#i do not say viscera to him

[zombiefuckrr]

its so funny dating a guy who isnt as into gore and blood as you. we watched a movie and a girl was choking on/spitting up blood and im sitting there thinking "damn thats kinda hot" while he is squirming uncomfortably and looking away

[luck-of-the-drawings]

FOR A BEAT OF HEART, THE BREATH IS SHOT. AND WITHIN A BREATH, THE HEART IS CAUGHT. THE PIPES ARE BURSTING, UNDER GREAT STRESS, BOLTS TORN ASUNDER, MAKING A MESS. A FINAL COUGH, A FINAL RETCH, A GOREY SLOUGH, CLAIMED BY WRETCH.

[abyssalpriest]

God I could and should write a whole fucking book by the end of this life here on Lev and his symbols

ill write it then burn it before anyone else gets a copy. or i wont. im supposed to be helping him this incarnation here to get a better anchor in this plane so maybe it would help more than itd be weird - im just getting from him the energy of "yeah no people already effectively have these things, people on my plane already know me inside and out to an extensive degree, may as well have it here too" you know. fair

[robo-writing]

Someone asked me to elaborate on this post, so I will :3 (18+)

Logan is a man who has always been a pack animal—a sheep in need of a flock, if you will. As much as he can deny it, he thrives off of a need to belong, a need to be needed. He’ll never admit it, but the signs are there.

Being fiercely loyal, his devotion, violent towards anyone or anything that threatens his peace. With the X-Men he’s protective, but with you? It’s something else entirely.

When Logan finds a partner actually willing to stay with him—broken, animalistic thing that he believes himself to be—he holds on tight to them and refuses to let go. It’s an odd mix between a child holding onto its favorite doll and a dog sinking its teeth into its favorite chew toy—but the intent is the same regardless.

You’re his, and he’s never gonna let you go.

To say he would kill for you is truly an understatement—he would wage war for you, would watch the viscera river down his arms in streams—a privilege he offers to you and you alone, the only woman in the world he’d ever trust with his leash. It scares him, how much control you have over him, but it excites him all the same.

The best part? You truly have no idea how much power over him you have.

Even the simplest things have him bending over backwards for you, calling for him from across the house in that melodic voice he loves so much just to ask him for help.

“Could you help me with dinner?”

“Mind grabbing this for me?”

“I’m too lazy, sorry to be a bother—“

And the answer is the same each time—“You’re no bother princess, just say the word.”

He wants to scold you sometimes at the mere suggestion that his answer would ever be no. When it comes to you, he doesn’t think the word is in his dictionary. You have him deeply, truly, well trained, so much so that he’d gladly kneel at your feet if it meant you’d look down at him, because at the end of the day you’d still be looking at him.

Embarrassing really, that the big bad wolverine is secretly a lovedrunk puppy, one that’d dig his thumbs into the arches of your feet, smiling to himself when you let out that deliciously drawn out moan when he hits the right spot, right there, thank you.

However, that same puppy turns into a feral hound whenever he perceives a threat. Whether it be friend or foe, he’s one step behind you the moment you show any kind of discomfort. Even the slightest hint of hostility and Logan’s right there, chest puffed and glaring daggers at whoever was stupid enough to try, and that’s on the best of days.

On the worst of days…it’s a different story entirely. You’ve become far too familiar with the dulled sound of skin meeting metal, that familiar snikt before you’re forced to stand between Logan and his next victim. The two of you have gotten kicked out of your fair share of establishments, but Logan apologizes in a way only he can—with his mouth against your cunt.

Every lick, every suck, every touch, an apology. Muttering into your pussy, worshipping it, his tongue against your clit his own personal prayer, the sound of your moans his reward for being so devout.

“Sorry for getting us in trouble doll—“

His palms smooth over your trembling flesh, rough and calloused, just the right amount of pressure to keep you grounded.

“Sorry for getting you banned from your favorite shop—“

His fingers leave divots in your thighs, pulling himself further against your mound. His nose bumps against your clit with each pass, and the feeling leaves you gasping for air.

“Sorry for being so protective—“

Again and again, his mouth brings you to heights you never thought possible.

“Sorry for being so rough, just can’t help myself.”

In more ways than one, he really can’t, can’t take the man out of the beast if he’s more beast than man. Can’t teach a feral dog to socialize, but you can teach it who his master is.

And boy, do you fucking teach him.

You give him the best lesson of your life whenever you praise him, spread your legs and pull his head deeper into your needy cunt, dig your nails into his scalp just the way he likes it and moan for him while your thighs shake and your pussy squirts against his taste buds.

“Good boy, Lo’—good fucking boy—“

If he had a tail, it’d be fucking wagging.

[avocado-writing]

Hi Avo! Could you please consider writing a protective poly logan and wade x reader? Maybe something happens they weren’t there but when they show up deadpool is distracting/comforting the reader and logan is going ham on the enemy. ploy or separate is up to you!

Just a thought! Enjoying your work as always! ✨anon

deadpool: look how I spell it “grey” because the writer is english! Crazy logan: what?

It’s Logan who sweeps you up. You know it is, because he’s a solid wall of a man under your hands where you’ve buried into him. His chest is warm and reassuring; you focus on it, trying to ground yourself even though you can taste your pulse thrumming in terror.

“It’s okay, baby. We’ve got you,” he mutters under his breath, a growl in your ear, a tender little secret of his softness shared between the two of you. 

It had all been so sudden. You’d been taking the shortcut home after going shopping for tonight’s dinner when you’d felt someone grab you. Tomatoes had rolled across the ground, cans denting loudly as they fell, and you’d been dragged towards the back of the van as your captors loudly discussed if they had the right person. They said something about you fucking two mutants, and the bile with which they had spat it chilled you. 

You’d been certain you were going to die. Cold fear flooded you, your eyes squeezed closed tight. Please, don’t let Logan and Wade find my body. They won’t be able to take it. If these guys are gonna kill me, let me just disappear. 

Then again, that was before the claws came through the metal of the roof and all hell had broken loose. Guns went off and you screamed, unsure if they were Wade’s or not - but strong arms had picked you up and hauled you to safety. 

You feel yourself being passed to someone else, Logan pushing you into Wade’s grip and giving him strict instructions to look after you, then he’s gone. The sounds of violence continue and, without thinking, you turn to look. 

“Oh, no, honey, you don't need to see that. That’s just… plain disgusting,” says Wade, grimacing, “even looking at this mess is better than seeing what Peanut’s doing to those guys.”

Upon the word ‘mess’, he gestures to himself. Despite your heart hammering against your ribs, you reach up to press your hand against his cheek. 

“Don’t talk about yourself like that, Wade. You came to save me.”

A flit of confusion crosses his face, knocking his usual bravado. 

“You thought we’d just let them bundle you into their ‘not allowed within five hundred feet of schools’ van and disappear? Give us some credit. We’re not white knights, but we’re at least, y’know, morally grey knights.”

He says this to make you laugh, and it works. You’re distracted as the sounds of screams literally die out and Logan stalks back over. You see him removing his jacket to hide the blood on it from you. It’s still spread across his knuckles, though, a masterpiece of the revenge he just enacted. 

“Don’t worry about them. They won’t be bothering you again,” he says with an air of finality. His hand raises to cup your face, so gentle with you, such a contrast to moments before. His voice is laced with a tenderness when he asks, “you doing okay?”

You nod. Yeah. With them here, you are doing okay. 

“Thanks,” you manage, shakily, adrenaline leaving your body to give way to fat, rolling tears of relief. Not missing a beat, Wade looks Logan up and down. 

“Hey, there’s still some viscera on your shirt, Peanut. Maybe you should take that off, too?”

“Watch it, bub,” he growls, but you can tell his heart isn’t really in it. They’re both just thankful that you’re safe. 

Your heroes, both of them. Morally grey or otherwise.

[inkskinned]

my father told me he read it, but he hasn't read it. that's okay. my friends keep picking the words out of my throat.

someone once told me that the more trigger warnings that go on a book, the better it is. i didn't mean to write something with so many conditional phrases - i was writing about what i felt while being a human. sometimes you are a person and sometimes you are a statistic. sometimes it is falling upwards and sometimes it's sliding back down again.

my father tells me that it will be difficult to get people to read it. i didn't like the idea of a singular genre. i'm not going to lie to you - it is actually a difficult book to get through. i change the rules in it. it's not poetry or prose explicitly. it's neither false nor reality. i give you the tools to "solve" the book, but i let you do the thinking. my father says people don't care to think. i don't know about that - i think we just, like, enjoy reading.

the thing is - i was tired of stories about survival where someone with depression goes to therapy and wakes up okay. i didn't live like that. i was tired of books about violence, where the gore of what i experience was splashed in glitter to lick off the page. like, i was a person, you know? i had a life and a job and a family. and in books, i watched my story get ripped up so people could explore the viscera of my body. so they could feel good. my brother once called it inspiration pornography. we had walked out of a suicide-prevention seminar, both of us disgusted while the increasingly-elated presenter kept listing methods-of. i remember the look on my brother's face. like i would tear that man apart given the right time and place.

my father says that kids these days. he warns me against writing about things that are too-serious. he says that they don't want it. i don't listen. he does make me take out a scene from the book where i go to church after having sex with a woman. it used to be the 7th scene in the book. i don't think he's read further than that, it rocked him too hard to continue.

it's a book about being queer. it's a book about being raised catholic. it doesn't have monsterfucking, i'm sorry. it's just about, like.

at some point you have to choose to stay here. and then you do have to stay here, which takes practice. this is about forming the habit. this is about what happens after you've already started doing the work. because, like. you keep going. you have to. and it's like. very imperfect.

i should make a post on instagram. i should make this announcement less bittersweet. but like -- i'm giving it you, specifically, because i think you know why i had to write it. you and me. this little community.

body's a bad monster. here's the link if you're interested in ordering.

[paperstarwriters]

to Hear, to Feel, to Know

Inspired by @muletia’s Obsessed Optimus fanfics—they just so so so so good!! The yearning, the ill-buried desire, Optimus chaining himself in place like some dog with a biting problem when all he wants to do is love you???? OUAGH so so good!!

Asdfghjkl I wanna try my own hand at a fic looking at Optimus’s tendency towards obsession in love, but for now, I’ve been thinking about Optimus as a bot who tends to listen….

Pairing: Optimus Prime x Reader

Warnings: n/a

Summary: Optimus is a bot who's exceptionally good at listening. What he likes listening to most of all though, is you.

Masterlist | Transformers Masterlist

Word count: 1,106

───♡-♥-♡-♥-♡-♥-♡───

There was no denying that Optimus had a keen eye, and an even keener attention. His ability to promptly decipher texts based on key words or phrases allowing him to understand the greater picture from his days as an archivist served to train him well in noticing patterns of behaviour if he focused his attention on it. The ongoing war certainly helped as well, forcing him to zero in on what would allow them to survive. Forcefully training his eye to fall to keep points in any battle field.

And yet as trained as his eyes were, Optimus was always keen to listen.

Or perhaps absorbing was a better comparison. How despite being a leader, despite giving commands, Optimus was almost always better suited to listening to the people around him. The information that they shared, the feelings they expressed. Ratchet always used to say he would make for a much kinder medic than he if he took a role in that field. Perhaps it could have served him even better as a leader, but there was little he could change through the tides of time.

It’s why he clings to these things, saving them in the event that one day they may save him. From another attack or another encounter with Megatron, to even a stretch of boredom or loneliness.

It is why he clings to your every word.

Why he loves it when you sit atop his shoulder. So close to his helm, it is as if you’re speaking directly into his processor, filling his thoughts with your words—your delights, your frustrations, your sorrows, your needs. A direct feed like some constant supply of energon into his lines.

Both, he supposed would make his spark stutter a bit.

Ah, just thinking about it brings to mind the many times you’ve pressed yourself against his audial, leaning against his helm or purposely cupping his audials as you whispered sweet words his way, words for him and him alone, a gift sweeter than any energon could ever be.

You didn’t even have to be saying something sweet. Scathing secrets and vicious critiques against some other’s back from the mistreatment you received in the hands of a cruel stranger or an even crueler co-worker, or even some coy remark against a teammate, the fact that you chose to whisper your words to him—to confide your secrets and burning emotions to his audials.

Even being chosen as a Prime was a lesser honour than this.

But perhaps the thing he enjoys listening to most, though your every word delights him and your laughter makes his spark feel so light it might burst from his chest, the sound Optimus likes best it’s the soft thud of your heartbeat and the whisper of your breath.

He recalls when he first heard the sound, mass displaced at your request as you showed to him your beating heart after he showed you his whirring spark.

There is meaning to the action, to show one’s spark to the other, but Optimus felt he need not explain it to you, knowing full well you wouldn’t be able to return the gesture.

And yet somehow you did.

Even if you could not pull back the viscera from your chest the way he did the plates of his chassis, you brought his helm to your chest, pressed his audial against you, and implored him to listen.

And he did.

In the caverns of your chest, Optimus heard as air filled your lungs, swelling with every breath you took, and for a moment he mistook that steady beat for an abnormal twitch, until you began to explain.

“That’s my heart.” You had told him. “The ‘thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud’.”

And pressing just a bit harder, Optimus stilled his fans to listen to the faint beat.

And he heard it.

Loud against his audial the drum of your heart pounded against your chest like an insistent knock, or the demands of a captive begging to be freed.

Though perhaps that’s just wistful thinking.

He hears it in his full form sometimes, when you lean your back against his helm or when you cling to his audial in a moment of fear or excitement. A gentle faint rhythm, that sings that you’re alive.

He wishes some days that it would accompany him in his berth, as he lies under the midnight silence hounded by the whispers and wails of the dead of the living he must fight, of the humans he’d never know. They all rattle and sob frying his processor as he starves himself of a proper recharge, but then, some days he hears something this in the base. Perhaps it’s his own movement, perhaps something falls—once even it was the rumble and stroke of thunder and lightning overhead. All the same, it brings to his mind the thump of your heartbeat, and like a spring being unwound, he replays your words in his head. Every praise, every sweet word, every secret you’d give him. Your smile your laughter, your delight and glee he’d play them all over and over in his processor, lingering on the compliments you’d direct his way, every smile you’d make when your eyes met his.

All with the background theme of your heart singing its little song of life, your every breath an instrument to the symphony.

You were here, you were alive, you were with him.

Ah, but sometimes those moments stung worse than the wailing dead.

You were not here with him now, and all he had was the echo of your heartbeat. If he could hum its melody he would, but the sound doesn't comply with his voice box. Still he taps it out with a digit sometimes or a pede even, a little reminder of a precious tune.

He hasn’t had the chance to listen to your heart again. To mass displace and press his head against your chest, to listen to that sound, and maybe listen to you speak as he follows the gentle beat. He hopes one day he might get the chance. He hopes one day to tell you what it means when one shows the other their spark.

One day, he dreams, he’d tell you what it meant, and you’d smile, perhaps in rapt delight, perhaps shyly, but you’d open your arms to him and allow him to listen once more, let him listen as he lets you watch his glowing spark.

Until then, he basks in what he can get, faint as it is against his full form, listening to the soft beat of your heart, feeling you warm and pressed against him, resting assured in the knowledge that you were here, you were alive.

[alchemistc]

"What're you doing over there?"

Buck glances up from his exploration of Tommy's side, lips following fingers up the line of the scar on his torso. "Planning out my next tattoo," he says, mouthing at the mottled flesh.

Tommy hums, one eye half open, arm thrown over his head, fingers dragging through Buck's too-long hair.

He hisses when Buck darts a tongue out. "Sweetheart, I am way too old for third rounds unless you want me to start popping pills."

Buck lets the skin go with a pleasant little pop. Stares a little more. Traces his fingers, again. "Apple blossoms," he says after a moment, and Tommy cranes his neck, both eyes open now.

"What -"

But Buck's already rolling away, tilting his head down, sizing out the area on the left side of his ribcage. He's aware that he and Tommy are having two different conversations, but he's down the rabbit hole now, too enamored by the idea forming. Buck shifts so that they're side to side, ribs flush, thumb and forefinger of his right hand reaching across to Tommy's scar to measure it.

"Evan," Tommy says, still questioning. And Buck is aware that the pace Tommy has been meeting him at is Autobahn levels of crazy. They're - it's been six months. Buck told him he loved him a month and half in and he's never been more sure of those words in his entire life. And there's a lot of people he loves unquestionably.

Buck sits, tilting enough so that Tommy doesn't have to continue to strain his neck to see what's going on. "Apple blossoms. Right here." A mirror of Tommy's scar, right below his heart, and - Tommy frowns, disbelieving, and then purses his lips, corners of his mouth twitching sideways, a sure sign that he's trying to keep a smile off his face. A hand darts out from under the duvet, palm stretching out for the wide swath of unmarked skin below Buck's pec, fingers spread wide wide wide. Tommy's voice is soft, intimate, still a little disbelieving.

"Yeah?"

If he could, Buck would prefer to just crack open his ribcage and tuck Tommy in there, keep him nestled in amongst the viscera. But a tattoo will do the job. "I don't have any color, yet," Buck admits, and Tommy's brow rises, something no doubt clever on the tip of his tongue. Buck waits for it, practically vibrating, but - Tommy just traces two fingers up and down the ridges of Buck's ribs.

"Evan," he repeats, fond, a little wobbly. The hand reaches up to shift over his birthmark, and Buck can't stop the smile from erupting on his face.

"That's - uh - a little less subtle," he teases, and Tommy grins, tugging at Buck's earlobe, a little too insistently to be anything but a request for a kiss. Buck obliges, lets them both get lost in it for a while. Eases himself up only when Tommy starts to flag, again, only gets as far as lifting his head before Tommy is shifting his fingers to the back of Buck's neck to hold him in place. Close like this, Buck can see the circle of green around Tommy's irises, the thickness of his lashes dashed across his cheek, the sharp jut of his cheekbones. That thing behind his eyes that always makes Buck feel like Tommy's never going to fall behind when Buck surges on ahead.

"I love you," Tommy tells him, and Buck knows that. He knows. He buries his face in Tommy's thick neck, curls a hand over Tommy's heart, feels the ridges of the scar pressing into his skin, subtle except for the way it feels a bit like a brand, burning into his side. "I think that ring you've been hiding in your dress shoes for two weeks will do, for me."

-----

Loosely inspired by this gorgeous gorgeous art.

[rimatsu]

After apologies and accusations and nippy words and even more apologies comes the time for honesty. They talk for so long Tommy’s voice dissolves at the edges, a pharyngeal crackle seeping into his confessions. Candor feels a lot like being cored. He sits on Evan’s couch split in half like a pomegranate, red viscera exposed — peeled open for examination. For six months, he had only offered tiny morsels of himself, weighed bites meant to appease hunger and not satiate, but Evan has grown gluttonous in their time apart. Tommy is made to dig past the last vestiges of self-preservation and unearth everything he’d kept buried, exhuming skeletons and old hurt from the ground.

It's exhausting to the bone.

"I feel like I got hit by a bus," Tommy says once a hush of silence settles over the loft, rubbing the heel of his palm over a brow.

Evan smiles at him, and it's a touch rueful. "That's what happens when you condense half-a-year's worth of talking into 3 hours," he reasons, although not unkindly.

Silence eats away at the oxygen again until Evan reaches for Tommy's hand, thumb pressing into the blue rivers of his veins. Surely he can feel Tommy's pulse go seismic at the touch.

"We don't have to rush into anything," Evan starts, tentative and placating like he's speaking to a sighted animal. "I— I'll try to rein it in, go slow."

Bless his heart, Tommy thinks, because he sounds like he believes it. Evan isn't capable of slow. He can do undefined, he can even do superficial, but he's not wired for measured steps — his long legs are more suited for a gallop than a trot. Tommy knew that much by the second date. The absence of moderation had charmed and scared him in equal measure, drawn to it like moth to a flame until he realized he'd have to carry indelible burn scars like relics to his grave.

Tommy is under no illusion, but he gives a terse nod anyway, and then he watches as Evan’s lips part around an inhalation. It's that bolstering little intake of breath that precedes the big questions — the same one Evan took before inviting him to his sister's wedding, the same one he took before asking Tommy to move in with him.

He stares at Evan’s expanding diaphragm and braces himself for impact.

"But I can't— I can't do aimless either, Tommy," Evan barrels on, and squeezes at his wrist like he's holding Tommy in place so he can't physically recoil from his words. "I need to know we're walking in the same direction." Evan pauses for a heartbeat, and when he speaks again, conviction has steeled the timbre of his voice: "I want serious down the line. I want a life together, a shared home, a ring on my finger. Kids, the whole shebang," he continues, firm, no stammering in sight, like he's daring Tommy to dispute any of it again.

His eyes reflect the light overhead like glistening jewels. Their magnetic pull is as strong as the magnitude of Tommy's fears, powerful enough that he's considering living in communion with worry. Tommy swallows around the lump in his throat and pushes down the instinctive urge to run for the windows like the building is at flashover.

"There's no guarantee we'll make it far," he warns, because it bears repeating.

"No, there isn't," Evan agrees, like uncertainty isn't frightening or paralyzing. He's terrifying. "But if you're not gonna try anyway, if you're not buying what I'm selling, you might as well walk out now and spare us both the trouble."

Coming back is allowing Evan to become somatically essential the way an aortic valve is vital — it's giving him the power to deal a finishing blow with no warranty certificate. Tommy has flown through warzones, has dismantled and mended himself back into new shapes, has let fire lick at him and smoke suffocate him, but knocking on Evan’s door again might be the bravest thing he's ever done.

He takes a fortifying breath of his own and then surrenders to a mathematical probability.

"Yeah, I can do trying," he says, and it's a meagre offering — certainly not the type of reassurance that would reassure him, but it's everything Tommy has to give, amorphous and fragile but no less true.

Evan is more benevolent than him, anyway.

"Okay," he accepts, mercy shining in the blue of his irises. "That's good enough for now."

[phoenixtalion]

@keferon

Hi, I don’t go here, but I wandered into your AU and weird twinks being restrained and messed with is relevant to my interests. I’d planned on just shoving this in your inbox on anon and running away but then it got too long for that.

@spector-author this is also your fault.

(Texaid anon, I am attempting to contact you psychically.)

[No actual gore, just a bit of Vortex thinking about it. EDIT: IT'S ALSO PORN sorry I had a forest/trees moment. >.<]

______________________________________________

It’s not the first time his pilot has dozed off in the chair, but only the second that First Aid has done so while wearing the control helmet. The first, he had been half-drugged, in pain, unconscious as much as asleep. Now, he is – well, he’s as safe and sound as any pilot is in one of these fucking deathtraps, which means he’s exhausted and anxious and probably dying slowly. But for now, the cockpit is warm and the LEDs are pulsing low and red like a heartbeat, and Felix is dreaming.

Vortex can’t ‘see’ the dream – even while First Aid is having it, it’s not like real sensory input, all hazy blurs and impressions. But he can read the biometrics, the elevated heart rate, and he can feel Felix’s arousal through the link.

Yeah, it’s a good dream. Vortex sinks deeper into the connection, stoking those feelings like blowing on an ember. Manipulating the neural link to cause feedback for his pilots is a trick he learned early on, but he’s always used it to cause pain or fear (hallucinations, even, but that makes things pop inside their head real fast.)

He’s never touched a pilot’s mind like this before, scalpel-light instead of brutal. Once, when his Aid had still needed coaxing to sit in his embrace, Vortex had promised not to hurt him, and he’d scoffed. How many other pilots did you say that to?

The answer was none. Not a single one. It had never even occurred to him.

The first couple he’d destroyed instantly out of sheer territorial rage at someone else invading his mecha. (The mechanics had ripped out the whole pilot interface and replaced it, but couldn’t find anything wrong, couldn’t find him.)

Then he’d taken to toying with them, waiting a few missions or killing them slowly, because he had nothing better to do to keep himself entertained, but he’d never bothered to talk to them.

And then he’d done it because every time he burnt out another pilot, they’d sent a cranky little disgraced medic to clean out his cockpit. His lack of squeamishness caught Vortex’s attention, so he’d tested it with bigger and more creative messes. Every time the EMT left, he took not only the fresh blood but layers of old, crusted viscera that everyone else had long stopped bothering with. First Aid is messing with him too, all the time, even if he doesn’t realize.

Vortex strokes across Felix’s slumbering brain in a way he thinks of like raking nails, many light but sharp points of contact. His pilot makes a little sound and squirms in his sleep, and he hastily makes sure he’s recording audio as well as video, because he’s going to want to relive this during the long hours when First Aid is away from his hangar.

More carefully than Vortex has ever done anything, he teases out individual strands in the neural network, finding exactly which parts are connected to making his pilot whimper and rock his hips up in search of friction he’s not going to get. First Aid has only got himself to blame – for teaching him how to vivisect things instead of just cutting them up, and how much fun it could be. Precision never used to thrill Vortex, until this little medic crawled inside him.

He thinks he could make Felix cum in his pants just by touching his fucked up little brain. He also knows he could kill him like this, so very easily, which only makes it more exciting. It’s never mattered if he slipped before, and it’s been so long since anything mattered.

First Aid whines softly, absently palming the crotch of his armor, and Vortex needs him awake, now. If he can’t fuck him properly, he can make sure his pilot knows exactly who is doing this to him. Disentangling himself from the other slightly, he considers what parts he does still have.

Vortex was a ghost in the machine, not a poltergeist; he could only move the parts of the mecha that were computer-controlled. Years of familiarity had given him a little leeway – shift just so, and that loose ceiling panel would drop open with a loud -bang- that had been good for a cheap scare the first few times his future pilot had cleaned up after the old ones – but not telekinesis.

(And you know what the fucking kicker was? Three weeks before he died, Vortex had pitched the engineers on installing a small arm inside the mecha’s head, so he could deal with debris in the unusually large cockpit without unhooking from the control system, after a fight where he’d spent the second half ignoring being whacked by a loose cable. Everyone had agreed it was a good idea that could be implemented fairly easily and oh, look, never got around to it. He could have done so much fun shit with one stupid little claw arm in the past four years.)

But since he has to work with what he’s got, Vortex abruptly engages the pilot harness. First Aid is roughly jerked back from his comfortable slouch and pinned tightly to the pilot’s seat. He wriggles sleepily against the restraints, confusion and irritation rising up out of warm oblivion as he wakes. Vortex waits with predatory attention for the moment he realizes his predicament, fully prepared to resort to more extreme measures if he tried to slip back into sleep.

There – the spike of panic, spreading like wildfire, as Felix becomes conscious enough to be aware that he is immobilized, achingly hard, and subject to Vortex’s undivided attention. Deliberately, he digs into that sweet spot in Felix’s mind until he gasps.

“Good morning, sunshine. Sleep well?” he purrs inside First Aid’s head. The medic’s eyes are wide behind his visor, and while the dim red light makes it impossible to see, the interface tells him how deeply he’s blushing.

“W-what the hell are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Vortex punctuates his words with a pointed stroke, reminding him that a minute ago First Aid had been enjoying what he was doing just fine.

He wouldn’t mind at all if Felix struggled. But just like the first time he’d sat in the pilot’s seat, when he’d been smart enough to keep his hands in his lap and away from the controls, he lays back and lets Vortex do whatever he wants. “Good boy.”

Felix shudders at the praise and the contact, turning his face into the headrest like that will let him hide from Vortex. But he’s surrounding the other pilot, entwined with him, doing things he doesn’t have words for and the interface sure as hell wasn’t designed for.

“Touch yourself for me,” he orders, and First Aid fumbles for his armor and uniform with gratifying haste. Vortex watches him eagerly from both inside and out – the way his hands tremble as he undoes his fly, the way he bites his lip on the first actual stroke of his cock.

The sensations are far more vivid now that First Aid is awake, very nearly real in a way that he can’t afford to stop and think about. Vortex had wanted to make Felix tease himself, drag things out and make him beg for release, but now that the end is approaching he’s just as desperate for it, maybe even more.

Vortex cuts himself from the rest of the mecha’s systems, focusing on his pilot until he can imagine it’s him with his hand wrapped around Felix’s cock, or the other way around, or both. In their minds, he squeezes, presses down as hard as he dares – probably harder than he should. There are worse ways to go, anyway. He would know.

“Vortex—” Felix gasps, arching his spine like he’s having a seizure, bucking against the straps hard enough to bruise. His mind goes white and takes Vortex’s with it (for what feels like long enough that it should be worrying but he really really doesn’t care) as he spills all over his own hand and lap.

Felix slumps in the restraints, boneless and panting. Drifting on his afterglow, Vortex lets himself pretend, just for a little while, that the other man is sprawled in his lap and not directly in the pilot’s seat, held in his arms rather than a safety harness. Which just goes to show that not having a body made you crazy, because he’d never gone in for any of that cuddly shit before.

The urge for a cigarette is so strong that First Aid reflexively pats his pocket for a pack that isn’t there.

“You’re always making messes I have to clean up,” he grumbles halfheartedly, wiping his hand on his already soiled flight suit.

Re-extending his awareness back into the mecha, Vortex can admire just what a lovely mess he is from the outside. The thought of First Aid having to do a walk of shame back to his bunk like this was almost enough to reconcile Vortex to having to let him out of the cockpit to get a fresh uniform. Almost.

“I made a mess?” Vortex laughs, and jabs a tender spot inside Felix, the equivalent of touching him while he’s still too sensitive, and doesn’t let up until he yelps.

“Yeah, you,” he retorts anyway, gasping for breath with a pouty little scowl Vortex finds adorable, and flips one of the mecha’s cameras the bird for good measure. “Are you going to let me up or what?”

“Maybe.” Fuck, he’s so cute Vortex wants to trap him in the cockpit until he suffocates. But instead he releases the harness, and absolutely doesn’t feel a pang when First Aid slips the helmet off, or another when he runs a hand through his sweaty hair and the dead pilot wishes he could be the one to do it. He watches Felix all the way out the hangar, ruthlessly ignoring the part of him that said it was a mistake to let him go.

It doesn’t matter, either, that instead of avoiding him like Vortex half dreads expects, First Aid is back in a couple hours, freshly showered and changed, and curls up in his stupid little nest in the back of the cockpit like nothing has changed.

______________________________________________

*slinks back into their crevice*

[mixingandmelting]

Hello dear! Idk if your requests are open but I was wondering what you would do with a first responder!mc x Jason (kudos if u get them in a jam somewhere the mc can use her "I'm a GOTHAM first responder I can handle Metropolis/central city/etc" while Jason goes suit up? 🥺 idk if u write for all pronouns but I would love if it was she/her! Thank you love your writting!

A/N: aww, thank you! ❤️

You’re his best decision he made in life. Amazing, brave, beautiful both inside and out.  He adores everything about you where he’ll lay his life down for you if it means to keep you alive. So when he hears shuffling next to him, he pauses on spot.

“...What are you doing?” He lowers his helmet, watching you readjust your utility belt around your waist. 

“…Doing the same as you?”

You were way too casual when you said that. It spoke volume on the severity of the situation when not only did he get paged by both Babs and Dick for back-up, he heard from the old man, himself, Bludhaven’s PD had asked all near-by cities police department’s to send in any spare first responders as soon as they could. And of the enlisted, you’re one of them. 

The only thing that helps control his grip on his helmet is knowing that he’ll be very screwed in every sense if it breaks, so much cracks a tiny bit. But the snap of the taser getting clipped does little to calm him down. Throat constricting, lips thinning, reality keeps hitting him in the viscera that you’re going to be at the scene. The very same one that’s requiring every member of his family to be present for.  

“Jason?”

He stays still, his head hanging low. He doesn’t want to show you the expression he’s making. He knows you're strong, stronger than him, stronger than Gotham’s finest in so many aspects. But you’re too precious to him. His one love. This could be his last time with you, he might not see you again, his one chance to give a final goodbye-

“Jason.” 

He stiffens. Your hands warm his cold ones as if melting away the fear and worries plaguing his mind.   

“I’m a Gotham first responder, I can handle Bludhaven.” 

…So this was what Dick and Bruce meant when they said girls are unfair. Confidence in your smile, comfort in your eyes - how does anyone expect him to say no? 

He heaves a heavy sigh. Shifting his helmet into one hand, he uses the other to grab and place something into your hands from his pocket. It’s metallic, no bigger than a button. 

“Anything that happens, press it.”

Trust you to recognize what it was and what he means without saying the rest. Confidence and comfort morphs into affection, your arms wrap themselves around him. He savors the tight embrace, pulling you closer to him to fully relish and cherish him holding you as you are to him. 

“You know I love you, right?” So sweet, so tender with a gilt of teasing from fondness is how he hears, his eyes matching it with a smirk on your lips. 

“I love you more.” 

“I love you the most!”

His heart flutters, falling in love with you all over again when you grin at him just before you close the door. He stands there for a hot second, your words echoing in his head. Then, he goes back to placing his helmet over his head. Steps lighter now, a tiny weight lifts from his heart. He trusts in you, that you’ll press his pager when you need him. Because he will come and save you, no matter where and the cost. Always.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Gorefest.

Pairing: Yandere!Gojo x Reader (Jujutsu Kaisen).

Word Count: 1.3k.

TW: Gore, Blood, Major Character Death (Reader Is Fine), Implied Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Touching, Prolonged Stalking, and Delusional Behavior.

You found his latest gift on your doorstep.

It was a heart, this time – deflated but otherwise fully intact, blue viens still visible against pink flesh. A small puddle of blood and other gelatinous viscera surrounded it, but you ignored that in favor of wrapping the disembodied organ in your cardigan and unlocking the door to your apartment, too exhausted to fumble with your keys and too worn down to pretend you still thought you could get away from him on your own. His present was dropped into the ever-bubbling vat of crimson slurry you used to boil down his gifts until they’d been reduced to a less incriminating state, your shoes kicked off and left by the door. You didn’t bother turning on any lights. You were home, but you didn’t want to let yourself acknowledge that until he was gone.

You found Gojo in his usual spot; on the floor of your bedroom, his hands still stained red and one of your threadbare sleepshirts crumpled at his side, the dark material stained with something white and awful. That made two articles of clothing ruined, tonight. A few months ago, when the most he ever brought you was a half-beaten bouquet of roses and a list of questions for the strange man whose favorite place in the world seemed to be your living room, you would’ve been tempted to demand that he pay for the damages. You’d learned better than to imply you wanted anything from him, since then.

He was lying on his side, toying with something large and vaguely circular, his grin that of a cat dropping a slaughtered mouse at its owner’s feet. He was surrounded by more of his ‘presents’ – the disembodied organs of whatever poor criminal or curse user he’d taken it upon himself to dissect. You were glad you’d kept the lights off. You could see the outline of small intestine strung along the walls, assorted gore left in carefully considered piles wherever Gojo deemed it necessary. It’d take hours to clean up, after he left. Demanding that he help would only give him the impression that you wanted to spend time with him, and you weren’t going to make that mistake twice.

You moved to speak, but as always, he just had to be the center of attention. It was like he couldn’t imagine a world where you might’ve done anything but focus on him. “Welcome home,” he half-sung, pushing himself up and pulling his oblong, mishappen keepsake into his lap. “Do you want to start with dinner, or should I run you a hot bath? Or, if you want, you could always have a little of me—”

“Shut the fuck up.” And then, pointing in the general direction of your front door, “Get out.”

“So cold, babe. And after I went through all that trouble to set this up.” The coppery stench was starting to get to you. You could only pray the neighbors wouldn’t notice, or that you’d be able to think of a feasible enough excuse by the time they did. “I got hurt for you, too.” He held up a hand, gesturing towards the faintest, shallowest cut on his cheek. “Aren’t you going to dote on me? You know, like you used to – after you found me in that alley and bandaged my wounds. What was the first thing you said to me? That I was too pretty to bleed to death alone?”

You didn’t encourage him with a response, only crossing your arms over your chest and deepening your scowl. “Get out,” you repeated. “I don’t want you here.”

His grin only broadened. “If you keep saying things like that, I might start to think you’re trying to get me to leave.” Exasperation bled into your agitated expression, and Gojo let out a bark of a laugh. “Look, I know you like to play shy, but I’d really like it if we could use tonight for us. We could watch a movie, or—”

You let out a frustrated groan, dragging your hands over your face. “You know what? Fine. If you want to be here so badly, then stay.” You shut your eyes, standing a little taller. “I’m getting out of here.”

“Running off to spend the night with another man? Ah, what a cold-hearted temptress I’ve fallen for.”

“Oh, I’m going to do more than just spend the night with him.” You really should’ve shut your mouth. You should’ve bitten your tongue, swallowed your pride, refused to tell him anything save for the fact that you weren’t going to stay here any longer. But, the blood in the air was getting to you and you could still feel the cold flesh of the heart against your palm and you needed to get away, and you needed Gojo to know you were never coming back. “I met someone – a sorcerer. He knows you’ve been stalking me, and he offered to help.” You flashed him a grin, almost as awful as his own. “His name is Nanami, and he’s strong enough to keep me safe from people like you.”

You waited for him to laugh, to say he didn’t believe you, or better yet, to get angry, to feel a fraction of the dread and the rage he’d forced onto you. When he didn’t say anything, didn’t scream or yell or gloat, you opened your eyes. He was still staring, but his smile was softer, his eyes half-lidded in a way that could only mean something bad. “Oh, baby,” he started, his voice dripping with faux sympathy. “Whose heart do you think I went through so much trouble to bring you?”

A pebble threatening to slip off of its cliffside; two ends of a torn wire, a hair’s width away from connecting. Whatever he was trying to tell you, you just couldn’t seem to process it. “What?”

“Right. I’m sorry, sweetheart – that’s on me,” Gojo chuckled. “You were always more of a visual learner.”

The object in his lap was taken up and rolled towards you, coming to a teetering stop at your feet, where the residual light from the hall could illuminate it properly. In a daze, you dropped your gaze to it, allowed yourself to recognize blonde hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, and glassy brown eyes staring lifelessly back at you. There was a dark bruise on his jawline, paled by blood loss, and the mangled stump that used to be his neck was encircled by ragged flesh, as if it’d been torn from his shoulders. Despite everything, his mouth was closed, lips still pressed into a thin frown. As if he didn’t have time to so much as scream before Gojo got to him.

You must’ve passed out. One second, you were staring down at the disembodied head of your savior, and the next, you were on the floor, lying limp and breathless as Nanami’s blood formed a puddle underneath you. Gojo was already at your side, hauling you up and against his chest. You felt his arms around you, then plush of your mattress against your back. You were aware, distantly, that he was straddling you, that his mouth was pressing into the dip of your shoulder, then the curve of your throat. “It’s alright,” he muttered, his voice partially muttered by his closeness. “Why don’t you come stay with me for a while, after this? I’ve got a room ready for you back at my place and everything.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Straightening his back, he let his lips crash into yours – his kiss lingering and deep and filthy. By the time he pulled away, he’d drunk the air from your lungs and frozen the blood in your veins, leaving you as empty and as lifeless as one of his gifts.

You thought, idly, of the heart being reduced to viscera in your kitchen, and wondered if you should’ve held onto it for just a few minutes longer.

“I’ll be able to spoil you properly, once I’ve got you where you’re supposed to be.”

[munsonbrackets]

Astarion x undying male reader

Just imagine Astarion having to lure back someone who can’t die for Cazador. 

Like Cazador didn’t tell him anyone specific, just someone pretty, which you are. Undeniably.

So he lures you over from across the bar, gets to talking, does the chatting he usually does. And you are so nice to him, but he refuses to be locked in another coffin for 200 years for not doing what Cazador said, so he lures you to Cazador.

But just a small problem with you being lured to Cazador to be turned into a spawn. You are a random dude who just cannot die. Not in the “nothing can kill me, i'm unkillable and immortal!” kind of way. No. That would be too simple. You cannot die in the “bone snapping, skull shattering, viscera brought to life once more.” kind of way.

So when Cazador attempts to turn you, you just kinda wake up again. With all of your blood still in you and a REALLY pissed off true vampire looking at you. And Cazador tries, tries again, tries 100 more times and he just cannot turn you. 

And you really can’t be bothered to stay for another 100 trials, so you just leave, first chance you get. All of the spawn think you’re one of them, Cazador being too embarrassed to tell the truth. That he was too weak to turn you.

You leave Baldur’s gate, no need to have a pissed off old vampire coming after you. Especially not when all of his plates are silver, the dude has got money.

And a while later, when you get kidnapped and forced onto the nautiloid. You were scared for the first time in a long time. You had never had an illithid parasite put into your skull. The nautiloid then came crashing down and you were half expecting to just vomit it up. The other half of you wondering whether or not your affliction with death would prevent you from becoming a mind flayer. You always heard that mindflayers very much lacked in the soul category, maybe that’s why you could never stay dead?

But you decide to go at it, you’ve been gone from Baldur’s gate for a few 100 years, maybe someone there could help. On the way you find many companions, Gale of waterdeep, Lae’zel the githyanki, Shadowheart and the rest of your astounding group.

But most importantly, Astarion. Astarion the vampire spawn. Which the group found out about fast enough, specifically when he tried to bite you. You just could not tell whether or not he knew you. Recognized you.

That is until you and him sit alone, watching the stars. 

“You remind me an awful lot about someone I used to know.” Astarion practically whispered it out, seemingly unable to make up his mind whether or not he was gonna let the words out.

“Do I now? What was he like?” You mutter back, your eyes still fixated on the stars. But you are still so aware of him next to you.

“He was… I can’t completely remember. I met him once, maybe twice.” Astarion pauses and a shuddered breath is forced out of his lungs, he’s tense. Possibly remorseful. “But he was beautiful. He would look at everyone like they were infinite. He did that to people. Made them feel invulnerable.”

You ignored Astarion’s indirect, very direct, compliment.

“What happened to him?”

The words left your lips faster than you could really think about them. You tried easing the tension by laying flat on your back, using your palms as pillows for your head. 

Astarion’s breath almost hitched at your words, but he took a second, seemingly in thought. He was probably considering whether or not he should tell you the truth. You realized you had put him into a curious position, and with the battles ahead, you were inevitably going to see Cazador once more. Cazador would definitely recognize you.

“You handed him over to Cazador, didn’t you?”

You forced the words out this time. Every single part of your very being, screaming at you to be quiet.

Astarion swallowed harshly.

“Yes. I did. I wish I could say I would do anything to bring him back from whatever wretched fate Cazador forced him into. But I can’t. It’s never that simple is it?”

An involuntary chuckle left your throat and you saw Astarion whip his head towards you, his anxiety rising a thousand fold. You quickly sat up, looked at him reassuringly, and then you gently folded his hand between yours.

“I’m certain he forgave you long ago. Especially knowing what you went through, I highly doubt he blames you.”

And in Astarion’s eyes you recognized the same man from all those years ago, the insecure vampire spawn with the twinkle of the entire universe locked in his eyes.

You hoped that you made him feel as invulnerable as the first time you met him.

[reverieblondie]

What about Raphael monologuing and/or being his smug self only to be surprised by "his" little mouse interrupting him by grabbing the collar of his clothing and dragging the cambion in to a searing kiss before she says something like 'You talk too much' or 'I got the gist, thank you' and gracefully striding off before he can even think to react? (your choice if Tav does this when it's just her and Raphael or if she pulls this stunt in front of a group of her companions who would likely be left there stunned for a few moments as well)

I took forever to get this done but I did your request with a bit of a twist I hope you enjoy!

Warning: last step is NSFW! MDNI! 18+ only!

How to shut a devil up in 5 easy ways

If you had to describe Raphael, you would say he is dangerous, mysterious, and admittedly very pleasing to the eye… the only problem? Raphael doesn't know how to shut up… is it a bard thing or a devil thing to have the inability to shut up? Personally, you wouldn't mind listening to him talk all night; he has a magnificent voice… But you're busy; you can't always sacrifice your time to entertain him. Though he doesn't always get the hint, so you will have to get creative… 

Be honest, 

It's been… What 30 minutes? 30 long minutes of you and your party standing outside of the abandoned village's gate listening (without interruptions, mind you) to Raphael go on and on about some cryptic warnings and strange tales. Honestly, you stopped paying attention ages ago when you had to tell Lae'zel via tadpole that, no, she can't cut his throat. Hells, even Gale is getting impatient, and he's as long-winded as they come. Everyone was over it, so putting on the leader pants, you go to silence the chatty cambion… of course, it didn't work when you, being a person of few words, tried the subtle approach and he was still trying to make his poetic points. Then your patience snaps. "Alright, we get it! Could you shut up already?!" Raphael goes silent from your burst of bluntness; it was rude and coarse… but he couldn't help how it made the slight smirk tug at the corner of his lips, something you immediately noticed. "Well, what kind of decorum is that? I try to give you sage words of wisdom, and this is my thanks, mouse?" he tsked his lips with a smile, his eyes lightening up at your annoyance… You roll your eyes, pushing past him with your party in tow. "Fuck off…" is all you utter before hearing a smooth laugh and a rushing flame. Seems like honesty worked.

2. Catching him by surprise, 

You are completely exhausted; your head and body scream and ache as you try to stretch your worn-out muscles. All your other companions have gone to rest for the night, something you are egar to do but the viscera and sweat that cling to you are too uncomfortable to ignore. So, gathering your things, you head down to the river for a cleansing soak to finally relax. However, as you head to your destination, a familiar figure leaning against a tree catches your attention and makes you roll your eyes... Raphael... "Well, mouse, you look completely worn down, not your usual bright eye look. You look miserable in fact." his voice purs as he walks beside you. With a sigh you continue on with him in tow mocking you. You don't need to look up to see that he's smirking at your annoyance. "I wouldn't say miserable, just not to be tested." you snip back, but Raphael only chuckles further, "I guess I should be careful when teasing you then..." He can tease you... but not with his words; you would want him to tease you with his hands... With his body... No, you can't be thinking like that for the annoying devil. Raphael starts his usual long-winded speeches, but not being in the mood, you ignore him. Finally getting to the river bank, you begin to undo your shirt, and as the fabric hits the ground and you undo your underclothes, that is when you hear silence? Turning, you See Raphael looking a bit surprised, and that just fuels you more. Stripped down you finally step into the water keeping your eye contact with him, he's finally quite and you can't help but feel smug. "Want to finish your rambling in the river with me?" You ask with a broad smile, perhaps showing off your assets just a bit to taunt him some more. Raphael thinks for a moment, his eyes drinking you in before responding, "Sorry, mouse, but I am afraid I have lost my train of thought... Another time, though..." With a snap, he's gone, leaving you to soak in silence. It's a bittersweet victory.

3. Interrupt Nicely 

You're in the middle of a celebration, one step closer to the city and another successful job of saving those you've become close to. Everyone in Last Light has been drinking, and you are feeling tipsy as you continue to drink more from the goblet filled with dry wine. Then you hear a familiar voice, "You're looking quite flushed, mouse... Careful not to indulge too much; your journey is far from over." Even drunk, you can tell who it is without looking, but you do (he's too pretty not too). Turning, you meet his smirk with a broad smile; warm and giggly, you can't help but feel unintimidated by him in this drunken haze. "If it isn't my stalker. Come to try and trick me out of my soul again?" Amused Raphael sits next to you, "I wouldn't dare try and take it from you in this state; it would be far too easy..." You giggle, leaning in close to him, taking a second to bask in his warmth and the curves and lines of his face before placing a finger to his lips, shushing him. "Shh, stop flirting with me, or I will think you're falling for me, devil." Raphael chuckles as he moves your hand and kisses your knuckles and your wrist. "Don't get cocky, mouse... That's what gets you mortals in trouble..." You lean in closer, resting your head on his chest, "Fine, fine, I won't be cocky; that's a better look on you anyways..." Raphael just lets you lean on him as he softly plays with your hair. He would never say it... but you might be right…

4. Interrupt Rudely 

He helped you... Why would a cambion like him have helped you? Of course, you knew his interest in your soul and aid in getting the crown, but you had been clear that you were not taking his deal... yet here he was, burning the wretch you were fighting to a crisp before they got the upper hand on you; he said he could be a savior of sorts, but this should be against his nature... As everyone is tending to their wounds, you are listening to him monologuing in, of course, the most flowery language. You start to wonder if this is always how he talks... Surely not; he must crack sometimes... Everyone has a weakness. Looking at his distinguished face, listening to his rich voice, you realize that he has a weakness for you—a weakness that has slowly grown on you as well. So, in a moment of impulse or maybe just wanting to shut him up yet again, you grab him by the collar, causing him to look down at you confused as you drag him closer and press your lips to his. It takes Raphael a moment to realize what's even happening before he's leaning into you, running his fingers through your hair. Then, when you slip your tongue through his lips to lick against his searing tongue, he groans, pulling you closer to his body as he takes in your taste (finally). After a few moments letting the passion overtake you both, you push him away. You look up at the shocked cambion, who seems to be at a loss for words. Smirking, you pat his cheek, "You talk too much." and though part of you wants to walk him back to your tent, you say goodnight and walk away. Raphael watches as you go to your tent, leaving him gawking at you. Meanwhile your companions watch with mouths agape at the scene that has just played out. "What the fuck is going on?" Karlach says while Gale stares unblinking, "I don't have the faintest clue..." Raphael eventually leaves, amused and eager to see you again. 

5. Keeping his mouth busy

This has to be the best one out of all your ideas to shut Raphael up. His dark wavey hair is held in a tight fist, as your back arches from the intense feeling of his tongue licking slowly against your folds, before swirling on your clit, it's utter bliss. His tongue was constantly being used before, but now having it licking against your wet sex is much better employment for his mouth. When you first met the half-devil, you had to admit you found him quite a fearsome sight but later he just turned into a reoccurring annoyance. Now here you are, your talkative cambion lapping and diving his hot tongue into your cunt as your thighs shake, almost as if he was tamed. Raphael looks up at you with his brown eyes practically black as he swirls then nips at your clit, making you moan his name like a song. He will always agree to eat you out for hours, his thick fingers stretching you out as he licks down your arousal as long as you're singing his name like a prayer. "Rapheal... ah! Gods!" Raphael breaks away from your cunt, smirking down at you, "Gods? Mouse, no gods can help you now that you're within my cl-" Before he can finish, you're pulling his mouth back down with a whine. Raphael smiles, flicking his tongue over you again in quick licks, making you keen, "My mouse...So demanding..." he whispers into your pussy, his hot breath making you tremble and quiver against his thick fingers. You can't hold back any longer, grinding your hips against his face, whining for him, "Please just shut up and let me cum!" Raphael has to hold back his laugh as he takes out his fingers and fucks you with his tongue; you can shut him up anyway you want as long as, in the end, you let him devour you.

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

you know what's delicious? yn who started wearing flavored lip balm/lip tint because of suguru — so that every time suguru ate a curse, he could just easily pull the man into a kiss to get rid of the disgusting taste suguru hates so much ((bonus points if yn also pops in a candy/sweet/chocolate in his mouth before feeding it to suguru through a kiss — anything to help suguru forget the taste of curses)) yeah... just... suguruyn for the win man 😋🫶

((even more bonus points when satoru finds out later and he gets all jelly because 1. he doesn't know the lip balm/lip tint can come with a flavor so he felt blindsided and of course, he humphs and puffs because of it and 2. he wanted a chocolatey sweetness kissies too!!!! and of course lastly, 3. he felt left out because he never knows that suguruyn always makes out every single time suguru ate a curse so he's all pouty about it — ask him to join in next time!!!))

❝ He's just like candy, he's so sweet ❞

polycule (Satoru x r! x Suguru)) | alternate universes (Suguru is not a cult-reader), fluff, NSFW | vers. bottom. reader (AMAB) | NOT PROOFREAD | wc: 3.6k

warnings: foodplay, threesomes, pouty satoru & smug suguru, semi-public sex, d/s dynamics

masterlist; part 1; part 2; part 3; alternate ending; playlist; au's and what if's

author's note: in this au, they slayed the links that made me lose my mind (thank you @xuxitheii for making me squeal and kick my feet): geto suguru : gojo satoru : gojo satoru being a big baby

Curses. Ugly as sin and tastes just as foul. Suguru remembers the first time he discovered he could devour them; how awful it felt as it went down his throat, bulging out and staying there — blocking his airway as he struggled to find it in himself to swallow.

The way his teeth ached. His throat convulsed and his instincts forced it back up but his fingers blocked it from doing so. It warbled in the back of his mouth, begging to be let out and 7-year-old Suguru just knew he couldn’t bear for it to disturb him again. He couldn’t handle it speaking nonsensically into his ear, slinking under his bed or even staring right at him as it grinned so wide Suguru swore he could see his reflection in its yellow, wicked-sharp, teeth.

The pills his parents (his poor, non-sorcerer, parents) had given him to help with his “hallucinations” made him feel as though a thick fog was obscuring his brain. His thoughts faded and his movement groggy, his emotions caged while his body still felt the anxious tremors that ran through him when he saw them.

The curses made him feel like he was constantly in a deep pit of despair. Everything wrong in the world, the depravity and impulses of humanity that manifested into these grotesque creatures in the palm of his hands made his nose sting, till this day, as an 18-year-old; it made his eyes well with tears.

Suguru can't describe it in a way people could understand. But if asked, he’d used the viscera of a vomit rag being forced down your throat.

But the strong protect the weak. While your lips protect them from his ire. This one goes down with a loud gulp, his fingers blocking his lips as he tosses his head back. The worst is almost over, the aftertaste will linger but not for long. Because then, he feels your weight on his chest and Suguru is pliant as you gently pry his fingers away.

“You did a good job, baby.” Suguru flutters his eyes open and he can’t help the way his lips twitch eagerly. Your lips are glossier than usual, he can smell the cherry flavour on them. His hands wrap themselves around your waist. It’s a firm grip.

Mine, he says without speaking, mine — all mine.

He pulls and a huff of air escapes you in a series of chuckles. “I know we haven’t been out in a while, but did you miss me that much, Su-Su?” Suguru frowns at your jest. It’s rare for him to pout. That role is often delegated to your boyfriend, Satoru. So this must truly upset him.

Because, yes, he did.

You’d been called overseas to complete a mission. It was the norm for sorcerers considering the population of sorcerers in Japan; outsourcing they called it. Your curse technique was needed for this mission and truly, it didn’t take long but Suguru had done solo missions and he missed you.

Three solo missions. Three disgusting, dog-shit, vomit-stained rags, down his throat. Three days without you by his side.

He hated it.

“Don’t ask a silly question like that ever again,” he mumbles. Silly. The way he scolds you always makes you smile. Never crass or rude — his voice reminds you of the symphony of leaves singing with the wind as they danced and speckled light onto the forest floors and cool water bubbling over rocks.

“Why? Why can’t I ask silly questions?” You tease, placing your elbows on his shoulder and hanging your hands behind him. Purposefully lax despite the coquettish smile on your face.

“You already know the answer.” He speaks with such sincerity. Every word is heavy with nothing but candour and adoration. It makes your eyes soften and Suguru squeezes you closer.

“I do?” He nods at your words, the tip of his nose brushing over yours and his tan skin so flushed on the apples of his cheeks.

“Kiss me like you miss me, baby.”

Suguru’s lips land on yours like a feather. Supple as always he begins it with a long-lasting peck. Pouty lip against pouty lip. His hands climb up your back and he presses between your shoulder blades to somehow hold you closer; his jaw opens and yours does the same. There it is — that heaven that’s your mouth. Suguru groans and you feel his tongue sneaking in, devouring you like a starved man.

The cherry flavour on your lips, the sweetness of the candy you let melt on your tongue, the way your fingers grip his hair, the way he can feel your breath on his cheek as you try to breathe. He wishes that the two of you never needed air. Suguru wants nothing more than to kiss you forever and ever and ever —

“Hey!”

You part with a gasp, cheeks warm and lips almost bruised as the line of spit between the two of you breaks. At the mouth of the alleyway was your boyfriend; Gojo Satoru.

His arms are crossed and he taps his foot in a cartoonish fashion. Despite that, both of you know that the frown on his face is very much real. “What gives? I exorcised the other curses and I came back to the two of you making out. So unfair!”

Suguru parts with a sigh, rolling his eyes to the side and pouting his lips to the side as he muttered about Satoru having FOMO. It makes you giggle and he smiles when you lean forward to place your face right under his jaw.

“S’toru, you’re being a baby. Suguru did a lot of work and I was just thanking him.” Satoru unfolds his arms and flaps them around in protest.

“I did work too!”

And it has begun — Satoru’s famous little tantrums. Oh, he could go for a full hour if he was really worked up but there is a saving grace in him having them. He closes his eyes when he’s yappering. Suguru is listening to his huffy boyfriend but then you kiss his chin and he tilts his face down to look at you.

“Hm?” your teeth brush over his lower lips, then plant firmly on his. “Baby?” he smiles in the lip-locking and you whine about it because his lips should not stretch into that handsome smile, they should be pursed outward and part to let you in.

He tastes chocolate on your tongue. The creaminess of the chocolate makes him groan along with the citrusy notes. That combined with the fruitiness of the cherry tint on your lips makes the taste of the curses he’d ingested (exorcised) all but disappear. Your hands climb to the lobe of his ears and his breath hitches when your fingers trail the curve of it, he protests a bit as you undo his bun; then you whisper his name and Suguru tightens his grip on your waist.

“Hey!”

Satoru is whining again but this time he’s closer. Close enough for Suguru to grab a fistful of Satoru’s white button-up and pull him in. As his face turns you giggle, wiping away some smeared gloss as you watch Satoru turn red from Suguru’s heated kiss.

Satoru groans with his eyebrows twitching. Listless in his attempt to remain angry at Suguru. He pounds his fist against Suguru’s shoulder and attempts to crane his neck away. When he turns, he gasps as you steal his breath.

Satoru’s graceful legs tumble over themselves as his boyfriends press him to the rough wall of the alleyway. There’s a constant hum of an A/C machine and the noises from the pipes keep the intimate noises between the three of you contained. Suguru’s blunt nails drag onto the faded plastered-on advertisements — yours grip onto the bars of the window that had been covered up by old newspapers.

Satoru’s grip onto the front of both of your shirts. His glasses go askew as he struggles to keep up with his boyfriends. Suguru misses Satoru so much. He’d been away too, the Higher Ups sending him overseas at the same time as you and Shoko had to deal with a depressed Suguru for those 3 days.

“Mah, Satoru,” you drag your lips to Satoru’s sensitive neck. His hands don’t seem to know what to do with themselves. It grips and pushes and stutters. “I always give Suguru special kisses after a job well done, you’ve just always been too busy to notice.”

“S’not fair,” Satoru retorts with no real venom in his words. “I deserve special kisses too, don’t I?” Suguru chuckles, forcing Satoru to look his way and shut him up. Satoru glares over the rim of his crooked glasses as Suguru’s thumb presses down on his canines.

“What a jealous brat.”

“Can’t even handle a little teasing.”

Satoru would heavily disagree with that. A little teasing? You called being pushed to a wall, groped, kissed, and bitten by your handsome and powerful boyfriends a little teasing?

Satoru was a sign of change, his birth instantly tipped the scales of the sorcerer world, but he was still human!

Suguru grins that irritatingly pleased grin when Satoru’s protests die out thanks to your hands slipping down his pants. “Oh shit,” he hisses. His speech is odd with Suguru’s thumb in his mouth, casually inspecting it. But you laugh anyway.

“You know, since he has been away too, maybe he does deserve a bit of sugar from you, (Y/N).” You glance at Suguru, your cock chubbing up in your pants as he pointedly motions his gaze to the ground. You kneel in front of Satoru and drool slips down his chin as his pupils chase after you. Suguru chuckles, wiping it away and wiping it off on Satoru’s shirt — to which he hears no complaint. Suguru stands behind you, bending at his waist to peer down. It’s unfair how pretty he is from any angle. The Gods took their time making him. Of that, you are certain.

“Ready, sweetheart?” you nod, opening your saccharine-sweet mouth; Suguru pats your cheek as praise and undoes Satoru’s pants for you. His cock springs out, nearly bumping into your nose as it strains and twitches in the open air. When Suguru holds it, Satoru grunts and raises his hips. Fucking into his fist like a dog in heat. Suguru regards this with a shake of his head and guides Satoru to your mouth. You form a fist around your thumb, looking up at Satoru through your lashes as you wrap your lips around him.

Suguru straightens his composure. He takes in the sight.

Satoru and you know better than to be handsy. The pale-haired man grabs onto the bars of the window behind him, breathing through his nose as the toe of his shoes dig into the floors. You slip your eyelids close and languish in the taste of Satoru’s cock — breathing through your nose as well as you bob your head.

Fuck, Suguru missed this. He really did. He could get off on this alone. Just watched as both of you enjoyed the other. His darling boyfriends, who so obediently listen to his whims even if he didn’t say it out loud.

Who could ask for more?

Suguru strokes over your eyebrow and barely stifles a laugh when you tilt your head so Satoru’s tip pokes your cheeks.

“Good boy. My sweet boy.”

His voice alone makes you want to give in to whatever it is he asks of you — it’s insane how much power and sway he has. Your charming Suguru.

Satoru moans, swiftly reaching out and gripping onto the collar of Suguru’s top. They kiss. Fighting for dominance because Satoru needs to be pushed into submission. He relishes being put in his place — smacked around a little.

You could pinpoint this kink originating from his frivolous childhood and naturally talented self needing some sort of edge to sink down into a more fuzzy headspace.

Or perhaps Satoru was just a brat and he trusted his lovers enough to relinquish that control. Both theories worked.

Suguru grunts as Satoru tugs at his hair, the pleasant tinge of pain making his dick strain against his loose pants. You spot it from the corner of your eyes, an obscene slurping sound coming from you as you attempt to not make this blowjob too messy. An impossible task, really. But a worthy effort.

“Your lips taste like cherry, why?” Satoru’s question catches Suguru off-guard. He expected Satoru’s usual quips and huffiness. He indulges.

“(Y/N) wore cherry-flavoured lipgloss.”

The proof is in the coloured streaks on his dick. You feel it twitch on your tongue and pull away, your hot breath on his cockhead making precum leak out of his blushing tip. You rest it on your velvet tongue, unabashedly pouting to kiss the tip and then taking him inside again. Those slightly shimmery streaks made Satoru grit his teeth.

“I didn’t know those came in flavours,” Satoru moans. “How come you don’t wear that for me too?”

“Because it’s for me, you little shithead,” Suguru growls lowly. Their foreheads touch as he tightens his grip on Satoru’s neck, the pressure making Satoru’s eyelids flutter for a second. “It’s my prize for exorcising curses.”

“You jealous?” you wonder out loud. The answer was clear but there was a rush to make Satoru admit it.

“Yes, I am!” He curses for a moment as you descend further down to lick at his balls, looking up at him still as if this conversation was taking place over a dinner table and not in an alleyway with society just a few meters away. As if his dick wasn't on your face while you feel his balls tightening up on your tongue.

Seriously, if somebody peered down long enough they would most definitely catch sight of the three of you here.

“I just – just...fuck, I missed the two of you too. It’s completely unfair you’ve been keeping this from me too! I’ll never forgive you.”

Suguru grabs the back of your neck and pulls you backward. His large hands effectively push your head down further and further until your nose is at the neat patch of pubic hair Satoru has. You relax your throat and jaw, eyes watering while you brace your hands on Satoru’s thighs.

“So why didn’t you just tell us that, darling?" Suguru purrs. "Instead, you chose to be a brat and stomp around. You’re better than that, Satoru. Aren’t you? Hm?”

You gag but Suguru holds you in place. His hand barely has any real strength behind it. If you jerked backward, he would not hold you in place. No, no. Suguru’s power comes from the lack of strength he needs to exhibit. His dominance is in the ease Suguru commands it.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You needed him inside of you.

“Screw you, Suguru,” Satoru chokes out.

He pulls you off. You cough, spit staining your chin as you smile loosely at them. Suguru then pulls you onto your feet, pushes you to the wall, and undoes your pants. You bite down on your lower lip, staring at Satoru as you brace your hands onto the wall just next to him. Satoru watches on, trying to keep himself strong by pretending he isn’t affected by the sight before him.

Suguru gathers spit in his mouth but pauses as he feels the candy wrapper in your pockets. The chocolate brand makes his brows raise. It’s expensive. No doubt Satoru’s influence had rubbed off on you. Only one company in the world made this chocolate, its pink colour is a dead giveaway. No wonder your cherry-flavoured gloss tasted so strong, it was complimented nicely by the leftover taste of this ruby chocolate.

He lets your pants pool around your ankles while he takes a bite. It wasn’t disgustingly soft, but your body heat made it melt quickly on his tongue. He spreads your ass apart and spits a thick glob of his spit and pink chocolate. The sensation sends shivers up your back and you arch your back further, unsure about the new sensation.

“Suguru, that was expensive — ngh!”

Your eyes widen as he presses his cock inside. You were thankful for your morning romp with them. It loosened you up enough that Suguru’s impatience didn’t cause pain and only mild discomfort — he reaches forward to jerk your cock off to ebb it away and you moan out his name.

“Shh, shh, not so loud. We’re still outside, baby.”

Satoru groans, reaching to toss his glasses away as he turns his back to the entrance and gives you his full attention. He’s craving touch. To taste or to mark you up. To do anything, really. He is goddamn hypnotized by the way Suguru’s dick thrusts in and out of you. Suguru gives you a good fucking for too short of a time — pounding into you like a jackhammer and making you nearly bite your tongue off in an attempt to keep quiet before he pulls out.

Your knees buckle, thighs twitching as you try to keep yourself upright. Satoru’s knees thud onto the floor and he greedily laps at Suguru’s cock, moaning at the creamy taste. The same flavour leaks out of you while you catch your breath. The mouth of the alleyway is quiet but there are still the faint noises of the city just there. A few big strides away. But there. It excites you. You imagine it’s exciting your equally perverted boyfriends too.

"Satoru," Suguru groans at the sight of him. You peel yourself from the wall. Shoulders thudding onto the hard surface while your pants drop to your ankles. Shakily, you use your feet to push it all the way off, eyes trained on Satoru savouring the flavour of Suguru and the ruby chocolate. He pulls away with a breathy 'pwah!' and strokes Suguru's creamy dick.

You're tempted to join Satoru. Just sharing Suguru's cock, kissing Satoru with his cockhead between your lips. Fuck, just the thought has your dick slapping lightly against your navel. Suguru plants a hand near your head, turning his head to kiss you while the other is tugging on the roots of Satoru's head. a

"Both of my boys are being so obedient," he says after a deliciously deep groan of Satoru's name. "We missed you," you reply in a whiny whisper.

"Missed you so much, S'guru..."

Satoru moans, pulling away as he catches his breath and shares a heated gaze.

"Fuck, I missed you so badly. Missed this dick too," Satoru turns to your crotch and kisses the underside of your dick. It makes your breath hitch, hips jerking forward. The wetness of your precum smears on Satoru's cheek a bit but he doesn't even mind. Nor does he seem to notice.

"These cocks are the only ones that make me this hungry."

Suguru glances at the alleyway. You're not loud enough to draw attention. Still, better safe than sorry.

"Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure." You throw your head back to laugh. A veil was meant to conceal, protect those outside of it, and maintain secrecy. To use it so improperly.

The three of you were truly perverted.

"What's got you all giggly?" Suguru speaks against your lips. Tilting your chin upwards then squeezing the sides of your neck just to relish in the way you bare your neck to him.

"You used a veil," Satoru speaks for you. He raises, ignoring Suguru's pointed glance in favour of unbuttoning your shirt and kissing down your chest. His lips are sticky, smears of pink tainting you but you find it hard to care. "He's laughing because he thinks we're perverts."

"What are you? A mind reader now, Satoru?" You huff.

"I might as well be, huh?" Satoru smirks. He's so handsome that it makes your chest hurt sometimes. You're against the wall, exits blocked by Suguru and Satoru and you wouldn't have it any other way. "You know, I missed you too. It's been weeks — "

"Three days," Suguru and you corrected.

"Weeks. And this morning wasn't enough. We did such a good job, those wrinkle bags can't complain if we just so happened to work overtime, right?"

Ijichi can't stop his cheek from heating up. It's painfully, painfully, obvious why the three of you took your time for this mission. He had waited in the car for the first hour, then occupied himself with some coffee at a nearby cafe but by the third hour, Ijichi almost called Principal Yaga.

Three Special Grade Sorcerers took that long to exorcise an abandoned building. Surely, something must have happened!

Yet, seeing you sleeping on Suguru's lap with your legs across Satoru's lap confirms the real reason why it took the three of you that long.

Satoru has a weighted eye mask, head tossed back as he recuperates. This gives Ijichi a clear sight of his marked-up neck. Your shirt is wrinkled, hitched up from the bend of your waist, and giving him the whispers of handmarks. Suguru met his gaze from the rearview and Ijichi whispered out an apology.

"No, please. We're sorry for keeping you waiting." Suguru is brushing your bangs back, gently wiping down some residual stickiness on your cheeks with wet wipes (that Ijichi had made a point to stock up on in the car after earlier missions involving you three).

"No, I understand," he says with a shaky voice. Sighing a little he laughed awkwardly from the driver's seat.

"You must've been missing them a lot for those three days they've been gone, Mr Geto."

Suguru's expression softens, leaning one shoulder down when Satoru leans to place his head on his shoulders.

"It's hard not to. I love them."

[revelboo]

I love to check you blog every day when I get up and when I go to bed and it's funny that you posted the shockwave fic literally before I got into bed, just after I was thinking of whirl and shockwave while getting ready to sleep. 🥺 Can't wait to see more tfp shockwave around here

A bit of serendipity 😊

This one’s 18+ 💀 but not for fun reasons, rather dubious, horrific science on Shockwave’s part

Point of Extinction Pt 4

TFP Shockwave x Reader

• Even if you can’t see what’s going on in the lab from your opaque box, you can’t shut out the sound. A high pitched bleating that just gets sharper, more awful until you’re pressed into a corner of your box, knees drawn tight to your body and your palms pressed against your ears in an attempt to shut it out. When that soul wrenching sound abruptly ends after what feels like forever, you’re shaking uncontrollably and sick to your stomach.

• “Experiment fourteen. Failure,” Shockwave growls at the drone placidly hovering and recording. Every failure brings him closer, though. Step by step to creating a new home. A fail safe in case Cybertron can’t be revived, but progress is almost painfully slow. Terraforming organic life much more erratic than he’d like. Flicking the end of his cannon at the drone to end the recording and go charge, he turns back to his other experiment. “Come, Thirteen.” Leaning closer to find you huddled in a corner, trembling.

• Your head comes up at the sound of Shockwave’s voice, panic seizing you as he reaches into your cage, his servos wet with blood. “Don’t.” Shoving back tighter into your corner when he makes to pick you up. Terrified you’re next. That you’re about to suffer whatever it was he just did to some poor animal. Hoping it was an animal not a person making that sound. Freezing, Shockwave stares at you, that unreadable face dipping to look at his hand like he’d forgotten. Servos trembling slightly as he pulls away, disappearing from sight.

• Don’t. You can’t do this. Moving to cleanse his hand, for a moment his processor is tangled in the chaos of a memory that isn’t truly his. Hands on his arms, seizing him against his will. Dragging him… somewhere. The memory shreds when he tries to pull it close. Screaming. He remembers screaming when they took his optics. No, he only has one. He’s only ever had one. He’s not sure, though. Servos of his one hand shaking, he turns his attention to the cannon his other arm ends in. Sometimes he swears he can feel those nonexistent servos. They’re like the memories that aren’t his, but are. Wrong, hurtful things that snare him. Turning back to your cage, he leans closer bothered by the way you shake. “Thirteen.”

• He’s back and you shudder as he reaches for you again. His big hand is clean now, still wet, but you can’t make yourself go to him willingly. But you can’t make him angry either if your survival depends on being good. Being cooperative. “You’re not going to hurt me, right?” You ask, eyes burning as you stand and walk over to him. Putting yourself in his servos.

• Carefully curling his servos around you, he lifts you free. Something about how insubstantial and warm you feel in his grip skitters through him. Trusting him when you probably shouldn’t. He can’t even trust his own memories, how can you trust him? “No,” he says. Comforting your fear even though it’s illogical. It doesn’t, shouldn’t, matter, but it somehow does. You make a sharp sound, staring at fourteen and you start shaking harder.

• It was a deer. At least you think it was. Why he’d thought a deer should have that many, spidery legs or a skull that split open to house awkward looking mandibles is beyond you. It’s a half formed mess of flesh, fur, and metal. The bones partially warped with liquid metal and twisting out of its rib cage, viscera shiny and wet spilling out. Dry heaving, you press your face against his servos. Don’t want to see what he’s done. What he might do to you. “Why?” He hasn’t hurt you, so you’d convinced yourself that you were safe. But this? He’s not safe and definitely doesn’t actually care for you. He’s a monster.

• Rooted to the ground, he stares at the failed experiment. Something uneasy in the back of his processor whispering that he should have cleaned it up before retrieving you, but it hadn’t occurred to him that the sight would bother you. The way you’re shaking in his hand is clawing at him, twisting in his spark. A feeling he can almost remember, an emotion that he doesn’t have anything more than a dull echo of and can’t understand. Illogical even as he brings you closer to his chassis, turning so you can’t see the mess anymore and running a trembling servo along your arm. Needing to understand. To remember.

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