air, making O.scar shoot up and look in the direction it came from. That sounds like what he’s looking for. He lets the bear skull drop from his paw and stalks off after the sound.

Sure enough, O.scar finds the source. It’s W.endell and he’s looking…different. The normally very lithe canine has ballooned in size, suddenly taking on a much rounder shape. His arms and legs are much thicker and wobbly, his gut hangs out a foot in front of him with a new set of moobs on top, and even his face has gotten a lot rounder.

W.endell rubs along his gut slowly with a soft groan. He looks rather shy and flustered, but his tail is wagging like crazy. The massive gut he’s now sporting is burbling and gurgling deeply, sounding like a boiling cauldron. Another belch splits out of him, a rotten seafood stench in the air as some cracked sunglasses and a whistle flies out and across the field. “Oooh geez…”

O.scar walks over and plants the butt of his sniper down on W.endell’s gut. It sinks in with a wet squelch, getting a soft belch out of the canine. He looks at O.scar with wide eyes. “O-O.scar! What are you—Ah, this isn’t what it looks like, I just—“

O.scar chuckles deeply and shakes his head, now leaning closer so he can rest his elbow on the massive gut. “It looks like you went ahead and took all the kills from me. Is there even anyone left?”

“Well, uh…” W.endell’s guts groan deeply and he smiles sheepishly. “…not anymore?”

“Guess I’ll pack it up for today then,” O.scar says with a shrug, slinging his sniper over his shoulder. “Enjoy your victory, W.endell.”

“Oh, thanks!” The canine smiles, his tail wagging. But he pauses when he sees O.scar starting to walk off. “…h-hey, wait, are you just going to leave me here? O.scar? I could use some help!” Despite calling out, the tiger doesn’t even turn around again to face him. “Aw…not again…”

[dandysworldhcs]

I have so many headcanons on their designs and such so just bear with me

- I honestly see Astro as a sort of centipede, a nocturnal arthropod that is actually pretty chill if you don't antagonize them. I also see him as having ADHD combined with narcolepsy, he's always moving his hands underneath his blanket and his mind is always racing despite constantly being fatigued.

- Razzle and Dazzle are rats, why? The rat king phenomenon! This is one of my only voice headcanons but they sound like ENA, specifically the newer one

- Dandy is a False Dandelion. I also base my design of him on a Ammit, which has the head of a crocodile, the upper body of a lion, and the lower body of a hippo, his Twisted form reflects this the most. I also see Dandy as bigender. Him and Sprout are also brothers with Sprout being the older one.

- Speaking of Sprout, I honestly see him acting like a MMO healer while on runs (Examples; “No, I'm not out of tapes, I just don't like you”, “If you get in the way you deserve to get hit”, “You got one shot, I can't out-heal stupidity”.)

- Shelly has other dino features, although it's actually based on cephalopod’s using tools, her tentacles hold onto replicas of fossils that give her the illusion of having a tail, horns, etc, and she can change them out. Also she has ADHD, she just matches the symptoms more instead of autism (Autistic and even AuDHD Shelly's are valid tho).

- Vee has high functioning ASPD that's comorbid with Autism, yes I did as much research as possible as to not demonize either, but I personally see her with these two disorders, as due to being a robot she doesn't feel complex emotions and has a weak sense of right and wrong (outside of her programming, that is), she doesn't feel guilty for being blunt, rude, or for not noticing others feelings, but she does try to make up for it if someone points it out, even if she doesn't feel bad about it.

- Pebble is a Toy Poodle, and Coal is a Saint Bernard, with Pebble being a service animal and Coal being a search and rescue mountain dog, in the cartoon they were both used to show kids how dogs can help people outside of being companions, that service dogs shouldn't be distracted or pet without permission, and that they shouldn't be scared of working dogs in certain situations no matter how big or intimidating they seem. Also they're very much ‘Old dog, young dog' dynamic.

- Shrimpo has low functioning ASPD and struggles to hide his symptoms. No pronouns and AroAce.

- Gigi is a chameleon, simply because chameleons will grab onto whatever you hand them, self explanatory.

- Goob and Scraps are chimeras instead of being a dog and a cat, Looey is their oldest sibling, no reason for this, it just showed up in my mind and I can't get rid of it, Goob and Scraps honorary circus members as a result. Goob also has Ataxia (Impaired balance and coordination, specifically in his arms, which causes clumsy movements) and Hypotropia (downward facing misaligned eye) which causes weaker vision in his ‘lazy’ eye.

I'm going to stop now because I'm just rambling at this point.

- Wisteria Anon (if that isn't taken just yet)

These are all so interestiing... especially the rnd one I have literally never seen that one proposed before !! Little rat rnd d'awww..

I'm also very much an ataxia & hypotropia Goob enjoyer, as well as the Coal & Pebs one... these are so neat!

[manias-wordcount]

View of Paradise (Satoru Gojo x Reader) PART EIGHTEEN

[𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙀 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘾𝙃𝙊𝘾𝙊𝙇𝘼𝙏𝙀 𝙁𝘼𝘾𝙏𝙊𝙍𝙔 𝘼𝙐]

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗝𝗮𝗻𝘂𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗮 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗵 𝘀𝗼 𝗮𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗶𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝘂𝗰𝗸𝘀 𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝗟𝗠𝗔𝗢. 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗰𝗲𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘀𝘂𝗽𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗶 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗶 𝗴𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗛𝗔𝗛𝗔𝗛𝗔𝗛

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𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁: @ky0mybeloved @moonchhu

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

You wouldn’t have guessed it at first, but it seems that there’s a side to Mr. Gojo likes to linger. A side that likes to step out of the spotlight for a little bit. A side that doesn’t mind the moments when all eyes aren’t on him. A side that quite literally disappears. 

But again, you wouldn’t have guessed it. In fact, you find it hard to believe the more you sit on the observation and ponder it. His personality feels big. Almost too big to ever think of this man relegating himself to the shadows. You’ve seen it with his intense and unapologetic actions and reactions when it comes to your little tour group- that much was clear. But his presence? His presence feels even bigger. Though you suppose that in particular has a lot to do with his slender figure and long legs, more than anything else, really. 

Either way, in your mind, Mr. Gojo is the type of person whose very persona demands attention. Every second of the day and every day of the year. And to you, it makes sense why he decided to close his doors and never leave his factory. He draws too much attention, perhaps even subconsciously. During the times he may want all of it. And during the times he may want none of it at all.

At least, you assume he would have moments like that. You know you do. You know that you cherish the little breaks you would get during your shifts at work. Those moments in the breakroom where you could just turn off and be yourself. And be normal. But Mr. Gojo feels different. He just is different. He just is.

You imagine that anywhere he would go, he would stand out. He would draw eyes to him just by standing there and being himself. And you could imagine it so clearly too. Eyes in a crowd all folding to see him.To catch a glimpse of him. To take him in. To bear witness to his personality. To his handsome face. To his bright, beautiful eyes. To his striking white hair. To his body, as embarrassing as it is for you to admit even within your own thoughts (though you have absolutely no doubt that it is very attractive underneath all of the layers he has on). Either way, Mr. Gojo feels hard to miss and even harder to forget. Perhaps that’s why you’re so drawn to him.

Perhaps that’s why you’re a little more than okay with the way he’s been treating you ever since the two of you first interacted, despite being strangers at heart. He’s been on this entire time. Juggling between showering you with attention and keeping the other guest entertained as he leads you through his factory. Well, this leads you to the first real room of interest in his factory, but still. He’s been putting on a show, and he’s been doing so well too- especially for a man you thought was supposed to be a recluse. But now, you’re not so sure. In fact, you’re finding out that there always seems to be something about him that makes you feel unsure and confused, and honestly?

“Um…Mr. Gojo? Where did you…?”

“Right here, sweetheart.”

A little bit mystified.

At the call of his voice, you find yourself letting a small gasp slip from your lips as you turn in the direction that you heard his voice come from. He’s right there when you go to look. He’s right where you heard his voice. A little to the left and a couple feet away. Leaning on his cane by a tall, wiry-looking tree- one that you recall him saying was made with a caramel center- with a pleased-as-punch-looking smile on his face. But despite his awfully cheery mood, you can’t help but give him an unimpressed glare.

He wasn’t there before.

You know he wasn’t. Before you went to call his name. Before you went to ask your question. You looked for him. You turned in that direction. Hell, you spun around. Looking a little silly as your feet twirled among the green candy grass beneath you. But you looked for him. But he wasn’t there. He wasn’t where you had last seen him. He wasn’t where you had last left him- just a few feet in front and off to your right side. Practically in eyesight, if only you weren’t looking down! But he wasn’t there when you looked up. He wasn’t there when you spun around. He wasn’t there when you searched for him.

And yet, the second you called his name? He was there. He was right where you thought you would find him as if he was there the entire time. As if you hadn’t looked in that direction at all. It made you feel crazy. Maybe you are crazy. And if you are crazy, then you’re definitely not above blaming him for it. Things like this would drive just about anyone up the wall.

So to express your…’ appreciation,’ you allowed him the honor of witnessing yet another eye-roll from you. The umpteenth time today. Which, of course, draws another chuckle from the far-too-handsome man at your expense. For the umpteenth time today.

It shouldn’t matter. It really shouldn’t bother you as much as it does. Nor should it freak you out as it does. But Mr. Gojo does it often. In the short He disappears for a second only to reappear in another spot, standing there after if had been there the entire time. He’ll start on your left only to reappear on your right just as you’re turning your head. He’ll be right in front of you, only to end up directly behind you just within the time it takes you to blink once. And he’ll always be standing in the exact same position. Looking at you with the exact same gaze- the exact same eyes.

The first few times it happened, you began to sputter. Once was a fluke. Twice…could also be explained as a fluke. Three times was certainly a mystery. Six times, you were rightfully freaked out and ready to start accusing him of witchcraft (it’s only natural- no man should even be as charming as he is, anyway). But by this time? A time that you couldn’t even name because you had stopped counting a while ago? Your eyes were starting to get tired with just how much you had been rolling them. 

But, you know better than to question him on what he’s doing. You know that now, at least. Trial and error has taken you a long way despite the fact that all he would do is laugh and deny and laugh a little more anytime you tried to press him. So in the end, you find yourself relenting with a sigh, all while trying to hide the pout that threatens to overtake your expression as you’re bested once again. But judging from the pleased-sounding chuckles that were coming from just behind you, you have a funny little feeling that you’re not hiding it as well as you would have liked. You heave yet another sigh.

Some part of you is starting to regret the fact that you’ve been getting a whole lot of his undivided attention. Just a small part though. A part that somehow gets even smaller every time you catch his eye and remember just how handsome he is. 

You’re in for a long day, you’re sure of it.

Still, it’s undeniable that you’ve been enjoying yourself. You’re in a magical place, standing by a magical man, and tasting so many magical things. Although his little disappearing act has gotten old, the past couple minutes or so since Mr. Gojo turned off the flirting long enough for you to start wandering around have made everything absolutely worth it. Because every once in a while, you would find yourself with something new in your hands. Sometimes, you would even pick up the occasional little pebble or stones and plop them in your mouth only to find that different colors taste like different things. At any given moment, there’s a hint of fruit or a taste of liquor dancing around your tongue. Rum and Raspberries. Whiskey and Watermelon. Gin and surprisingly enough, grape. But not purple favoring- actual grape. 

And when you were done with rocks and the huge variety of flavor that had to offer, you began to move onto different things- a little higher and bigger and more varied in appearance: the plants.

As you took bites at tree branches and leaves that tasted like licorice and mint, Mr. Gojo would pass to you gummy flower petals and literal sour vines. One that would occasionally include the undertones of different flavors of honey like buckwheat and cinnamon and blackberries. Almost as if there once was a beehive right on that tree, dripping its honey right onto the vine. If there weren’t so many things to explore, you probably would have circled back to where Mr. Gojo pulled the vine off its tree for you and tried to see if there really was a beehive there. The image of a little beehive somehow producing a slow and steady trail of honey that tastes just like favorite things was enough to make the smile already on your face so wide that your cheeks began to hurt.

And through it all, Mr. Gojo was right there. 

Well, it was more so that he was just lingering a couple steps behind and off to the side. Making himself scarce (but not too scarce), much to your surprise.

When he first asked if you would take him with you as you set out to explore this candy-filled utopia, you figured you would standing rather close to you at all times. If his arm was linked with yours, you at least imagined that he’d try to brush up against your shoulder as he walked side by side- letting you take the lead while still offering to your personal tour guide. That’s what you thought would happen.

But surprisingly, he relented. Just a little bit, at least. He had let you walk off on your own before following a few paces behind you, rather than walking and standing by your side as he did in the past. You found it rather odd at first, of course. He had been rather touchy and comfortable with you for the longest time. But every time you would look towards him with a question on your tongue, he would always just gesture to keep going forward. To keep exploring. He said to you that he knew this place like the back of his hand- it was time for you to discover it, not him. 

And you won’t lie. Hearing him say that did cause your heart to skip a beat. It was thoughtful of him to soften up on the teasing just a bit in favor of letting you enjoy yourself. But the way he said it? The way his melodic voice rolled over you? It filled you with a warm and dizzying feeling that made it really hard to think or form words or even blink for a few good moments. And that type of power is dangerous. You can’t recall that ever happening to you before, either. Not even when you had that crush on Nanami during your first two years of working at the diner. The crush you made yourself swear you would forget when you realized the man was only ever going to be married (albeit, unhappily) to his work. 

Although now that think about it, you are starting to see a bit of resemblance between Head Chef Nanami and Mr. Gojo. Both handsome. Both tall. Both are powerful (in their own respective ways), older men who spend way too much at work. In fact, now that you think about it…you wonder how the two of them would fare together…

Wait, you’re starting to lose yourself. Have you been staring at him this whole time? Is he laughing at you like that because you’ve been staring at him this whole time? Where were you again? 

Mr. Geto’s birthday present for your brother. Yuuta’s Golden Ticket. The Gojo Factory. A Garden made entirely out of candy. Right.

Anyway, Mr. Gojo allowed you some space. He allowed you some space to wander and trail off and explore. But it wasn’t like he was completely detached from you. When he wasn’t randomly showing up a couple feet away from where you swear he was supposed to be only moments before, he would still linger just a few paces back. Close enough to step in if you needed him to in just a few short seconds. Close enough that you could practically feel his presence just buzzing away behind you, constantly drawing your attention, even when you know you’re supposed to be taking in the beauty of the little world made entirely out of candy in front of you. 

And of course, there was the occasional moment where he would stand right behind you and peer over your shoulder, sending shivers all down your spine as his breath ghosts over your neck. And there were also those few times he had placed his hand on the small of your back to direct you somewhere he thought you would enjoy. Almost like it was instinct- like it was natural between the two of you.

Even now as you try to distract yourself by admiring the pretty row of yellow flowers shaped like teacups in front, your face warms up at the memory. Through it all, he was always there to answer your every little question. And he was acting no less gentle or patient with you compared to when you had first stepped foot inside this room. Always so attentive. Always so caring. Always so willing to put up with just about every little thing you were curious about. And safe to say, it was a lot.

What was the name of that flower? 

Is the dirt beneath the grass also made of candy? 

How on earth did you happen to make that tree? 

Is everything with white and red stripes supposed to taste like peppermint? 

What even is the purpose of a room such as this?

“To show it off, of course.” His answer to your last question came easily as if the answer was supposed to be obvious. “Every good host needs a place to entertain their guests.”

To be fair, in most cases that would be the most obvious answer. As far as you’re concerned, people rarely built things this large and this grand and this magical just to keep it hidden away from all of time. But, Mr. Gojo is a special case in your opinion. Because no one has been in his factory. And you’re fairly certain that even if there are people outside these walls who have been inside the factory before, no one has ever been to this room. You’re absolutely sure there would have been rumors and whispers of a place this breathtaking. There’s no way that anyone could keep this a secret. There’s just no way.

“Oh,” You respond simply. It didn’t feel quite like your place to mention how it’s hard for you to imagine a man as reclusive as he has been over these past few years to care so much about having a place to entertain guests. Especially since he’s been a bit much with some of the guests he’s been hosting so far. Your best option probably was to avoid saying that. So, you did. “So, you always planned on having visitors come to the factory?”

“I did, yes,” A small, almost melancholic smile tugged at Mr. Gojo’s lips as he spoke. But then a second later, you saw his expression droop and a hint of sadness flash across his eyes. It a was surprising sort of vulnerability you hadn’t expected to see in this moment. After all, this man was nearly all smiles all the time. But as you peer up at him, watching the normally so unapologetically bright and bold man’s lips part and quiver as he takes time to pick his next words carefully, you remind yourself that as rich and as powerful as he is, he’s still a person (a person who is far richer and more successful than you’ll ever be, but still). Just a person. “This place gets lonely sometimes, you know.”

You don’t know, personally. But you can imagine it. 

You can imagine it perfectly well. Even from the tone of his voice alone, you can imagine it. Because his confession feels honest. No, not feel- it is honest. Raw, even- like it’s not something he would admit to just about anyone. That said, the look on his face is still a bit guarded. Any sadness that his expression held had quickly passed in the past few seconds, as the man before you covered it up all with a simple shrug and a handsome, easy-going little smile that looked and felt a bit tighter than you’re used to. Though you’re not surprised by that. Mr. Gojo never seems to be without a smile for very long- real or fake. And at the end of the day, no matter how much he flirts with you on this tour, the two of you are just strangers. Strangers who have gotten very close over the past hour or so, but strangers nonetheless. There’s no need for anyone to tear down any walls and invite strangers into their hearts. Not just yet. 

At that thought, now feels like a good time for another pivot. And luckily enough for you, he seems to almost instinctively give you his undivided attention whenever you ask for it. Something, you may just have to keep taking advantage of for as long as you’re in his factory.

“Maybe you could open up for more tours in the future!” You try suggesting, a big and bright smile on your face to help emphasize just how strongly you feel about this idea. This is yet another moment where you discover just how helpful your customer service skills are. The smile you gave is undoubtedly a waitress's smile. Specifically, it the one you give when you’re you’re apologizing for running out of a customer’s favorite dessert and have to he,p them pivot to the next closest option on the menu. It’s a smile and a placating attitude that usually works- especially now that you’re very good at what to say. But it helps that you’re almost sure an idea like this has probably passed by in his mind. But perhaps a little reminder would be helpful. After all, things on still tour have been going…well enough so far! So maybe a successful test-run tour is just what needs today to convince himself to open up the factory more in the future. “I just there are tons of kids all over the world who would love to visit a place like this!”

At your words, Mr. Gojo’s face twisted up in grimance, like he had just tasted something nasty. He was following you along perfectly for a while. Up until the second you said the word “kids,” actually. But that’s where the idea seemed to go all wrong for him. 

“This place doesn’t get that lonely.” He tells you, the curl in his lip and minor look of disgust refusing to drop despite his best efforts to not be so explicit in his turning down of your idea. But then his face relaxes and his eyes soften as he hears you laughing at his reaction, just a few seconds later. And soon enough, he’s right there, laughing alongside you. 

You suppose you should have expected that sort of response from him. He didn’t exactly seem too fond of all of the kids here (or their guardians for that matter), but it’s not that you could blame him. It certainly feels no different than spending a ridiculously long time serving a table with kids who are due for either a good scolding or a quick lesson in manners or even both. But it’s probably been years since he had last been with children around the same age as the ones in your group. And the ones here haven’t exactly showcased the most likable behavior all the time. 

So you suppose you should count yourself as lucky. Or rather, count yourself as even luckier than you thought you were before. Because not only are you here, in what you feel like is practically the most exclusive place on earth due to some stranger chance present and your brother’s unbelieve moment of striking gold, but you’re also in Mr. Gojo’s good grace. No, more than that- you’re in his favor. Something that seems so easy, yet so hard at the same time. 

But it helps that you have a likable little brother. One that’s polite and well-mannered and pretty adorable when he wants to be. And you’re sure that the sweater dress you’re in is pretty flattering on you, despite the fact that you and your family must have torn up half the house looking for it. And dare you say, it might even have a little something to do with the fact your face is also quite pretty. It’s nothing compared to the ethereal beauty that is Mr. Gojo. but you would be lying if you said you thought you had absolutely no skin in the game. 

Too many scribbled phone numbers on the receipts left in your receipt book have told you so. But that’s not the point.

The point is that you like being in this position. It’s impossible to deny. When one of the kids and chaperones makes a loud sound in some other part of the garden, Mr. Gojo will always look at it with a glare. But before he turns back to you, he’ll let his face soften into a smile and apologize for getting distracted. He’ll point out all his favorite little spots and the plants and trees and landmarks that he’s most proud of creating while pressing you into his side and occasionally kissing the back of your hand. He’ll answer your every question and he’ll respond to your every comment and he’ll make you feel just so cared for. Like you’re more than just strangers. Like you’re truly something more. 

And having a perk like that in place? In a whole building dedicated to one of your favorite things in the whole world? The very thing you couldn’t even afford on most days? It makes you feel giddy. It makes you feel excited. It makes you feel powerful. And based on the way Mr. Gojo looks at you- looks for your smile and laughter and expression every time he speaks? 

You can’t help but wonder if that’s by design. You can’t help but wonder if he knows you feel that way too.

[ladydaybreaker]

Projects for the Future

Alright so...I kinda got bit by this a while ago but have been mulling it over with some friends. These are by no means going to get published any time soon but with some...questionable...things that have been put out lately I kinda wanted to show my take and how I would have done them.

These are both Role swaps by the way and because I'm me...

That means an absolutely heavy amount of Khori.

(put below the "read more" for mobile people's ease!)

First Story:

Role swap where Uzi had been the one that died that night Nori should have. Now I know what you're thinking, "but lady, you said Khori things..." and you'd be right! 'Cuz Khan's not Uzi's dad in this one. Our DDs are Serial Designation: K, Serial Designation: A and Serial Designation: L (that last one might get changed). Better known as their canon counterparts Khan, Alexei and Liam (again, last one might change). Nori is still the damaged 002 from CFL and Yeva is still 048 as well. What had happened was when Nori and Yeva escaped the labs, Nori was damaged in a way that her memory had shorted out and she barely remembered anything from it...just that there was some dark place that she didn't want to remember and that she had met Yeva there. They had escaped both with two UNNs who became known as Uzi and Doll. At least...Nori came out with Uzi. Her father is unknown (mainly because Nori's memory is damaged) and likely perished in the wake of the collapse trying to get Nori and Uzi out.

Uzi ends up dying as a child from one of the Disassemblers and it absolutely breaks Nori. Nori insists her daughter is ok and alive just...unable to come home. So she waits for a good amount of time every day by the doors until Yeva takes her home or she falls asleep (which Yeva picks her up and brings her back to the apartment). Yeva does not have the heart to tell Nori that Uzi is dead nor does she have the heart to talk about what happened to them down in the labs...about the Solver and everything. Nori's Solver seems to have regressed (but a lot of this is Yeva slipping oil into Nori's drinks and food to make sure she doesn't go into rampage mode). Doll and Yeva's husband (unnammed atm) end up dying to one of the Disassemblers (haven't decided...but it's probably going to be the third one, whether that's L or whatever person I give that swap to). So yay Doll swap is now Yeva.

Nori one day ends up running out of the colony, in a daze probably mourning her daughter and husband when she runs into K. Ends up beating him with a wrench and knocking him into a clear state (or she ends up saving him from a bad hunt where he was injured because she knows that look...and she hates that look of loss and defeat.)

Cue the whole thing of them figuring out what the Solver is yada yada. Ends up going to the labs where K ends up running into (and getting saved by) a very small and grumbly Solver core...Nori was right, Uzi survived. Barely. She's...none too happy her mother's dating a freaking sky demon because "THOSE THINGS KILLED YOUR FREAKING DAUGHTER!" But eventually comes to accept her Mom is...happy. And even more happy with both her AND K in her life...will eventually get it so Uzi gets her own body again. Yeva ends up connecting with A, the big bear of a Disassembler who...may have lost just as much as she did before. Eventually ends up with them having a kid who Yeva names after the daughter she lost long ago.

Second Story

So, this one is also a swap au but...with a tiny little twist. It's an age swap. Yes yes I know this is cringe af and weird but hear me out. I know there's an age swap with Uzi being the Mom and Khan being her son but, imma be blunt, I don't think it...feels like a proper swap. Rather it just...took the original personalities of the person they were swapping with and gave them to the person playing the role. Ain't happening here. The idea is Khan Doorman is the shining star student, valedictorian genius of his class beloved by everyone in that bunker, kinda...weird in the way he's too smart for his own good but he's charismatic. . . and then there's his absolutely batty insane mother Uzi who is a pariah menace to society and everyone fears to get on the bad end of her little 'projects' (she has magnetized people to the ceilings because they pissed her off). Khan and his mother have a strained relationship...mainly because she thinks he's boring and needs to lighten up a bit and he thinks she's a bit...wild...and lashing out ever since his father Emmett Doorman died years ago. But they do love each other and would do anything for each other. Which...is why Khan gives chase to his absolutely insane mother when she sneaks out of the safety of the bunker to kill a Murder Drone. He ends up instead finding Tall, Dark and Pretty Serial Designation (Nori. I haven't quite decided what letter to give her because well...technically it'd be N because first letter). And her squadmates Serial Designation Y(eva) and (haven't figured out who the third one is yet, whoopsies...possibly L for Luke or A for Alice).

Of course, Khan is infected with the Solver, Uzi I haven't decided if she is or not...part of me is like "give her a break and have her just be awesomely crazy and angsty on her own that she made 002 fall head over heels for her". And SD Nori finds Core Emmett in the mines...which would lead to a heartbreaking Nuzi moment later as Uzi actually...breaks the edgy angry persona and shows vulnerability as she hugs the love of her life close to her...as she thought she'd lost him forever. And me being me, Y ends up being enamoured with Khan's best friend and madlad sharpshooter Alexei because you can pry him from my cold dead hands...

I haven't really gotten much on those swaps other than the bits of where Khan, Nori, Yeva, Alexei and Uzi fit in. But I wanted to share them because they've been rattling in my brain long enough...

[exponentiate]

I haven’t exactly been bearposting all summer or anything so you’re all a bit contextless, but I just looked up at the explore.org/bears stream that’s just kind of always on at my house, and I saw a bear at the far wall, in The Office, and I recognized him as 151 Walker based on a mannerism, and I said to myself, “Oh, cool, I haven’t seen 151 in a while, I feel like it’s been all 32 and 821 and 164 the last few days”, and I went to look at the comments, and one of the comments was a picture of this bear, 151 Walker, captioned “so handsome”, and while I’m not judging anyone’s taste in handsome bears, I recognize him by how he’s constantly flapping his tongue around licking his chops or something, just, such an incredibly goofy behavior that I would not have described as handsome.

[mc-critical]

1.10 / 1.09

[gaytranszoro]

sorry okay im rewatching whole cake w a friend and got obsessed with the vinsmokes this time around okay. sorry. however i am a liker of themes and motifs and doomed characters. sorrey.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[emile-hides]

Ayo me again

I can’t recommend the game Persona 4 highly ENOUGH ig, but as someone who also loves bears and silly little Guys, I know you would dig the game and a specific character a lot.

Unfortunately it’s kinda one of those games a la DR where you can’t look up absolutely ANYTHING because everything is a spoiler and every character has an arc, but in summary it follows the player character and his ragtag friend group over the course of a year in high school, and a bunch of bizarre supernatural murders start taking place in town, and you and your friends set about solving what’s going on and working towards putting an end to it, with the help of new friends and your own supernatural powers along the way.

There’s also multiple romance routes if you decide you wanna date, and the whole game is very very good and has a lot of heartfelt moments

THIS THING'S A BEAR?????

[absolutedestinyapocalypsse]

i love how as you read more into tlt, the ninth house seems more and more normal. Like if i'm at an immoral evil government competition, and i use human fat as soap and animate skeletons to do menial labor, i'm gonna LOSE if my competition is the third house, represented by ianthe "who HASN'T eaten human flesh and fucked a corpse" tridentarius. My weird skeleton thing seems normal, suddenly. Well-adjusted, even. It's recycling. They're using resources in a sustainable way. Normal and regular and productive for a post-climate change apocalypse universe.

People go on and on about how Muir drops you into gtn hearing from the person who knows the least about whats happening, and does not hand hold the reader through the crazy shit that occurs, and that's all true. It truly is a crazy writing decision to make your first pov character come from the universe's equivalent of amish fundamentalists. But the reader is actually done a huge favor being dropped into the ninth house first, because we already understand that space is cold and what catholic nuns are, and what goths look like, and what lesbians are. Very little time is wasted in the first chunk of gtn ripping hair out of your head wondering what the fuck is going on, because for all of its strangeness, the ninth house is already the most familiar thing we're gonna get.

Because THEN we learn that this whole universe's medieval chivalry system is designed to groom people from CHILDREN to not only be exploited and used as human batteries for necromancers, but to LIKE it. to wax poetic about it. to confuse it for love, to write fucking academic papers about it! Then we learn about planet flipping, an act so horrific and violent it turns the planet's soul into a massive vengeful monster capable of killing GOD. Like what do you MEAN the animals "change"? Is this why noodle has six legs? I would MUCH prefer to wear skeleton makeup and repent forever if the alternative was to witness my family dog grow TWO EXTRA LIMBS because the planet he lived on fucking died. Suddenly, living in the asscrack of a planet where no light gets in seems like a sweet deal when the whole solar system is lit by a sun that MAKES YOU GO CRAZY. The ninth house's WORST sin, killing 200 babies to make Harrow, a waste of resources and an act so terrible it haunts Harrow for the entire span of her life, is like a BLIP compared to the death count Jod's empire. God even hears about it and he's like, no big deal! The cohort probably kills that amount of people in a DAY.

And its ALSO tragic because you realize that all of this trauma and abuse that Gideon goes through is not really because of the ninth house at all. It's really just an individual skill issue that she wasn't treated with compassion. Nobody hated her because she's jesus or a bomb, nobody even KNOWS she's a bomb. It's just Priamhark and Pelleamena being deeply guilty and scared people that motivates her treatment, and absolutely nothing else.

They did something bad, and they know it, and Gideon survived it, and they can't kill her to cover it up, and that's IT. They killed themselves for pride, because they were afraid of the consequences of their actions (both the baby killing and Harrow opening the tomb) coming back to bite them. You can argue this is the catholicism of it all, and I wouldn't say you're wrong, but compared to the cavalier system, where exploitation is in the very lining of the house's institutions, the ninth house is really removed from the space empire's blood factory. This is compared to the fourth house where they have tons of children to be CANNON FODDER to join the cohort at fucking 14, compared to the eight house uncle nephew fuckery, even the fifth house which actually does seems nice to live on but also seems to have the fourth house in some sort of fucked up political bear hug??? (maybe the fourth house has so many kids in order to fight the fifth's battles? which is EXACTLY what jod's whole empire is about; politely stirring your tea and acting nice while you destroy everything) compared to ALL OF THAT, the cruelty that Gideon faces is really more a bug of the ninth's system than a feature.

There's nothing baked into the culture and everyday life of the ninth house that necessitated that cruelty; in fact, for such a pragmatic and resource-scarce place, it's WEIRD that a strong able-bodied young person was treated like a waste of space and resources. It could just have easily not happened, if Harrow's parents had been different people. Maybe they were products of their environment, but so was Harrow, and she values Gideon's life SO MUCH that she'd literally rather carve out parts of her own brain than exploit her. Gideon grows up knowing really NOTHING about cavaliers, so remote from the horrors of the empire that she develops an idea of what the cohort is from porn magazines. And in a lot of ways, that upbringing was desolate and terrible, and in a lot of other ways it literally DID NOT HAVE TO BE.

Gideon's MAIN THING is that she wants to be useful, to be needed, to be loved and it SUCKS that she couldn't even get it in the one place where she was actually an invaluable resource, where the death empire had the weakest reach. Gideon can't even blame her lack of love on the fucked up chivalry system like everyone else can because it JUST WASNT REALLY RELEVENT!?!?! This is like if i rolled up to the trauma competition and everyone else was raised in a nuclear warzone by wolves or something and i grew up in like, the suburbs and was raised by teachers and i somehow STILL WON. truly what the fuck guys.

[reignpage]

Bear Necessities

Synopsis: what life is like married to brown bear hybrid!Nanami Warnings: 18+ mdni, smutty, fluffy, cursing, established relationship, marriage, cunnilingus, blowjob, unprotected sex, baby fever, lactation kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, praise, dom!nanami, backshot, mention of fleshlight, sub!reader, possessiveness, threat of violence or harm, creampie, knotting, not proofread Word Count: 3.5k

Being married to Bear hybrid!Nanami means having to tip toe your entire relationship because he’s so tall. He does make the effort to hunch down for you, growling softly against your neck about how small and fragile his beautiful wife is. But he’s not always so nice. No, your Kento likes to tease, much to your chagrin.

“Sweetheart, I’ll be late for my morning class,” he remarks, peering at you over his glasses as you hold onto his shoulders for purchase, jumping to reach his face. “And you know I can’t possibly start my day without my morning kiss. You wouldn’t leave me waiting, would you?”

His words are sweet, always so sweet, but the way he’s pawing at your hips and dipping lower to squeeze your ass are nothing but. Lifting you up in one arm, he brings you face to face with his gentle grin, his pearly whites glinting in the morning sun. 

“Hi, darling,” he whispers.

Savouring his soft lips and feeling the soft bristles of his beard, you mutter, “I’ll miss you, Kenny.”

“I’ll miss you too, my darling love. But soon we’ll be away for hibernation, yes? And then you’ll have me all to yourself for months.”

“Dada!”

Kento laughs, a big smile taking over his face until his eyes are crinkling in the corner. With you still held up by one arm, he opens the other for your two cubs to jump onto him. Kenji, the eldest, climbs up his huge back, biting onto his father’s thick neck and growling in challenge. Whereas, Mio sits politely in his other arm, chubby hand petting his beard with wide eyes. 

“One of these days, we’ll all be too big to be carried like this, Kento,” you say with a sigh. 

The glimmer in his warm eyes melts your heart. “That day will never come, my love.”

“Yeah! Dada’s strong,” Kenji argues, to which his little sister agrees, nodding furiously.

“Alright, alright. Dada’s got to go to work, so let’s not hold him up any longer, okay?”

Shifting his tie into to place, you bid him farewell, the warmth of his body still imprinted on yours. He leaves you one last kiss against your forehead, eyes roving over his family, with his eldest puffing his chest out to say he’ll take over the big bear duties now. 

Satisfied, Kento is off to work and you jump on your kids, peppering kisses and attacking them with giggles. 

“Let’s go bake some cookies!”

Bear hybrid!Nanami isn’t always so mild-mannered. Though he isn’t quick to be riled up, there are, unfortunately, certain things that seem to trigger those prominent animalistic instincts. For example, he’s not particularly fond of the your neighbour. 

The single male is a husky who knocks on the door often, requesting sugar or dropping by gifts for the cubs. He’s completely harmless, if a little too bright and cheerful. In fact, you can tell he’s a good person, but that doesn’t matter for your husband. All males are a threat.

One evening, your neighbour knocks whilst Kento’s in the kitchen. Discussing the recent neighbourhood bake sale, you must have been gone far longer than your husband would have liked because he eventually appears behind you, impossibly taller and broader. 

He casts a shadow on you and on the husky who only grins cheekily. Winding a paw around your waist, he snaps his jaws together, flashing his canines. The message is clear: leave his territory now. Your neighbour retreats back, giving you one last wink before the door slams shut. 

Bear hybrid!Nanami buries his face in your neck, inhaling deeply in rapid succession, chest heaving as you’re pinned to the door. His hold on you is calculatedly light enough to not hurt but they do threaten to leave indentations should you attempt to push him away as he’s recollecting himself. 

This doesn’t very often; something about that husky sets him off. You can’t say you hate when he’s like this. How could you when he’s shoving a leg between yours and caging you in his arms?

He’s shuffling his entire body against yours, rubbing his scent as thoroughly as he can. His thigh presses roughly against your moistening core. Gravelly, he groans, “Who are you married to?”

“You.”

A paw urges your hips up and down on his leg, seeking that tantalising honey from your insides. Kento stops inhaling, only to lick up the length of your neck, marking you so that there would be no confusion as to whom you belong to. His sharp teeth scrape the skin in warning — it isn’t enough for the others to know you’re his mate, you must know that too. 

“Again.”

“I’m your wife. I’m yours, Ken.”

You cum just like that, shuddering against his burly chest, buried in his pecs. He rubs soothing circles in your back in apology for his aggressive behaviour. Without much regret in his voice, he admits, “I’m terribly sorry, darling. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do,” you mumble against his repenting lips, fingers pressing the wet streak that’s formed over his trousers. “I made a mess, sorry, Kenny.”

Glasses foggy and cheeks flushed, he shakes his head. “Nothing to apologise for, my love. You were, and are, nothing short of perfect. Always. Now, come. Let’s eat. The kids must be starving.”

Bear hybrid!Nanami goes through hyperphagia during the autumnal months, when the weather begins to become colder. He eats almost double his usual, consuming more berries and salmon — your grocery budget goes through the roof trying to keep his hunger satiated. 

This does mean, however, that your husband stores more fat. But it isn’t an awful experience. Rather, it’s actually the sexiest thing ever. Seeing him grow rounder in his arms, his face, his stomach and his thighs is incredible. You notice the added weight when he lays on your chest at night, laying a possessive hand on your tummy. 

He almost crushes you when he does that. At first, he simply takes extra care around you, making sure he moves slowly and carefully, but as the winter approaches and he grows even bigger, sleeping on you is no longer an option and you must lie on his chest, the hairs there tickling your nose. 

You can’t keep your hands off Bear hybrid!Nanami in those months. Even as he’s sorting through papers in his office, you just can’t help but crawl under his desk and fish out his thick cock. It’s long, thicker at the base where those fuzzy blond hairs are than the curve. He’s even bigger as he’s bulking. There, in his base, is a little knot-like curve that makes your mouth water. 

“Feeling needy, darling?”

You hum, teasing your lips against his tip. “For you? Always.”

He lands a heavy paw on your head, guiding your head lower. Taking him in, in any holes, is never easy. You have to mentally prepare yourself by re-familiaring yourself with his scent, his texture, and his taste by licking from base to tip, circling the head and peering up at him as his breathing becomes heavy. Only once does he begin releasing pained groans do you stretch your lips to engulf him. 

“Sweetheart, go -ha- slowly,” he advices. “I’ll cum too fast if you’re rough with me.”

His thighs are so thick you palm them, eyes rolling back at the pudge there, still solid and firm from his strength, and the knowledge that he could crush you with them makes you so wet, you moan around his cock. 

The growls coming from his chest vibrate the wooden desk you’re under, heady air puffing from his mouth as he curls his lips back, big arms tensing whilst he grips the wood with a deathly force, knuckles white. You hear it creak above you. You suck harder. 

“Almost there, honey. Keep -ngh- going.”

When he spurts in your mouth, painting your throat with his seed, he thumbs at your bottom lip, smearing the wetness of both his cum and your drool all over your chin before he pulls it down to inspect your mouth. “Swallow it all, my love. That’s right. Such a good girl.”

During hibernation, the entire family is sluggish. The children sleep all day. Kento practically never leaves the bed. Though he’s eaten enough in the season before to only need to eat once in a while, the same can’t be said for you. No, you still need to eat three meals a day.

You know that. And your husband knows that, too. 

So, why does he refuse to let go of you in the mornings, afternoons, and evenings? 

Held by his brawny arms, one around your chest, groping your tit, and the other circling your neck, you literally cannot move. Especially not with the hefty thigh he’s thrown over both of your legs. The snow he senses outside urges his instincts to keep all sources of warmth with him, even if the hottest thing in your room is himself, with all the heat emanating from his huge body. 

“Ken, I’m hungry,” you whine. 

He huffs, no rebuttal escaping him. 

His glasses have been safely tucked away in a drawer, and he’s wrapped tightly in a bulky sweater, hair all mussed up. He looks even paler during the winter, the only colour on his skin being the flush across his cheeks. Kento is the epitome of comfor during hibernation — it’s his favourite time of the year. He gets paid leave and so do you, the government understanding the importance of hybrids having support systems during such a vulnerable time. 

With his cubs all safe and sound at home, just in the next room, and his wife by his side at every given moment, there’s nothing else he could possibly ask for. Except maybe for you to stop squirming to get away.

“I’m literally starving, Kento,” you grumble. 

Bear hybrid!Nanami relents at the very last second, pulling those heavy limbs back enough for you to slide out from under them. You rush to the bathroom for your much needed reprieve and then head straight to the kitchen. Your husband had kept you captive until it was past lunchtime. 

He is so ridiculously selfish during these winter months. 

Careful to make as little noise as possible, you make a quick breakfast. Waiting for the bread to pop up from the toaster, all golden brown and warm, you tap your foot against the floor. It’s an odd feeling to rarely cook in the winter season — all year round, there’s practically never enough food for your husband and your children. Now, you pretty much only cook for yourself. 

You may not have the bear instincts they do, but you are a mother. You have to constantly fight the urge to shake your babies awake and shove hearty stews and delicious pies down their throats. Whenever you sneak into their rooms, all you ever get are grumbles of complaint about how loud you’re being. And if you leave the bed too often to check up on them, making sure they’re still breathing,  your husband becomes adorably irritated and carries them over to your bedroom, everyone piling on top. 

“You left me waiting so long, sweetheart,” Kento grumbles into your neck, startling you.  

Somehow, he had managed to creep up behind, bare feet padding quietly until he reached the kitchen where he promptly rested his weight onto you. Almost toppling over by the sudden weight, you yelp. 

“Ken! Go back to bed.”

Skimming his nose against your neck, he hums, “Can’t sleep without my wife.”

He patiently waits with you, hugging you from behind as he practically dozes off on top of your head, steady breathing causing his chest to rise and fall, coaxing you back to sleepiness too. He reaches over, plating the toasts for you as soon as they emerge, wary they’re too hot for your sensitive human hands. 

Taking your last bite, your world turns topsy turvy when you’re thrown over his shoulder, a large hand palming your thigh all the way up to your ass. Upon reaching your bedroom, he climbs in with you still clinging to his torso. You lay on top of him. He doesn’t complain about the weight, rather he groans from the feeling of you, all of you, keeping him warm and grounded.

“If you were a bear, honey,” he mumbles sleepily, hand rubbing your back, “those toasts would be enough to keep you in bed with me for weeks. How lovely would that be?”

Playfully, you retort, “You should marry one, then.”

“There’s no one else for me but you. Human or hybrid, you’re perfect. Just perfect,” he muses. 

Grabbing your left hand, he rests it on his which lies on the pillow above his head. Your rings clink together as he clutches every part of you tightly, like you might disappear when he wakes up, like this marriage with you has been all one big dream. 

What a sweet slumber and a bitter waking it would be. 

“See you on the other side, Kenny,” you say absentmindedly. 

Kissing the top of your head, he affirms, “Always.”

Once winter passes, Bear hybrid!Nanami returns to work and your kids go back to school, catching up with their friends like they haven’t been asleep almost the entire time. 

The snow’s all gone and the frost in the air disappears, signalling a brand new start. Your cubs will grow bigger, whilst your husband shifts back to his normal size, still enormous and intimidating, but much more hardened. In the spring, that brings its own set of problems. 

“The cubs are at their friends’, sweetheart.” Kento hugs you from behind as you stir a pot in the kitchen. You already know where this is going. You’ve lived through enough springs with the man to know that the bulge he’s grinding against your ass isn’t a simple expression of his love for you. 

Sighing, you ask, “Isn’t two plenty, Ken?”

He growls, teeth scraping your neck as he squeezes every inch of flesh his paws can reach. “I’m a greedy man. I want more of you. I want one that has your eyes and your wit. And another with your hair and your humour.”

When he cups your pussy through your dress, there’s nothing you can say in argument before he places you atop the counter, hob off and food left to grow cold. He’s got something more delicious in mind. 

He grips your thighs, legs spread to accommodate his wide berth. Leaving a big bite on your skin, a red mark begins to grow and the growl vibrating in his chest tells you everything you need to know. Kento isn’t stopping until your stomach balloons with his cubs once more. 

“Smells so good, sweetheart.” He presses his nose against your clothed core, burying the tip on your clit. His mouth waters with the tantalising scent filling his senses. “Always smell so good. I can never focus when you’re around.”

Your panties are ripped apart in his claws, torn to shred but before you can even process the destruction, he’s already diving in, your wetness coating his beard. Kento laps up all the juice you produce, suckling that tight little bud, rolling it with his tongue to hear your moans. 

You pull at his hair, so thick and luscious, and jut your hips up. The pleasure quickly grows overwhelming and you’re squirming away, clawing to find escape from the mind-numbing euphoria. 

Bear hybrid!Nanami growls, throwing a heavy arm over your stomach and he gnaws on your thigh in warning. “Do not move. Do not run. I couldn’t bear it. Not right now, sweetheart. You will give me what I want and you will thank me, yes?”

Panting, you nod your head. “Yes, yes. I’m sorry, Kenny.”

Eyes narrowing, he licks up the bruise he’s planted on your thigh in apology before he dives right back in with greater vigour. He wriggles his tongue inside, his nose teasing your clit, and you cum, creaming right into his mouth. Your husband makes low noises of approval, grip on your body turning punishing.

Bones a mush, he spins you around, wrangling you into position. Kento doesn’t give you a second to even recollect yourself. Your back to his chest, he pulls down the neckline of your dress, cupping your tits with calloused paws. 

“These will fill up with milk for our cubs and they’ll feed our babies,” he reminds you, pinching your nipples and you can almost imagine the sensitivity you’ll develop. “You get aches here, don’t you, darling? It’ll be alright. Your husband will take care of you, hmm? He’ll suck out all the milk so you don’t clog up.”

In one hard thrust, he shoves his length inside you. You gasp, eyes wide and jaw dropping. You feel so full. His long and thick cock is pressing against all the sensitive spots in your pussy, kissing your cervix. Your juices coat him, leaving shiny dew drops on the blond hairs at his base. 

“Feel me here, my love?” He’s got a paw pressing hard on the imprint of his bulge. When he presses harder, you clench down, jolts of electricity tickling your spine. “Ngh, that’s right. That’s where our cubs will be. You’ll grow -god you’re so beautiful- round until you can’t see your toes anymore. Oh, and then you’ll need me to put your socks on and -so tight ha- tie your laces, right?”

“Yes, Ken!”

He’s pummelling deep inside of you, head rubbing against that spot that makes you cream even more. The force in which he’s thrusting is leaving you a shaking mess, having to cling onto the counter to steady yourself. 

“I’ll protect you -ha goodness- and our family. Always. N-no one will harm you. You’ll always be safe with me,” he chants and you’re not even sure he’s talking to you. Kento can only plunge his cock inside, that bulge at the base inching its way in with no regard for how your pussy’s having to stretch impossibly to fit all of him. 

You cling onto that one hand keeping your hips still. “Ken! I can’t. It’s too much!”

He bites your neck, digging into your skin. Those meaty arms wrap completely around you, and he’s lifting you up and dragging you down on his cock. Your head is lolled against his shoulder, limbs limp as he uses you like a glorified fleshlight. 

“Nonsense. You’ll take it all in. You’ve done it before and you’ll do it again. For your Kento, yes? For your beloved husband? For your Kenny?”

You scream as your orgasm washes over you like a tsunami, snatching you under until you’re left panting for breath, vision blurring from the tears cascading down your cheeks. He licks one that trails down your jaw and the salty taste, coupled with the almost painful squeezing of your sloppy cunt, pushes him over the edge. 

Spurts of white paint your quivering walls, your clit throbbing as he shudders against you with a prolonged growl. 

“So good. Always so good for me.” He makes a satisfied noise, grinding his hips deeper inside to plug up your pussy, keeping all of his seed inside. “What would you like, honey?”

You already know what he means and you don’t hesitate to answer, slurring, “Another boy and girl. So that we’ll have even numbers.”

His laughter rumbles and he kisses your neck, lips sliding through the sheen of sweat. He’s still holding you up with ease. “That would be nice. If we only get one boy, we can try for a girl soon after, and vice versa. What do you say, my love?”

You’re almost asleep, thoroughly exhausted even as your pussy still spasms around his thick cock, sensitive from the warmth of his flesh and his seed. Mind elsewhere, you can only reply, “Whatever you want, Ken.”

“Don’t say things like that, sweetheart. Because you know if I had it my way, you’ll always be pregnant and our house would be filled with mini yous all the time.”

The image causes him to throb inside you, cock not softening but rather getting bigger somehow. And when he begins rocking his hips once more, you know he likes the idea a little too much. 

You go for rounds after rounds until you’re leaving a trail of cum as he carries you over to the bathroom, where he takes you again and again, eating up the overflowing mixture of your combined essence.

Bear hybrid!Nanami never needs to try hard to convince you for anything. All he needs to do is flash you that soft smile and flex those huge muscles and you’re creating a sloppy mess in your panties. And he knows when he’s charm has taken the effect he intended. His sense of smell is so powerful he can tell when you’re growing needy from even across the house, where he chases you and pins you to the ground.

The next hibernation is spent taking care of newborns. A boy and a girl. And oh, how proud is your husband to have given you exactly what you wanted. His heart couldn’t be any more full. Except for a couple months later when he’s pawing at your breasts again. 

[poisonf0rest]

Overc*mming Writer's Block 3

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐕

♱⋅── zayne x reader

♱⋅── about: Between being in the midst of your medical residency and being an up-and-coming author, it’s safe to say your personal life has been placed on stand-still. That is, until your editor decided that your next novel needed explicit smut scenes. That is, until your mentor and boss ends up striking a deal for you to help with “inspiration” for said novel. That is, until you fuck Zayne four times and your life changes forever. Partially inspired by manga of the same name by Nae Awaji

♱⋅── word count: 10.8k holy

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, bondage, oral, pussydrunk zayne, PRAISE kink, breeding kink, actual sex this time, no more blue balling, nightly rendezvous card

art credit to @/chimmyming on X

“So, you and Dr. Zayne?”

You damn near choke on your salad. Coughing, you place your fork down before turning to glare at Anvi. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She smiles, as if that was confirmation enough. “I’ve heard a thing or two from hospital gossips—“

“Vi, you are the hospital gossip.”

“—that the cold, yet steaming hot doctor was finally seen accepting the company of someone else. Not to mention at the gala last weekend he was by your side all night long. Or so I was told.” 

Anvi leans in, smiling wide enough to burst her pretty face as you scowl down at your lunch, unable to meet her eyes. Fighting to keep your voice even, you nudge her off, stabbing a carrot. “You’re ridiculous. I’m not involved with Dr. Zayne, he’s too—“ Attentive? Intelligent? God don’t think of him eating you out right now. “He’s not my type.”

You feel your ears burn, but by the grace of some god Anvi doesn’t seem to notice. Pouting she sighs and sinks back into the cafeteria booth. “Aww man, I was really rooting for you, too.”

“Rooting for a nonexistent relationship?” 

Anvi’s about to say something, big doe eyes almost frantically darting between yours before she huffs and shakes her head, something akin to pity tightening her smile.

You raise a brow but she only shrugs, going back to picking at her lunch. “Just as well, a relationship between a resident and her boss would be quite the juicy scandal. Something straight out of a romcom, no?” 

Laughter rips from your chest, the sheer irony of both her words and your reality too much to bear. Anvi’s windshield wiper giggles join your own, and soon the two of you are wheezing under your breath as you get side-eyed by the other surgeons trying to enjoy their lunch. 

Really, whoever your author was had a fucked up sense of humor. 

But the moment is ruined by the buzz of your pager, and you barely say bye to Anvi before you’re rushed to the operating bay. 

As of today, you have two days to finish your manuscript. 

Today's shift was exhausting, but you’ve learned early into your career that writing is a discipline, and as fickle of a muse as inspiration is, a writer cannot simply wait for her to grace you with her presence. Whether you feel like it or not, this book has to get done. 

Besides, what better mindset was there to churn out unhinged shenanigans than when you’re delirious and half-asleep, tucked away in the on-call room? 

Okay, so perhaps not the best place to be, but logically if your shift finished only minutes ago and you had to page in at five AM yet again, you’re better off just staying here rather than driving back to your apartment and all the way back to the hospital again.

Opening your personal laptop, you tab onto your novel's draft, the flashing cursor taunting you as your editor’s comments blur into an overwhelming mess of red. While you’ve worked your way through just about half of her six-thousand comments, that still leaves far too many, especially on your novel’s villain slash love interest as the trope always goes. 

You’re halfway through cutting cringey dialogue on a specific scene, but your thoughts keep drifting. Your conversation with Anvi keeps playing in your mind— romcom, dating, scandal, boss. You suppress the heat rising in your chest, trying to ignore the reality you really don't want to face. 

Zayne is… too much. Too intelligent, too caring, too perfect at catching you off guard.

Shaking your head, you try re-focusing, but between sleep deprivation and the realization that you haven’t actually done anything physical with Zayne for nearly a week, you get far too distracted. 

It’s not that you haven’t seen him since the gala. Far from it, really. Nearly every night if your shifts happen to end around the same time, he offers to drive you home. And when your shifts don’t align, you always make the effort to cook something together, breakfast or dinner, at ungodly hours of the morning or evening. And if neither of those happened, you would watch a movie, at least for a few minutes till one or both of you fell asleep on your ratty couch. 

God, you’re a fool. You can’t help but want him by your side even now, loving the way he reacts to your inappropriate comments, loving the way he scoffs at your jokes, loving the way he notices even the most minute things about you. And yet there’s a distance you can’t explain, a growing space you’re both too afraid to fill.

You close your laptop with a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes as you lay back on the small cot, trying to block out the nagging ache in your chest.

Your phone buzzes from under the cot, and you glance at it absently. You nearly jump at Zayne’s icon flashing on your screen.

grumpy snowman: Under recent developments I’d like to inform you of two things. One, you are banned from the hospital all of tomorrow under strict orders by me. Two, I currently have Mr. Whiskers held hostage, and should you fail to return home by 02:59 I will be forced to perform pulmonary bypass puncture and stop his heart. 

Dumbfounded, you stare at Zayne’s text, blinking in confusion. Did your sleep deprivation just hallucinate a text? Violently shaking your head, you look back at your phone with slightly spinning vision just to confirm that no, this was very much real and Zayne has very much lost it. 

ms. author: Is this a threat?

Another text follows immediately after.

grumpy snowman: Consider it your last chance. Come back and save him, or else... this may as well be his final night. 

An image sends then, your favorite calico cat plushy all tied up with what appears to be Zayne’s tie, dangling the poor thing as though being held hostage. Your gaze lingers for longer than it should on how Zayne’s hands look in the dim lighting of the photo, so busy trailing up the veins on his lithe fingers that you nearly miss his next text. 

grumpy snowman: I’ve already called an Uber. It’s waiting outside. 

You snort into the empty room, rolling to sit up straight.He’s the last person you’d expect to pull this sort of thing. It’s nothing short of ridiculous, but truly you don’t know the last time you’ve smiled this wide, and it’s precisely the distraction you need right now, especially if he’s already gone through the trouble of organizing it all himself. But like you’d go down without a fight. 

ms. author: You’re being ridiculous, you’d never hurt Mr. Whiskers you devil. You don’t have the guts.

His reply is swift, almost immediate.

grumpy snowman: Do I now? Care to test that theory?

You can practically hear the smugness in his text, the playful challenge laced with a quiet but unmistakable sincerity. Your heart gives an unexpected flutter, the weight in your chest easing, if only slightly. Quite a villain, indeed.

You know what Zayne’s doing. He’s not just playing around; he’s pulling you out of your head, out of the self-imposed spiral you’ve yet again been retreating into. You’ve spent the better half of the week in it. 

You bite your lip, considering your options. On one hand, you could brush him off—continue working, ignore the text, but something inside of you craves this attention. Craves his uncharacteristic ridiculousness. Craves the break from your mind that he’s offering.

ms. author: If you harm a single fur on my son’s head I’ll put an end to your tyranny myself.

Zayne doesn’t waste a second, sending only a single warning: Hurry. 

You stand, grabbing your jacket and keys, and only then do you second guess this. The easy, safe choice would be to stay buried in your work, it would be to politely decline and place must-needed distance and formality back. 

But for the first time in a while there’s something you want more than work, and as you slip out of the on-call room, the image of Mr. Whiskers hanging helplessly from Zayne’s tie is enough to pull you out of the hospital.

You push your front door open, the silence of your apartment making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The lights are off— odd, considering you could have sworn you left a lamp on. You always do, a force of habit since you live in a slightly less safe area of Linkon. Oh, the things you do for cheaper rent. 

Pausing, your eyes scan the deceptively empty hallway and kitchen. Everything feels still, almost eerie, and your pulse quickens as you take your shoes off, right beside Zayne’s much larger dress shoes, to venture further into your apartment. 

The faintest creak of floorboards makes you freeze. Your heart stutters slightly, the scare making you grip your chest as you whirl around, cursing out your cowardice. You’ve seen worse things wheeled into the ER. Please, get a grip. 

You shake off the nerves just as your phone buzzes in your pocket, breaking the silence once more.

grumpy snowman: You’re cutting it close. Five minutes before Mr. Whiskers meets an untimely demise.

You can't help the amused snort that escapes you, the tension in your body breaking.

ms. author: You really went this far? What now, villain?

The response is almost immediate.

grumpy snowman: It’s a matter of life or death. I hope you're prepared.

Another photo attachment follows—your favorite Christmas blanket thrown over the couch cushions in disarray, the faintest corner of Mr. Whiskers peeking out beneath it. The living room. You shake your head, muttering under your breath about the audacity of smug geniuses with far too much time on their hands.

You make your way to the living room in the dark, you flick on a lamp as you approach the couch. Lifting the blanket to find… nothing but a sticky note.

It reads, in painfully pretty cursive: Nice try, but you’ll have to be quicker.

Another buzz.

grumpy snowman: You fell for that as well? I expected better. Already 02:56, time’s running out.

You scoff, unable to stop yourself from laughing despite the absurdity.

ms. author: Do you even have anything better to do?

grumpy snowman: Not lately. Someone’s been too busy to properly entertain me.

You read it once, twice, and still something in your chest squeezes painfully at that.

Folding up the note, you stare at the text a moment longer before you hear the echoing click of a door. It’s coming from upstairs. 

Another buzz.

grumpy snowman: While you’re lost in thought again, care to explain why you’ve been running yourself into the ground? 

You pause, stalling as you make your way to your stairs.

ms. author: I am writing.

grumpy snowman: Poorly, if you’re overworking. Can’t imagine the tension’s working out if it’s still stuck in your head.

ms. author: Gasp. Excuse you—

Another buzz interrupts, just as you make it to your bedroom door, old wood announcing your arrival with a groan. The culprit has to be just behind it. 

grumpy snowman: 3 minutes remaining. Mr. Whiskers won’t be around much longer.

You can practically feel Zayne’s grin through the phone, and for a brief moment, you’re glad he’s here, even if it’s all in jest. He’s right although you might never admit it; this whole absurd situation—your plushie, the stupid texts, the teasing—has done what no amount of coffee or sleepless daydreaming could.

ms. author: If you harm a single fur on my son’s head, I swear I’ll come for you.

Your hand latches onto your bedroom handle, biting your lip as you pause to type one last jab. 

ms. author: I don’t know why I’m indulging you.

grumpy snowman: Because you love it when I win.

A laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. Shaking your head, you push the door open.

Your bedroom is dim, the curtains drawn, but moonlight spills through the dusky purple veils, illuminating the bed.

Perched atop lies Mr. Whiskers, your darling calico plushie sitting in the center, fully unharmed even though his crystalline eyes speak of unimaginable horrors at the hands of his captor. 

Before you can grab him, movement from the corner of the room nearly startles you into jumping halfway across the room. Zayne, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watches you with a slight upturned grin that makes your stomach twist.

“You’re a horrible villain.” You huff, all but lunging on your bed to hug Mr. Whiskers to your chest like a shield.

His lips twitch into a smile, the bastard, and you can't help but notice how handsome he looks with his hair a little mussed and his glasses slipping down his nose. He doesn’t have his coat or suit jacket on, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, a sight you haven’t grown tired of.

God, you really have a thing for forearms. Or maybe it’s just a thing for Zayne.

“Since we’re critiquing each other, you’re not much of a hero. Hiding behind a plushie doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.” 

“Confidence isn’t my priority right now.” You clutch Mr. Whiskers tighter, narrowing your eyes. He’s not here to talk about morals and heroism, though. “I’ve been fine. Nothing more than proofreading left… that and a few problem-children scenes.”

“Then consider this me fulfilling my half of the contract,” Zayne says, effortlessly seeing past your usual bullshit. “For someone who claims they’re adequately inspired, you’ve been more distant than usual.”

“I don’t need a lecture.”

“No lecture.” He steps closer, “I just missed you.”

Again, Zayne's words catch you off guard, so blunt they make your chest ache. No empty flattery, no pretty words, simply stated as though they were facts. 

He takes another step forward, and you have to lean back on your elbows— nearly lying back on the bed— to maintain eye contact as he looms above you. 

And then, Zayne drops to his knees before you.

It’s a far more graceful movement than it has any right to be, all six foot something of him kneeling against the foot of your bed as you instinctively make room for him there. Slowly, his hands come up to your thighs, the two of you slotting together with ease.

“Admit it,” Zayne whispers, the sweet, minty heat of his breath caressing your lips as you shiver, leaning closer despite yourself. “This helped.” A wry smile, “and that I make a convincing villain.”

“What’s this, is the doctor Zayne fishing for compliments?”

“I don’t need compliments. I just want you to stop pretending in front of me– no more performances.” 

Heat rises to your face, and your stomach twists. He's too close, he's always too close, but god, why has this domesticity become so natural around him? 

Despite yourself, you look down at his hands again, taking in how easily his scarred palms cup your thighs, the pale contrast of his skin against yours. Lithe, long fingers, and the memory of how well they’ve treated you. You swear he must feel your heart pound where his thumbs brush circles against your inner thighs, your body nothing but responsive for him. 

But if he does, he spares you the embarrassment. Zayne only continues to look up into your face, and just as you begin thinking of equally inappropriate jokes or fun facts to break the silence, Zayne moves closer, his knee pressing between your thighs as the mattress dips to accommodate his weight. 

“Perhaps there is a performance you could help me with, since you’re clearly the expert here.”

You blink, one step behind Zayne’s master plan yet again. “What- help you?”

“Yes. See, I’ve been thinking about my next move as a villain, and…” Before you can even follow Zayne’s words, Mr. Whiskers is yanked from your grasp once more. One hand raises him into the air and the other lunges for your outstretched arms, pinning them to the bed as it creaks and groans under the sudden assault. “I think I’ll take Mr. Whiskers as my captive once again.”

A soft gasp leaves your lips as Zayne shifts above you, his knee grinding up just enough to have you aching between your legs. Everything spins, torn between the desire to rescue Mr. Whiskers and the overwhelming urge to give in, to pull Zayne closer, to finally, finally fuck him yourself.

But before you can decide, the hand pinning your wrists tightens, his thumb rubbing circles as he effortlessly restrains you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you curse, though the tremor in your voice betrays your excitement.

“Ridiculous?” Zayne repeats, arching a brow. “Perhaps you should start taking this seriously, my dear protagonist.” He drops his voice into something rich, dark, and deliciously villainous. The hand that pins you down holds firm, the other dangles your plushie overhead with mocking menace. 

You scoff, though it comes out shakier than intended. “I could write circles around your attempts at being evil.”

“Could you?” Unbuttoning his shirt, Zayne gets only halfway before abandoning it entirely, letting the buttons skew across his chest. He watches with a growing smile as your eyes flutter downward against your better judgment. “Then why don’t you show me.”

Zayne nods to your phone, eyes narrowed from behind his glasses. “Open the doc, show me the scene. Any attempts to rescue the captive will be met with appropriate punishment.” 

The way Zayne looks down at you, waiting—daring— to see if you would make him stop, sends a sinful flutter through your core, ricocheting up your spine. No longer trusting your voice, you nod and feel the pressure loosen ever so slightly on your wrists. 

You only have time to pull your phone out from your scrub’s back pocket before Zayne captures your wrists again, the tie once used on Mr. Whiskers now knotted efficiently right above your wrists. It should be frightening, how easy it is for him to manhandle you, but you feel nothing but painful arousal at that fact.

You’re still growling out faux protests when Zayne plucks the phone from your hands, his knee keeping your hips firmly pinned against the mattress.

“Ah,” Zayne murmurs, scrolling casually through your doc. “A scene involving betrayal, a chase, and…” He raises a brow. “Passionate accusations of treachery.”

You thrash beneath him, trying to buck off his weight as your face burns in embarrassment. “Enough! You’re supposed to help, not—”

“Not what?” He glances at you briefly, lips pursed in a halfhearted attempt to mask his amusement. “Not put your villain to the test? I’ll admit I might have ulterior motives, but you’ll have to try harder than that.”

Zayne then waves the plushie just out of reach before dangling him on the windowsill for dramatic emphasis.

“I swear to god, if you harm Mr. Whiskers!”

He cuts you off with a chuckle. “Hush. You’ll want to hear this.” 

Zayne clears his throat, the smirk on his lips unmistakable as he picks up where you left off in editing your manuscript. His voice drops into a faux-sinister drawl as he begins to narrate. “‘You can hate me all you want,’ the villain growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. ‘But that fire in your eyes only makes me want to break you more.’”

It's horrible, the way he reads the words, the tone and cadence he gives the prose, and worst of all, the way his unblinking gaze remains completely, utterly, fixed on you as he speaks.

“Zayne, please, don’t- this is embarrassing,” you beg to appeal to reason, still writhing against his tie, when you realize his grip against your hips has loosened.

Zayne’s attention is momentarily diverted as he scrolls through the doc, looking for another section to read, and you kick your knee up with a shout, jabbing it into his side as the two of you tumble across the bed. 

Lunging, you manage to grab Mr. Whiskers for all of two seconds before Zayne hauls you up by your bound wrists, forcing you arms above your head as you are pulled back against him. He’s rough, forcing your spine to arch against his chest as you hiss on impact, head thrown back against Zayne’s shoulder. “Ah-ah. What did I say about attempts to rescue the captive?” 

His tone is all mockery, grip iron against your waist even though you can tell he’s still holding himself back. Feeling each hot, ragged breath against the back of your neck, the smell of ambroxan and sandalwood surrounding you. You breathe in deeper, shaking despite yourself.

“Let go of me!”

‘’Close. I believe the actual line was ‘unhand me.’”

Zayne hauls you further up the mattress, hooking your bound wrists onto the post of your bedframe as this new position forces you to face the wall, all while his free hand adjusts his glasses, scanning the next few lines. “‘I’d rather die than let you win!’ she spat, her chest heaving with defiance—” He glances at you with deadpan incredulity. “Why is everyone always heaving in these scenes? Do they all have asthma?”

“You’re the worst,” you hiss, breathless from the struggle. See? Heaving, no asthma involved, just foreplay. 

“And yet…” Zayne’s voice comes closer, and you feel his bare chest once again at your back, “you’re the one who wrote it. I’m simply giving you an immersive experience.”

“Can’t be fully immersive if I have yet to believe you, villain.” Scoffing, you turn around, craning your neck just to glare him in the eyes. “You don’t have what it takes.”

Zayne chuckles, then silence. Forcing your head towards the wall again, you feel him lean down, still out of sight despite the heat radiating off his body, his nose brushing down your bare throat as he spits out the next line.

“Brat.”

You hate how immediately your body responds to that. How you shiver and lean back despite the restraints, how a part of you wants to fight, to keep the act going, because god, the idea of letting Zayne do anything he wants to you is enough to make your head spin.

Zayne’s teeth press against your neck, just below your ear, and you whine, the sound so small and deprived that you instantly bite your tongue and curse yourself for reacting like this.

So then he does it again.

A pitched gasp.

A broken moan.

Each noise he elicits from you is another cruel victory, and when you grind your ass back against Zayne’s increasingly obvious erection, he all but tears your scrubs down your thighs, the cotton of your panties not standing a chance against his desperation. 

In truth, Zayne had never been harder in his life. Did he intentionally pick the most on-the-nose dialogue just to watch you squirm? Perhaps. But he’d be lying if he said seeing you battle against primal desire beneath him, feeling your half-hearted attempts to fight him, accidentally grinding your ass against him with every squirm didn’t make him want to push you even further. 

Every breath came out heavy, chest heaving as he continued his performative reading, large palms alternating between slapping and gently squeezing your ass. 

“You’re greedy,” a kiss against your shoulder, shucking your scrubs down your knees. “Impatient,” another kiss, this time down your spine, throwing your pants across the bedroom. “And utterly disobedient.” 

You’re already stripped bare from the chest down. 

He can't deny the sight of you in such a compromising position is a sight to behold, and the urge to keep reading just to see how far he can push you is intoxicating. Panting, he pauses only to readjust his glasses, foggy and slipping down his nose. 

You, however, are too impatient.

"Zayne, please, you got your point across. You win. Just— ah, just fuck me already."

It's the first time in nearly a week that Zayne gets to hear you ask for him, beg for him, and it's all the reminder he needs for his body to fail him, shuttering against you with a moan of his own. How did he survive so long without this? Without you? 

Your voice rings against his skull, and it’s all he ever wants to hear. Moan his name, beg for him, scream it, call it out, anything. He needs you, irreversibly.

And not just for this.

So instead, Zayne looks back at your doc one last time, reading, “To think this is the city’s great hero. How I’ll enjoy breaking you.”

With a click, your phone turns off, tossed carelessly to the floor with a heavy thud that would have sent you into a panic had Zayne not chosen that exact moment to bite into the soft flesh behind your neck, thumb instantly finding your clit. 

The sensation alone is enough to make you cry, arching further up against the bindings. His hand snakes back around your hip, grounding, just barely brushing against the heat of your cunt, and the way he breathes out a low, half-delirious chuckle at the sound of you panting his name has your core fluttering for more.

"Please, Zayne, please," you whine, and the second the pleas leave your mouth, his thumb presses delicious circles into your neglected bundle of nerves. You whine, loud and needy, the second his fingers sink inside, held up only by Zayne’s arm wrapped around your waist and the tie pinning you against the bed frame. 

“Already begging? I wonder how much more obedient you’ll be after I fuck it all out of you.” And god, Zayne wanted to mock such an obscenely written line just to watch you blush all over, because what sort of villain would actually say such a thing? 

But when he sees you whimper at his words, when you arch so willingly into his punishment, when he feels your heartbeat quicken under his fingertips, he suddenly can’t say he faults any of these romance writers, for he now knows he’d do far worse than any of their cardboard villains. 

Zayne doesn’t even need to read the next line in the doc to know exactly what he’d do next. 

All but falling to the mattress, Zayne pulls your hips up, up until you’re atop his face, sinking his tongue between your folds before dragging all the way up to your clit, sucking with enough tension to make you scream. 

Your hands burn from where they chafe and fight against the tie, bucking violently against Zayne’s face, the cold kiss of his glasses frames making you jolt as he pulls your hips toward him like it’s the last thing keeping him sane.

“No,” Zayne groans between breaths, unable to part with you as he messily kisses your inner thigh before coaxing two fingers inside you with a thrust. “Don’t run. Do not run from me.”

Every scissor of his fingers forces obscene sounds from your cunt, silenced only by Zayne’s mouth and his own muffled praises. Granted, it didn’t matter how loud he was being, not with all of your delirious moans, completely unsuppressed as Zayne’s calculated ministrations took you apart thrust by thrust. 

At least you can remember being thankful that your apartment walls were sound-proofed. Breath ragged, mind spinning, only mindlessly fighting back as you babble, “Wait, you’re so- ah- fuck. Zayne!”

Quite canonically to your villain, Zayne’s hips buck into empty air in time to every thrust of his fingers, imagining it was his cock fucking deep into you instead. It’s a line he’s fantasized about crossing time and time again. 

But that’s where it stops. Fantasy. Because just the thought of it has Zayne groaning into your cunt, the taste and feel of you alone driving him insane, a point of obsession where he cannot allow himself to go any further. He can’t. He can’t, he really shouldn’t. 

He’d never recover, he’d never stop wanting— needing you. He’s addicted enough as is.

Zayne’s shirt had almost fully unbuttoned but his trousers remained, bulging as his cock wept from its prison against his thigh, fabric dark and painfully restraining. The mere friction was too little and overstimulating all at once. Even so, he can’t help but chase the phantom feeling, grinding against nothing as you fall apart above him.

When your shaking thighs finally begin to lock around his jaw, he welcomes the cage, burrowing his face deeper as the strong arch of his nose presses against your throbbing clit. Zayne’s slick fingers are delegated to merely keeping your hips still, his tongue fucking you through your orgasm as his hips follow your same rhythm.

One touch, one touch is all he needs to cum with you, but Zayne refuses to do anything but work you through your high. He swallows the taste of you, open-mouthed and needy, a moan rumbling deep in his chest as you feel it hum through you. 

Gasping, you look down, and immediately you feel your core flutter— the sight enough to have you wishing he was back in between your thighs already.

Zayne’s entire body shakes beneath you, dark hair mused and hands digging into your hips in ways you know will leave half-moon marks. But what has you trembling is the sight of his hazel eyes eclipsed to near black, completely blown out and teary as they try and fail to focus on anything other than your pussy still fluttering above him. Something you can barely see at all, not with the amount of cum that squirted across his glasses, foggy and skewed across his nose as it too glistens with your release. 

It’s an obscene picture you only get for a moment before Zayne chucks his glasses off just to place a closer, deeper set of kisses on your cunt. Practically chasing every buck of your hips, he happily lets you ride his face until your room begins to blur yet again, weightless and utterly fucked. 

You’re panting, vision still coming back in waves as you register Zayne untying your hands, all the while kissing the light bruises that remain. 

And yet you can hardly think of anything other than the fact that he still hasn’t properly fucked you.

“Zayne,” you call, and god, something in your chest squeezes at just how fast he whips his head around, already ducking to meet your eyes as he scans down your face. There’s worry etched into his features, his eyes scanning yours like he’s already bracing for whatever you’ll say next.

“I’m sorry, I knew I should have taken better precautions. If your hands hurt I can get a salve from—”

“Fuck me.”

Silence. 

Zayne blinks, his mouth parting and eyes squinting as though he misheard– or somehow misread–  you.

“What?” he manages, his voice barely above a whisper. 

You sit up on your knees, pulling off your shirt one swift movement so you’re completely naked, then lean forward until your noses nearly touch, his eyes dropping to your breasts. The boldness only shakes him further. “I’m sorry, I can’t let you run away this time. I want—” Reaching your hand out, your fingers trail down Zayne’s bare chest, hardly even pushing for him to fall backward. And for you to follow on top. “I want to do this for you. I want you.”

Zayne’s breath is deceptively steady, and if you couldn't feel the ragged rhythm of his chest, rising and falling as it burns against your palm, you wouldn’t have believed he was affected at all. 

“You don’t-wait- have to—” he starts, but his voice breaks when your fingers trace the curve of his ribs, lips following suit as you place gentle kisses down his sternum, his slender abs, dangerously close to the v-line dipping into his pants that you can’t help but lick, smiling in delight as his words finally fail him. 

“Neither did you. You’re rather stubborn, doctor,” you insist, soft but unwavering. Resting your head against his thigh, you coax his jaw down to look at you, the palm still resting against his chest finding the erratic thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. “Let me take care of you for once. Don’t you know good patients listen?”

Zayne huffs a quiet laugh, the sound strained as he looks down at you, right side of his lips curving into a faint smirk despite the way his body seems to ignite at your touch. “Bringing in our professional titles seems a little underhanded, don’t you think?” 

 “Ah, but it got your attention, didn’t it?” You don’t let him stall anyone— already he’s managed to keep this from you for weeks, really it’s a shame you haven’t stripped him earlier— letting your tongue trace the dip of his hip once more, humming as his muscles tense under the sudden attention. 

Greedy, your lips continue to worship every sharp edge and curve of Zayne’s abdomen, hands busy with his buckle until you manage to find a particularly sensitive spot just above his right hip bone. 

All his composure, all his calculated confidence, you want to break it apart until there’s nothing left but Zayne. Just Zayne. 

Zayne inhales sharply, eyes screwing shut as his mouth falls open in a picture of perfect debauchery you want etched into your mind forever. One hand fists into the sheets beside him, the other flying to your hair as your kisses turn to a dizzying mix of licks and nips. Hard enough to mark, you bite into skin, tongue flicking between your teeth, echoing across the room alongside the wet sounds of your mouth at work. 

“Ah, fuck.”

Cursing already? Perhaps this would be easier than you thought, but where’s the fun in that?

You pull back, watching Zayne blink in confusion as his hips twitch up toward your mouth, and you have to force back a laugh as he stares, bewildered, like he can hardly believe the sight in front of him.

His voice comes out huskier than before, low and coated with desire. "Why did you stop?"

You pull back just enough to look up at him, cheek resting on his thigh as you play with his zipper, never looking away from Zayne’s eyes even as they flutter closed in frustration, desperate for more. Tension practically radiates off of him, but you only smile, taking your time as you trail your fingers away from his zipper and bulge, teasing the sensitive edges of his hip and the skin peaking just over the edge of his trousers. 

“Don’t worry, doctor,” you murmur, your voice low and teasing. “I’ll be sure to complete your procedure just as thoroughly as you did on me.” 

Oh, and Zayne must realize how utterly fucked he is, for you won’t be letting him go not until you’ve adequately paid him back for all the times he’s deliberately edged you to the point of tears, all the times he’s reprimanded your attitude, all the sweet punishments you’ve ensured that you’re going to give back to him tenfold. 

But before he can try and sweet-talk his way into mercy, your teeth catch on his zipper, dragging it down as your free hand unlaces his belt, tossing it across the room by the time his bulge presses out from between the metal teeth all on its own.

Achingly hard already, and you haven't even begun.

The fact that you know he’s this hard just from eating you out certainly doesn’t help. 

His boxers are soaking, the obvious bulge only emphasized by the way the damp cotton seems to stick to him, and god does the size of him make your core flutter. 

Maybe next time you’ll get him to come just by eating you out. 

Next time, though.

Without warning, your fingers wrap around his cock, freeing it from the confines of his boxers. A hiss grits out through Zayne’s teeth as his jaw clicks and a vein thrums against his neck from the pressure. 

You're so used to having Zayne above you, between your legs, teasing you senseless as his fingers or tongue bring you to the edge over and over again. And now, here he is. Spread out, and all yours to ravage.

The realization alone has you throbbing, prior orgasm all but forgotten as you feel the want burn between your thighs again.

If only he could see how wet you were already.

How could he not, with the way your hips were rocking against his still-clothed thigh, searching for the friction he wouldn’t give?

And yet, despite your impatience, your eyes never leave Zayne, watching the way his muscles flex as he resists the urge to move, ever obedient for you.

"Good boy," you purr, meaning only to tease him further, but instead of the faux glare or inscrutable comment you were expecting, Zayne tenses beneath you, his cock jumping against your palm. Your eyebrows raise, a breathless giggle betraying your intentions as you lean in closer.

"Oh? Do you like that, baby? Being told just how perfect you are for me?”

You're not sure what's more arousing, the fact that Zayne is practically coming undone at your words, or the fact that he hasn't denied a thing.

God, his body feels hot. The mere praise has a dusky blush racing down his gorgeously sculpted chest all the way to the tips of his ears, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he looks down between the two of you, to where you’re still teasing the weeping slit of his dick. He moans before he could even stop himself. Fuck. 

Shivering, Zayne reaches out to grasp your wrist, and for a moment you think he's going to put a stop to your little power trip. But his hand only comes up to guide yours, urging you to pump his cock a bit faster, stopping to put more pressure against the base, and you can't help but smirk knowing he must be truly desperate if he's already rushing you to jerk him off properly. 

"My, my, doctor. I suppose I’m not the only one who’s been holding back.” You click your tongue, a teasing edge to your voice. "Were you really so desperate to feel me around your cock, hmm?"

Hazel eyes narrow at the pure filth behind your words, but you see the furrow between his brows, the way Zayne’s throat bobs as he throws his head back with a choked groan. If he looks so damn pretty now, you wonder what kind of faces he’ll make when he cums. 

“You truly are horrible,” He groans, hesitating, hands clenching into the sheets before they fly up to your waist, gently bucking his hips into your awaiting palm. “Mhm- please.”

You hum, lazily sinking to your stomach so your bare chest presses against his still-clothed thighs. With each stroke you can feel his muscles twitch beneath you, see the way his jaw clenches and unclenches, the way his hand guides yours, tightening and loosening, urging you to go faster, harder.

Your mouth waters, and the urge to taste him is far too tempting to resist. 

Plus, you’ve had enough with denying yourself, and more than enough of Zayne denying himself as well. 

So right as Zayne’s head rolls back against the pillows you rock forward, licking a slow stripe up his dick, up between the gap of your fingers where they grip his base. 

Zayne chokes on his breath, hand immediately tangling in your hair, rough enough that it has you wrenched away with a breathless whine. He groans, words shaking out in breathless huffs, “You, hah- this isn’t, fuck—”

"Ah, ah, pretty boy, let me take care of you, yeah?" You fight to come back to him, smiling as Zayne’s grip immediately loosened, and you kiss his tip in thanks.

Rubbing teasing circles into his thighs, your thumbs then move up, tracing his v-line, addicted to the way his muscles tense under your nails and to the red lines that follow. It makes you want to mark him up more. So you do, with your nails again, then with your teeth and tongue. 

“Look at how- shit- how excited you are for me. So pretty.” You lean forward, pressing wet, messy kisses just below his navel and all around his already sticky thighs, heady and coated in pre-cum. 

Another bite, and you squeeze his balls with just enough pressure as you watch his eyes roll back in time. "I'm going to make this so, so good for you, baby.” 

Zayne all but sobs at that.

Every carefully restrained thought breaks completely at the praise, a raspy moan grinding through his teeth before his jaw falls open with every ragged huff of breath. 

“Mhm that’s it, you’re doing so well,” you say, smiling at the way his cock twitches, violently leaking, pre-cum pooling into your palm and dripping down your wrist. “So pretty, so perfect just for me.”

With one last kiss on Zayne’s tip, your hands steadies itself against his abdomen before you kitten-lick around the tip of his cock, and then greedily shove as much of his throbbing erection as you can down your throat.

Zayne tenses, gasping, and the sound sends a thrill down your spine. You press further, tongue flattening along the underside of his shaft, and fuck he’s so thick you nearly choke, forgetting to breathe in through your nose as the lack of oxygen gets to you embarrassingly fast. 

If only you had some more time to properly adjust, you'd force him to the hilt without a doubt. But patience has never been your virtue. 

You’re already edging yourself with every slow grind of your clit against Zayne’s thigh, and you can feel his desperation in every throb along the underside of his cock in your mouth, letting his tip hit the back of your throat, breaching as deep as you could allow.

Zayne begins to buck forward only to freeze halfway, a low hiss leaving him as his hand twitches against the sheets, knuckles turning white as he fights his own self-restraint as you urge him deeper into your hot mouth. Trying to pull you off him, Zayne’s hand laces through your hair as a warning, large enough to cup the back of your neck entirely, but the action only lets you take him further. 

Then he makes the fatal mistake of looking down at you, locking eyes with your teary gaze as you maintain eye contact before licking up his length, and then swallowing him back down, crying as mascara and drool runs down your chin. His hips stutter upwards, and then he catches the shallow bulge now pressing against the base of your throat. Up and down and back again.

The sight breaks him.

He throws his head back with a whine, and fuck, his sounds thrums against your skull, reverberating through your very being as he snaps, hips bucking wildly into your mouth, his powerful thighs trembling around your head. You’re being used as nothing more than a fucktoy now, hands scrambling for purchase against his abdomen for a semblance of control as you take it.

Fuck, maybe it’s the praise, because you make Zayne want to be greedy with the way you were gagging and choking around him.

The mere feeling of you drooling around his length, the way your moans come out muffled and wet with drool and his slick, like a messy kiss to his cock, has his hips stuttering deeper, arching up into your body until Zayne can practically feel the spark of his orgasm behind his eyes. 

But no, that won't do.

After all, you won’t be satisfied until he’s finally fucking himself inside you tonight. He can’t cum anywhere else. You won’t let him.

And right when you feel his cock go rigid, you tighten your hand around the base, and pull off. 

Heaving, you shakily prop yourself back onto your elbows, Zayne's length glistening with saliva between your bodies, twitching violently and leaking all across his abdomen and your chest from its angry red tip. 

“S’pretty, Zayne.”

Zayne moans, hips chasing after the heat of your mouth, hissing when all he feels is the cold air. He wants to protest, wants to ask for more, but you shush him with a kiss.

Your tongue laps across his skin, tracing the ridges of his abs, lapping the pre-cum and sweat that gathers there. You lick a trail, following the sharp cut of his hips.

"What, is that all you can take?" you ask, a teasing smirk on your face.

Zayne curses, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. “Depends.” His voice is fucked rough, raw, and you never want him to stop talking. ”Was that the full treatment?” 

You hum, biting the inside of his thigh. He gasps, and it turns into a deep groan when you press an open-mouthed kiss over the forming mark.

“No,” you admit, “You’re not escaping until I get to watch you come undone.”

You smile at the shudder both your words and actions draw, the way his fingers tighten in your hair. “Ah, but not here. In me. I want you to fill me up, baby, make a mess of me. I can take it, I promise. And when you're done, I'm going to ride you until you come again. Sound good, my pretty boy?"

Zayne throws his head back with a moan, eyes squeezed painfully shut as though he can’t decide if this really is real or if a succubus was haunting his dreams to every sinful memory he has of you.

Zayne leans into your touch, following your palm as he nuzzles into you with a huff of hot breath. A little like a kitten in a man's body— a sexy body no doubt— but you wonder, not for the first time, if the reason he always holds back is simply because he was afraid. As you were. Until Zayne came to you, until he showed you what pleasure felt like.

So you take his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you, and then kiss him.

He lunges up to meet you halfway, licking into your mouth, fisting into your hair, breathing in every moan and whimper of his name as he hums it right back. Needy, so damn needy for it. 

You smile through the kiss, grinding up and down his muscular thigh alongside the desperate smashing of mouths. Tongue-heavy, teeth scraping, sucking at the corner of your lips. So fucking hungry for you that he’s practically lifting you right off the mattress with just one arm. 

His mouth distractedly chases down your throat leaving opened-mouth kisses before slotting back against your lips, hot and demanding and urgent. 

“Zayne, ah—” you’re cut off with another kiss, “Mhm, please, need you,” another, Zayne looping two arms around your thighs, hiking your knees up to his shoulders, the stretch burning. “Need you in me, now.”

He moans into your open mouth at those words, eager enough that he chases you up, nearly pinning you beneath him until you break the kiss with a gasp, shoving him back down. Zayne whines at the break of your lips, brows furrowed as his back hits the mattress, trapped under you once again, panting.

"Need you, pretty boy." You whisper against his lips, and it sounds just like a promise. "Please, let me take care of you.”

Zayne takes a shaky breath, nodding, drunk on the praise and readjusts himself against the pillows. He watches, eyes half-lidded, as you straddle his waist. Rough hands find your hips and hold them steady as you settle climbing atop him, the head of his cock rubbing between the folds of your soaked cunt. 

It isn’t lost on you how Zayne can barely stop staring at the slick that trails down your thighs, all of it coating his shaft in slick as your pussy hovers over him, connecting the two of you in wet, sticky strands.

"Like what you see, doctor?"

You lick down the milky column of his neck and Zayne groans, leaning back to grant you access. "You and your smart-ass mouth."

“You love it.”

Ya, he does. He could probably cum just from watching you like this.

Leaning forward, you line his cock up with your entrance, smirking at the way his eyes narrow, heart racing beneath your palms as you balance yourself on his pecks, shamelessly groping them.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've thought about this? How many times I've imagined riding your cock, hearing the sweet noises you make as I make a mess of you?"

Zayne opens his mouth, as if to say something, but whatever it is doesn't matter, not as you guide the swollen red tip of his cock through your folds, thick tip pushing and sliding past your entrance, unable to fit even with your combined slick. Teasing, swollen pussy lips drooling right down onto his leaky head when just a simple nudge of Zayne’s squirming hips would end this torment and have you fucked flush against him— raw.

"Please," he groans, his voice raspy and hoarse, eyes fluttering closed, glassy with lust, "I can't- I can't take this. Please,” a low moan of your name has you delirious, and god, you’d give him anything he’d ask for. “I admit it, I need you. So please.”

Were you more than happy to oblige. 

Lifting yourself all the way up on your knees, you steadily apply more pressure to your entrance, working yourself further and further until you could feel your slick drip down your thighs and his cock, each movement now accompanied by an unholy squelch. You slide his cock over your cunt—back, then forward—stimulating your clit with the head each time he fucks it through your folds, desperate as your movements become rougher and more forced.

Zayne’s cock catches against your entrance once again, and a low, breathy moan escapes his lips. He could feel your cunt finally yield to the pressure of his large, overbearing cock, could feel the way your legs trembled, threatening to give way, and he can't help but wonder if this is how you would look, how you would sound and feel, when he fucked you.

As soon as he feels the flutter of your core against his tip, he knows he’s lost, the head of Zayne’s cock sliding into you with a lewd pop as you both moan. 

"Mhm, yes," you moan, voice a high-pitched keen. "Just- ah, like that."

Zayne bites his lip, fingers digging into your hips, and fuck, after being edged not once but twice today he already feels deliciously overstimulated and close, too close.

So it certainly doesn't help when you rock yourself up onto your knees, then drop yourself all the way back down his shaft, taking him all the way in until his balls slap against your ass.

You even don't wait for either of you to adjust before doing it again, and the velvety hot squeeze of your cunt has Zayne seeing stars.

“Ah, f-fuck, oh, shit. S’good Zayne,“ you coo, "Feels so good, fuck."

You’re dripping down your thighs, gushing around him like a vice as he watches his cock disappear into your cunt with a creamy white ring already at his base. 

It’s all turning Zayne delirious with the way you continue to feed him compliment after compliment. It’s all so much, too much, and a low moan is forced out of Zayne’s chest as he begins rocking his hips up to meet yours, hardly even letting you pull out before bullying his way back into you. 

Fuck, you can feel him everywhere, his cock hitting your cervix, your walls stretched tight around him, a mixture of his and your slick pooling onto his abdomen as you chase your way up and down his length.

But god, what you feel is nothing compared to how absolutely wrecked Zayne looks.

His eyes are screwed shut, chest rising and falling rapidly, the flush from his ears having spread to his gorgeously marked-up chest, his neck, the angry red tip of his cock. His brows are drawn together, jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck and shoulders strained as he holds himself back, every part of him curling up to meet yours and press you down, closer. 

But then he turns away, eyes screwed shut as you feel his tip jerk against your cervix once more. 

No. No, no, no that won’t do.

Zayne has watched you come undone countless times. He’s been a worshiper and witness to pleasures you didn’t think you could feel, and this time, you want him to be the subject of all your adoration. To finally give him back all the love he’s taught you to feel and more. 

So you lean down, cupping Zayne’s cheek with one hand as you continue to ride him. “Look at me, baby. Y-you're so, fuck, so big, Zayne, fuck—” You gasp a sharp breath as he twitches violently inside you at the praise, slurring your words. “Mhm, love your cock so much."

But you doubted he could hear you— fuck, you wouldn’t even be able to tell if Zayne was breathing at this point if it wasn’t for the throbbing of his cock against your walls in time to his erratic heartbeat— because his eyes rolled back into his skull, jaw slack as a silent moan rips from his chest, shuddering down his spine right before his hips snap up into yours, throwing you off balance, pinpointing your g-spot with cruel accuracy as you scream.

Your sounds and babble of praises have him dizzy, eyes half-lidded and hazy as he struggles to focus on your face. It almost looks like he’s about to cry, dark lashes wet with unshed tears. You’d tease him for it, had you the capacity to think at all. But no, each thrust continues to bully into that sweet, spongy spot inside you as you moan, and Zayne’s mouth falls open with a cry of his own.

You chase into it with a kiss, clashing your teeth as you feel his tongue lap against yours, sucking hard. You feel the wrecked, blissed-out smile on your face, breaking away from him just long enough for Zayne to see how ruined and turned on he’s making you.

"Y-you're close, aren't you, my sweet boy?" You ask, the words coming out strained as Zayne fucks up into you. Pumping upwards, it’s like he wasn’t even trying every time his weeping head rams your sensitive spots. Just stuffing you full of his cock he denied you for so long, furious enough to mold you to his very shape. "C'mon, cum for me, Zayne. In me, please–ah."

You pull away even as his lips chase yours, arching your back so that your full weight grinds back on his hips. Zayne all but whimpers at the change in angle, his hands gripping the bed sheets as he tries not to starve off his orgasm. 

"Please, please," he groans, his jaw clenching.

"Look at me, Zayne."

He does, and his pupils are so blown, his eyes nearly black.

"Cum for me, baby," you beg again, grinding down against him as his hand comes up to grope your chest the same moment your palm leaves to cup his balls, and that's all it takes.

Zayne comes, a cry ripped from his throat, his cock throbbing inside of you. You can feel the sheer warmth filling you, his seed spilling out and leaking onto the sheets, and god, there’s so much of it that cum squirts out from between the two of you, splattering up his abs and your thighs. 

He’s trembling, head falling back as his hips jolt and stutter, still fucking up into you as though it can’t bear to part. You’re probably not helping with the way you still rocking on his length, your cunt milking his orgasm, and he can't take it, it's too much, too fucking good, he can't stop, never wants to.

But, fuck, one look at his face, and you already want him to cum again.

Zayne looks like sin, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead, his body writhing and straining as he gasps for breath, his skin shining in the afterglow of his release. The muscles of his neck are taut, veins pulsing and straining, his lips bitten red. He is fucking gorgeous, and the thought that he has done this for you, to you, has another wave of arousal shooting up your spine. 

“You…” Zayne’s brows pinch together, but his voice is low, dangerous. Unyielding. “You didn’t cum.”

“I already did, besides I-I ah, Zayne—!”

You’re cut off by your own pussy, lewd squelching accompanying every brutal thrust Zayne overstimulates the both of you with, bullying his own cum out of you with each rhythmless thrust back in. He plants his feet into the mattress, thrusting his hips up as you claw at his shoulders, chest, the slap of skin on skin ringing in your ears.

“No, that isn’t-” Zayne’s words slur, feverish and mindless as his gaze zero’s in to where the two of you meet, the sound of every wet, messy thrust and the slight bulge he now sees in time to his thrusts. “Not enough. With me. Please, hah, cum with me, love.”

Transfixed, one hand drifts to the bulge at your navel, and before he can stop himself, he grinds the heel of his palm against it. Immediately, overbearing pressure shoots up your spine, a broken scream leaving you as you tremble above him, arching violently forward. 

You try and speak, protests leaving as nothing more than garbled whimpers as you claw at Zayne’s wrist, trying and failing to pry his punishing grip off you. 

He doesn’t relent.

How could he, when you’ve finally given him yourself? When this was everything he’s denied himself and more? 

Fuck control, fuck discipline, fuck holding himself back. Zayne wants you. 

Vision blurry, drool dribbling down the corner of your mouth, your combined cum gushes out of your overfilled pussy and spreads in a lewd little pool beneath you. It’s all you can do to take it, Zayne overstimulating the both of you to insanity, but his hips keep the same punishing rhythm. Two slow, deep thrusts before something snaps and he hammers into you twice. Thrice. Then begins all over. 

It’s effortless, the way he bounces your body up and down with one hand, the other remaining pressed against your abdomen, massaging the outline of his dick showing through with every grind forward, rolling your clit between his forefinger and thumb. 

Large hands splay your thighs wider, closer, impossibly stretching you out until all you can feel is Zayne, Zayne, Zayne. You don’t realize you’re chanting his name out loud too. And you never felt more gloriously out of control than when he abruptly jerks his thigh upwards– driving you right along with it– hitting your cervix all at once.

There’s no rhythm. Not anymore. You’re hardly lucid, dropping your full weight down just to meet Zayne’s cock as he pulls you down prone atop of him to catch your mouth in an open kiss as he hits your g-spot again. And again. And again and again and—

“Love,” he all but moans it into your lips, low and broken and oh so addicting. “My love, please.” God, he’s still so painfully hard but the feeling of you fluttering around him, getting tighter each time he calls you love, must be a sort of heaven. “Please– hah, fuck– cum. Cum all over my cock.”

You whine, surging forward to kiss him again, and he feels it, couldn’t do or think of anything but it as you cum around his cock for the first time. 

Zayne’s eyes open even as you continue to suck and lick into his mouth, brows furrowed and vision blurring, lost in every hot pulse of your walls as they coaxed him further and further in, your release squirting against him as you struggle to drag your hips off him again, pussy sucking his cock in deeper, unwilling to let him go. 

Shaking, his hands find their way back to your hips, settling over the light bruises as he guides you up and down again, startling you as you moan into his lips. 

“Zayne,” you whine his name between kisses, strings of spit snapping between you, Zayne chasing hazily after your mouth before you cup his face in your hands. 

God, the sound of his name on your lips is enough to have him keening, pressing his forehead to yours as his entire body trembles. 

You’re coming again before you even realize it, vision spinning in and out as Zayne continues to fuck you through it. Zayne makes a noise, something between a moan and a whimper, his hips slowing despite himself. 

You're gorgeous, the sight of you atop him, still slurring out compliments, and it's too much, fuck, too fucking much, too fucking perfect, his perfect woman. 

With a final snap of his hips, Zayne comes alongside you. 

His orgasm has him gasping and his entire body bows forward, arms wrapping around your middle as he buries his face in your shoulder, kissing into the tender flesh as he just keeps cumming. 

He can't find the need to hold back this time. Not when the pleasure is so intense that his vision is turning white, not when your cunt is hot and pulsing and clenching around him, not when the praise and encouragement keep pouring out of your lips, whispering into the crook of his neck, "good job, Zayne, such a good boy for me, you did so well, my sweet boy, my love, hah, I love you."

When you finally come down from your high your body is sore and aching, the feeling of his hot cum deep inside making you whine, the sensation so much better than his fingers or toys, so much more warm and full.

Zayne’s arms are wrapped protectively across you, hugging you down atop of him even as his cock remains motionless within you, not an inch of skin untouched as his hands rub careful circles down your spine and thighs. 

You nuzzle closer, whispering more nonsensical praises into Zayne’s hair, raising a shaking arm to comb through it as he still keeps his face tucks into your shoulder, hidden and shaking softly still. 

A shift, and you feel his hot breath on your neck, a sudden drop of wetness against your skin, and you realize with a start that Zayne is crying.

He’s crying. Soft, unrestrained sobs muffle into your shoulder as he tucks you close, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck between breaths. You let him. You curl up as close as you can get onto his lap and then closer still, one hand raking through his hair in gentle reverence as you let him cry.

It is silent, save for the sound of his sobs and his labored breaths.

"I love you, Zayne," you say, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. "You really are perfect, thank you, thank you."

You kiss his forehead, then down his cheek and jaw until he finally relaxes under you. Tracing lazy patterns up and down his chest, you coax him down until he finally raises his eyes to meet yours with a flutter of tear-stained kisses to your palm. 

The first thing you notice is the way his cheeks are flushed, his eyes wavering and hazy. The second is the way his lips are swollen, the marks on his neck and chest blooming darker with each passing minute. The third is how the sweat on his skin is beginning to dry, making his hair stick up in all sorts of directions.

The fourth is the look on his face.

The look on his face is soft, tender, and unsure. Nothing like the infallible surgeon the whole city reveres, or the smart-mouthed mentor you’ve grown to admire and respect. Just Zayne. 

You brush the damp locks away from his eyes, pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead, the tip of his nose, and finally his lips, and he melts, his body falling forward onto you as he curls you into his side, tucking you down onto the bed alongside him.

“Stay with me?” He asks, his voice low, as though afraid to ask. Afraid to know.

Always. 

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.”