#i wear a binder and it is NOT supposed to do that!!!!

[tea-and-secrets]

my binder is making my ribcage protrude outwards and i have no idea if its supposed to cause that or not

.

[tumatawa]

Was thinking about this earlier and IMO I don't think common binders would be best suited for adventurers during dangerous long hauls

[callixton]

i like. really do wish i could find the satisfaction and joy in being trans but for ten years i have never stopped being envious of cis men like fuck. i can’t imagine what it would feel like to grow up in a body that’s supposed to be mine

[cosmogyros]

Representing the family today by wearing a shirt that used to belong to my mom and jeans that used to belong to my sister. Two amazing women in my life ❤️

[d1sc01nf3rn0]

My stupid ass got himself burned when I was trying to get off my binding tape yesterday, so I will have to bind my chest with bandages tomorrow, as if I was back on middle school or something.

[fushitoru]

worth the wait a nerdjo fic

pairing ⸺ nerd/academic rival/rich boy!gojo x reader

summary ⸺ you abhor your academic rival, satoru gojo. he's a cocky asshole that you fight with constantly for the spot at first place. but when you finally discover what's underneath all those lame sweaters of his with a once in a blue moon visit at the gym (spoiler alert: he's not a scrawny nerd), you'll be fighting your severe attraction to the man who makes your life a bit harder. and maybe fall in love with him, too, in the process.

warnings ⸺ smut, f recieving oral, praise, he makes you beg for it lol, p i v sex, making out, angst if you squint, a lot of fluff, college AU, nerd!gojo, reader gets insecure sometimes and is treated horribly by her discord mod TA/research advisor, typical misogyny/sexism in STEM fields, but gojo defends her!!!, sleeper build gojo with a happy trail because im a slut, the good old pining and yearning i like. art by @/deltapork

a/n thank u to all my beta readers for editing part of this for me :3 happy valentines day!!!

general masterlist

You blink at your paper.

98.

You suppose you should be happy—it’s a graduate level physics class, anyways. For a moment, you stare at the red markings of the TA that graded it, as if willing an error in the one problem you made a mistake on could make it go away. 

2+2=5.

You exhaled sharply, almost fighting back tears. You’d think you could avoid simple arithmetic mistakes, but apparently doing tensor products comes easier than simple addition to you. Shoving your backpack on your chair, you stuff in your laptop and the test haphazardly, not caring that it’s going to get messed and crumpled up in your backpack after your folders and binders jostle around. Fuck that test.

You wouldn’t normally act as if the test had personally wronged you—trust, you were not going to get that heated were it any class. But because of this one class, one person, you knew it was coming. The inevitable.

"Better luck next time." The voice, drenched in smug satisfaction, slithered through the air behind you, his voice and demeanor like a slimy, slimy snake. 

Your jaw tightened, but you forced yourself to remain calm as you turned around. And there he was—Gojo Satoru, the bane of your existence, a plague upon your academic record, a walking, talking statistical anomaly who somehow managed to be both infuriatingly brilliant and aggressively insufferable.

He leaned against the desk beside yours, glasses sliding down just enough to reveal the glint of those ridiculously blue eyes. He crosses his arms while they’re covered in that ridiculous, ugly sweater he’s wearing—he’s probably going for the old money aesthetic, but he doesn’t need to know he gives off more “finance bro that helps billionaires evade taxes,” or whatever finance bros do.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” you sniff, pretending to act nonchalant while you grab your backpack, swinging it roughly on your shoulder like it was the weight of your grievances against him.

"The test." Gojo unfolded a crisp sheet of paper with the kind of theatrical flourish reserved for revealing royal decrees. A perfect 100, circled in bold red ink.

Your stomach twisted. This is what those two points meant. Two stupid, meaningless, soul-crushing, rage-inducing points.

"Guess that makes it… what, five to three this semester?" He tapped his chin, pretending to count, as if the score wasn’t already seared into your brain like an irreversible branding. "My lead, obviously. But hey, if you ever need tutoring, I could always squeeze you in."

You bite the inside of your cheek in frustration. “I wouldn’t want to impose on the time for any of your hobbies. After all, when will you get the time to watch anime? My 5000 Year Old Girlfriend is Stuck in a Twelve Year Old’s Body, was it?”

He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt, as if your words had truly pierced him through his chest. “Tut, tut. After all this time, I’d think you’d have my anime preferences memorized since you’re so obsessed with me. It’s Digimon, not whatever pedophilic shit you think I jerk off too.” He pauses, and then his voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “But you know Fred, the grad student TA that holds recitation every Wednesday? I just know he’s probably a Discord mod of a server that sends, like, daily tentacle porn. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on the Megan's law registry either.”

Now, you have to hold back your smile because Gojo has a point. Fred is not just any TA. Fred is the grad student that mentors you on a research project; the program’s super selective, so when you realized you got him, you couldn’t just back out and give up the opportunity. However, Fred isn’t just a weird–-he’s sooo handsy with his greasy ass hands, so you accept any and all Fred slander. Because he’s your research advisor, you can’t wait to finish the project any faster. He probably would be into underage girls, but you don’t need to express your approval to Gojo, or worst of all, let him think he’s funny. God knows that would get into his head. “Yea, yea. Whatever. Anyways, I hope you have fun with your Pokemon—”

“Digimon.”

“—or whatever. I’m leaving. Some of us have things to do. Later, Gojo.”

You turned on your heel, lest Gojo hook you in with another taunt. 

Maybe you needed to blow off some steam, if you’re allowing yourself to lose to Gojo. 

Worst of all, it’s become a streak, like two times in a row—one on this quiz, and the other on the midterm a few weeks back. Your mind goes back to the last women in STEM recruiting event you had went to, and, how, in the middle of taking a bite of the delicious margherita pizza they offered, you registered that the woman in the panel had insisted that what helped her power through her PhD and dickwad supervisors was by exercising. Her fervor over pilates could almost qualify as a cult pitch, but it made you pause at the moment. Before you continued to further engorge yourself on the food offered on the charcuterie board. 

But maybe it was time to hone your focus in, and some sweaty endorphins might help you get just that. 

You’re not really surprised the demographic at your university’s gym looks like the way it does. After all, not only was it renowned for its academics (from all the nepo babies like Gojo whose families donated buildings and had like four generations of alumnus), but it was also a Division I school. So not only was the gym packed but it was packed with men.

As you walked in the hallway towards the room that contained weight machines, gym bag slung over your shoulder, you eyed the glistening backs of the (D1, mind you) men’s swim team through the glass that separated your path and the swimming pool. 

Wow, those Speedos really hugged their asses. You imagined Gojo in one, and almost snorted. Rich boy nerd Satoru definitely didn’t  learn how to swim; his family’s mansion probably had a twenty year old personal lifeguard that Gojo lost his virginity to, or something. Regardless, he would squint in his silly swim goggles, the exact antithesis of sex appeal while his glow-in-the-dark eyes lit up the pool while he stroked, cheeks puffed like a pufferfish.

Regardless, the smell of testosterone that hits you when you enter the weight area is almost nauseating, and, if you’re honest, a little intimidating. You’re not exactly the fittest of people, so you quickly speed walk past the grunting and sweaty men at the squat machines and barbells, avoiding eye contact and praying furiously that none of them perceive you.

 When you reach the dumbbell stands, you hunch over, taking random light weights. Then, you pretend you know what you’re doing while jumping every so slightly whenever anyone comes in six foot distance of you. It’s only when another girl comes in to grab a weight (and when she bends over, you definitely ogle her ass in a way that would get you slapped if you were a man) that your gaze removes itself from where it was focused on the 2.5 lb dumbbell you were previously bicep curling with. To see him.

The glint of ivory hair is unmistakable—you’ve basically gotten off to the fantasy of razoring it off in his sleep. His blue eyes are bored, pretty boy face framed in glasses. Now, he’s giving teenage boy turned to Andrew Tate after a breakup. Black sweatshirt and sweatpants that are too small, because they cling to his legs in a form-defining way. He’s walking over, hands in his pockets, to a barbell station. Slaps some guys on the shoulder as he goes through, gets a lot of daps. 

Which is weird to you, because you only the Gojo inside your physics class, not outside. He’s a fucking nerd—a loser that spends his time beefing with you, so why is he so popular when he gives you the time of day?

There are three dimensions to gaining alpha status, or whatever they call male popularity. You have to be 1) rich, 2) really physically fit, or 3) just really charismatic. Considering that Gojo—in all his clothing—-looks like a twink moreso than ripped gym bro, it’s definitely not dimension two. So you conclude that it’s because he’s rich and probably throws yacht parties so these ripped guys don’t push him into a locker, or something.

When he finally reaches his destination, you smirk to yourself. With that scrawny build underneath all those loose sweaters, you know he’s only going to be able to lift the bar, no plates. After all, he was warming up. insulting Gojo in countless of ways by taking jabs at his physique mentally, so you barely register that he’s grabbing for the hem of his sweatshirt, peeling it up—

To reveal his bare torso.

Your first thought: Wow, he has huge bazonkas.

That has easily got to be one of the most built physiques you’ve seen at your college so far. His pectorals basically pop out out of his torso as he moves to grab plates. First, he grabs a really big plate—you’re not a gym expert, so you wouldn’t know the weight—and stacks it. And stacks another. And another. And another, until you’re sure it’s definitely more than your bodyweight.

As you’re staring at him in awe, your 2.5 lb dumbbells hang limply by your sides, abandoning all pretense of training to openly gawk at the clench of his biceps, the sweat rolling down his temple, and the set of his jaw as he stares holes into the bar. And by the way there’s heat creeping up your cheeks you realize one thing:

You’re screwed.

“You know what?”

You keep your eyes on your notes firmly, refusing to look at Gojo sitting right next to you. You don’t know why he always chooses to sit next to you on recitation, really—it’s not like you’re receptive to his company. After all, he could be doing other things—like metaphorically sucking a TA’s dick by talking about their research, where Gojo probably knows more about the TA’s research than they do themselves. 

From your periphery, you notice Gojo pouting, then scooting his chair (dragging it, so it makes a god awful screeching noise against the floor tiles that has you cringing) until he’s so close that he slings an arm on the back of your chair and leans in closer and closer. You’re fighting to keep your eyes on your notes, face heating up traitorously until you feel his breath fan across your neck because he’s just so close.

“Rude, ignoring me. Look where that got you.” He then points to a problem on your paper, one you were currently working on. “You’re doing that wrong.”

You finally turn to glare at him, but he’s closer than you anticipated, his face just inches from yours. His grin is all sharp edges and knowing amusement, and it makes your stomach flip in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

“I’m not doing it wrong,” you argue, despite the creeping suspicion that, okay, maybe you did mess up somewhere.

“Oh, really?” Gojo drawls, tilting his head slightly. “Then why is your integral off by a factor of two?”

Your eyes snap back to your notes, scanning through the equations—and, dammit, he’s right.

You huff, begrudgingly erasing the mistake. “Whatever.”

“You know, you should really be thanking me,” Gojo muses, still leaning way too close for comfort. “If I weren’t here, who knows how many mistakes you’d make?”

“She’d have me,” comes a greasy voice, and you have to fight the tears in your eyes that arise when Fred (the aforementioned pedophilic TA and your research advisor) comes, his moldy cheese stench following him as he takes a seat from across you and Gojo. You grudgingly turn your face away from where it was so close to Gojo’s to look at him and sigh inwardly. At least Gojo’s face was prettier to look at.

“Hi, Fred,” you smile tightly, willing him to go away. “We’re good here, so you can help out other students—”

“How was your weekend?” He instead replies, and you wince. Stealing a quick glance at Gojo, it seems that his jaw and posture are uncharacteristically tense. 

“Lot of work for the class and for, uh, our research,” you respond, nodding and averting your gaze to your paper and feigning working on a problem so that he would get the hint.

Fred, unfortunately, does not get the hint. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes too focused on you. “You really ought to take breaks, you know. You can give me the code late. Someone as cute as you shouldn’t stress so much. You’ll get wrinkles.”

Your fingers tighten around your pencil, your skin crawling at the way his tone veers into something too familiar, too patronizing. You open your mouth to give a clipped response, but Gojo beats you to it.

“Oh? Didn’t know you were an expert on skincare, Fred,” Gojo drawls, his voice deceptively light. His arm, which was still resting on the back of your chair, shifts just slightly—not quite pulling you in, but making his presence more noticeable. “Though, if we’re giving out advice, maybe you should take your own. I mean, stress must be rough on you too, right? All those late nights grading papers, staring at screens. Takes a toll.”

Fred bristles, but Gojo just smiles lazily, pushing up his glasses as he tilts his head. “Actually, you know what? Maybe we should all focus on our own business. Like, say, teaching, instead of weirdly hovering over students. Crazy thought, huh?”

You swear you see the muscle in Fred’s jaw twitch, but he forces out an awkward chuckle, shifting uncomfortably. “Right, right. Just looking out for her.”

“Don’t worry,” Gojo interrupts smoothly, now fully leaning into your space, his arm draping a little lower behind your chair, “I think she’s got plenty of people looking out for her already.” His voice is soft, but there’s an undeniable edge beneath the words.

Fred lingers for a second too long, but finally, he mutters something about helping another student and stands, walking off with an air of forced nonchalance.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, slumping slightly in your seat. Gojo hums beside you, his fingers tapping idly against the back of your chair.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he teases, but there’s something in his tone that’s softer than usual. He then makes a show of stretching, raising his arms. His sweater rides up a bit, exposing his lower abs and peeks of white that has you averting your gaze, the heat creeping up at his proximity once again. Then, his arm back on your chair. Weirdly, you find that you don’t mind it.

You sigh, resigned. You’ll figure out these feelings later. “Yeah. Thanks, Gojo.”

But you don’t immediately go back to your work, because Gojo suddenly hunches down and whispers in your ear. “Yea, I definitely saw an underage anime girl sticker on his laptop.”

Your responding snort is so loud everyone turns to look at you and Gojo, who is now sporting a mischievous and satisfied smile.

It starts with a single drop, fat and cold where it splats against your wrist. You glance up from your phone just in time to see the sky split open.

“Shit,” you mutter, stuffing your phone into your bag. The library doors shut behind you with a heavy clang, sealing away the scent of old books and the quiet hum of studying students. Outside, the air is thick with the petrichor of freshly fallen rain, and within seconds, the pavement is slick, puddles forming in the uneven cracks of the sidewalk. The streetlights reflect off the wet ground, casting fragmented golden glows against the darkening sky. You’d been studying to grind for the upcoming assignments; after all, to rival Gojo is a no small feat. It’s just unfortunate it seems to take you thousand times more effort than it does for Gojo.

“Guess we’re stuck together, huh?”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Satoru Gojo, standing beside you under the library’s narrow overhang, wearing that insufferable grin like he’s amused by the entire situation. Like the rain personally fell from the sky just to give him an opportunity to bother you.

“I’ll take my chances,” you say flatly, shifting your bag on your shoulder. But as you peer past the downpour, your stomach sinks. The rain is merciless, an unrelenting sheet of water stretching as far as you can see. There’s no way you’re making it back to your dorm without looking like you took a fully clothed shower.

Gojo hums, pulling something out of his bag. You blink when he flicks open a half-broken umbrella, the metal ribs slightly bent like it’s barely holding itself together. He gives it a little shake, sending droplets flying, before glancing at you with a smirk.

“Well?” He lifts a brow. “Wanna be smart about this?”

You do not want to be smart about this. You want to wait out the rain or make a break for it. But the storm shows no signs of letting up, and the thought of walking through it alone makes you hesitate.

Reluctantly, you sigh. “Fine. But I get most of the cover.”

“Hey, sharing is caring.” He tilts the umbrella slightly, just enough to make a point.

With great reluctance, you step closer. The moment you do, you regret it.

Gojo is warm. Even in the damp, chilled air, he radiates heat, standing so close that his sleeve brushes against yours. He smells good, too—like expensive laundry detergent with a faint undercurrent of something sweet, something distinctly him.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stare straight ahead as the two of you start walking. The rain pounds against the umbrella, droplets cascading off the edges, and with every step, you’re hyper-aware of the way Gojo moves beside you—loose-limbed, annoyingly graceful, a stark contrast to the crooked metal above your heads.

“Man, this thing’s on its last leg,” he muses, tilting the umbrella just slightly. Water dribbles off the side, landing directly onto your shoulder.

“Gojo!” you yelp, recoiling as the cold soaks through your shirt.

“Oops.” He does not sound remotely sorry.

You glare at him, but before you can snap back, he shrugs off his jacket and—without preamble—drapes it over you.

You freeze.

It’s warm, still carrying the heat of his body, and it smells so much like him—clean, sweet, dizzyingly familiar. Your brain short-circuits.

You force yourself to breathe, keeping your gaze firmly ahead. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice tight.

“I wanted to.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach flip. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, and—

Damn him. Damn him.

Water drips from his bangs, clinging to the sharp edges of his jawline, sliding down the curve of his throat. His shirt sticks to his skin, fabric clinging in a way that reveals the toned lines of his arms, the broad plane of his chest. He’s watching the rain, the usual teasing glint in his eyes softened into something contemplative.

You swear your eggs just recently got released, for you cannot help but avoid your ever going attraction to Satoru Gojo except the age-old excuse: ovulation. Your mind wanders to how his arms would feel around your head, to lay on his chest, how he’d be able to manhandle you, force you to take it—

But you’re snapped out of your inappropriate thoughts by what he says next.

“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like this. Just us, no grades, no competing.”

You pause.

He says it so simply, so easily, like it’s nothing at all. But the words settle deep, curling somewhere warm inside you, and you don’t know what to do with them.

So you do what you do best: you shove them away, bury them beneath years of rivalry, of late-night study sessions fueled by caffeine and stubbornness, of sharp words and sharper glances.

You roll your eyes, forcing a scoff. “Don’t get used to it.”

But even as you say it, your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, holding it a little tighter.

It’s been a week since you saw Gojo. He had dropped you at your dorm in a surprisingly gentlemanly way, and you had insisted on returning the jacket only after washing it, to be courteous. What you didn’t mention was how you kept repeatedly smelling it in your dorm whenever you got a reprieve from your roommate’s eyes because Gojo smelled like expensive cologne and he did one thing most nerds / physics majors don’t do: shower. This fact, unfortunately, made you more attracted to him because the bar is truly in hell.

You’ve concluded that these…feelings can’t hurt you and that it isn’t real, like a beefy and shirtless Gojo-looking demon that’ll jump and surprise you from under your bed. So you move on your life, caught in the ever perpetual slog of studying and researching. 

Thus, you find yourself at the library once more.

The night hums low around you, quiet except for the occasional shuffle of paper and the distant hum of the library’s espresso machine (only librarians could use it, however. you fervently thought that was a form of elitism, but you digress). You’re at the corner table, the one by the window, where the dim light pools just enough to illuminate your notes but not enough to make you feel like you’re being studied under a microscope. You think you’re alone—until you aren’t.

You don’t have to look up to know it’s him.

Satoru Gojo is hard to miss, even when he’s not trying. He slides into the chair across from you with the kind of ease that makes it seem like he belongs there, like he was always going to end up sitting across from you tonight. His hair is tousled, white strands falling forward in a way that makes him look softer under the warm light. His glasses are perched low on his nose, a rare sight given that he usually has them pushed up like some kind of pretentious scholar.

The two of you don’t speak.

It’s surprising, really. Gojo never runs out of things to say, whether it’s an obnoxious quip or some unnecessarily insightful observation that makes you want to throw your textbook at his face. But tonight, he just pulls out his own notes, taps his pen against the edge of his lips, and starts reading.

You should focus on your own studying, but something about this—this silence, this late-night haze, this tiny moment carved out of time—makes your mind wander. You steal glances when you think he won’t notice. His brows furrow when he’s concentrating, his jaw tightens when he’s stuck on something, and when he exhales, it’s this slow, measured thing, like he’s trying not to get frustrated. He’s just—

He’s just really there.

You’ve spent years defining Gojo as your rival. Your competition. The person standing in your way at every academic milestone. And yet, somehow, somewhere, he’s slipped into something else, something harder to define. Because you’ve seen him like this before—when he’s so focused that he forgets the world around him, when he bites his lip in thought, when he gets so caught up in something that he mutters under his breath without realizing it. And for the first time, it dawns on you: you don’t actually hate it.

You don’t hate this comfortable silence. This moment of peace, a white flag waving lazily between you both.

The hours blur. The café starts to empty. Your notes turn into background noise. It’s late, and the warmth from inside lulls you into something dangerously close to comfort.

A soft sound breaks through the quiet.

You glance up and freeze.

Gojo’s head has tilted to the side, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. His hand is curled loosely around his pen, and his breathing has evened out. He’s asleep.

For a moment, you don’t move. You barely breathe.

Gojo, asleep, is not something you’ve seen before. He’s always in motion, always buzzing with energy, always running his mouth about something. But right now, he’s still. His long lashes cast faint shadows over his cheekbones, and the tension he always carries—the cocky bravado, the smirking sharpness—is nowhere to be found. He just looks… peaceful.

Cutie.

What?

The thought slips in so quickly, so effortlessly, that it nearly makes you jolt. But when you look at him again—head tilted just slightly, glasses slipping down his nose, breathing slow and even—you can’t deny that the word fits. He looks like a lazy cat napping in a sunbeam, limbs loose, utterly unguarded. It’s so unlike him that you find yourself staring, caught in the contrast.

Your fingers twitch. Before you can stop yourself, you reach forward, slow and hesitant, to push his glasses back up his nose. But you catch yourself just before you touch him, as if the warmth of his skin might burn. Your hand hovers in the air for a fraction of a second too long, and then—

You pull away.

Your heart is pounding. It’s fine. It’s nothing. You just need to get out of here.

You gather your things quietly, glancing back at him one last time before slipping out the door into the cool night air. The moment you step outside, you take a breath, deep and shaking. The world feels different now. You feel different now.

Because for the first time, it isn’t just that you find Gojo attractive.

It’s that you care.

And you don’t know what the hell to do about it.

The gym, once again, smells like sweat and overpriced protein powder.

You don’t know what’s possessed you to come here today. Maybe it’s because you keep telling yourself that you need to exercise more, or maybe it’s because you need to take a break from studying before your brain melts. But deep down, if you’re really being honest with yourself, you know the real reason.

Gojo is here.

You spotted him the first time by accident. You were on the treadmill, barely jogging at a pace that wouldn’t embarrass you, when you caught a flash of white hair across the gym floor. And there he was—dressed in a fitted black sleeveless top and joggers, casually loading plates onto a barbell.

And he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

It was a stupid, inconsequential detail, but it made all the difference. Without them, he didn’t look like the annoying academic rival who constantly got under your skin, flashing his smug grin as he beat you in exams by the smallest possible margins. He looked… sharp. Unfiltered. Effortlessly attractive in a way that made your stomach tighten in ways you didn’t like.

You’d seen him in his regular clothes before, of course. You knew he had broad shoulders and long legs, that his body wasn’t just a lanky frame hidden behind layers of sweaters. But here, in the gym, watching him roll his shoulders as he prepped for another set—it hit differently. He was lean but muscular, his arms flexing as he adjusted his grip on the bar, and for some godforsaken reason, you couldn’t look away.

You shouldn’t be watching him. You should be focusing on your own workout, pretending you don’t care. But the way his shirt clung to his back, the way his forearms tensed, the way he exhaled sharply as he lifted—

You’re so screwed.

You force yourself to look away, grabbing the smallest dumbbells available and curling them in what has to be the weakest excuse for a workout imaginable. You’re barely paying attention to what you’re doing, too busy sneaking glances at Gojo between sets. It’s pathetic, but at least no one else is watching you.

Or so you think.

Because then she appears.

A girl.

Tall, toned, and effortlessly gorgeous, with sleek hair pulled into a high ponytail. She strides over to Gojo with a confidence you could never dream of and smiles at him, saying something that makes him laugh. Her ass is definitely bigger than yours, and she’s in this coordinated, cute, pink set, looking like she walked straight out of a fitness TikTok. You can’t hear what they’re talking about over the sound of weights clanking and some obnoxious EDM song blasting through the speakers, but you can see it. The way she leans in, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way Gojo—

—smiles at her. That easy, lazy grin he always wears when he’s teasing you, except this time, it isn’t for you.

Your grip tightens around the dumbbells, something ugly curling in your chest. It gets worse when she gestures toward the squat rack, and Gojo nods before moving behind her, hands hovering just slightly as she sets up for a squat. You watch as he spots her, one hand resting lightly on her lower back, close enough to correct her form but far enough to be polite. He’s focused, watching her movements carefully, murmuring something that makes her laugh before she drops into another rep.

Your stomach twists.

This is stupid. You have no reason to be feeling this way.

It’s then that it hits you—you can have your silly little academic rival moments with Gojo, but, in the end, you’re just a footnote in his story, a fleeting challenge in a life where everything already belongs to him. He quite literally has generational wealth; he’s not going to spend his life buried in grant applications or clawing for recognition in a field that demands twice the effort for half the reward. He’ll be the one funding the research, sitting at the head of the table, making decisions that shape the future. And you? You’ll be one of the many who struggle just to be in the same room.

He’s the guy who spends his vacations on yachts or private islands—not just surrounded by wealth, but by people who belong there. Girls who glide through life with the same effortless ease as him, girls who don’t second-guess if they deserve to be in the spaces they occupy. Girls who don’t have to fight for their place at the table because it was always set for them.

Girls that are his equal—equally attractive, equally smart, equally rich.

Not you.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to look away, but the image is burned into your mind. The easy way he talks to her. The way she tilts her head when she listens. The way he doesn’t even know you’re here.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care.

But you do.

You grip the dumbbells tighter, exhaling sharply. Then you put them back, pick up your water bottle, and walk out of the gym before you do something stupid.

The office is too small. Too suffocating. Too filled with the weight of unspoken words and the sharp-edged smile of Fred, the TA, as he leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together.

"You know," he begins, voice sickly sweet, "I really expected more from you."

You sit stiffly in the chair across from him, your hands curled into fists in your lap, nails digging crescents into your skin. Your heart pounds, but your face remains carefully neutral. You've been called into his office under the guise of "academic guidance," but you know better. You always know better.

"I don't know what you mean," you say, keeping your voice even.

Fred exhales dramatically, shaking his head. "Come on. You and I both know you're barely keeping up in this project of ours."

You grit your teeth. You're not barely keeping up. You're giving him your work at the highest level, at its best. But Fred—Fred has always had a way of twisting things, making you feel small, insignificant, like your achievements are nothing more than accidents.

“I think my progress speaks for itself,” you respond tightly. Mind you, while he was supposed to be your mentor, you’ve done 80% of the work.

But you think Gojo’s defense of you ran deep into Fred’s heart because by the way he’s sleazily smirking at you, you know he’s trying to get back at you.

He smirks. "Your progress? Sure, you’re smart. But you think that’s enough? You think anyone’s going to care about a girl like you when there are people out there who don’t have to struggle to be exceptional?" He leans forward, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. "You’re wasting your time. The best you can hope for is being someone’s assistant. Maybe a glorified research grunt if you’re lucky. Just like for me."

Your stomach twists. You shouldn’t care. You know you shouldn’t care. But the words burrow deep, hitting a place inside you that already doubts, that already wonders if you’re nothing more than a temporary obstacle in a world built for people like Gojo Satoru—people born brilliant, born wealthy, born effortless.

Fred’s eyes flick over you, assessing, smug. "You’re working yourself to the bone for what? You’ll never be at the top. Not really."

The bitterness of the situation really dawns on you—Gojo’s the one who took a jab at Fred last week, not you. But you’re the one who’s left to deal with its consequences. You’re not going to assign blame and lament that it’s not Gojo in this office dealing with him. It was in your defense, after all. 

But Fred’s words remind you. You’ll never be at the top. At Gojo’s level, who’s at the top without even seeming to put in effort.

You’ll never be his equal.

You stand abruptly, shoving your chair back so hard it scrapes against the floor. "If that’s all, I have work to do."

Fred chuckles, leaning back, clearly pleased with himself. "Sure, sure. Don’t say I never tried to give you advice."

You don’t respond. You just walk out, gripping your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white, the echo of his words following you down the hall, settling in your bones like lead.

The hallway is too bright. Too loud. Too full of people who don’t know that you’re on the verge of crumpling in on yourself like a dying star.

Your breath feels too shallow, too quick, and there’s a weight pressing down on your chest that no amount of rationalizing can shake off. It’s not even your meeting with Fred—just a slow accumulation of stress and exhaustion and frustration that’s settled deep in your bones. A grade lower than expected, an upcoming deadline you’re nowhere near prepared for, a general sense of drowning no matter how hard you try to keep up. It’s all too much, and your hands are starting to shake from how tightly you’re gripping the strap of your bag.

You just need to get out of here. You need air, space, something.

But, of course, the universe has a cruel sense of humor, because when you round the corner, you slam straight into Satoru Gojo.

“Whoa—”

Your balance is already precarious from the way you were rushing, and the impact sends you stumbling. For a split second, you think you might actually fall—your ankle twists awkwardly, the world tilts—and then there’s a strong hand gripping your wrist, another bracing against your back, steadying you before you can hit the ground.

You don’t process what happens immediately. Your mind is still stuck on too much, too fast, can’t breathe, and it takes you a second to realize that Gojo is holding you upright, his hands firm but careful, his expression hovering somewhere between amusement and concern.

“Jeez, what’s the rush?” he teases, but his voice lacks its usual careless lilt. He’s searching your face now, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, and that’s when you realize: you must look as bad as you feel.

Shit.

You jerk away from him, a little too fast, a little too sharp. “I’m fine.”

Gojo doesn’t look convinced. “You sure? Because it kinda seemed like you were about to pass out on the spot.”

“I said I’m fine.” You adjust your bag over your shoulder, shifting your weight onto your other foot, ignoring the faint throb in your ankle. “Go bother someone else.”

Most of the time, that’s enough to send him off with an exaggerated sigh and a smirk. But not today.

Today, Gojo just stands there, watching you like he’s trying to piece something together—like you’re a problem he wants to solve. He doesn’t press, not yet, but the silence stretches, and it’s unbearable, because you can feel the weight of his gaze, and you don’t want to be seen like this. Not by him.

So you give him a tight nod in dismissal, and walk away.

There’s a knock at your door. You frown because you didn’t expect any visitors, and you’re in your sleepwear. Regardless, you pad your way lazily and open the door.

To see Gojo.

What the fuck.

He’s drenched in the glow of the hallway light, looking entirely too at home despite standing on your threshold. His hair is still slightly damp from the rain, white strands falling over his forehead in careless disarray. He’s not wearing his glasses.

"Why are you here?" you demand, gripping the doorframe, willing your voice to stay steady.

He quirks an eyebrow, tilting his head just slightly. “You’re holding my jacket hostage.”

Oh. Right.

You make your way to your wardrobe, where the now-cleaned jacket hangs neatly on a hanger. Grabbing it, you hand it over to Gojo, who’s standing at your threshold while eyeing the insides of your dorm, as if trying to take in what your living space looks like. You shove it into his chest, stepping back like the heat of it burns. "Here."

Gojo takes it, but instead of leaving like a normal person, he lingers, running his fingers over the material like he’s checking for something. Then,, he lifts a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it in that way that only makes his biceps flex, his lean muscles shifting beneath his shirt. You hate that you notice.

A beat passes.

"You know," he muses, far too casually, "you seemed a little disheveled back there."

Your stomach twists. "It's not a big deal—"

"—Bullshit." His voice cuts through yours, sharp and immediate. He shifts, stepping just the tiniest bit closer, his tone losing its usual teasing lilt. “You’re lying. I saw what you looked like. What happened?”

“It's none of your business,” you say, stiffening. “Nor is it a big deal, really.”

Gojo exhales, something heavy in the sound. His eyes don’t leave yours, and for once, they aren’t filled with their usual mirth or mischief. Just something searching, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t have the strength to deal with right now.

"You always do that," he says, softer now, but no less intense. “Act like no one’s supposed to care. Like you’re carrying the world alone.”

Your fingers curl into your palms. Your lips press together. You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to acknowledge the way his words settle too close to the truth.

And then, quietly, Gojo asks, “Do you not consider me your equal?”

You swallow.

Your silence must be enough of an answer because something shifts in his expression. It isn’t anger exactly, but it’s something close—something bitter and disappointed and aching all at once.

"You’re the one who shuts me out, you know." His voice is sharp now, edged with frustration. "You act like I'm the one keeping you at a distance, but every time I try to get close, you push me away."

Your throat tightens. “Why do you even care?”

Gojo lets out a breath, his head tilting just slightly, eyes scanning your face like you’re something he’s trying to figure out. Then he laughs, quiet and humorless.

“You really don’t know?”

“I—” Your voice wavers. “What do you mean—”

“For a girl so smart, you sure do act stupid.” He steps forward then, closing the space between you just enough to make you want to back away, but your feet don’t move. His voice drops lower. "Do you think I talk to you because I give a fuck about physics?"

Your brain short-circuits. “What—”

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I give zero fucks about the class or any class, trust me. I have better things to do than to try to aim for 100s on every test."

Your heart is pounding now, too loud, too fast. “Then why—”

"God," he exhales, tipping his head back, like he's debating whether or not he should even say it. Then, after a beat, he looks at you again, and whatever is in his eyes makes your stomach flip, makes your breath hitch.

Something in your chest lurches, but before you can even process it, he huffs a laugh—like he’s just remembered something ridiculous.

"You didn’t even look my way the first week," he says, eyes flicking over your face, searching. "I could tell you only cared about anyone that could challenge you. Like, it wasn’t even until I did better than you on the second midterm that you even talked to me."

You open your mouth, then close it, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Because—yeah. He’s not wrong. You had ignored him, dismissed him as just another overconfident rich kid who thought he was smarter than he was. It wasn’t until he proved himself, until he became a real obstacle in your path, that you bothered to acknowledge him.

Gojo smiles, but it’s not cocky this time—it’s small, almost rueful. "And then you looked at me like I was finally real. Like I existed."

Your breath hitches.

He shrugs, eyes dropping for a brief second before snapping back up to yours. "So, yeah. Maybe I started trying harder. Maybe I cared about all those stupid tests because it meant I got to see that fire in your eyes, that I got to be the one you were pushing against." He rubs the back of his neck, his biceps flexing in a way that would usually annoy you, but right now, you’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

Gojo stares at you for a long moment, gaze unwavering, like he’s daring you to say something—anything.

Your chest feels too tight, your pulse erratic, and you don’t know what to do with the way Gojo is looking at you—like you’re something precious, something worth holding onto.

But he’s wrong. He has to be wrong.

“You can’t like me,” you whisper.

Gojo frowns, expression shifting. “What?”

Your throat clenches, and before you can stop it, heat pricks at your eyes, blurring your vision. “You can’t like me,” you say again, voice cracking. “I can’t even match you.”

Gojo's face slackens, his teasing demeanor completely gone.

"You do everything so effortlessly," you force out, your fists clenching at your sides. "It’s so infuriating." A shaky breath escapes you, and you shake your head, looking down. “So why would you even want this? You make me feel this way, and I—I hate you for it.”

For a second, there’s only silence.

Then, Gojo exhales softly.

“Is that what you think?” His voice is so gentle it makes something inside you ache.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Gojo shifts, stepping forward slowly, carefully, like you’re something fragile. And then—then he reaches out, his fingers ghosting along your wrist before curling around it, grounding you. “It’s not effortless,” he murmurs. “I try so hard. You just don’t see it because I don’t want you to.”

"You really don’t get it, do you?" His voice is quieter now, something dangerously close to vulnerable. His fingers twitch at his sides. "I care because it’s you."

You shake your head, still not understanding, still unable to believe it.

Gojo watches you for a moment, then exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You act like I just woke up one day and decided to like you.” He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no real amusement in it. “Do you know how long I’ve been stuck on you? How infuriating it was, realizing that no matter how much attention I got, the only person I wanted it from was too busy treating me like an obstacle?”

Your breath catches.

“I tried everything,” he continues, voice rougher now. “Teasing you, annoying you, beating you in tests, losing to you in tests. It didn’t matter what I did, because you—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “You only saw me when I gave you a reason to compete.”

Your fingers tremble slightly at your sides. You don’t know what to say, don’t even know what you can say.

And suddenly, everything—the teasing, the constant pestering, the way he always had to be around you—it all clicks into place.

Your heart hammers in your chest, and before you can second-guess it, before you can even think, you surge forward and kiss him.

It’s a mess of a kiss—too rushed, too desperate, all clashing teeth and uneven breaths—but Gojo groans softly against your lips, like he’s been waiting for this. His hands are on you immediately, one slipping around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he presses you flush against him.

You’re dizzy. Overwhelmed. But it’s good. It’s him, and you don’t want to stop.

When you finally pull away, breathless and unsteady, Gojo is grinning, his lips slightly swollen.

“Worth the wait,” he murmurs, eyes shining.

You avert your gaze, fully blushing now. “But I—” You take a look at him, then hide your face in your hands. “I’m a stalker.”

“Maybe I’m into that.”

“No,” you bemoan. “I’ve stalked you at the gym, and I—” Your voice drops into a shameful whisper. “You were good. Like, stupidly good. Like, making everyone stare at you good.”

His lips twitch. “You were staring too, huh?”

You glare at him, but he just grins, all teeth, clearly eating this up.

“I hated it,” you insist, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “I hated that you’re already smarter than me, that you already have all these advantages, and then—and then you also have that? Like, it’s just unfair. You’re unfair.”

Gojo is silent for a second, and you think you’ve screwed up, but then exhales a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “You are so cute.”

“Stop it!” you whine, but you don’t protest when he pulls you closer and locks your lips with his another time. You clutch the front of his shirt, drag your hands on his chest, his arms, everywhere. Then, you guide his to firmly clutch your ass, to which he freezes.

“We can stop here. We don’t have to do anymore than this, and—”

But you interrupt him, slamming your lips against his once more. Grabbing him by the shoulder you pull him into your room and slam the door behind you, pushing him against the door. “Fuck no.”

He laughs breathlessly, then continues to switch your position, now you against the door. “Thank god. Now, jump.”

You do, and you almost moan at how easily he grabs you in his arms, your legs straddling him. It’s like you weigh nothing to him as he carries you over to your bed and manhandles you into it, following not long after.

When he gets on top of you, he maintains eye contact as he pulls your shirt over your head, trailing kisses down to your neck, the valley of your breasts (but not before giving each of the girls their own tender kiss), and your stomach. With his eyes boring into you, he slowly, teasingly drags the pants you were wearing down your legs until you’re just in your panties.

You let out a noise, and he coos. “I know, I know, baby.” He gives you a gentle kiss on the top of your mound, and you clench, squirming from the contact. “Let me take my time, though.”

He gently, but firmly, lays a hand on your hip as he starts licking the crotch of your panties. It’s truly maddening—the sensation is there, but you oh so wish his skilled tongue was meeting your skin, bare and electric.

He’s taking his time laving, ravishing your taste, but you’ve had enough. “Gojo, please,” you sob, throwing your head back and grinding further into his tongue, which he welcomes. “Stop teasing.”

“Mmmm,” he pretends to think, all while focused and looking only at your crotch, now rubbing your clit in small, miniscule circles. “I can, but,” and now he’s just mocking you, with the way he adopts a babying tone, “I think you’re going to have to beg for it.”

You groan in frustration as a response, but he only clicks his tongue as his fingers reach and finally rid you of your panties. He spreads your folds with two fingers, his face oh so close to your bare pussy. But instead of finally giving you what you want,  he clicks his tongue, pouting as if you’re the one forcing him to be a bastard. “Yea, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to earn it.”

Before you can respond, he holds out his tongue and inches his face even closer to your bare folds until you can feel his warm breath over it. “You just have to say please.” Then, he ahhh-s, as if holding his tongue out to a doctor and says, “Look I’m so close—ahhh.”

You can only plead with him. “Please, Gojo.”

“No, it’s Satoru to you now, baby.”

“Satoru, please eat me out.”

He smiles. “Yeaa, that’s my girl.” And proceeds to eat you out in a way that has your toes curling.

He acts like a man eating his last meal on death row. It’s the masterful combination of laving over your folds, kissing your clit, and groaning and making noises that has you inching closer and closer to your orgasm. When you tell him, you’re close, he does exactly what he’s supposed to do—keep doing what he’s doing, same spot, same tempo, same pressure.

With a cry of his name, you come quickly, and he takes your writhing hips and their motion like a champ, easing you through it. When you feel the all-too-familiar feel of over sensitivity, you grab his hair and pull him towards your face, kissing him tenderly. 

He maneuvers his huge frame to lay down next to you, and you fall easily into a gentle embrace. It’s a comfortable silence, as he burrows his face into your chest and you stroke his hair gently.

Gentler than how you’ve ever treated him.

It’s this thought exactly that you voice to him. “You know,” you muse softly. “I was such a bitch to you.” This gets his attention, because he moves from where he was comfortable (your boobs) to look at you in alarm. “Like, I was always mean, and like acting all high and mighty—”

“Whatever you think you did, it was hot,” he interrupts you, grinning boyishly. “Like damn when you insult me I get all fired up—”

“Satoru!” You laugh, shocked, looking down at him. “You’re crazy.”

“Yea,” he winks. “Crazy for you.”

You smile softly at that, biting your lip. “I mean, I get that.” You feel his curious gaze rove over you and heat creeps up your neck as you confess, “Like I was stalking you at the gym. I saw you one time, and um. You definitely have a sleeper build.”

He hums. “I get that a lot.”

“Yea,” you blurt. “you’re really hot. Like you have really big arms, which I definitely didn’t notice in all those sweaters you wear. You could definitely throw me around.”

Silence.

When you look down at him, he’s looking at you mischievously. He sits up, takes off his shirt, and says, “Want to test that theory?”

The both of you test the theory, indeed—it’s a nice nod to your guys’ academic, theoretical physics roots. But instead of some theory involving dark matter or quantum physics debated while in class, this theory takes all night to prove.

general masterlist

a/n special thank you to @purplegemadventures ily pookie <3 we were discussing how a lot of fics so far have made seem nerd gojo really cute and shy but we tried to envision a shit eating sassy diva just like hidden inventory arc <3 like what that one anon said i need my gojo to be a little annoying cocky (but cute) bastard (or, i quote, "your gojo makes me want to oil his scalp and give him an aggressive head massage and mess his hair up"). ANYWAYS props to that one anon that dropped the "nerd gojo with sleeper build" and my beloved @tiramisuandlove i love you forever

comment and reblog to let me know ur thots!

[thottieonline]

WHAT YOU NEED

LUIGI MANGIONE X FEM! READER

IN WHICH. Frat! Luigi has a fascination with Readers braces, making for a fun afternoon at his house.

CONTAINS. M! Receiving Oral. F! Fingering. Cum Eating. Praise.

NOTES. Another self indulging fic as I also have braces, but was requested! Minors DNI! No PinV for this post, sorry! <3

Luigi had the house to himself as the rest of his frat brothers were off doing their own things and they wouldn’t be back until the end of the day, the rare occasion giving him the perfect opportunity to call her up. Mangione opened his contacts and typed in her name, Dolcezza.

It’d been a while since he heard her voice and he missed it dearly. Luigi waited as the phone rang, his heart pounding as he waited for her to pick up, which she did after the third ring.

“Hey, Lulu.” She called him by his nickname, smiling softly.

“Hey, Sweetheart.” He flirted, smiling on the other side as well. “How are ya?”

“I’ve been good, you know just been doing school and work — not much if I’m being honest.” She laughed softly, “What about you, Lui? Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Ah, that’s my fault, Dolcezza. I’ve been occupied with these classes, been kicking my ass.” He sighed, “Listen, you think you can come over and help me with this assignment? I could really use that brain of yours.” He lied, knowing damn well he completed that assignment days ago.

“Oh, so that’s why you called, huh?” She scoffed over the phone, her voice remaining playful as her smile remained. ���Here I thought you wanted to hang out with me.”

“Dolcezza, don’t be like that. How about this, after we finish I’ll take you out to do wherever you want — Deal?”

“Let me think…” She hummed, tapping her free finger on her lips, pretending to consider her options. “I’ll do it — See you in fifteen, Mangione.”

With that, Luigi hung up the phone and quickly left his room to fix up the house, which thankfully didn’t need much fixing as he picked up a few beer and soda cans here and there, leaving the house as clean as it could be before she arrived.

“That should do it.” He spoke out loud, dusting his hands as if he’d been deep cleaning — For frat house standards, maybe. The house appeared more “lived in” compared to the mess that was there before. He hadn’t realized how quickly fifteen minutes had passed once he heard a couple of light knocks on the door.

Mangione quickly walked towards the tall wooden doors and opened them, revealing her. Y/N stood in front of him with a brace-faced smile, her braces decorated with pink rubber bands. With summer around the corner, she opted to wear a short sleeve top with her favorite denim shorts, showing off her pretty legs topping the look off with the large binder she held in her hands, overly prepared to help him.

“Hey.” She rose up on her tippy toes, leaning slightly forward as she pressed her lips softly against his cheek. It was something she did every time they saw each other yet it managed to catch him off guard — the warmth of her affection lingered in the air, leaving him momentarily stunned as he moved away from the door, allowing her to come in.

“It’s so good to see you, Dolcezza.” He grinned, watching her walk past him to place her materials on his dining room table.

“It’s good to see you too, Mangione.” She reciprocated, opening her binder, the three rings filled to the brim with her past assignments and notes.

“So, what’d you need help with? You didn’t really specify on the phone.” She sweetly asked, looking into his hazel eyes. Luigi’s eyes wandered, trailing away from hers and settled on her small opening, catching a glimpse of the shining metal on her teeth.

“So, how long are you supposed to have them on?” He commented, ignoring her question as he looked at her lips, his finger itching to trace against the lining of her lips, wanting nothing more than to feel her soft lips on him.

“Luigi.” She deadpanned as she began to feel self conscious about herself, “Let’s focus on your assignment, yeah?” She crossed her arms as she closed her mouth, her lips acting as a shield, closing itself off to Luigi.

She knew it was a bit unorthodox to have braces later than the typical adolescent stage of life, but hey, it was better than never fixing her teeth at all.

“Oh, N/N I didn’t mean any harm by that.” He realized, “I’m sorry, Dolcezza — I was genuinely asking.”

“It’s fine.” She pulled out the chair that was previously tucked in the table and sat down. “I get them out in a few months — anymore questions or do you need to see my x-rays too?” Y/N sarcastically remarked.

Luigi chuckled, “I deserve that. But, I do have something to confess.” He sighed, pulling out the chair next to her and sat down.

“What?”

“I actually finished the assignment a couple days ago, I just wanted you to come over.”

“Really? I gathered all my materials and walked across campus for nothing?” She closed her binder, pushing it away from her. “You don’t have to lie to get me here, Lui.” 

“I know, it’s just… it’s been a while and I didn’t know how else to start a conversation.” He defended. She made him nervous and he knew he wasn’t the best when it came to talking to women, especially her.

“Aww, you missed me?” She teased, playfully mushing his head. “How much, Gigi?”

“A lot.” He smirked. He placed his large hand on her thigh, gently rubbing her soft skin, Y/N smiling at the gesture. “I missed you too.” She spoke softly. Luigi’s hands slowly stopped their movement, resting on her thigh.

He was at a red light and waited for her to give him the green light, his eyes looking into hers for approval to which she nodded, his hands guiding themselves to her inner thigh.

Her eyes watched as he continued, feeling her sex pulse against her panties as he got closer and closer. “Come here.” He grabbed her by her hips, pulling her out of her seat and onto his lap. He unbuttoned and pulled down the denim shorts she wore, her panties pressed onto his basketball shorts.

“You really didn’t want to waste anytime, huh?” She teased, making him chuckle lowly.

“I just want you all to myself, Dolcezza — Is that such a bad thing?” He pressed his lips against her ear as he pushed her panties to the side, his middle finger pressed on her clit, rubbing slow, torturing circles.

She gasped at his cold finger on her sensitive bud, throwing her head back against his shoulder as he continued her delicious torture, sliding down from her clit onto the wetness that pooled before he ultimately slid back up.

“God, you’re like fucking magic.” She praised as he kept rubbing her in circles, his finger firm on her sensitive bud as her body moved restlessly, grinding against him. Luigi placed his free hand on her hip, gripping it tightly to keep her bound to him.

“Just watch how deep it can go inside you.” He pushed it in — It was slow and a bit painful, his digit being nearly twice the length as hers.

He pumped in and out of her as she moaned uncontrollably, tears stinging in her eyes. No matter how deep she tried to go with her own, it couldn’t compare with his — Her wet, tight pussy around his finger sent a chill down his spine, his dick pressed up against the material of his basketball shorts, begging to be inside her. “Fuck, Dolcezza.”

She turned her head towards him and smiled, lifting her hips from his weakened hold and rode on his finger, her manicured hands holding onto his thighs for dear life, nails digging into his tanned skin. “Add a-another one in, Gigi. I-I really want it.”

Luigi added his ring finger, the two fingers stretching her out made her hiss at the initial stinging sensation but it quickly subsided as she kept riding, his fingers abusing her G-spot each time, making her leak. Her juices flooded his fingers, soaking his clothed cock as she dripped from between her legs.

“Oh shit.” She cried as she slowed down her pace, allowing him to do all the work, sliding her fingers down her pussy, rubbing her clit in crazed circles, the double stimulation consuming her entire being.

She turned her head towards the side to face him, his lips were parted, heavily panting as he anticipated her release. Her eyes filled to the brim with her salted tears, overwhelmed with how deep he was going inside her, fingers fucking her fast and hard along with the pressure her own fingers placed on her sensitive bud.

“G-Gonna Cum, Gigi.” She cried as she released on his digits, their movement halting but remained inside her as she rode through the intense wave, her walls pulsing around him.

“Look at the mess you made, Dolce.” He mocked, sliding his fingers out of her, Y/N wincing at his absence. “Need to clean it up, yeah?” Her lips pouted as she looked at his fingers, glossed with her juices.

“Open.” He demanded, pushing her pouted lips apart, placing his digits on her tongue. Her lips wrapped around his fingers, sucking up the rest of her juices.

“Fuck.” He groaned, the sensation of her wet mouth shot through his body, ultimately causing his dick to constrain against his shorts. Luigi fruitlessly tried to adjust himself, his confined dick pressed against her bare thigh, getting her wetter.

He felt so thick, so hard against her body.

“There’s still so much.” She spoke, gathering the remaining wetness that had ultimately spread from her sex to her inner thighs. She faced him once more, looking into his lust filled eyes as she had another taste of herself, moaning against her fingers.

“God, I love it when you eat it, baby.” He praised, watching her break out a small smile, showing off her straight, wired smile.

“How do you still manage to be so cute when you do the dirtiest shit, Dolcezza?” He looked at her pink rubber bands, taking his finger and ran through the small metal squares. “God, I love your braces.”

“Really? I’ve thought they make me look so nerdy.”

“A hot one.” He remarked, giving her the confidence she needed. In his eyes, she was perfect. “You know, I’ve never gotten my dick sucked by a girl with braces before.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm — Bet it’d feel really good.” He smirked, looking down at his lap. With that, Y/N got off his soaked lap and got on her knees, excited to return the favor.

She’d never done it with braces before as she felt they would get in the way or made giving head unappealing, but seeing how obsessed he was with her braces, she was more than willing to give it to him.

She placed her manicured hands on the waistband of his shorts, Luigi raising his hips to help her slide them down his strong legs exposing his needy cock.

Y/N took him in her hands, gently stroking him as she guided him closer to her mouth, parting her lips open. She gave a gentle kiss on his tip before she stuck her tongue out and dragged it down his length, tasting his skin.

“Oh shit.” He praised, his large hands guiding themselves to her scalp, entangling themselves with her hair.

She took him inside her mouth, nearly taking every inch as she bobbed her head back and forth, his tip hitting the back of her throat every time. Luigi groaned as he bucked his hips into her mouth, making her gag.

“That’s it, Dolcezza.” He encouraged, pushing her head down, smiling cruelly. “You like my dick down your throat? Hm?” He mocked, watching as she came back up for air, tears pooling around her eyes once again.

The sight of her tears turned him on so much.

Luigi took his thumb and placed it on her face, wiping off the tears that stained her beautiful face. “So pretty, Dolcezza.” He crooned, taking his thumb and placed them in his mouth, tasting her salted tears.

She pulled herself off his dick, stroking him slow and hard. “Y-You’re so fucking good at this, dolce.” He stuttered, his hips jolted at her delicate hands milking him, her eyes locked onto his cock as she watched him leak.

Her legs squeezed together at the sight, his precum glossing over his tip and dripped down his shaft. Y/N chuckled as he fell weak to her touch, her smile widening as she watched his eyes close, squeezing shut as he tried not to cum at that moment — but God it was so fucking difficult.

Being the dedicated college student that she was, there weren’t many opportunities that she had to make a man fall weak to her touch, Luigi being the exception.

With their mutual connections, they had found each other and she thanked the universe every day for that. The sneaky glances whenever they hung out, the frequent study sessions that served as a ploy for them to drown in sexual tension, yet never doing anything about it.

She placed her mouth back on his cock and sucked his dick with such vigor, her saliva dribbled from her mouth and onto his shaft, leaving a mess on him. She shifted her gaze back onto his eyes, searching for approval, wanting him to tell her that she was a good fucking girl.

“I’m gonna cum, baby — need you to open wide, can you do that for me?” He panted, his words making her pull away once again, this time to give him the view he absolutely deserved.

She placed her manicured hands on his sensitive tip, giving him a smile as she aimed him at her teeth, his tip rubbing against her metal brackets, the sensation sending a chill down his spine as his cum shot out of him, painting her teeth a glossy white.

Mangione had lost his self control, moaning as his hips stuttered against her touch. Y/N watched him with such pleasure, continuing to jerk him off as she aimed to catch every last drop of him on her tongue.

“Such a good fucking girl.” He worshipped, “God, you amaze me, Dolcezza.” He breathed, watching her swallow him.

She stuck her tongue out to show him, her tongue completely pink — Y/N was his brace-faced vixen and he loved that.

<3

[poppitron360]

Okay so I might’ve mentioned that I’m writing a fic where the children of Percabeth, Solangelo, and Valgrace go on an epic quest to rescue their parents and the rest of the Seven from the clutches of evil and I’ve kinda been Hyperfixating on it for a while so here is the first character I would like to info-dump about.

Meet Finley Di Angelo-Solace!!!

He’s currently my favourite out of the Next-gen trio and definitely the one I have the most fun writing for. I genuinely love him sm.

Rant under the cut-

Fin is the son of Nico and Will, and was created using divine godly magic so is biologically both theirs (hey if Zeus can have a baby from his thigh this can happen)

His powers are a complex amalgamation of both of his parents: he can shadow-travel in sunlight, he can heal and talk to the dead and his main weapon is archery

He’s autistic

He has hypersensitive hearing (it could be an Apollo thing, it could be an Autism thing we don’t know. It’s probably both)

He prefers ranged combat partially because he is touch-averse and likes to keep his distance (also bc the other two characters both use melee weapons so I needed some variety)

I see your “Trans Will Solace” hc and I raise you- “Transmasc son of Solangelo who they love and support so so much”

He will INSIST on wearing a binder throughout the entire quest, rib cage be damned! (This will become a problem bc apparently you’re supposed to take breaks and you’re not supposed to do any physical exercise in them so running around chasing monsters is not gonna go well)

A big theme in the fic is gonna be “names have power- but the name you choose is so much more important than the name you were given”, a continuation of the theme from my Married Valgrace AU (which this is canon to) where Jason chooses to take Leo’s name instead of keeping the name of the mom that abandoned him. I feel like Finley would be a great character to symbolise this- someone who chose his own name.

His favourite colour is green/turquoise

Think of Nico’s scariest moment that you’ve read in canon or in a fic- where he is just a force of complete and utter darkness and death. Are you picturing it? Good. Now multiply that by ten. Now imagine someone tried to misgender his child.

The same can be applied to Will. No transphobe would dare mess with Solangelo’s boy.

He is childhood best friends with the two other main characters, Isabella and Olympia, and talks to them a lot but is kinda shy around everyone else.

He also has a major crush on Isabella- the daughter of Valgrace. I have so many cute hcs about those two y’all have no idea.

He is good with medicine and has a magic first-aid kit that acts a lot like Leo’s tool belt with replenishing supplies.

He loves Star Wars

While all the other characters’ POV chapters have regular PJO-style funny titles, all his chapter titles are TOA-esque haikus.

@demigod-shenanigans @twomanyfandomshelp @puzzled-pegasus @m-for-now @lavenderfairiez @ginnyluna @groverapologist @echo-stimmingrose @keefessketchbook @sleepyycapybara @123letsgobestie @fairytalesociology @four-leafed-queer-gal @child-of-helios @lokiwiiiiiii @yoshuko-ew @frayna-of-the-hollow @via-rant @hadeslegacyhephgirl @pjowasmy1stfandom @thetourturedwritersclub @inky-void @deciduowl @day-draws

[kortsitron]

Coming Out

✮ PARING Bucky Barnes × Trans Male! Reader

✮ WARNINGS/TAGS 40's, catfa! bucky, supportive! bucky, bisexual! bucky, pre-transition reader, gender dysphoria, established relationship, misgendering, coming out(s), anxiety, fluff, unsafe binding, suggestive themes but no smut, angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of transphobia, praises

✮ SUMMARY Bucky finds out you're trans amd decides to show his support for you

✮ A/N I haven't written much for my trans men lately, so I wanted to write something again. You can say it's kinda inspired by confessions (another fic of mine), but this goes a little differently. I also wanna add - do NOT use bandages to bind your chest, it is not safe. Please get a binder and if that is not impossible, buy breast tape and use it to flatten your chest down if possible. Please stay safe while binding!!

ao3 masterlist requests

Being Bucky's girlfriend wasn't exactly bad, it was quite the opposite actually. He loved taking you out on dates, he was respectful of your boundaries and he was a gentleman like no other. Not to mention, since he was a Sergeant you felt quite safe around him. No man dared to lay his hands on you.

You couldn't ask for a better boyfriend and you were happy with him.

But you were scared to tell him how you felt. How you couldn't bare pretending to be someone you were not. Wearing those dresses, not being able to cut your hair as short as you wanted, calling yourself the name that didn't feel like yours anymore.

You were dying to tell him, but at the same time you were scared he might break up with you or worse. You knew James was not a bad man, he was pretty accepting, but it didn't stop your worries.

After a long day at work, you saw him waiting outside the Cafe with the biggest grin on his face. “Hey, doll.” He greeted you as you exited through the door.

“Someone looks happy. Something happened?” You asked with a hint of teasing to your tone as you walked over to him.

“Can't a man just be happy to see his beautiful, amazing girlfriend?” He asked, taking your hand and giving your knuckles a soft, sweet kiss.

You had to stop yourself from grimacing at the word ‘girlfriend’, but you managed. Maybe because he was being so sweet towards you.

“Planning on taking me somewhere?” You asked, trying to change the subject in case you were going to hear more comments that, despite being made in good faith, were making you uncomfortable.

“I was thinking we could go to my place, maybe cuddle.” He shrugged before wrapping his arm around your waist.

“Just cuddle? Or are you going to make me get into Hobbit?” You asked with a small grin as you started walking towards Bucky's house.

“Oh come on.” He let out a playful whine. “It's a good book. Trust me, I'll get you into it eventually.”

“Keep on trying.”

Bucky’s place wasn’t far and almost as soon as the two of you got there, he got into the bed and pulled you on top of him. And there you were, on top of shirtless Bucky who couldn't get his hands off of you.

“I can't get enough of you.” Bucky murmured, his hands going up and down the soft flesh of your thighs. He bit down on his bottom lip, you were the most gorgeous thing in his eyes. 

You let out a soft chuckle at his words, and he smiled at that. It was always so nice to be around him, he was able to make you smile and laugh like no other.

“Let’s get you out of that, hmm?” He hummed, while relaxed enough you forgot about one little, tiny but very important detail.

He started taking the dress off you, and then he saw it. His eyes widened as he saw your chest. Tightly bandaged around your chest, making it flatter than it was normally. His eyes held worry for you, did someone hurt? Did something happen to you?

“Are you hurt?” He sat up a little as he asked the question. He wanted to touch your chest, but he was worried he would hurt you.

You look down at your chest, before trying to cover yourself up. He wasn’t supposed to find out, at least not now. At the moment, under his gaze all you could feel was shame. All you could think about was that he was going to break up with you.

With your heart already pounding in your chest, you started getting off of him in a hurried way. Bucky immediately picked up your panic and he grabbed your wrist. Tightly enough to not let you slip out, but not enough to make it hurt.

“Hey, hey…” His voice was a little more gentle now, hushed. His thumb was gently caressing your wrist. “I am worried about you. Did something happen? You aren’t hurt, are you?” His eyes flickered down to the bandages, looking for any blood stains. But there was none, just the clean bandage, carefully wrapped around your chest.

“You… You promise you won’t throw me out…?” 

His eyes widened once more. Throw you out? You?

"Darlin’, I could never. Why would I ever throw you out?” He couldn't understand why you would think like that.

With a shaky sigh and tears in your eyes, you laid down next to him. Bucky laid back on the back, staying quiet and letting you find the right words.

“I-I don’t feel… good about my body.” You mumbled out, your voice shaky. Bucky saw that you weren’t okay, but decided not to interrupt you. He gently grabbed your hand, giving it a squeeze as if encouraging you to talk without saying so out loud.

“I d-don’t feel like a woman, alright?” Your voice was even more shaky. Before you knew it, you started sobbing quietly, overwhelmed by the confession you made. “I want to be a man like you. I want to be seen as a man, dress like a man, look like a man. I just want to be me.”

Without a second thought, Bucky wrapped his arms around you, pulling close against his chest. One of his hands caressed your back, hoping to comfort you.

He was quiet, lost in his thoughts before he finally spoke up. “I heard there’s a man… Well, a woman actually, who had the same problem as you. She was born as a man, but she didn’t feel like one, so she decided to stop pretending who she was and now she’s just… herself.”

“Really?”

Bucky hummed. “Yeah. I think we saw her last week, you said she had a nice dress. I think her name was Annie or something along those lines.”

You didn’t know there was another person like you out there. You felt so isolated in your own experience, you didn’t notice others who were able to understand you. Understand what you were going through.

“Are you… are you going to break up with me?” You asked as quietly as you could, you were terrified to hear a positive answer.

Bucky pulled back to look at your tear-stained face. He gently cupped it, making you look into his eyes as he smiled at you. “Never, love. I love you so much. It doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman. You’re my boyfriend, okay?” He kissed your forehead.

Boyfriend. 

You were waiting so long to hear something like that and it felt so damn good to finally hear it.

Bucky let go of you and left the bed. “Where are you going?” You asked, not understanding what he wanted to do.

“I think I have something you might wanna wear instead of that dress. No matter how pretty it is.” He teased you a little, but his words held no malice. They were quite affectionate, actually.

He walked back to you with a simple shirt and a pair of pants. “What do you think, huh? Enough to your liking? Or would my baby like a suit more, hmm?” He had a smile on his face, almost as if excited about this whole thing.

You were so worried he might be disgusted with you and yet there he was, smiling at you after you told him.

“They'll be fine. Thank you, James.” Your soft answer made his heart skip a beat.

“No problem. What kind of partner would I be if I left all by yourself when you're struggling so hard?” He gave your forehead a small kiss. “You're stuck with me, doll.”

He put the clothes down on the bed, his eyes wandering to your chest once more. He let out a sigh, his expression more serious than before.

“As much as I want to support you, you can't be wearing those. It's definitely not safe.”

“I know, I just wanted my chest to be flatter.” You explained, with a small hint of desperation in your voice.

“I know, I know. Listen, we will find a way to help you, okay?” His voice was soft, almost as if he was worried he might not express his concern properly. He wanted to support you, but he was still worried about your safety. 

“We will find a safer alternative. As much as I believe you meant no harm, I just can tell your ribs will not be happy if you keep bandaging yourself for longer than just a day.” He continued, his eyes not leaving yours.

His hand moved to your cheek and he smiled at you. “You're not alone and you won't be as long as I am here. With me, you can be yourself. I will do what I can to help you.”

You nodded before giving him a tight hug. “Thank you so much.” Bucky wrapped his arms tightly around you before letting go.

“Go on.” He encouraged as he gestured towards the clothes. “I know you're dying to try them on.”

You let out an excited giggle, taking the clothes into your hand and making your way to the bathroom, almost tripping over as you did.

“Careful. We don't need you all bruised, do we?” Bucky commented with a small smirk before letting out a small chuckle.

While you disappeared behind a bathroom door, Buck had a little moment to think about the whole situation.

Was he expecting that? No. Should he? Probably. 

He wasn't going to break up with you, he was too in love with you to care about your gender. You were still the same person he fell in love with over a year ago.

If anything, he was much more concerned about your safety. He knew there were people who would not be as accepting as he was. 

Heck, he still remembered how he was walking the poor Annie home after a few guys jumped her sometime ago. Bucky wasn't going to pretend the thought of something similar happening to you didn't make his stomach turn. 

You were safe with him, but on your own? He was scared to find out.

The sound of the door opening took Bucky out of his thoughts. He looked towards it and saw you, dressed in what he gave you, along with your hair being tied in a way that made your hair appear shorter than it actually was.

Bucky let out a low whistle at the sight. “Now that's one hell of a man.” His eyes wandered over you, his smile returning. “Well, well, well. If someone really says my boyfriend isn't the most handsome, we will know they are lying.” 

His smile widened when he saw how happy you were at the praises.

“C'mere, darling. Let me hold my pretty boy.” He patted his lap, inviting you to sit on it. 

You eagerly sat down on his lap. “Look at you, so handsome.” His hand moved to gently grab your chin so he could look at your face.

“You think so?” You asked a little more shyly, as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Absolutely. Now I wonder how you would look in a suit.” He bit his lip once more. “I bet you would look good. Like really, really good.” He moved to leave a few kisses down your neck.

“Okay, okay. I get it. Enough praises.” You giggled at the feeling of his soft lips against your neck.

“Enough? You don't like my praises? I am wounded.” He pulled back and mocked, pretending to be hurt by your words.

His eyes wandered over you once more. It was nice to see you like this, visibly happier and more confident than before.

“You know… handsome,” He murmured, his smile falling once more. At first he wanted to call you by the name he was used to calling you, but after what you told him, he thought against it. “As much as I want to support you, I need you to be careful, okay? I am not telling you to not start pressing yours in a more masculine way, of course, you do you. I worry someone might hurt you for trying to be yourself.”

You nodded quietly. World was not as pleasant of a place for those who were sticking out, purposely or not. “I know, Buck. But I don't wanna pretend to be someone I am not.”

Bucky let out a quiet sigh. He expected that kind of answer. “I know, doll. I know.” He moved closer to you, his forehead against yours as he closed his eyes. “I will do what I can to protect you from harm's way. We will find a way for you to be yourself safely, okay?”

You hummed with a soft nod. “Gonna find me a good hairstylist?” You asked with a small smile, hoping to lighten up the mood.

He let out a snort at your words. “Definitely. If I wasn't worried I might leave with an uneven haircut, I would do it myself.” He chuckled. “But I think I might know a safe place where you can get a haircut. I mean, I have a friend who owns a nice, small hairdressing salon. I heard from a friend that he doesn't mind people from the community unlike some.”

You let out a hum before you smirked a little. “You have contacts with the community? I don't know about something?” You teased him lightly.

“What can I say? Women are pretty, but some men are also eye-catchers.” He winked at you. “But seriously, I will talk to him if you want to.”

You nodded once more. “It means a lot, James. Thank you.”

“It's no problem, love.” 

[cardinalcanis]

Compliance

*Comes out of a dark alley* "Hey kid, want some Titus smut to scramble that brain chemistry real good? I got your fix."

This is @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond 's fault.

Summary: Titus was struggling with some unexpected side effects from the Rubicon Surgery, luckily he finds relief in unexpected hands.

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x NB!OC

Tw: smut, Adeptus Mechanicus, prostate massage, edging, genitals are a social construct, technically tentacles, Astartes have more holes than you think (trust me), MATH.

Word count: 7316

Tag squad (let me know if you wish to be tagged on stuff): @druidwolf21 @wolf-feathers12 @artemisareia @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus

@gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @kit-williams @egrets-not-regrets @jaghatai-khock @horuslupercal

@moodymisty @lemon-russ @thisuserislilsilly

@sinistermojo @beckyninja @justallll @ms--lobotomy @pluvio-tea

Mechanicus speech cheat sheet:

When the hyperfocus gets in my mind goes so hard into ideas it gets them pregnant. So as this has a lot of Math Symbols as I went hamm on writing the Tech Priest’s way of speaking. I’m not a mathematician, I played loosely with stuff and their meanings, do not scream at me. Here is a quick list: 

>    -> More than. 

=    -> equals. 

!    -> negation of, no 

+++    -> increase. 

<=    -> less or equal to

&    -> and 

- - -    -> decrease 

T(statement)    -> that statement or thing is always true. 

=>    -> therefore, implies, if… then

!=    -> not equals to

∈    -> belongs to

⇔    -> if and only if, only.  

\/    -> or

P(statement)    -> probability of statement

Statement1 | statement2    -> statement1 happened because statement2 happened. 

E(statement)    -> the statement is an expected result. 

∅    -> null

F(statement)    -> that statement or thing is always false. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lieutenant Demetrian Titus of the Ultramarines, Liberator of Graia, slayer of Grimskull, veteran of the Deathwatch, bane of xenos, executioner of Thousand Sons… reduced to this pathetic drooling mess.

It had started around a month ago, the last bloody bug had been ripped to shreds but still he felt this hunger to keep going. He checked the state of his armor’s system, to his surprise the reserves of adrenaline shots hadn’t been used during the battle. Why did he still feel so restless? When did his bodyglove become so overstimulating? Had the material always been that noticeable on the skin when it was supposed to be seamless? Every single one of his nerve endings was screaming for touch, begging to be rubbed against something, ANYTHING. The worst was his aching groin, he had been close to believing that his codpiece was about to slingshot off him and get someone killed any second now. 

“Testosterone > expected Astartes levels. Positive note. Risk factor = low. !(Possibility) of death.” had stated Magos Biologis Mu-Oragon, brown eyes scanning the dataslate. 

“Low risk factor? I can’t barely focus on anything else Magos. What’s causing this?” 

The mechanicus lifted their gaze from the datapad, pale skin bathed in its faint greenish glow. Titus couldn’t decipher if the person had been male or female before embracing the Omnissiah, but there was a graceful beauty on the mech priest that had been lacking on others of their kind… shit this is bad he’s now sexualizing one of those tin cans.

“This unit understands, patient’s +++frustration = expected. Rubicon <= a year.” 

“Yes.” He had started to rock slightly on his seat, trying to focus on anything else rather than the heat coming from his core. At least his armor helped with masking the worst parts of his current condition, unlike the joke that tried to call itself a robe which he had to wear for examination. 

“[(Rubicon <= a year)&(Testosterone > expected Astartes level)] = normal occurrence.” One of Mu’s mechadendrites reached for the shelf, pulling a heavy binder. They then held it open with the help of their four mechanical arms. “---Symptoms expected. T(Normal progression).” 

“And what do you want me to do in the meantime! I thought the apothecary had referred me here for a solution.” he exclaimed out of frustration standing off the examination table. “Don’t you have any meds you can give me?”

His whole body shivered at the unexpected cold grasp from three mechadendrites pinning him back into a seating position. Blood flowed to his cheeks due to the surprising arousal that came from being manhandled by the seemingly meek Mu. 

“Hormonal cycle must !(be) disturbed => not compliance.  Compliance => possible late implant rejection. I !(compromise) unit Titus’ safety.” Mu-Oragon said in what was a wholeheartedly caring tone, even through the respirator’s distortion.

Titus had been told they had been the one in charge of his rubicon surgery, the one who saved his life. An incredibly dangerous procedure in normal conditions, but with the scale of his wounds it almost meant impossible success. Even with all that he didn’t imagine the Magos would feel protective of him, he was just another number in his surgery record anyways.

“Mu I can’t fight like this…” The same shiver again but now caused by the Magos’ grasp leaving him. Only the phantom feeling of the touch floating over his skin, another painful release he couldn’t attain, adding to the breaking down of his sanity. 

“That statement is true. Hopeful contrast. !(medication) != !(relief).” 

It took him a moment to wrap his head around the meaning of Mu’s words. He had become better at understanding the Magos after the repeated checkups on his condition following the rubicon surgery, yet there wasn’t a chance he could call himself fluent in mechanicus speech, less with someone’s accent as strong as the one in front of him. 

“You can help then, is that what you mean?” 

“Titus attempted stimulation for release = True?” they asked, pulling what seemed to be an informative pamphlet from the binder. 

“You mean if I had tried jacking off?” 

“That statement is true.”

A soft flush washed over Titus’ cheeks, glad the Magos’ examination room was empty today, Emperor only knows how hard this conversation would be in front of others. How could a room feel both so hot and cold at the same time? One of Mu’s mechadendrites tilted his head to drive his attention back towards the mechanicus, the touch has such softness uncharacteristic of what a machine would have. Yet the exception existed on Mu-Oragon, every single one of their four arms and many mechadendrites was designed for careful surgery where an eighth of a millimeter could prove life or death. He couldn’t recall all the instances during previous examinations when he had been touched by them and only noticed it once the contact became absent. 

“Yes I have.” He answered, unfamiliar with the open disclosure of his intimate activities. “It hasn’t been working.”

“Elaboration on process required. Accurate solution given ⇔ accurate description of event.” 

Mu-Oragon seemed to be deciding between a collection of pamphlets and booklets, skimming through them with the many prosthetic ocular lenses around his forehead while keeping their human eyes on Titus, which added to the multiple limbs, gave them quite an arachnid appearance.  

“What do you want me to say? There is not much science to it…” Even though the theoretical was quite clear, for the first time since his neophyte years his mind found itself struggling to find a proper practical for it

Titus held Mu’s gaze, curiously the Magos Biologis had retained both of his human eyes, only attaching more ocular addons around. A thing the astartes found quite curious if compared to others of his kind, who preferred replacing the lesser biological counterparts first. Theoretical: Mu-Oragon retained their human eyes, practical: it was a conscious decision due to the more patient oriented side of their occupation, it helped to establish trust.

He found the practical fitting. Wide almond shaped eyes with a reassuring stare, a window to the candid individual living inside machine parts and shrouded in logic based statements. 

Mu-Oragon’s mechadendrite surprised him again by resting part of its weight on Titus’ shoulder, comprehending the man’s struggle for words. He pondered on how much was Mu’s intent and how much was the limb’s machine spirit acting, he would have been lying if admitting that the relationship between mechadendrites and users wasn’t something he found interesting. One of his brothers, a tech-marine, had explained how they were beings of their own possessing an individual machine spirit; yet perfectly synchronized with his mind. Many times acting upon his thoughts without realizing. 

“Following procedure occurs on common stimulation practice. True \/ false?” asked the Magos, extending a thin booklet towards him that read ‘Comprehensive guide to prostatic stimulation’.   

“No” he answered as stoically as he could, looking at the object being handed to him. 

“Inference: this unit’s previous statement = false.” chirped Mu, computer-like clicks emitted as they spoke, possibly running calculations. “Response to Titus’ current statement: compiled. Deeper stimulation > external. [+++P(relief) = P.relief (Release | deep stimulation)] > [+++P(relief) = P.relief (Release | external stimulation)]. E[(---surplus testosterone) \/ (∅surplus testosterone)]” 

“You mean I can fix this by showing things up my ass?” 

“Statement’s truthfulness cannot be validated. P[ ((---surplus testosterone) \/ (∅surplus testosterone)) | (Simple anal insertion) ] = not conclusive. Remark: Relief of ailment ⇔ proper technique = true.”   

Titus swallowed a knot in this throat, followed by a long sigh. He didn’t expect the prescription for his ailment to be a masturbation technique. 

“Doubts prostatic stimulation = E(relief)?” Asked Mu tilting their head to the side. “Inexperienced = true?” 

Titus nodded, noticing how he had been holding Oragon’s gaze the whole time. 

“I can provide asistance ⇔ (consent = True). (Perform on Titus & explain) ⇔ (consent = True)” 

The booklet crunched a bit as he held it tighter, Mu had pulled him apart and back together before, likely there is no piece of him they haven’t touched… in the medical sense. Throne that simple though made him almost produce a low gasp. A different occurrence may have ended up in the rejection of such a proposal, but his situation was all but common. He could barely stay still without rubbing his aching crotch against something. Theoretical: this is just a medical procedure; practical: nothing else will come out of it. 

“Alright Mu-Oragon.” He agreed in almost a whisper. “Just… please be careful.” 

“T(Titus’ wellbeing is my priority.)” Even through the respirator their tone came out gleeful and reassuring. 

A couple days after, back at his chambers, Titus gasped and struggled to achieve the previous results he had experienced with the Magos. He was following the same movements and booklet’s instructions to the letter, his fingers were bigger and thicker than Mu’s; still the efforts left him wanting. He had made himself cum, and it had felt good, yes. But his relief was a cup with a hole at the bottom, never filling. 

Titus pressed his face against the drool covered pillow, recalling the memory from the examination room. Every time Mu had pressed their fingers inside him an asphyxiating wave of pleasure had drowned him over and over, his hairs stood with the remembrance of the Magos’ muffled exhalations due to the effort of manhandling such a heavier man. Another finger, he went deeper, a reminiscent thought of firm steel hands that had held his legs still; spread. 

Mu had played him like the director of an astropathic choir does his organ. Has Titus been the only astartes with a similar issue they’ve had to help? He bit the pillow hard enough to cause a rip, there was anger. The thought of Mu-Oragon giving similar care to someone else brewed an overflowing pot of jealousy and rage in him. But why? It was the Magos Biologis’ job to aid the Astartes, it was obvious there was no emotional attachment to the action. Despite the evidence he couldn’t stop the reassuring and borderline loving statements they had directed at him during the procedure to eat at his mind. How comfortable they had made him feel in his vulnerability, how in the time of their exchange he had silently craved for Mu to touch more of his body, to touch theirs. 

Titus sat in silence, frustrated tears sliding off his cheeks, a lone company in the otherwise relatively bare room. It was quite late at what the battle barge’s internal schedule had designated as ‘night time’, how much of a ‘night owl’ was the mechanicus? Was it proper to visit them? Were they busy? Were they saving another Astartes’ life? Were they soothing other Astartes’ post rubicon testosterone spike? Next thing Titus knew he was already dressed, one thought in mind. He should go to see them, by the primarch’s honor he had to see Mu. 

He moved with haste, weaving through the crowd of servitors engrossed in periodic station maintenance under the watchful vigilance of Mu’s brethren. No, they couldn’t compare to the Magos, none of them. Shit, why did he cram the stupid booklet and lube he was provided into his pocket? It was too late to return, his body would have not allowed him. 

Throne, those clothes were clean out of the dryer though they encountered themselves drenched with sweat. Titus’ walk to the desired wing was a blur, the fight between will and arousal occupied his focus in its entirety. Demetrian’s awareness returned to the front stage with his arrival at Mu’s laboratory, empty except for servitors. He pressed on past examination tables and towering shelves full of implements Titus had no idea of purpose, he didn’t need to anyways, he already had one. 

“Mu…” he mouthed at a sound belonging to what could be Mu’s binharic speech. 

The series of rhythmic computation sounds came out of a nearby room, the door almost fully closed. From the narrow opening left, aside from the overpowering smell proper of incense and machine oil, he could make sense that it was a private chamber.

There they were, sitting crosslegged on the floor, bathed in candle glow making their augments look like consecrated gold. Mu was perpendicular from the door, immersed in sacred meditation. In front of them a towering representation of the machine god crowned the extensive cogitator it was embedded on. The Magos’ hood was down, exposing their side shaved head, what was left of their brown hair in the middle presented tightly tied in a low ponytail. Cables came out of ports and cogitators on the sides of their head, neck and under their robes, connecting them to the one they were praying to. Two of their hands were in a prayer position, the other two resting on their knees. The many mechadendrites seemed deactivated, filling a circle around Mu as they laid over the carpet, like the resting wings of an angel. 

He had opened the door a bit more, taking one step inside yet regretting it instantly. It felt wrong, he was a trespasser, disturbing a sacred intimate rite he didn’t belong at. Titus tried to turn back but a mechadendrite stood to life, clasping hand pointed at the marine as if it could see him. Mu’s eyes opened accompanied by a quick inhalation, reminding him of someone waking up from deep sleep. 

“Unit Demetrian Titus…” surprise took over the Magos whose mechadendrites waved around them covering them until they could pull their hood back up. “Urgent assistance = true?” 

The door rattled slightly as Titus’ hand trembled. Was he feeling fear? The feeling he was made immune of? Mu tilted their head, emitting a series of concerned clicks. They patted a space on the rug beside them, limbs pulling aside to make space for Titus. 

“Permissions granted; accompany this unit. ⇔ desired so.” 

He entered further, making sure that the door was closed behind him. The intensity of the incense only increased with his approach. Titus gave the machine god’s image a look, its aura swallowed him, he was allowed into the room but that didn’t mean he was welcomed, that it welcomed him. 

“Detecting elevated blood pressure, presence of hyperhidrosis. Inference: condition disturbed.” They pointed out when he sat, the rest of their limbs focused on respectfully disconnecting the cables that joined Mu to the room’s cogitator. “Request: details needed.”

“Magos I… I have been doing everything as told.” The words were hard to come up with, this was a bad idea, he wanted to run. “Please, believe me.” 

“Complicance.” they said in what could have been a sigh. “Hormoral reading required. !(time) for a blood scan, +++urgency.” With their words they took the disconnected end of one of the cables still attached to them. “Expedited read | (direct connection = true)” 

A mechanendrite exposed the port at his nape. Even taking into account that the Magos’ intentions were clear and the connection into the ports around his body was a day to day affair; he couldn’t but instinctively want to lean away from the attempt. At least while conscious he had only been connected to external machines and his armor, making Titus and it become one. He was unsure of what linking to another conscious creature would be like. 

“Mu wait… ah…” 

He gasped at the connector’s insertion, a cold wave washed over him. Then, pressure. An extra force needed to be applied for the linkage’s proper attachment. Titus flinched when the plug was inserted to full length and secured. It has never felt this way, the imperceptive clicking shouldn’t be that all consuming, the effortless pressure shouldn’t send a shivering echo across his whole nervous system. The next breath came from lungs outside of his chest cavity. Parallel thoughts stood by his own. Connection state: stable. +++(blood oxygenation). Execute t01101000… wait what? 

“Requests: stand still for reading.” Mu pleaded, their voice sounding closer than the separation between them suggested. “Current testosterone levels = previous reading. Insulin levels within Astartes range = true. Leptin levels within Astartes range =  true. HGH levels within Astartes range = true…” they paused, Titus couldn’t see Mu’s throat but felt it on his own as it moved in a swallow. “+++(Oxytoxin levels)” 

A mechadendrite slid its rigged tentacle down his back coming into a wrap around the waist. The Magos glared at it with burning disapproval hasting the limb to release him. Unbecoming = true.

“What is that? Is it wrong?” Titus asked, a pressing heat that wasn’t the one already overwhelming him joined the room. 

“Oxytoxin = {social bonding hormone, love hormone, reproduction…}” 

The command for Mu’s arm to disconnect from him was clear, Titus’ enhanced reflexes were faster, applying pressure on the Magos’ hand before it could pull the connector out. A heart that wasn’t his drummed frantically. P(mutual) = 80%. Could it be that they have also been feeling something similar? P(mutual) = 88%. For how long? P(mutual) = 90%...

Titus leaned forwards pressing his lips on Mu’s cheek right when it met with the respirator, the skin was so soft, their smell like the rest of the room = {iron, candle wax, incense, sweat}. Mu’s arms resisted the approach but the many mechadendrites welcomed him, they acted upon their master’s subconscious wishes. 

“+++(levels) = {oxytocin, adrenaline, dopamine, vasopressin}.” They reported faintly. “Warning: Unit Titus breaching patient-magos protocol.”

“Are those hormonal readings yours or mine?” He asked with a tinge of humor, yet letting the wanting show. 

“Irrelevant.” The Magos chirped with higher pitch than normal before more mechadendrites started rubbing themselves around Titus like purring cats, then stopping when Mu directed a stern echoing mental order. 

“How long?” he asked, pressing his body against those appendages, begging for their touch. 

“Comprehension | (Unit Titus’ attention = true)” Oragon’s voice barely rose over the rushed clicking of their cogitators. “P(rubicon primaris success | healthy Astartes) = 61.6%. E(rubicon primaris success | medically dead Astartes) = ∅.” Was it a memory that flashed before him? Anger, defiance, approval, tension, relief. “Demetrian Titus: Omnissiah’s miracle. T(Demetrian Titus is my biggest pride).” Mu pressed their forehead against his. “T(Demetrian Titus is this unit’s most beautiful creation). Possessive desire = true.” 

He tried to get even closer, mind screaming to the magos’ to take him theirs as their right was. A slight passing migraine struck him, pushback. 

“I want ∈ Titus. I want Titus ∈ me.” 

They paused, a constant stream of data rushed from them to Titus. Failure = true. Unfaithful = true. Weak = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true.  Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. 01001000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01110100 01100101 01101011 00100000 00111101 00100000 01110100 01110010 01110101 01100101. 01001000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01110100 01100101 01101011 00100000 00111101 00100000 01110100 01110010 01110101 01100101 01001000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01110100 01100101 01101011 00100000 00111101 00100000 01110100 01110010 01110101 01100101.

“I’m here Mu, make me yours.” Titus purred, pressing his face on the Magos’ neck, their scent ordering his body into a surrender. +++(serotonin levels). 

“I want to execute statement compliance. Intervention. This unit !(execute) statement compliance. Mu !∈ Titus. Titus !∈ Mu. Mu ∈ The Omnissiah. Titus ∈ The Emperor.” With the great effort of several limbs they were capable of pushing Titus away, his whimper had a twin companion. “ F[P(I ∈ (Omnissiah & Titus) & Titus ∈ (Me & Emperor)) > 0]. Titus’ understanding = true?” 

“Mu, being with you will not make me stop fighting for the Emperor nor will distance you from the Machine God.” Unit Titus’ statement = True. “It will only make me fight harder, to fight for the Emperor is to fight for humanity, you are part of humanity, you are part of what I fight for; what I will die for.” 

Two of the Magos’ hands cradled his face, thumbs rubbing his cheeks, their eyes gifted him a loving painting colored in sorrow ahead of closing them tightly. Mu’s bodily cogitators’ clicking became louder, similar to a tired engine pushing itself up a difficult hill. Every single one of the mechanicus’ limbs trembled and rattled. Titus felt a piercing pain forming behind a skull that wasn’t his own. 

“Magos stop that! You are hurting yourse…” 

“I would hurt myself everyday if it means I do not hurt you Titus.” The lack of machine logic in Mu-Oragon’s statement caught him by surprise, that’s what they were doing, they were ending any process that would distort the message. To the extent of their modification, it hurt. “Attention  =... Listen to me closely please. What’s in your mind, what’s in my mind; it is a chimera Titus. Fantasy. !(logical).” continued as their registry jumped between two conflicting voice modulations. “I will never be able to fulfill your requirements for intimacy. Demand: compliance with silence = true… I am inside your head right now. You have expectations and desires that I cannot match.” Mu opened their eyes, they looked watery and puffy. The clicking sound became more urgent, the cogitators were screaming for it to end. “Body parts you crave that Mu… I…  do not possess. Blessed Cogitators Titus, look how hard it is for me to express myself in your language, do you think a relationship will work? T(I have no place in your world).” 

The hastened clicking relaxed, lungs that weren’t his struggled for air. Mu gave in and placed their forehead on Titus’ chest. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true.  Heretek = true. Heretek = true. They purred in the comfort they shouldn’t allow themselves to have. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true.  Heretek = true. Heretek = true. They were surrounded by strong arms whose warmth they had no business craving. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true.  Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Their face, implants included, being covered in kisses that had a better use on someone else. Yet they didn’t want someone else to have. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true.  Heretek = true. Heretek = true.

“You are no heretek” Titus spoke clearly, his voice making a body that wasn’t his own yet felt like it; to tremble. “I never asked you to change for me. I will not allow you to change for me. Whatever you bring to me will make me happy, because it’s yours.” 

“Counterargument. Titus feeling this way | (+++testosterone & +++oxytocin). (Hormonal stabilization = true) => Titus !(love) Mu. E(Desire = {∅}).” 

“Theorerical: the result of your reasoning is false. Practical: you are in my head, you must only look.” 

“Compliance.” 

There was an invasive tingle poking at his brain, searching, inquiring. They shared a long moment of silence, lullabied by cogitators and Mu’s binharic musings. It felt strangely intimate, not the idea he had in mind when he came out of his room desperate to have the Priest inside him. Yet he still ached for it. 

Mu looked up to him. Pulling their hood down then guiding Titus hands on how to properly hold their face without disturbing the cablework. Throne, they were so strangely beautiful. 

“This unit’s compliance: approval pending.” They said, “This unit’s compliance ⇔ (Titus’ trust = true & Titus’ consent = true).” 

“You pulled my body apart and back Magos, do you really need more trust?” 

“Mu-Oragon !(had) Titus’ consent for rubicon. Patient previous state = unconscious. Unconsciousness !(match) consent protocol. Repeating inquiry: Titus’ Trust = True?” 

“Yes Mu I trust you.” 

“Titus’ statement = true?” The Magos pressed. 

“With my life, Mu please just… ah…”

Another cable made its insertion into Titus, now at a port on his lower back. His vision blurred for a second after the push that made the connection click, he felt himself holding Mu’s face and Mu’s face being held by his hands. A series of satisfied binharic purrs came out of him… the Magos. A touch, a gentle hand caressing behind his earlobe and going down the jawline made him moan quite loud. Titus tightened his lips afterwards full of confusion and shame. Mu chuckled behind the respirator. 

“Proud remark: Any mortal knowledge of Titus’ body < this unit’s knowledge of Titus’ body.” Both him and them gasped in unison with the many limbs holding him in place. “Proceeding with statement validation.” 

Fingers brushed his hair back in a soothing motion, just like they did that day at the examination room to calm his nerves. 

“Retrieving previously used data; Titus = {good, strong, capable, beautiful}.” 

With every word a new limb joined the embrace. Hands, ribbed tentacles, mechadendrite claspers; they all rubbed and massaged Titus’ body over his clothes. Pleasurable yet with the Magos’ teasing, no contact was made with any greater erogenous zone. The Marine played against the scheme, moving himself in a way Mu would at least grace the most vocal centers about their hunger, the mechanicus fought back trying to anticipate Titus’ moves and not let him have a win. They both were absorbed by childish chuckle and sporadic gasps. Mu’s binharic clicks were cheerful, jovial notes, light and dark compared with the ones from earlier. 

He placed his lips on Mu’s neck, also feeling them on his. And ran kisses over both flesh and blessed metal parts. They tensed a bit when he attempted to touch their chest, Titus sensed a third heart rate increasing followed by a mental note reassuring him it was fine. Without leaving carefulness behind he went down the Magos’ neck, wrapping, what the jealous tentacle allowed, of an arm behind Mu’s thighs lifting their body enough for him not bend on a weird angle to keep kissing down, his lips making out of fleshy and non biological parts under the robe.

That was when the mechadendrites started to infiltrate the openings on his clothes and slide under. The metal was no longer cold as it had been warmed up by Titus’ own body heat. Had that been the Magos’ plan? 

They both moaned at the sensation of ribbed well oiled tentacles rubbing themselves against Titus’ nipples, lower abdomen and inner thighs. The Marine was sitting on his knees, holding Mu with one arm and kissing their upper robed body, the other hand kept making sense of the shapes hidden by red cloth. 

Anchoring themselves firmly on Titus’ shoulders with two of their arms, Mu used the leftover free hands to undo the ribbons, clasps and buttons keeping the robe on. They stopped, only them letting go would uncover their body. He eyed them expectantly, noticing how shades of pink bloomed on what could be seen on their cheeks. 

“Witness the miracle of machine and flesh ⇔ (Units > initiates). Exception logged: Demetrian Titus.” Their voice sounded even more distorted than usual, nervous binharic chirps made interference with their words. 

“You don’t need to undress more if you are not comfortable, Mu.” Titus indicated lovingly as he massaged one of their shoulders. 

The grill covering Mu’s mouth didn't impede him from noticing they were smiling, the expression brightening their whole face. Adoring notes in binharic were said yet nothing in a manner Titus could understand, but he thought how it reminded him about how their prayers sounded like. With ritual reverence they let the cloth go, causing the scarlet to part and barely hang off their shoulders. He felt Mu shiver as that skin didn’t seem used to being uncovered, it was paler than their face and very thin, so much he felt afraid of his calloused palms breaking it open. Said skin was bitten into by metal, flexible pipes and transparent wiring transporting blood. Just as they did with their head Mu guided Titus’ hands across their upper body, reaching the pant's edge, a scar continuing down into the pubis was seducing him to follow it underneath. He would have if he hadn’t  noticed how in certain places clusters of purple broke paleness’ ruling, matching where he may have innocently grabbed or kissed too excitedly.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you were that sensible.” 

Titus got his mouth close enough to a bruise yet stopped leaving the lips hovering over it, only his breath making contact. He looked up to meet Mu’s gaze, a request for permission written on his. They tightened any grip on Titus leading to a shift of their weight forwards, pressing themselves against his lips. This time he could appreciate how the binharic purrs and notes actually started somewhere between their ribs and echoed towards the grilled respirator in their face to finish being properly enunciated. The pale layer vibrated and contracted with every joint moan, gasp, huff. 

Mu took hold of another cable connected to them that had an orphan end with no port to call home. Instead of going for it right away they let the cord slide over Titus’ chest, going behind him by the left side of his neck and coming out from the right. The cables had a different texture from the appendages holding the mechadendrites, he enjoyed the contrast between stiff ribbedness and flexible softness. The port on the right side of his neck, by the joining with the shoulder, seemed to be the desired spot. The very moment the plug’s tip was to get inserted into it; Titus moved minimally away with a mischievous grin. Playfulness was older than machines, Mu wasn’t the only one with teasing rights.   

Both continued the jolly game for a couple minutes; shifting, giggling. By the end, it seemed Titus would finally accept the insertion only for the marine to get Mu’s hand holding the cable with a light-hearted bite, not exerting a tinge of actual pressure. The Magos hummed then all together, their mechadendrites compressed his body right over spots he would feel their sting the most, the appendages close to his thighs pulled them firmly; forcing him to a more open and exposed sitting position. At the same time, Mu’s free hand seized as much as Titus’ hair it could and yanked his head back with surprising command; displaying the working area. All of it teared out a pained moan out his core. 

“Delivering request for stillness.” They said, the teasing switched its tone from light-hearted into a lascivious one. “Patient Demetrian Titus !(compliance) => Execute: unit’s protocol for unruly patient subjugation. Titus != {bad patient}. (Titus = {Good patient}) = True?” 

“Apologies Magos, I do want to be a good patient, please show me how.” 

“Compliance.” 

His heightened sensitivity perceived the contact between port and connector in ways words could barely describe. When the tip of the connector touched the outer ring, for half a second he could swear that the candles and lumens seemed to brighten then dull back to their normal luminosity. The friction of smooth metal against smooth metal from the middle of the insertion sparked ripples in his brain that reminded Titus just like a vox signal trying to connect. A final push brought the connection to properly click inside, if before it rippled across the nervous system; now there was no system left unassaulted by a powerful spasm.

Demetrian Titus went blank, only remembering short snippets drunk in this unadulterated euphoria, perception shifting quickly between bodies. Once his faculties adapted to the input stream he discovered himself in the same position but things had changed a little. Titus’ top was gone and his pants were down to the knees. Coagulated crimson lines decorated him all over, evidence from scratches his healing factor closed immediately. The marine was rocking his hips at the rhythm of one of the mechadendrites crossing between his legs, rubbing its oiled shaft over the crotch and between the buttocks. He was still holding onto Mu, quite closely. The Magos’ thighs were at both sides of his neck, Demetrian finding his teeth pulling at their pants’ waist band. Two of their hands were finding support from Titus' biceps, the other two grasping at the marine’s hair for dear life; robe barely hanging by their elbows. He saw no reason to stop it there. 

Firmly holding Mu’s waist with one hand he lifted them up a bit, then using the other to grip the waistband at the back Titus slid their pants down, pulling them fully away. His lips' curiosity could finally scout the track indicated by that scar on their lower stomach. His kisses, the wetness of his tongue, the texture of his shaved cheeks; all sensations were mirrored back onto his skin. Then he made an interesting discovery, when he began charting what was left or lacked on Mu’s crotch it also reflected on his cock with curious representations. A  lick on the front was actually felt at the base of his shaft, yet going and kissing a bit to the right from there was experience at the top of his glans. Mu’s moans were his moans, deep, hungry. Their connection was a cyclical loop of pleasure, what was felt on them echoed onto Titus then back into them. He wondered if the mechanicus was capable of feeling arousal from stimulation on that area without a two way connection. Maybe he could try to investigate in the future, as the now had Titus quite busy. 

Mu moved the anchor points from Titus’ biceps to his hands, a metallic finger pried his mouth wide open making sure the tongue was fully out, then lifting themselves up they started to fully ride the Astartes’ mouth at the same rhythm the mechadendrite grinded its length between Titus’ legs. Their speech reduced to huffs and frantic binharic notes weaving the tunes of their shared pleasure. Titus almost dropped Mu when both of them were run over on climax’s path. Trembling prosthetic legs’ embrace became stronger, pressing him firmly on his face, a mortal with not as good breathing capacity would have likely perished out of air. 

They shifted their weight around Titus to climb off his shoulders, sitting on one arm holding them, they pressed their face onto Titus’. That was when he perceived the respirator being slid down, thin soft lips and skin like the one on their other covered areas nuzzled him. Lungs that weren’t his momentarily ached as they readapted to unfiltered air. Mu’s kiss was shy, sloppy, and inexperienced. Their knowledge of other people’s bodies didn’t transfer well to the skill of kissing, it was fine, not like Titus had much either. They could learn together. 

He pulled back from the kiss, not for lack of wanting but the realization he could finally admire Mu’s full face. It was round with big cheeks that were artificially parted with a depression between the cheekbone and cheek caused by the long respirator use. 

“Isn’t it dangerous to take it off?” He asked quite concerned. 

“!(Every unit).” their unaltered voice was more melodious than when muffled behind the respirator. “Mu-Oragon = {sacred binharic, chemical filtration}. Lung condition: stable. !(Risk)” They kissed him again then moved down his neck, he had forgotten, now they were connected Titus’ unquenching lust was also theirs. “Request: taste Titus.” 

“You know the answer.” he smiled back. 

Hums kept emanating from the respirator but without Mu’s mouth to guide them there was no binharic aria, just airy vibrations. He was fine without the tunes, that mouth looked beautiful with their fleshy lips crowning his nipple, disappearing into the bountiful hairy mass of his chest. Cold, a hand stroked up and down his shaft being unable to fully wrap its fingers around it. And Mu’s mouth, it was already small, yet his cock made it look even smaller by comparison, it made the whole Magos smaller by comparison. 

They licked the leftover cum around the tip and down the shaft, maybe now discovering the taste he’ll have an enlightening comeback when Chairon jokingly tells him to go eat his own dick again. 

Titus buckled and moaned not by stimulation itself but a memory, one of Mu’s hands was running its fingers in circles around the entrance to Titus’ backside. They were slippery, quite well lubricated in fact. 

“Titus = {so good patient, follows prescription well}.” Mu teased him. 

A grasping mechadendrite lifted up, holding the opened lube bottle he had stuffed inside his pocket before. Mu’s fingers barely peeked at the entrance, stretching the aroused fleshy ring. 

“Titus’ memories: seen. This Unit's touch: requested. Compliance.”

They slipped inside with the same effortless precision as before, the joy of getting filled as he had been craving was unmeasurable. Titus grabbed Mu’s head and trusted his cock inside the Magos’ mouth, barely getting a third in. In vengeance they got another finger into him, he wailed at the stretch and pressure curling inside him. If before Mu played him like an instrument, the current Titus was the whole orchestra, from groans to wines they composed a melody out of the Astartes’ desire. 

The rhythm became even faster, building a time bomb of pleasure inside his crotch. Drool and precum dripped down Mu’s chin, Emperor, Omnissiah, whoever was responsible: what a beautiful creature they were. Lustful indulgence was ramping up into a crescendo, Titus was getting close to relief he wanted to cry; and he did once Oragon stopped right at the plunge’s edge, denying him. 

Titus was about to ask why when they held his buttcheeks open for the lubed thin rounded head of a grasping mechadendrite pressed into him.

“Wait!” He howled. 

“Titus trust = true.” They whispered hugging the Astartes between their arms, and his cock between their thighs. 

Bastard, they had made it so aiding his throwing member would mean thrusting back and sodomizing himself into them. He had no choice and soon realized how Mu didn’t oversell themselves when they said they knew Titus’ body best, his hole was so well prepared it took the claw and following tentacle quite well. The stretch was so much yet it didn’t feel painful, Golden Throne, it felt like something he didn’t know he wanted but now will never be able to live without. 

Now the mouths of both of them were free he could appreciate how much of a mirror they had become, Titus was the baritone to Mu’s tenor-soprano, singing the same song in parallel harmonies. It was so much, he began bending over until he had the Magos pinned on the floor under him as he thrusted between their thighs, and the Magos had him entangled in many arms and cables as they stretched his insides. 

Titus had been shivering when he approached the same edge of the cliff as before, it being at a higher distance from the ground compared to the last. The Astartes felt as if the fall was going to make him blackout again, Mu had given him so many gifts, brought back to life and now another way to perceive life through the skin of the one he cherished, their skin. 

The timer on the time bomb in his crotch reached zero, a wave of pleasure after the other washed over him, he suddenly became aware of every pore in their skins, every hair on their heads. But it kept on, every single one of Mu’s appendages grabbed onto Titus as if letting go would cost them their life. He squirmed as his asshole didn’t see mercy nor rest, words were not able to be had with a throat so busy on pained moans. 

Wait, did he have so many cables inserted? Titus finally became aware that more than three ports on his body were in use, when did it happen? When he went blank? Realization dawned on him: he was trapped. All this time he had been a careless fly dancing around the spider’s net, every step entangling him more and more until he was fully helpless, ready to be consumed. The moans transformed into howls, those became wails, wails into whimpers, whimpering devolved into sobbing, culminating in the drained gasps of a fuck hole that knows its place. His mind gave up to the pleasure finally breaking and going  blank. 

He woke to the smell of incense and the realization of being so literally empty, laying on his side with Mu facing him. Mechadendrites and cables were still holding him, not with hunger but care. 

“I guess I ruined your rug.” He joked. 

“!(underestimate) martian chemical cleaner.” The Magos smiled sleepily at him, they hadn’t put the respirator back on yet, purplish red bite marks and bruising dressed their lips and lower jaw, Titus rubbed a finger over those. 

“My doing again I suppose, guess even my bare minimum of gentleness is still too rough. I’m sorry Mu, I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

“Reasurance. Preemptive awareness = True. Exchange | risk assessed. Titus design = {Strong, powerful, deadly}. (System’s status: fully operational) => no need to disable recurrence of interactions.” they said, soothing his worries. 

Mu’s voice returned to the metallic distortion as they put the respirator back on, gentle binharic hum seemed to communicate the Magos’ bliss on that moment more than any words they nor Titus could spare. 

Then the song changed to a familiar prayer, Mu started to go over the cables connecting them to Titus in reverse, from the last to be connected to the first. Before each of the disconnections the prayers sang a layered stanza Titus attributed meaning due to the tune; gratitude, mourning, hope. One by one he saw himself dividing from Mu’s senses, his mind grasping at any pieces left of that consciousness which melted into his, a cry of loneliness as what as one was became two separate beings again. He didn’t feel gloom though, as the prayer implied, separation only meant a new opportunity to meet again. 

“Wait a moment.” Titus interrupted when Mu-Oragon got to the final plug that was the first, the one at his nape. 

“Attention = True. Unit Titus wellbeing: stable?” They asked with the leftover sleepiness of someone coming out of a deep trance. 

“Titus ∈ to Mu, and = true - and that will always be true.” He spoke slowly, doing his best to speak on their lingo, knowing they may be doing a horrible job with laughable pronunciation. “Do Mu ∈ to Titus - this is a question.” 

At least his hope of not saying anything offensive by accident was reassured. The mechanicus’ face became as red as the clean parts of the rug they were laying over, nervous binharic notes escaped them like an open faucet. 

“Theoretical” they started, earning an instant chuckle from Titus. “Mu ∈ Titus. Practical: T(Mu ∈ Titus).” 

Just as it all started Titus kissed them on the cheek, right over where the skin met the respirator. Weird, Mu was rubbing the back of his neck, plug gone yet he didn’t feel a disconnection. Maybe the Omnissiah had finally made up their mind about him.

[pukefactory]

GLISTEN X TRANS BOY READER PLS 🙏🙏

I RLLY LIKE UR WRITINGBGBFBNFNF

Haha, thank you, Anon! This is my first time writing for Glisten, and I tried to keep him as true to character as possible. Hopefully, I did a good job. This was such a lovely request, and I’m glad I could write it for you. Enjoy reading!

*.｡✱ STANDBY DUTY ✱*.｡

♡ Summary: Glisten helps trans male reader after top surgery

♡ Character(s): Glisten (Dandy’s World)

♡ Reader pronouns: He/Him

♡ Genre: Short Story, SFW, Fluff

♡ Word Count: 413

♡ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

Glisten fusses over you a lot—that much is obvious to both you and everyone around you. But after your successful top surgery, which went smoothly, he became even more overprotective. He insists on doing everything for you, even when you don’t ask, and he’s especially particular about you lifting your arms or changing clothes. If you so much as raise your arms without warning him first, he panics and immediately insists on doing it for you or at least assisting.

This is one of those times.

You sit up in bed after a long rest, the tightness and ache in your chest immediately noticeable. You know the pain will worsen as the day goes on—it always does—but that’s just part of the healing process. It’s all worth it, though. Hell, it even feels worth it right now. You glance down at the snug binder around your chest and smile, relieved that you no longer have to see a part of your body that once made you uncomfortable.

As expected, Glisten isn’t beside you. He’s probably in the kitchen preparing breakfast, like he has been for the past few days.

‘I should go see him’ you think, stretching your legs and back carefully as you rise. Your muscles feel stiff, and a good stretch helps ease some of the tension.

‘Can’t go out without a shirt’ you remind yourself, scanning the room until you spot a loose one peeking out from under your pillow. That’ll do. You pull it out and slowly start raising your arms to put it on—

“Excuse me! Arms down right now!”

Glisten’s voice startles you as he marches into the room, pouting as he heads straight for you.

“It’s fine, Glisten, I got—”

“No, no! I don’t want to hear another word!” He swiftly pulls the shirt from your hands. “Goodness, you know you’re not supposed to wear shirts yet!”

“It’s not that bad—”

“Ah, ah!” He slips his soft pink gown off his shoulders and stands behind you. “You’re wearing this, and I don’t want to hear any complaints.”

“Yes, sir…” you mumble, slipping your arms into the oversized sleeves as he holds the gown open for you.

“Good! Now, come on—I got Sprout to cook breakfast for you, and it’s already on the table.” Glisten gently takes your hand and guides you toward the kitchen.

You smile to yourself. He may be a bit demanding, but it’s only because he cares. And for that, you’re incredibly grateful.

[atleastpleasetelephone]

Ain't That a Lotta Love - Chapter 5

A story that starts on the set of the 68 Special, with Elvis and his long-term girlfriend Dorothy Valens. Dorothy has been with Elvis for a long time for good reason - she's no pushover, and she has a habit of getting exactly what she wants. As Elvis' career starts to get back on track, their relationship fundamentally changes too.

Need to catch up? Masterlist is here.

A/N: Hope we are all looking forward to STRIP POKER!!

Pairings: Elvis x Dorothy

Steve Binder x Dorothy

Word count: 3.5K

TWs: Voyeurism, internalised homophobia and views that were prevalent at the time, spanking, MMF threesome, praise kink, smut smut smut.

Steve’s eyes go wide at Dorothy’s suggestion and he immediately looks to Elvis for some kind of help. The other man is frowning and Dorothy can tell he’s about to come up with some sort of reason not to do what she wants. So she carries on talking. 

“And I’m already at a disadvantage. Look.” She gestures at her clothes. “I’ve got far less on than you two. I mean, to make it fair I think Steve should take off his shoes at least. But even then… you boys have a good chance of getting me naked.”

Elvis starts to do the calculations in his head quickly. She's got underwear, a dress and stockings on. Five items. And he has… shirt, pants, socks, scarf and shoes. Seven. A quick appraisal of Steve suggests Dorothy is right to tell him to take his shoes off. He's wearing some kind of cardigan and presumably underwear, which would take him to nine with shoes too. Far too much of an advantage. 

“Yeah, take your shoes off, Steve.”

Steve blinks, unsure how he's got into this situation. He'd kind of assumed Elvis would put a stop to it, but Dorothy’s powers of persuasion seem to be almost unstoppable. He slips his shoes off and then joins the other two on the carpeted floor. 

Dorothy starts to reel off rules at a rate of knots as she shuffles the deck, ending with the declaration that folding doesn't count as losing, but “you can't avoid taking your clothes off by folding every hand, hm? Got it, boys?” 

She feels giddy as they both nod their assent and look seriously at the cards she's just dealt them. It seems like things are back on track. 

The first few hands are fairly evenly matched - Dorothy loses her stockings, Elvis his shoes and Steve his socks. They all start to relax a little, laughing and chatting as they play. Dorothy wins a few hands and is pleased to get the boys down to three items of clothing left each, making them all completely even. 

“C'mon baby, let's see ‘em.”

Dorothy lays down a ten-high straight, smiling to herself as she does it. Surely he's not going to beat this. 

“Full house, baby!” Elvis almost cackles, laying the cards down in front of him. “Let's get that dress off.”

“I think you'll find it's my choice which item of clothing I take off…” She teases in response, making Elvis’ and Steve's eyes go like saucers at the implication. 

Unclasping her bra underneath her dress, she wiggles until she can pull it triumphantly out from under one arm. 

“Well goddamn,” Elvis mutters as he shuffles the deck. “Thought ya were gonna take off your panties.” He looks up at Steve for confirmation that he wasn't the only one tricked by her phrasing, and finds him openly staring at her nipples as they peek through the thin fabric of her mini-dress. “Hey! Binder! Eyes up.”

Steve blushes and quickly looks at her face instead, finding her smirking back at him. He's grateful when Elvis deals and he can go back to the safety of staring at the cards. This whole thing is turning into a horny nightmare. 

Dorothy escapes the next two rounds unscathed, and as Steve begins to deal the two men are down to just their pants, and, in Steve’s case, his underwear. Dorothy supposes he doesn't know about Elvis’ propensity for going commando, and doesn't realise his advantage. Then he beats her with a royal flush to her straight, and she takes her dress off. 

Steve's eyes almost pop out of his head, looking at her sitting there in just her lacey panties. Elvis is pretty distracted too, his hard on pressing against his leg as he watches her shuffle and deal the next round. He's going to have to fold unless he gets something amazing this time around. He can't lose and end up naked when Steve has his pants on still. 

“What happens if you lose now?” Steve suddenly asks, having just thought of something. “I mean, will you be out of the game? Or uh… could you carry on and forfeit something if you lose again?”

Dorothy giggles. “Why just me? What about El?”

“He'd have to lose twice to…” Steve trails off before the end of his sentence as Dorothy shakes her head slowly. “He… what?” Is all he manages as he finds his eyes drawn to the bulge in the other man's pants. Is Elvis really not wearing underwear?

Elvis has gone scarlet by this point and is wriggling about, trying and failing to make himself look decent under Steve's intense gaze. 

“What kind of forfeit?” He asks, quickly, trying to somehow draw attention away from his crotch.

Steve is still blushing too hard to come up with a coherent thought, so Dorothy answers. 

“How about, if you lose and you've run out of clothes, the winner can kiss you wherever they like?”

Both men start babbling at once about how they don't want to kiss each other anywhere, Elvis ending with a particularly indignant “what the fuck, Dodo?” 

Dorothy smirks as she looks at them both, obviously aroused, red-faced and unable to stop themselves from furtively glancing at each other. 

She shrugs. "Okay, you don't like that.” Barely suppressing another giggle, she continues, “winner decides the forfeit then?”

“Only if there's no fucking funny business,” Elvis replies. 

“Define ‘funny business’.”

“I ain't kissin’ him. And he ain't kissin’ me. Alright?”

Dorothy tries very hard to keep a straight face. “Alright. No funny business. You happy with that, Steve?”

Steve stares blankly at her for a moment before answering. “Y-yeah. Sure. Yeah.”

“Great. Let's go!” 

They all pick up their cards and look at them. After approximately five seconds, Elvis gathers his back together again with a sigh. 

“Fold,” he says, throwing them down onto the floor. 

Dorothy raises an eyebrow but decides now isn't the time to debate with him whether he really needed to fold or not. 

“I'm in,” she says, waiting for Steve. 

Steve stares at his hand in shock. “Me too.”

“Alright, let's see them.”

“Four of a kind, darling.” He lays out four Jacks.

“Oh!” 

“Did I win?” Steve looks at her sheepishly. She nods and puts her cards down too. Only a full house - threes over sixes. 

“Think that means you have to take your panties off.” 

Both men's eyes are glued to her as she bites her lip deliberately and then hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her panties. She looks from one to the other teasingly, before slowly starting to shimmy them down her legs and off. Steve tries his best not to moan out loud. Noticing the look on his face, Dorothy picks the panties up off the floor next to her and throws them into his lap. He fails to suppress the moan this time. 

“Dodo!” Elvis chides, giving her a look. She shrugs and gives him her best innocent little girl look. 

Steve stares at the panties in his lap. Specifically at the damp patch on the crotch. His dick is positively aching and he’s starting to doubt his ability to remember which hand beats which as Elvis starts to deal. The dark-haired man folds immediately again, rousing Dorothy’s suspicion. This time she wins the hand and Steve is reduced to his underpants. She can’t resist having a good look at what he’s packing, now there’s very little in the way, and she likes what she sees. Now to just get those underpants off too…

The third time Elvis tries to fold Dorothy decides he can’t be allowed to get away with it. 

“No you don’t. This isn’t a game of me versus Steve, you’re supposed to be involved.”

“I can’t help it if my hand is shit.”

“I bet it isn’t.”

“It fucking is.”

Dorothy launches herself towards the turned over cards and grabs them, but Elvis moves quickly too, gripping one of her wrists and twisting it until she squeals and lets go. She launches herself on top of him, briefly pinning his hands down on either side of his head. 

“Hey! You wouldn’t need to do that if it was shit, would you?”

Elvis is slightly inhibited about wrestling a naked woman, but only enough to have given her the initial advantage. He doesn’t stay pinned down for long, flipping her onto her back and holding her down easily. 

“You’ve lost. Ya don’t get ta fight me about my strategy.”

She shakes her head, pursing her lips as she smiles up at him. “You were cheating.”

“Ah do not cheat!” He shakes his head resolutely and then looks over at Steve, who is watching the whole thing a bit like a live action porno. “Ya don’t think I was cheatin’, do ya Stevie?”

Elvis has never called Steve Stevie before, and something about the endearment makes blood rush to his face and then shortly after, his dick. He squeezes the bridge of his nose to try and bring himself back to reality. Or, back somewhere.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t cheat.”

“There,” Elvis declares, looking down at Dorothy again. “Steve says I didn’t cheat so ah didn’t cheat.”

“Ooooh, Steeeeeve says,” Dorothy starts, in a silly sing-song voice guaranteed to wind Elvis up.

“That’s it,” he declares. “Yer goin’ over my knee, little girl.”

She squeals with delight and he shakes his head again, in something akin to resignation. “Gimme a hand, will ya?” He nods to Steve. 

“Uh… sure.”

Elvis sits up and drags a wriggling Dorothy into his lap. “C’mon. I need a bit more enthusiasm than that,” he continues, looking at Steve over his girlfriend’s shoulder as he holds her tightly against him. “Look at her. She’s gorgeous.”

Steve does look. Even though he can only see the back of her, he has to agree that she’s gorgeous. Her body is petite and her ass is perfectly round, with just the right amount of jiggle when Elvis gives it an exploratory slap. She giggles into his neck, suddenly feeling just how naked she is now she’s lost a little of her control over the situation. 

“El…”

“Oh, don’t pretend this isn’t exactly what ya wanted, little girl,” he growls into her ear, loud enough that Steve can hear. “Bein’ naughty so me and Stevie could teach ya a lesson.”

“She is gorgeous,” Steve says, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to say something a while ago. 

Elvis chuckles, his eyes full of mirth. “Back with us again now, Stevie?” He teases. “C’mon, let’s get this naughty little girl to bed.”

Without waiting for a response he stands up and Dorothy’s legs wrap around his waist automatically. He starts to walk into the bedroom and Steve follows them both, his heart beating with anticipation. 

“On yer knees.”

She does as she’s told, getting on all fours, facing away from them. Elvis gestures to Steve to get onto the other side of the bed, and they sit on either side of her. 

“Go on,” he mouths. 

Steve hasn’t really done a lot of spanking, maybe the odd cheeky slap here and there, but nothing like this. He’s not sure how hard or how much, but he is sure he wants to touch that perfectly round ass, so that’s what he does first, running his palm over it and appreciating just how smooth it is. Then he draws his hand back and gives her a little slap. 

“Harder ‘an that.”

He tries again, and the sound of his hand meeting her skin is louder this time, and she jolts a little. 

“Harder.”

Another slap, another jolt. 

“Aw come on. Put yer back into it.”

Something about Elvis’ tone makes Steve lose all of his previous inhibitions and he really hits her ass with his palm this time. She squeals, feeling arousal between her legs. 

“That’s better.”

Steve finds himself grinning, actually enjoying spanking her, drawing his hand back again and again. She squeals and wriggles and tries half-heartedly to escape. Then Elvis joins in, spanking her other ass cheek until it’s bright red. Wetness runs down her leg, giving her away even as she tries to tell them to stop. 

“Looks like yer enjoyin’ it, honey.”

“El! Please!”

He laughs. “You think she’s had enough Steve?” 

“She might’ve, but I haven’t,” he teases, following up with three quick slaps in a row. 

“Steve!” Dorothy squeaks, wondering at this dark side that seemed to be showing itself all of a sudden. 

He chuckles, looking quickly over at Elvis before pressing his lips to her hot, red skin. She moans uncontrollably at the sensation. The other man watches for a moment before joining in too, pressing soft kisses to her ass cheek and then pushing his face into her pussy. For a second, the two men’s heads are almost touching, and then Steve moves out of the way, watching Elvis pushing her ass cheeks apart as he starts to eat her. She whimpers, and then Steve feels her hand on his thigh. He looks at her face, flushed and somehow prettier than ever. 

“Come here,” she instructs, “let me take care of you.”

He moves towards her eagerly, pulling his underpants off as he goes. Her hand wraps around his chubby length and she starts to stroke him, collecting precum from where it’s beaded at the head and using it to lubricate her movements. Remembering what it’s like to be with a guy who’s cut for a change. Her eyes flutter closed every so often with pleasure, enjoying what Elvis is doing but not quite getting there. After a while of slowly stroking Steve she makes a suggestion. 

“Why don’t you swap?”

Elvis moves his head and looks down at her. She can tell he’s a little hurt that she hasn’t finished and now she’s suggesting replacing him. 

“Let Steve have a turn,” she pouts and he sighs and acquiesces, moving to the other side of her and lying down. She flips onto her back to be more comfortable, and shuffles him up the bed a bit so she can get her mouth on him once she’s got rid of his pants. Long, languid licking and sucking that makes him moan loudly and tangle his fingers in her hair. 

Steve moves between her legs and immediately slides two fingers inside, making her gasp. She reaches down to hold his head where she wants it as soon as he starts feverishly licking her there, her movements on Elvis’ dick getting more erratic as she gets closer to finishing. 

“Ohhhh,” she moans, giving up on Elvis entirely for a moment as pleasure starts to rush through her. “Shit. Fuck. Don’t stop.”

Elvis watches her as she cums, listening to her tell-tale squeal and feeling jealous that he wasn’t the one who caused it. Steve stares, tongue still flicking over her clit as fast as he can, loving the feeling of her pussy squeezing his fingers as she cums all over them. As he feels her relax he moves his head and pulls his fingers out. She lets out a shuddering moan and then rolls towards Elvis instinctively, wrapping her legs around him and nuzzling his neck. Her hands roam his back, knit into his hair. He holds her and hums against her softly. 

“Good girl.”

Steve sits up slowly, unsure of his place in this whole situation now. Should he just… go? He watches them together for a while, still feeling turned on but also a bit like a creep, not for the first time. Then Dorothy slowly untangles herself and sits up. 

“That was lovely,” she announces, beaming at Steve, before her eyes find their way to his red, hard dick. Then to Elvis’ red, hard dick. Another idea begins to form. 

“Lie down, boys.” 

They both do as she says, almost without thinking. Sitting up on her haunches between them, she puts a hand on each of their thighs. 

“Let’s see who can come first!” She declares, before grabbing a dick in each hand. 

“What does the winner get?” Steve finds himself asking. 

She starts to move her hands rapidly as she shrugs. “Bragging rights?”

They both breathe heavily, and any thoughts either of them might’ve had about continuing the conversation are almost immediately gone along with all of the other thoughts in their heads. Dorothy looks from one to the other and tries to judge who is going to win, but it looks like a very closely run race. And anyway, she can’t tell with Steve, not like she can with Elvis. She sees and hears him so obviously close, and then she looks at the other man, whose eyes are screwed shut as his breaths come in harsh quick pants. She finds herself spoiled for choice - she loves to watch Elvis lose control, but Steve is new and interesting and she wants to know what makes him tick. Her hands work just that little bit faster, as she flicks her wrist at the end of every stroke, both men rewarding her with a groan. They cum almost at the same time, Elvis just a little sooner, but both buck their hips into her hand just the same. Steve just moans, but she can hear Elvis calling her mama, trying hard not to say it too loudly. When she’s stroked them both through their orgasms, she gets up and walks to the bathroom, washing her hands and bringing back a washcloth too. Steve looks up at her, drunk on his orgasm and amazed that she’s carefully wiping him clean. He’s overwhelmed with a want to call her some pet name or other, but he’s not sure what. It seems like Dodo is something only Elvis calls her, and he doesn’t want to intrude on that. He’s not from the South, so he’s never called a woman honey or baby in his life, and when he called her darling before it felt weird. 

“Thanks, babe,” he tries, then immediately blushes and wonders if it was the wrong thing. 

Her eyes go a little wide and he struggles to read the expression on her face for a moment. Then she smiles. No-one has ever called her babe before. It seems almost exotic. 

“That’s okay,” she murmurs, her eyes lingering on his face for a little longer than strictly necessary. Then she starts cleaning up Elvis, who up until that moment still had his eyes closed. 

“Who won?” He asks.

“You, pu– uh-baby.” She tries not to screw up her face too much at the accidental almost-reveal of her pet name for him. 

He looks worried for a second and then decides to grin back at her. Hopefully Steve wouldn’t wonder what that was. “What do I win again?”

She can’t help grinning back at him, like a lovesick puppy. “How about a kiss?”

“Mmmm.”

Steve watches them for a second, then sits up and starts to look around for his clothes. 

“I should go.”

“Oh. Well, I guess so. Will you come back tomorrow?” Dorothy asks, simply.

“Yeah. I was thinking about that - haven’t you forgotten something?” They both look at him blankly, so he continues. “Parker’s birthday?”

Elvis claps a hand across his forehead and groans. “Shit. Goddamn. Shouldna given the guys the day off.”

Steve shrugs. “Reckon they’ll have missed you so much tonight they’ll turn up tomorrow morning anyway.”

Dorothy bursts out laughing. “Stevie! You’re funnier than I thought.”

“Aw shucks Miss, real kind a ya ta say so,” he replies, in his best fake southern accent. 

Elvis frowns, sitting up and wrapping his arms around his girlfriend. “Hope that wasn’t yer impression a me.”

“El!” Dorothy slaps his thigh lightly. “Stevie’s being funny. Not everything’s about you.”

“Hmmm.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” She nods her head at Steve. 

“Oh. Well I’ll be back tomorrow morning as well.”

“On account a missin’ me?” Elvis teases, through gritted teeth.

“Course. I’ll be thinking about you all night.”

Steve gets up and runs for the door half way through his sentence, knowing he’s pushing his luck, but something about the attention Dorothy is giving him is making him want to keep making her laugh. And he can hear her giggle now, as he slips through the door and into the other room, gathering up his clothes and putting them on. He can also hear Elvis cussing him out, calling him all sorts of names including a fairy. 

Dorothy pulls on a robe and walks into the other room, just in time to see Steve picking up his ascot and putting it back on. 

“Thanks for staying and playing poker.” Her hands snake around his neck and her scantily clad body presses against his. 

“Thanks for inviting me.” His hands find her hips and pull her even closer. 

Elvis stands and looks out of the little window between the two rooms, watching as they kiss. The pang of jealousy he feels is worse than anything from the rest of the evening. Somehow the kiss seems more intimate, harder to get away from even than another man’s tongue in his girlfriend’s pussy. His heart aches. Can he really keep letting her do this? 

☆☆☆

Chapter 6

Taglist:

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed:

@arg-xoxo @from-memphis-with-love @msamarican @blursedblegh @returntopresley @eapep @everythingelvispresley @i-r-i-n-a-a @sissylittlefeather @arrolyn1114 @jhoneybees @polksaladava @lookingforrainbows @jkdaddy01 @epthedream69 @lustnhim @elvisslut @pomtherine @that-hotdog @ladelinee @angschrof @fairybloodsucker @deltafalax @makethemorning @elviswhore69 @ilovequeen978 @wildhorseinkansas @pocketfulofpresley @dkayfixates @iloveelvisss @kxnnxy @presleyhearted @lvrdollep @nebulamorada @iloveelvis2 @18lkpeters

[yaymiyas]

Yandere!Jock Introduction

warning: yandere content, manipulation, foul language, boys being…boys!, gn reader

YANDERE!JOCK, whose very name gives you the ick. noah. ew. to his medium length golden hair that frames his face ever so tightly, to his tall frame that makes it almost impossible to miss him, and to especially his a million dollar smile that he wears like the latest fashion trend…why do you hate him again?

why do you avoid him like the spanish flu? not even you knew fully. you contemplate about this very topic for weeks, never really getting a straight answer from yourself. from every instants that you two have crossed paths, he has been nothing but forthcoming with you. nothing but sunshines and rainbows. nothing but absolutely perfect.

Yuck.

you never even wanted to actually know who he was. you and your friends may have joked about him and his friend group a few times, but having noah around you 24/7 was never really on your bucket list. he kind of made it his own mission to make his existence your business.

it all started last semester, when you were walking down the hall. chem and statistic books in one arm, and the other quietly struggling to keep your book bag up. with the current cards not being 1000% in your favor, you didn’t really have time to look up at where exactly you were going. but noah did. trying to maneuver through the busy halls isn’t the easiest task with two shoulders filled and a 6’2, linebacker breaking down your neck. you didnt even see him walking beside you for the last two door frames you seemingly passed. all that was on your mind was to successfully get to the exit quick enough so you can get to your car, but satan had other plans.

“i can help you if you dont mind”

not paying the voice any real attention, you flash a struggling smile trying to use that as a quiet sign to leave you alone. one thing you didn’t bank on, was for noah to not really take no as a real answer. or in this case, an annoyed smile. testing his luck, the taller male fixed your book bag strap releasing a whole 2 pounds of weight off of your shoulder. with this new found feeling, you hesitantly stopped in your tracks and paid the stranger a small glance. looking back was noah, smiling widely like he just won the latto.

YANDERE!JOCK who finds a way to comfort you at all the right times. a random rumor about you started to spread at the speed of light. nobody would tell you where it started, or why they believe it but all you know is that it is messing up your senior year. you wanted to end your high school career better than when you came in, because lets face it, your freshman and sophomore years were ass. not being of bullying or teasing, you just weren’t ready or willing to see that you were in a different environment. things are different from two years ago, well they were supposed to be.

you don’t know how you started crying or when, but you were outside of your ecom class tears soaking your binders. you never allowed the words of others to get to you, always brushed them off. this time around it was different. you were more affected than you thought you would be at things like this. sleeping with a teacher? the same ecom teacher who you deducted points for not citing correctly? the same one who didn’t learn your name until two weeks ago? such a baseless and so easy to be unproven, so why do so many people believe it?

the only reason you were crying outside of your class is because two girls called you a slut to your face. out loud. with grins on their face, like your misery was something that warmed their skin. it was all so disgusting but you couldn’t do anything was cry. why now? why you? why the very last semester of high school? why?

“i heard about what’s going on,”

noah slightly nudges your leg with his foot, forcing your attention solely on him. you didn’t want to look up.

no, you actually wanted to tell him to go away. why was the most annoying, condescending, passive aggressive person in front of you for. the universe and gods must hate you.

“you know,”

he started with a hint of glee in his voice. was this all a joke to him? was he enjoying your tears? was your agony entertainment for him? this sick bastard. if you could, you would pull him by his hair and yank him to the floor. a knee to the stomach wouldn’t do anything to a linebacker right?

“its okay if you slept with him…we all have our low points.”

wow.

oh.

you are a joke to him. his smile never wavered, no it actually got bigger. you turned your head a bit so both of you were staring into the others. his ocean blue eyes seemed to turn into a black hole, sucking you into it with no avail. this is sick. he is sick. was he the one to fucking tell everybody that? how did he even know about the rumor? why was he here? what does he want from you, and how far will he go to get it.

[oksurethisismyname]

Trans!masc Sanji who spent years dreaming about having a baby, despite the body dysmorphia he knew he would risk.

Sanji who spent his whole life dreaming of starting a family, planning to be a better father than his shitty sperm donor and to also be a bit more gentle than Zeff. Sanji who knows his calling (after being a chef and finding the all blue) is to give love unconditionally. He gives love to so many, people constantly say he’s going to make a great father and he believes it.

Sanji who has the most difficult pregnancy. Everything hurts, standing for so long in the kitchen sucks, his ankles are sore, he’s not allowed to spar anymore, he’s not able to wear a binder anymore, but he knows, he just knows that he was born to be a parent, that one of the best things he could do in his life is to raise a child with his marimo (IM A ZOSAN FAN I CANT HELP IT)

Sanji who finally FINALLY goes into labor and has the baby, everything goes as smooth as it can… so why doesn’t this baby feel like HIS baby? Why does it feel like he’s babysitting someone else’s kid? Wasn’t he supposed to feel some instant bond, some overwhelming love? He can’t sleep more than 2 hours at a time without waking up in a cold sweat and rushing to check the baby is alive, only to desperately wish he could just go back in time and not have to do this anymore.

Nami and Robin who get together and make padcicles for Sanji post partum and hold the baby so he can just make himself a cup of tea and breath.

Brooke who plays soothing lullabies for the baby and does his best to drown out the cries so Sanji doesn’t wake up from a nap.

Franky and Usopp who create a bassinet that gently rocks the baby to sleep if it detects motion or crying

Jimbei who is so big and squishy and does contact naps with the baby so Zoro and Sanji can have a nap just the two of them

Luffy who is a human weighted blanket, grabbing Sanji and forcing him to listen to affirmations of how he IS a good dad, he loves his baby even if his brain is being dumb, no baby is as lucky as his baby is and no baby has a better set of dads

Zoro who holds his partner while he cries, reassuring him that it’s ok to feel this way, that this isn’t some Vinsmoke thing, it’s a “you just had a baby and your body and brain are totally different now”

Sanji who suffers from severe post partum depression and anxiety but has an entire crew to uplift and support him as he heals

Sanji who wakes up one morning, turning to Zoro and says “I think I finally feel like myself again”

[tsaomengde]

The Interview

Content warning for explicit descriptions and discussions of sexual assault. I am not fucking around. Do not read this if you're not in a place to handle that.

Unsurprisingly, my boss, Harold, does not know who Richard Colby is.  He summarizes the situation in his typical brusque fashion.  “Some genre writer’s getting me-tooed and his PR team wants a puff piece to remind everyone what a funny, awkward, approachable guy he actually is.  Do you want it?”

I shrug, knowing that if I come across as too eager he might give it to someone else.  Harold doesn’t like go-getters.  He likes solid, reliable people who show up on time, write the things they’re told to, and don’t bother him with too many ideas of their own.

“Sure.”

“You’ll take an Uber to his house.  It’s in upstate New York.  He wants to do the interview there.  Says it’ll make him feel more comfortable.”

“Got it.”

The day of, I go full femme mode.  Shave my legs for the first time in years, makeup, product in my hair, a bra instead of a binder, a suit with a pencil skirt, pumps, and stockings.  Looking at myself in the mirror makes me feel dysphoric, but I shove it off.  Bigger fish.

It’s an hour’s ride in the Uber to Colby’s house.  I know the magazine will cover it, so I decide fuck it and take an Uber Black.  Pulling up to a mansion in a luxury car while dressed for the world’s sluttiest business meeting certainly is something else.

There’s no help, no hovering PR people or gofers.  Colby answers the door himself.  He looks rumpled, a small older man wearing an oversized Aran knit sweater and greying curly hair.  “You must be Chris,” he says.  His voice is mellow.

“You must be correct,” I tell him.  “May I come in?”

He ushers me into a positively cavernous room that’s all white carpet, white leather couches, and giant windows looking out onto his landscaped garden.  “Can I get you anything?” he asks.  “Cup of tea?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I tell him.  I pull out my phone, set it on the table, pull up my voice recording app, and make a show of pressing the red button.  I also pull out my notepad and pen, sitting down on one of the couches and crossing my legs, barely remembering to hook one knee over the other instead of my usual ankle situation.  I don’t wear skirts basically ever.  “Ready to start?”

He hems and haws a little but eventually settles on the couch, a respectful enough distance away.  There is a whole other couch on the other side of a big coffee table, though, so it was definitely a choice to plant himself on the same one as me.  “So,” he says.  “I suppose you’d like to discuss the current palaver in my personal life.”

I frown.  “Palaver?”

He smiles thinly.  “A whole lot of fuss over nothing, more or less.”

“Ah.  So you’re denying the allegations brought against you?”

“Categorically.  Are you certain you don’t need anything to drink?”

“Why, so you can drug it?”

Now he blinks, looking shocked.  “I beg your pardon?”

“Right,” I tell him.  “Sorry.  That’s not your style.  You prefer to take advantage of emotionally vulnerable and financially insecure people.  Less money spent on drugs that way.”

His face clouds.  “Miss –”

“No,” I tell him.  “Not a woman.”

That definitely throws him.  “I – but –”

“Oh, I know I look like one right now.  But femininity is just a performance, after all.  I can pick it up and put it down whenever I want.”  I pitch my voice high and bubbly.  “All it takes is a little practice.”

Now he’s beginning to look angry.  “I think you ought to be going, now.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”  I pull the last of my interview tools out of my suit jacket.  He stops looking angry very abruptly and begins looking scared.  This is a natural reaction to being confronted with a Walther PPK.

“Let me tell you what’s going to happen,” I continue.  “If you get up from this couch, or try to move toward me in any way, I’m going to shoot you.  Naturally police will get called, there’ll be a huge – what was that wonderful word you used – ah, yes, palaver.  There’ll be a huge palaver and it’ll ultimately be your word against mine.  After all, there are no witnesses.  You let all of your staff go when things first started going sideways and it looked like money might start to actually get tight.”  I gesture minutely with the gun.  “Didn’t you, Richard?”

He doesn’t say or do anything.

“Not that it really matters if there were people around.  Everyone you ever employed had to sign an NDA as part of their job.  An NDA that threatened them with some frankly draconian consequences both legal and financial if they ever talked about you or your activities to the press.”

Silence.

“I expect you looked me up when you heard I was going to be your interviewer,” I say.  “Here’s what I think happened.  You started thinking about this interview, about having this little femme-ish person in your home – I mean, nonbinary people are just ‘women lite,’ right? – and filling my head with nice-sounding bullshit.  Maybe you thought about how you would get a little closer to me as we talked, bit by bit, until you were able to touch me.  Maybe a hand on my shoulder, or knee, or thigh?  Just a little touch at first, but then you’d get more insistent.”

His face contorts in a rictus expression, but he still says nothing.

“Where did it go next?” I ask.  “This fantasy version of me.  Was I down?  Or did I resist?  Is it hotter when they say no, Richard?”

I see his Adam’s apple bob a little as he swallows.  He still doesn’t say anything.

“Answer the question like a good boy,” I tell him.  “Or I’ll shoot you anyway and things will go like I said.”

His eyes flick toward the phone.

“Oh, yes, it is recording,” I tell him.  “But you know how it is, Richard.  Things get deleted by mistake, or lost.  Or, oops, silly little me, I forgot to press the button!  This is why we kept women out of journalism for so long.”

“I don’t know how to answer your question,” he finally says.

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t do anything you just suggested.  If my employees signed NDAs, it was my lawyers who made them do it.  I certainly didn’t engage in lurid fantasizing about you before you arrived.  And I let my staff go when this whole thing first started because I didn’t want them getting swept up in it, not because of financial concerns.”

“You didn’t want them talking to the press, you mean,” I tell him.  “NDAs or no, you were paranoid about that.  But I was able to interview one of them.”

He blinks.  “Who?”

“Now now, Richard, they spoke to me under guarantee of anonymity.  I’m an ethical journalist.  I don’t reveal my sources.”

“The gun you’re using to threaten me would cast doubt on the credibility of your ethics, I must say.”

I raise my eyebrows in mock surprise.  “A little bit of sass from the serial rapist.  You love to see it.”

“I am not –”

“What is it about anal rape specifically that you like, Richard?  The fact that it’s easier to make someone bleed from their ass, or the fact that the angle’s better when you’ve got them pinned on their stomach so you don’t have to see their face?”  When he just sits there gaping at me, I continue, “Is it both?  Neither?  Oh, I forgot about the allegations that after you anally raped some of your victims you made them clean off your cock with their mouths.  Do you just like making people eat their own shit, Richard?  I’m sorry, I mean, ‘my Lord.’  That is what you insisted people call you, whether they wanted to or not.”

He still sits there and says nothing.  He just stares at me.  He doesn’t even look angry.

“The thing I keep seeing,” I tell him, “more than anything else, is the grief.  Millions of people loved your work, Richard.  We grew up with it.  We drew comfort from it.  We loved the way you insisted on depicting the stories of the marginalized.  The unseen.  People of color, women, queer folks, trans folks, immigrants, convicts.  Victims of systemic discrimination, of assault.  We saw ourselves in those stories, some of us for the first time.  And you’re so outspoken, Richard.  You’re so quick to call yourself a feminist.  To tweet about hashtag believe women.  To go to bat when famous dickheads go on a twitter rant about men wearing a dress so they can go into women’s restrooms and do vague sex crimes.  You talked the talk so well, Richard, and for so long.  It really was easy to believe that you were walking the walk.”

His mouth is pressed into a thin line.  There are tears in his eyes.

“So, on the record, Richard.  Are you sorry for what you’ve done?”

A tear runs down his cheek.  “Yes.”  His voice is hoarse.

“Do you regret it?  If you could, would you go back and change it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a good boy,” I tell him.  “And listen, I believe you.  I believe that right now, in this moment, you feel like an absolute piece of shit and wish you’d never been born.  Humans are extremely reference-dependent, Richard.  When we’re in a hot state, when we’re angry or horny or high or some combination of all of them, we have a very hard time thinking about anything more than what we want to do right there in that moment.  Regret happens when you look back with clear eyes and really objectively evaluate what you did.”

He nods, still weeping silently.

“So,” I continue.  “We’ve established that you regret it, Richard.  You regret all the terrible shit you did.  You are, in fact, capable of feeling regret, is my point.”  I raise my free hand palm up, fingers curled, in an inquiring gesture.  “So my next question would be, why’d you keep doing it?”

Back to silence.  He has nothing to say.

“We have sworn testimony from five or six women now, Richard.  Over a period of years.  Decades, even.  One or two data points could be coincidence, mistakes, misunderstanding.  But there’s a pattern here.  And more people are coming forward.  My point is, only you – maybe not even you, it’s been so long – know how many people you’ve sexually assaulted.  So why, at no point, did you just… stop doing it?  Why didn’t you say, I regret this and would like to change it if I could, so I’m not going to do it any more?”

The quiet from him is deafening.  The gun is heavy in my hand, but I don’t let my aim waver.

“I’ve read a lot of think pieces about this,” I say.  “A lot of very educated people holding forth on generational cycles of abuse and trauma begetting more abuse and trauma.  People are talking about how your parents were part of a very wealthy, very powerful cult.  About some of the stuff you were obviously subjected to as a kid.  That kind of stuff fucks you up, I agree.  You don’t live through trauma like that without the brain doing weird things to try to cope.”

I lean forward toward him, lowering my voice a little.  His eyes stay fixed on the gun.

“But between you and me, Richard?  I don’t care.  Your brain isn’t you.  Your traumas and triggers aren’t you.  You’re you.  At the end of the day, you’re the one who controls your actions.  You might be predisposed to them, you might even find it overwhelmingly hard not to do them, but the bottom line is that the buck stops with you and no power or force in the universe can change that.  You took advantage of people.  You violated and hurt people.  And you just kept doing it!  And the whole time you kept getting up on your little soapbox and telling everyone how good of an ally you were!”  I can hear my voice rising and getting shrill and at this point I’m beyond caring.  “Fuck, I’m surprised no one twigged to your bullshit much earlier!  It’s so obvious in retrospect!"

It is at this point, of course, that he decides to go for the gun.  It’s only natural, after all.  I’m getting closer to him, I’m agitated, I’m caught up in the moment and ranting.  There will never be a better time, and he knows it.  One hand seizes my wrist and twists, the other comes around in a solid blow to my jaw.  I see stars and feel the weapon fall from my fingers.

When I can see and think again, only a couple seconds later, he is standing, pointing the gun at me, screaming, calling me a crazy bitch, et cetera.  I massage my jaw.  “Richard, that wasn’t very nice.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” he says.  “That wasn’t very nice of me?  To disarm the psychotic cunt that came into my house with a gun to threaten me?  I am so very sorry I hurt you!  Is that what you wanted to hear?  That I’m sorry your little parasocial fantasy relationship with me had its bubble burst when it turned out I’m just another disappointing fuckup?”

“It doesn’t hurt to hear that, no,” I say.  “But no, honestly, what I wanted was to make you feel the way some of your victims did.  To be paralyzed with fear and impotent rage as someone made you feel like a worthless bag of shit.  Didn’t enjoy it, huh?”

“I don’t know how many times I need to explain to people that I’m sorry things went the way they did!” he shouts.  “I’m not a comic book villain, I don’t have some evil master plan that I already executed thirty minutes before you got here.  I’m just a man who has made bad decisions and wants to put them behind him!  I didn’t kill anyone, for Christ’s sake!”

“It’s true,” I say.  “You haven’t killed anyone.  Yet.”

I make as though I’m going to spring at him.  He screams and pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens, of course.  There aren’t any bullets in the gun’s clip or chamber.

He stares at the weapon in shock for a long few seconds while I just sit there and go back to rubbing my aching jaw.  That’s going to bruise for sure.

“No, it didn’t jam, it’s just not loaded,” I say, finally.  “And look on the bright side, Richard.  You only pulled the trigger once.  You didn’t keep trying after the first time.  That’s the difference between manslaughter and murder, right there.”

He drops the gun onto the floor.  I lean over and pick it up, putting it back in my jacket.  I also collect my phone, which is still recording.  I press the red button again and turn that off.

“Naturally, none of this is going to be admissible in court,” I tell him, putting away my notepad and pen and starting to straighten out my outfit, which got rumpled in the tussle.  “Confession under coercion, real or imagined, never is.  But that was never the point, after all.  I just came here to write a story.”

He stares at me with hollow eyes.  “It sounded to me like you came here for more than that.”

“Catharsis is nice, sure, but it doesn’t pay the rent, Richard.  But the waves this whole thing will make – the two weeks of discourse about whether what I did was okay, the yea-sayers and the nay-sayers fighting on twitter, the long screeds on Medium and WaPo about whether it’s morally justified to bully a bully, et cetera et cetera?  It’s all going to add up, Richard.  You can take some comfort in the idea that you really are being a good ally, finally, by helping get a queer writer’s career off the ground.”

His mouth quirks in a bitter smile.  “So much for the moral high ground.”

“I never laid any claim to that, Richard.”  I turn and head for the door.

But I can’t resist looking over my shoulder one more time.  “Oh, but just to point out – if I had, I would still have it, because I haven’t raped a bunch of people and then made them sign NDAs to keep them from talking about it.”

He doesn’t say anything.  I don’t look back at him again as I leave. 

My Uber Black is still waiting for me in the driveway.  The driver glances back at me in his rear-view mirror as I slide into the backseat.  “That was fast,” he says.  “I was expecting to be waiting out here for, like, at least an hour.”

I shrug.  “We got to the heart of the matter pretty quickly.”

He nods, putting the car in drive and starting the trip back.  “So,” he says.  “Did he do all that stuff?  Like, for real?”

“What do you think?” I ask him.

With a shrug, he replies, “Probably, yeah.  But you know how this kind of thing goes.  There’s a bunch of court stuff, a lot of people fighting on the Internet about it, and maybe he gets house arrest and a fine.  Maybe.  More likely they let him off.  He’ll be back to writing stuff next year and talking about how he got unfairly canceled and now he’s trying to just come back and do his thing but the liberal media won’t let him.”

“Yeah, probably,” I say.  I’m already drafting my statement for when my phone gets hacked and the recording gets leaked without my consent or knowledge.  I also send my girlfriend a message confirming I’m still good to crash at her place for a while so I’m not home when the crazy people show up to threaten me in person after I get doxxed.

I know he’s right, though.  Life isn’t story-shaped.  There isn’t going to be a nice, fitting end for Richard Colby.  He’s going to keep living a very comfortable life with his millions of dollars and he’ll die of old age in his sleep.

That’s what gets me, at the end of the day.  That he’s the one who made me believe that life should be story-shaped.  That, in the final account, the world should work the way it does in books and television.  Bad guy gets caught, gets punished, happily ever after.

Fuck him for that.  I’m so tired.  I can’t even be angry.

I’m just disappointed.

[cosmerelists]

Cosmere Characters at Disneyland

As requested by @jellybeanzrock :)

Listen...I'm sure that SOMEONE on tumblr already did a post like this but I CANNOT find it. If anyone knows what I'm talking about, let me know so that I can link it! I think it was maybe about roller coasters...?

Anyway, here's my take!

1. Steris: Arrives with the perfect plan

Yes, it is in a binder.

Steris: Breakfast: acquired. Steris: We are all sunscreened, we have full water bottles, and we're already 8 minutes ahead of schedule. Steris: According to the plan, this is the optimal time to use our Fast Pass for Space Mountain. Wax: Space Mountain just closed for repairs! Steris: Tch. Turn to Plan C, everyone. I was ready for this.

2. Shallan: Mostly wants to sketch the wildlife

Shallan: Guys, stop! There's a new cat over there! Kaladin: Are you sure? It looks just like all the other cats. Adolin: Are you blind? That one's a tabby. The last one was gray, and the on before that was orange! Kaladin: ...Tabby and orange are different? Shallan: Both of you, hush! You're going to wake him!

3. Lightsong: Won't leave the Tiki Room

[Full disclosure: This is my wife's favorite "ride."]

Llarimar: Your Grace, are you sure you don't want to do...anything else today? Lightsong: This is the only part of the park that's empty and air-conditioned, Spook! Lightsong: Plus, I like the singing birds. Lightsong: They remind me of home.

4. Adolin: Gets too into the Mickey ears

He really should have brought an extra, empty suitcase.

Kaladin [eyes narrowed]: Those aren't the ears you were wearing yesterday. Adolin: Well, duh! These are my breakfast ears. The ears are sunnyside-up eggs! Shallan: He'll change into his midmorning ears after. Adolin: Plus, I have some fun ones for lunch! Not to mention my afternoon ears, my slightly fancy dinner ears... Kaladin: You have a problem. Adolin [waving a hand airily]: You just hate fun.

5. Kaladin: Just really likes the Soarin' Ride

[Full discloser: that is my favorite ride]

Syl: ...You know this is kinda an old man ride, right? Kaladin: I like it. It's peaceful. Syl: We're not even flying! We can fly for real! Kaladin: I like the part where they spray orange-blossom scent. Syl: I can't believe I bonded an 80-year-old man...

6. Syl: Really likes the characters

[Light spoilers for Wind and Truth -- just skip to #7 if you want to avoid!]

Syl: [full-size, now wearing a princess dress] Syl: Children keep asking for my photograph! Syl: I'm not sure who "Elsa" is, but I think I'm flattered!

7. Vin: Just really likes the Tower of Terror ride

It's the one that's just a huge vertical drop.

Vin: It's like jumping off a tall building, only there are more people around you, screaming. Elend: And nobody dies! Vin: And nobody dies.

8. Lift: Is mainly interested in eating every type of churro

She heard there were seven unique types, and she's determined to eat every one.

Wyndle: T-This is reminding me of you and the pancakes in Yeddaw. Wyndle: ...There isn't a dangerous Herald hunting us, is there? Lift: No, but I think that giant Mouse was lookin' at me funny.

9. Kelsier: Keeps ending up where he's not supposed to be

Kelsier: Why would they even HAVE a "forbidden" island clearly visible called Discovery Island if you're not supposed to sneak over to it? Kelsier: It's like they put up a big flashing sign that said "Secrets Here! Come and get 'em!" Dockson: I can't believe you got us kicked out of Disneyland. Kelsier: They started it.

10. Gavinor: Is the most serious child at Disneyland

Gavinor: [Gazing at the Haunted Mansion, unsmiling.] Dalinar: Do you want to go on that ride, Gavinor? Gavinor: Okay. Gavinor: Do you think one of the ghosts might be my dad? Dalinar: ... Dalinar: I don't think mouse ears can fix this.