#is a warning on his own
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
time-woods · 7 months ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
A fallen angel i need gabriel ultrakill gone ! !
4K notes · View notes
egophiliac · 8 months ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
don't think I'm not still deep in the episode 7 brainrot. because OH BOY AM I
(also one more extremely, obnoxiously self-referential thing, I'm -- I'm so sorry)
Tumblr media
4K notes · View notes
l0verseyes · 2 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
YOUR MATH IS NO MATCH FOR MY GUN, YOU IDIOT!
1K notes · View notes
starry-bi-sky · 7 days ago
Text
on a completely separate note; shizun luo binghe with a disciple shen yuan who fell into the abyss??? *thinks about LBH canonically stealing SQQ's corpse for 5 years* he'd hallucinate i think. like, like visual and audial hallucinations.
Keeps thinking he's seeing SQQ in the corner of his eyes, or wandering between the trees, amongst a group of disciples. Thinks he hears him calling for him, but its just the wind or another disciple.
Gets Xiu Ya reforged but patently fucking refuses to make a sword mound. Because his disciple Is Not Dead :))) There was No Body. He's Not Dead. And If You keep Insisting That He Is, He's Gonna Skewer You :). He's holding onto Xiu Ya so he can return his most favored disciple's sword when he returns. It's on his hip right next to Zheng Yang where it's supposed to be.
Also this motherfucker?? does not sleep btw. He has the image of SQQ, wide eyed and hysterical and standing at the mouth of the abyss burned into his fucking eyelids. Can't use the dreamscape to escape it either because he keeps trying to save him and either he does and it's an incredibly cruel trick to wake up to, or he doesn't and he gets his heart broken in several different pieces again.
There is no convincing this man that Shen Qingqiu is dead. Absolutely nothing at all. He is buried so deep in denial that moles would be jealous of how deep he is. He keeps making tea for two in the bamboo house only to remember that it's just him. SQQ's fans are hiding everywhere, little reminders of his presence. He goes to wake up SQQ on the mornings he sleeps in-- only to find the room empty.
#svsss#luo binghe#svsss au#scum villain#scum villian self saving system#shen yuan#shen qingqiu#disciple shen yuan#lbh. visibly exhausted and with twitchy eyes: im fine :) | everyone else: ho no the fuck you ARENT.#SQQ was hysterical not because he found out LBH was half-demon but bc he was having a long-awaited mental breakdown over his autonomy :)#or (limited) lack thereof. he was having a sudden onset crisis of mortality and was handling at quite literally the WORST time. oops#im thinking very hard that LBH would never push his disciple into the abyss especially with no system to force him to. so SQQ either#had to goad him into it (failing always) or throw himself in. he ended up doing it himself but not before some very impressive hysterics.#BUT ALSO. IF THIS HAD BEEN WHERE SQQ WAS THE HALF-HEAVENLY DEMON INSTEAD IT WOULD'VE BEEN SO GREAT.#and by great i mean horribly angsty bc SQQ is NOT doing too hot and has. in very SY-like fashion. convinced himself that LBH will kill him#when he finds out he's a demon. so when it comes out i have this mental image of him lunging at LBH and LBH flinches back. but SQQ wraps hi#hands around the blade of Zheng Yang and yanks it up so the tip of the blade is digging into his chest where is heart is. LBH can't yank th#sword away without risking slicing into SQQ's hands. SQQ's hair has fallen out of its tail/bun and is now messily spilling down his#back and its NO helping the kinda deranged look he has going on. he's visibly shaking and his eyes keep flittering away and back at LBH's#face. SQQ is looking at the messages from the system warning him that he has to go into the abyss or punishment will occur. he's like.#rambling though. talking about how shizun doesn't *like* unclean things and there is nothing more unclean than a demon. like he is#INSISTING. LBH can't?? get a fucking word in. actually. SY isn't listening that much either anyways. too overwhelmed with the system and#the amount of stress he's under and his crumbling mental state and the innate and primal desire to live even when he's standing in front of#his own executioner. it all ends with him sitting on the ground at the lip of the abyss with his hair falling in his face. he looks so#unkempt and fallen apart and so distinctly *non-Shen Qingqiu* that LBH feels physically ill over it. tears are streaming down SQQ's face#and despite everything he is smiling. its not a nice smile. its a very frayed falling apart at the seams about to crack smile.#he tells shizun not to worry about staining his blade with this disciple's filthy blood because this disciple will take care of it himself.#and then he falls into the abyss before luo binghe can so much as grab him. the only reason LBh doesn't literally jump in after him is bc#he was numb with shock and the abyss was already closed before he could feel his legs again :]
995 notes · View notes
thedemonscrawler · 5 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
Read Chapter 12 Here!
The group is reunited, though tensions are a little high and trust has been worn thin. Everyone wants answers, but when the Daycare Attendant returns from Moon’s patrol, all they bring with them are more questions. Protocol. Programming. If the puzzle doesn’t make sense, are you sure you have the right pieces?
---
Ouugh, it's finally done! I sketched out this cover about a year ago, but their clasped hands gave me a ton of trouble and I shelved it-- until a couple of months ago, when I just banged out the hands and then kept rolling from there!
There's a decent bit of symbolism related to the chapter worked in here, as well as a lot of me learning how water works. Detail shots + textless versions below!
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
1K notes · View notes
potatoes-tomatoes · 11 months ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
I’ve had this exchange in my head far longer than I’d like to admit
2K notes · View notes
silentgrim · 3 months ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Locals have reported a man blasting yeah by usher for the past 10 hours. The authorities have been notified.
Tumblr media Tumblr media
466 notes · View notes
thegnomelord · 5 months ago
Note
You ever hear the gross stories about people putting peanut butter on their junk and having a dog lick it off? This sounds bad but stay with me here, imagine it's marakov doing this with hound. Like it's a humiliation thing to break hound down or something and drive it into his head that he's no better than an actual dog. Marakov starving hound for awhile so he's famished and then pulling the peanut butter out. If hound wants to eat then the only food he can have will be the peanut butter he'll have to lick off marakovs cock.
Oh fuck that is disgusting and SOOO something Makarov would do. So here's a lil ficlet cause you got my brain going Brrrr
CW:NSFW, MDNI, Makarov x male reader, blowjob, peanutbutter food sex, toxic relationship, dom/sub dub-con, rough and quick, I дворняга - mongrel, mutt есть - eat, нет - no.
Rough fingers grip your jaw until it hurts, Makarov's thumb pressing down on your tongue to keep it flush with the bottom of your mouth. Drool and a bit of blood run down your chin, a small puddle already forming between your folded knees. The fingers on of his other hand wiggle your canine, uncaring of how your jaw trembles in an attempt not to bite him.
"Poor дворняга," Makarov chuckles, "Not liking your new teeth?"
Your 'new' teeth hurt like hell and that's saying something, gums around them still raw and irritated, knives stabbing at your entire jaw and down your throat whenever he wiggles the tooth even slightly. But you can't show that, don't bite the hand that feeds. So you swallow the sound of pain bubbling in your chest and shake your head as much as he allows you to do so.
You can see his smirk past the tears blurring your vision. "Good dog." He chuckles, pulling his fingers from your mouth to pat your head. "You must be hungry."
You are. Starving. You can't remember the last time you've been fed, probably before Makarov had your canines ripped from your mouth and replaced with metal, but the constant pain buzzing in your body makes it hard to keep track as the days blur together. You wordlessly nod your head, knowing better than to speak when he hasn't given you permission yet (you doubt you even could with how much your jaw hurts.)
Makarov leans back on your bunk, letting go of your jaw to fiddle with the jar of peanut butter. Unscrewing the lid he dips his pointer finder in and scoops up a big dollop of it. He holds it out for you, resting the back of his finger on your tongue. "Есть." He orders, tone leaving no room for arguing and you're quick to close your lips around his finger, tongue moving to lick it clean and trying to avoid nudging your teeth.
You've always hated the stuff since Price got you to try some when you were in America, the taste and texture making your skin crawl, but right now it may as well be ichor of the gods. Your stomach rumbles at finally being able to devour something, even if it's just a small scoop of peanut butter.
You open your mouth when you're done, spit clinging to Makarov's finger, and try your best to make a small whine. "Good, finally learning." He hums and sets the jaw down, unbuckling his belt.
Your heart stutters and drops to your stomach as you watch Makarov fish his half hard cock from his boxers, only needing a few strokes to get him fully erect. Makarov laughs at the face you make when he scoops up a good amount of the peanut butter and uses it like lube on his cock.
"Oh, did you think you would just get to eat?" He snorts, holding the base of his cock, "Нет, нет, нет you dumb mutt." He spreads his legs wider, patting his thigh. "You'll have to work for it, now есть."
You hesitate, some meager part of your pride absolutely unwilling, your stomach telling you to forget about that. Makarov waits, judgmental eyes locked on you, easily able to see the turmoil swirling in your eyes. He knows how to be patient, while he usually wouldn't tolerate disobedience, he knows he can't set up a hunting dog for failure and expect success so soon into your training.
His efforts bear fruit and you slowly shuffle forward on your knees. Even starved as you are, the wide span of your shoulders still forces his legs to spread wider. You hesitate some more, looking past his cock up at him, wondering if he really wants you to do this; is this a reward or just another way to tear you down?
"Do not make me repeat myself." He says, voice even and cool, but you're still perceptive enough to notice the sharp edge of danger in his tone, like a knife pressed into your throat.
Tentatively you lean in, fists clenching against your thighs as your tongue lolls out to hesitantly lick at his shaft. He doesn't rush you, doesn't degrade you, but his hand does settle on the back of your skull. You freeze, but he only hums, "Good dog." His hips twitch until his shaft bumps against your nose.
The hand on your head keeps you from pulling away, and your hunger soon wins out so you give a few experimental kitten licks. You start at the bottom, still uneasy about this, your tongue licking across his knuckles. Makarov purrs something in Russian you're not familiar with, his tone not sweet enough to make you think it's an insult, so you slowly continue up his shaft.
His precum mixes with the peanut butter, giving it a saltier tang that makes disgust curl in your stomach, humiliation making your face burn. Even your mind mocks you; Price's voice echoes somewhere in your ears "This is why we left you, you were just waiting for a chance to be a terrorist's whore." but that voice slowly gets quieter as Makarov's hand pets your head, making thinking about anything but the creamy peanut butter on your tongue difficult.
"Good dog, doing so well for me." Makarov hums, a pleased sound escaping his chest. The pleasure your mouth brings is miniscule compared to the sight of you - on your knees, eyes slowly closing as your malleable mind settles into static, drool smeared lips wrapping around his head to suck all the food your tongue missed - oh it's something else. He's seen many powerful men brought down to their knees, but nothing has ever made him harder than you right now.
You pop off his cockhead, chest frantically moving to draw breath, unfocused eyes staring at his drooling head before you look up. "Now wasn't that a good treat?" He asks, receiving your mumble in return, using your spaced out mind to smear more peanut butter on his head. "But you missed a spot. Go on, есть."
524 notes · View notes
allastoredeer · 6 months ago
Note
If there's one headcanon I will die on a hill defending, it's that Alastor experiences and indulges in the neurodivergent impulse of nibbling as a means of affection. Just nom. :3
Usually without using his actual teeth, but only light pressure with. He bites Rosie's knuckles when he holds her hand. She has of course made the joke that if he wants a finger he'll have to bite harder than that. Haha, cannibal humor!
He nibbled Husk and Niffty exactly once each. Husk swiped at him once the shock wore off, and Niffty tried to reciprocate with way more force.
Shipping wise, I imagine he'd do it while sleepy if someone touched his face.
Tumblr media
Drunken Deer Nom's On Those He Tolerates - More At Ten!
I like to think that Alastor nom's on Rosie, Niffty, and Husk often enough that they're completely desensitized to it. This is new for Charlie, though, she's never been nom'ed by a cannibal before, much less Alastor.
Lucifer gets chomped because Alastor is catching feelings and he's not happy about it.
522 notes · View notes
kurohaai · 6 months ago
Text
Seed
Previous part: Hunter
※This comic contain a very self-indulgent Charlastor. Please use discretion. Read right to left ( ← )
Dinner is ready.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
-------
After 4 years, the comic continues ✨ Thank you for the support of fellow fans on my Ko-Fi; I will post a new goal for the next part around next week! ^^
As for the part 2... it's pretty straightforward follow up from part 2. Seed is planted, now we wait. (did anyone catch Charlie's horny grip get that stag ass girlie)
Thank you for reading as always 🌸🌸🌸
Bonus: Charlie in denial mode after (much to Alastor's delight)
Tumblr media
834 notes · View notes
pparacxosm · 29 days ago
Text
uta hagen
Tumblr media
(divorced!art donaldson x reader; tw divorce obviously; tw sporadic mentions of violent or otherwise shitty partners; that sounds intense but this is actually a fun time i swear; cw a little smut; as a treat; tw ironic intimacy; kaz write a normal romance where one or both people aren't hypercritical of the other challenge ((impossible)); tw group therapy; tw condensing of tashi duncan's character for narrative reasons but i hope you know me well enough by now to know where my heart lies; whoever came up with the art donaldson calvin klein campaign headcanon i owe you a kidney; tw exploiting therapeutic exercises for sexual tension lol; tw hamfisted closure; raymond carver easter egg for all who have the eyes to see)
Before anything happens, Art Donaldson is just another guy in the “Learning to Let the Ex Go” group therapy session you signed up for.
It occurs to you, pretty quickly, that Art Donaldson has zero intention of letting his ex go. Dr Harper has this question he asks all the newcomers.
You’re having circle time with a bunch of adults on a Friday afternoon. So that look of longsuffering on the new guy's face isn’t particularly remarkable. You note a few furtive whispers and glances his way. But then this sad little workshop is mostly comprised of weepy middleaged women. They, too, kicked up a ruckus when that silver fox with the Harley—Rick—deigned to grace the room with his impossible biceps for a single, cigarettescented session two weeks ago.
What you’re saying is you know he’s handsome.
And, anyway, you’d never hold anything against your motley crew. Agnes invited you to her neighbourhood book club. Padma brings little clingwrapped trays of desserts every other week. These are your gal pals. Your bereaved bosom buddies. You wouldn’t begrudge them their eye candy.
Dr Harper says, “So,” and claps his hands the way he starts every session, narrowing his eyes with that scarily sentimental smile and sweeping his gaze around the circle. He makes a point to make eye contact with every single person for two whole seconds, as though he knows something you don’t. Then, “As you can see, we are not as few as we once were.”
He tends to speak in that meandering sort of way. He makes a flourishing gesture with his clipboard, as if setting a stage, and says,
“If you wouldn’t mind introducing yourself, and letting us know…” He pauses for effect. He tends to do that, too. “… Why can’t you let your ex go?”
You do the guy the favour of not laving him in that expectant stare people seem to love doing here. You fiddle with your fingers and listen to the uneasy knell of his sneakers against the linoleum. The stilted whine of his little plastic foldout chair. You cast him a glance as stands. He’s sort of tall, but not imposing. His fingers fidget at his sides like he’s awaiting a time bomb.
When he speaks, he looks so upset you’d think he’s getting a root canal. “Uh, hi. I’m Art, uh… just Art.”
And, at the time, you think this is kind of strange.
The next week, when Dr Harper brings a purple tennis racket with Just Art’s face on the front to get him to sign it for his daughter—which you already think is unprofessional and a bit presumptuous, considering how few people actually return for a second session, and how fascinatingly tortured he looked all throughout the first—you will think oh. And then his whole humble kicked puppy thing will feel a little annoying. But that’s besides the point.
On that first day, while he’s standing there awkwardly, and every shriek of his shoes against the ground is making him wince like he’s sporting stab wounds, and he keeps casting very conspicuous glances at the clock, Dr Harper asks why can’t you let your ex go?
And the thing about that question is it’s mostly rhetorical. Sure, it’s supposed to make you think. But the ultimate unearthing there is of the truth that there is no real reason. And such is the first step to selfactualising change and so on and so forth. You get it.
There’s a couple answers you come to expect. The notably lachrymose will get to weeping straight away. Because I’m pathetic! you remember someone wailing, which made you feel like a bit of a sadist, just sitting there and watching. You’re pretty sure you’d said a less than kind, I don’t fucking know, on your first day, but you’ve grown since then, and you appreciate Dr Harper’s abiding effusiveness despite that.
But Just Art releases a contrite sort of exhale and says, “Because I still love her.”
Which��okay—strikes you as a bit overkill.
A tissue discreetly finds his palm, but he only rumples it into a ball.
Dr Harper nods sagely, leaning back in his seat, steepling his fingers under his chin.
“Go on,” he prompts in that gentle, needling way he does.
You don’t Google him. You don’t really need to. Dr Harper keeps intentionally-unintentionally peppering sporadic little pearls of information about him into conversation like some sort of bizarre BINGO game.
Like—for example—when he’s passing out little notepads and outlining your task of writing unflinchingly honest farewell letters to your exes, he tacks on, “—it’ll be tough, but it’s no Wimbledon, am I right, Donaldson?”
And Just Art’s ears will turn a dazzling shade of crimson.
You file these little tidings away in some less important corner of your mind, passively constructing a criminal profile.
Padma brings her son to a session, which you’re pretty sure she’s not allowed to do. Luckily, the kid doesn’t internalise any of Padma’s scathing anecdotes about his father because he’s too busy marvelling at his own freshly signed Art Donaldson racket.
There seems to be a new racket to sign every week.
You doubt people actually give this much of a shit about tennis. But—anyway—you suppose if fucking Michael Cera rocked up and joined the circle, everyone would be hauling a Superbad poster out from some dusty corner, too. Such is the nature of celebrity.
Dr Harper, for one, appreciates the effervescence. He seems to think the mere presence of a famous athlete will motivate everyone in the room to face with renewed fervour their own pathetic little romantic quagmires.
Well, it’s that, or a strange personal infatuation he houses with the guy. Probably both.
You don’t Google him. You don’t Google him, nor his conceivably equally famous exwife. You don’t need to. Dr Harper seems to think it necessary to give you all regular progress reports on that whole imbroglio.
You know there’s news—perhaps unfortunate news—by the colour of Dr Harper’s voice when he says, haltingly, “And Art… how have you been doing?”
By the severity with which Dr Harper nods as Art reads his letter. (“Tashi,” he begins, and one of those not so furtive whispers ricochets around the room, another tissue in his hand; you think it’s Agnes who’s slipping them).
By the abject enthusiasm with which Dr Harper declares what real progress Art is making. Like he’s one of those zoo animals being parallelreared with a human child, and he’s starting to glean the art of speech without being prompted.
This is all saying something, for whom you know to be an already colourful, severe, enthusiastic Dr Harper.
What you gather is a vague impression that Art’s exwife tortured him psychologically by wielding his body and tennis career as serrated edges by which to flay their marriage intricately, slowly. And then there’s something about her repeatedly sleeping with his exbestfriend? Which—big whoop. Eleanor’s boyfriend tried to kill her, which you feel is a marginally more exceptional love story.
A month in, you realise what’s really bothering you is the untruth.
Art Donaldson has zero intention of letting his ex go. He still loves her. He opened with that.
He reads his letter (that reads a lot more like a draft for vow renewals) aloud to the room. Everyone looks at him with these misty eyes like he’s just chainsawed his chest open and wrested his heart from his arteries while simultaneously reciting Sappho.
Which is to say—and you’re no doctor, but—what fucking progress?
You don’t think you’re the patron saint of therapy or anything. But you’ve paid decent money to be here, and you’ve spent more afternoons than you’d stomach admitting on guided meditation. You’re doing The Work, as they say.
You get it; you do. Losing a relationship can feel like a death. Losing yours certainly felt like the Sun had imploded. But Eleanor—you’ll mention again—could be dead. Your jaded inner voice struggles to identify with this probably deplorably wealthy Adonis who can't seem to cut the racket strings.
So you think it’s a little irresponsible to glorify the abject pining of this crestfallen man. All flaxenhaired and broadshouldered like Prince Charming lamenting bedside of Sleeping Beauty.
This is a class about severance.
Art Donaldson seems to weave himself inextricably around something. The love of his wife, sure, that’s obvious enough. But there’s something. Something. Something very sad, sure, but not sad in the way you’re all so sad around here. A different kind of sad.
You’re trying to figure it out.
So you spend some time doing that. Trying to figure him out. You expect to start to hate him the more you stare. The more you note the weird slope of his nose, his selfdeprecating laughter.
But you don’t.
In fact, you find it delightfully, uncomfortably strange. He carries himself like an interloper to despair. Not like he thinks he’s above it necessarily—you’d thought that (reproachfully) for a while—rather like sadness is one of many things stored at the other side of the city, and he keeps missing the train.
Like these brilliant sorrowers are deigning to include him in their orbit, even though he doesn’t belong. If he remains silent, maybe they won’t notice that he’s not one of them. Better yet, conceivably, he’ll actually belong one day.
That’s what it’s like. Like he’s striving for sorrow. Like he’s working with something worse than sorrow and is saying, you know what? I’d rather take the sorrow.
In the exercise you’re doing this week, you’re supposed to personage your ex and act out your final argument. Take your scene partner’s hands and look into their eyes and everything. Dr Harper makes a big deal about how he's not trying to trigger anyone's relationship trauma, but that feels like a lie. You can’t imagine a productive reason to make a bunch of lonely, divorced adults hold hands in a cruel parody of their last brush with fleshdeep connection.
And anyway, fuck this shit.
That doesn’t mean you won’t communicate circles around it. You’re doing The Work, after all.
But fuck it hard.
His hands sort of swallow yours. They are warm and calloused and a little sweaty.
You were, at first, excited by the idea of this proximity. Excited in the way a cultural anthropologist would be, at the prospect of conducting participant research. But now you’re here. Sitting at the edges of your little plastic foldout chairs. Your knees between his. And his fingers are curled pretty firmly around yours. He looks about as comfortable as a grade schooler called to the chalkboard. And you’re the one who’s been sitting around observing him from a distance and gleaning your data and passing your judgement all this time, but it is he who makes—and holds—eyecontact.
His eyes are dusky and intent—molten navy—like he’s seeing past your skin and bone. And you are less than pleased by this subversion.
So when he shifts and his knee brushes your outer thigh, a potent shock of heat resounding through the denim, and he clears his throat and mumbles, “Sorry,” you say,
“You could back up a bit.”
His expression falters. You must admit, there is something alluring in his being disappointed by your little rejection. Anyone looking at it from the outside would find the whole thing pretty ludicrous. That you could say no, that he would even ask.
Dr Harper comes up and puts his hands atop both your heads, which feels more than a little patronising. He squats to be eye level between the two of you and whispers, “Do you know why I paired you two together?”
For a moment, you almost roll your eyes. When all is said and done, and the skull speaks and the bell tolls, your primary takeaway from your time Learning to Let the Ex Go is that Dr Harper has a spectacular penchant for assigning meaning where there is absolutely none.
If he paired you with Art based on eyelash hue, would he come up with some reason for that? Probably, you think.
But what he says next manages to throw you.
“You two…” he begins, pausing for effect. Because, of course. And Art shifts his weight uncomfortably, quite literally wincing as he accidentally bumps your knee again. He glances fleetingly in your direction, ears gone florid, but you have little time to delight in this before Dr Harper stands up straight again and delivers his verdict, “… have the same problem.”
You make a face like you have just seen a lizard eat a bird.
And fucking Art, of all people, has this look in his eyes, this look that’s almost hopeful. Like some explanation is finally to be offered for what the hell is wrong with you.
And you don’t care for that shit. At all.
You bark out a laugh. “I don’t think so.”
Which is, of course, when Dr Harper’s gaze sharpens like a scalpel and locks on you, like you’ve said exactly what he predicted you would say.
Which you care for even less.
He doesn’t look smug. Not exactly. He doesn’t even look vindicated. The only way to describe that look on his face is total delight. Cat with the canary in his maw.
Art seems very committed to staring at the ground, now. Trying, perhaps, to evade something of a brewing storm. You’re tempted to reach up and flick his head for his cowardice, but his hands are—very tightly, now, you’ll note—still holding yours.
“You two are both at mercy to judgement,” Dr Harper declares, and he’s still got your head in his palm like a basketball, and all that selfregulatory yoga feels fucking useless right about now.
You shift to look up at him better. “I’m not at mercy to judgement,” you inform him as calmly as you are able, and maybe you’re disproving his point in this moment by being so affected by this analysis, but you sincerely believe that you’re generally pretty hardwearing.
Dr Harper pauses for effect. “You are at mercy to your own judgement...” Another pause. And you’re about to tell him that—nice fucking try, but—you’re actually a remarkably selfassured person who rarely, if ever, gives yourself to negative selftalk. But then, “... Of others.”
And now it occurs to you that the fucking room has gone silent. And you feel like your eyes have all but crossed in simmering anger. Because—okay—everyone here is crazy, and miserable, and a little fucking pathetic, but you’ve prided yourself on being the least crazy one here.
And fuck.
Fuck if you’re not proving his point right now.
When you open your mouth to argue—because you are going to disagree, if only for the sake of disagreeing—Art Donaldson’s fingers screw up firmer around yours, like he’s some sort of sentient lie detector, and you’re about to ask him where the fuck he gets off, but Dr Harper isn’t done.
He turns, now, to Art.
“And you…” he says. You’re getting seasick with all the pausing. “Donaldson. You’re at mercy to others’ judgements of you, my man.”
So Art, you see out of the corner of your eye, looks like he’d rather debone himself than be sitting here.
And fine.
Okay.
Let’s all agree that that much is true. That Art Donaldson lives and dies by the judgement of others, and you live and die in the name of it. Fine.
Even so, you can’t help but think that these are directly antithetical problems to have.
And, in practice, if you’re a callous shrew, and he’s an open wound, you’ll probably kill him. Or something.
But now Dr Harper’s pushing your heads together like a ref before a rugby match. And he crouches down again. And Art’s nose brushes yours, and your lash swipes his cheek, and you can smell the coffee Dr Harper was just drinking.
And he says, “Let. First serve.”
Then he stands again and pats Art’s shoulder like they’re old friends, and gives a wink to the room at large.
He saunters away. Art looks like someone is pointing a gun to his head. But really it’s just your—heartlessly selfrighteous, apparently—forehead still against his. His skin is feverwarm.
You pull away.
Of course no one takes the exercise seriously.
In its defense, you think, there’s very little that goes down in this room that can be veritably labelled a ‘serious’ event. Most of it—the guided meditations, the writing exercises, Dr Harper’s entire vibe—feels like you happened to miss some crazy event that tore reality asunder and tipped you over into a sadistically tragicomedic alternate universe.
But if you all were to sincerely sit here, knees to knees with mourning strangers, and concretise this litany of other strangers who have wounded you all irrevocably in different ways—shit—Harper’d be sitting with a fetid heap of weeping corses.
So—well.
Eleanor’s chasing Ally around the hall with a her fingers hoisting an invisible shiv yelling, I love you, I love you, you bitch. Which is certainly one way to contend with a murderous exlover, you guess.
Padma and Colin are treating this as a gossip session. You can tell because you can hear that delighted peal of laughter she emits whenever someone interjects one of her—deeply engrossing, by the way—caustic vignettes about her exhusband with a little observational jab at the guy.
Most people are laughing. Or making fun. You catch fleeting dregs of remarkably hilarious conversation from all angles and are reminded why you keep coming back here.
The only person, however, who seems to have really taken Dr Harper’s thought experiment to the harp of his heart—much to your horror—is Art Donaldson.
He sets his elbows on his knees and leans forward. You get a waft of him. Something acerbic like citrus, and maybe pine. He blinks up at you with this almost regrettable intensity. Like he’s about to tell you that he has to pull your teeth. But he’s not thrilled about it. You’re still deciding if you’re flattered by the notion. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to glean the pattern of your sinew with his eyes alone.
“I’ll be you,” he says, his voice low and soft. And there’s a hoarse quality to it, like he’s just run up a staircase.
You’re suddenly very aware of all the noise around the two of you. The laughter, the bedlam. Something faintly percussive.
His thumbs swipe over your knuckles, which you’re hoping is an absent thing.
You blink. Your face is overcast with a less than kind, more than unimpressed glower.
“You’re serious?” you deadpan.
He looks serious as the end times. His fingers twitch around yours. You feel his knuckles like piano keys against your palm.
Dr Harper has essentially told this man that you have something he doesn’t. Something he needs. And now—with a tenacity you can only imagine churns through his bones by rote—he seems determined to find it.
He’s gripping your hands like you’re the fucking racket.
He leans down further, elbows pressing into his thighs, and his face gets alarmingly close to your fingers. A whisper of heat against your nailbeds.
When his tongue dips out to swipe the chapped coral edge of his upper lip, you nearly flinch, because you think that wet will touch you. But it doesn’t.
He peers up at you intently. You see the way his throat shifts under his wan skin as he swallows.
“I’m as serious as you want me to be,” he says. He is absurdly sincere, but also something else.
Your brows twitch, and you frown, because you are now realising that, even after several weeks of careful observation, you do not have even a remote understanding of this man to speak of. You feel like an academic whose thesis has just been rejected, and now they’re back to square one of some miserable odyssey. Moreover, this is all just unutterably ridiculous, so you sigh and roll your eyes and shift in your seat, your knee knocking against his inner thigh.
“Fine,” you say, “You be me.”
Art’s face is set in what you first think is determination, but are incredibly unnerved to discover is him getting into character. He’s trying to emulate that vaguely bitter perennial scowl of yours. He looks like a bitch—which means he’s pretty fucking dead on.
You’re almost impressed.
Of course, he still looks sad. There’s a vulnerability his mimicry cannot conceal. But you think he’s finding something cathartic in wearing the hue of your passive vitriol.
You tell him to express a perfectly reasonable grievance to you—and you yourself are now rolling your shoulders and slinking into the ethos of a gaslighting asshole—like how you never wash the dishes. Like, ever.
He clears his throat.
“You never do the dishes.”
You swallow.
“Right…” you murmur.
You’re still a little facetious about this whole thing, but there is that intensity in his gaze that wrests you into the moment like a fervid point of gravity.
“Well, now I—as my ex—would probably tell you—” You roll your eyes again, but now it is at the memory you’re unsheathing. “—oh, you’re being dramatic. I was just about to do them. Why are you always on my ass?”
And Art’s nose wrinkles, like the memory is offensive to him, too.
He looks you over like a sawbones trying to determine a patient’s symptoms. Mapping out the incision.
“Then I—you—would say…” He’s speaking really slowly, too. Like he’s giving you the chance to object where you see fit, on grounds of mischaracterisation. “I would say that you always say you’re going to do all kinds of things. But you never actually do them.”
“Exactly!” you blurt, kneejerk. But then you catch yourself. Flex your fingers a bit in his. Clear your throat and put on your best impression of a total dolt again. “Okay—oh, maybe you’re too busy focusing on the little stuff I don’t do to recognise the large sacrifices I make for our relationship.”
He scoffs.
It’s your scoff. A facsimile of that incredulous ire you seem to always be evincing. It’s deeply disturbing.
“What sacrifices?” You can’t tell who’s asking.
“W—” You falter. Swallow. It takes you a moment—like you’re emerging from deep water—to answer, as your ex, “Well, I moved here, didn’t I? Packed up all my shit and left my friends, my family, fucking everything. To be with you.”
“I didn’t ask you to move.”
“You didn’t,” you confirm quickly. And you can’t tell who’s saying that, either. But you put on the voice again, and say, “You didn’t. But I still did it for you. And I don’t think you’ve ever said thank you. Or sorry.”
A beat.
Your hands go slack in his. You sigh. “You never say sorry.”
Art’s eyes search you like a probe.
Your shoulders are stonerigid and the blood is rushing like torrent through your ears because—somehow—this feels uncomfortably like a fight. Like that fight. And your body seems keen on adjusting the scoreboard accordingly.
His thumbs rub your knuckles again, in a way that feels a lot less idle this time.
“I’m still not going to say sorry,” he guesses with a marginal tentativeness, but a general certainty in his assessment.
You swallow again. “Yeah,” you rasp, “You’re not.”
It occurs to you that this exercise is a little like immolation.
He’s supposed to be acting like you. But he’s acting like you at your worst, and doing so—to his credit—a little more accurately than you’d like to admit.
It strikes you as unfair. And excoriating. And you picture yourself tackling Dr Harper to the ground and choking him out.
And then Art says, “We’ve been having this fight for…?”
“Two months,” you mumble. You’re not even doing the voice anymore.
Art clicks his teeth, a sentimental crease at the corner of his eye. “I think we should break up.”
You sigh. “Yeah, probably.”
“It’ll be really hard for me.”
A guess again, but then you’re here. Doing The Work. Holding hands and roleplaying. It’s not inconceivable that you didn’t take the breakup exceptionally.
Your lip twitches. “You’ll survive.”
He pushes off his elbows and sits up straight, his knees sidling fully around your thighs, now unashamed. He gives you a look. A different one. His mouth purses to the side in some alloy of pensive amusement, a dimple delved into his cheek. His gaze coruscates with a deep cornflower intrigue.
“I think I will, actually,” he says finally.
And he has the nerve to smile. Revoltingly soft and sympathetic.
He gives your hands a parting squeeze before dropping them in your lap, his chair scraping loud the linoleum as he backs off.
You call your ex that night.
“Hey, listen,” you say, “Sorry.”
Dr Harper’s probably somewhere creaming his pants so fervently as to have rendered himself numb in a state of gleeful stupor.
“Hey,” husks your ex—who, for his flaws, has always been more magnanimous than you—before chuckling, “No worries.” You can hear that easy smile of a life unburdened by you in his voice.
Which is fine.
“How are you?” he asks then, “You good? You surviving?”
You smile wryly. You feel like you’ve been flogged by four consecutive eighteenwheelers. “I think I will, actually.”
You Google Art Donaldson.
You’re having a drink with Eleanor and Ally and Colin and a few others from the group, and you’re basically shitting all over the whole programme in a very hush-hush sort of way because you all know what an Opportunity For Growth this has been, when Art walks into the bar and spots your table and nods at the whole gang. The mood quickly shifts. Excitement, sure, but a collective wordless agreement that the lighthearted gossip between real friends ends here. You feel bad. It’s not his fault.
Art slides into your booth with beer floats and greets Colin, who’s looking at him with a senex’s disdain because he was just telling you all how he’s thinking of getting hair plugs. Again, not Art’s fault.
Art’s in camouflage, with his baseball hat and T-shirt, which you think is unnecessary because—again—you’re still quite certain no one gives enough of a shit about tennis as to recognise him in a bar.
When he slides into the booth—into the space between you and Colin—he’s careful to leave a distance between the two of you. Which you only really notice at all because you’re acutely aware of exactly how much space occupies the expanse between the two of you at any given instance.
A bunch of people at the table are already looking at him like he’s some sort of foreign dignitary.
You don’t think athletes are necessarily charming by nature, and you refuse to give Art Donaldson that kind of credit, but he doesn’t have to try very hard to make himself agreeable to everyone.
He buys a round for the whole group. He asks after jobs, and the state of marriage, and family, and life. He seems sincere enough.
You all start chatting about the various horrific relationships that lead you here, as though they were all particularly uninteresting ham and cheese sandwiches. Colin’s exfiancée diagnosed with early onset dementia. Ally’s exgirlfriend developing a heroin habit. You’ve all jabbed and scrutinised these woes to deflated nothingness, by now. None of it hurts anymore. Is that the whole point? You still don’t know.
No one knows by what fancy Dr Harper pushes you all about in his great cosmic dance of personal selfimprovement.
You do know that Art remains quiet. Generally inconspicuous, but then you’re you, so you’re paying attention. And you don’t think he should get to sit there like an archaeologist recording the fossils of your collective melancholy, as though his own warm and living bones are out of the question.
Maybe you all can pull up the People.com article, A Comprehensive Timeline of Art and Tashi Donaldson’s Perfect Relationship and Messy Divorce, and have it contribute to the conversation.
Eleanor’s telling a story about the time her ex wrested her from bed and lobbed her out of the house at 2 AM in midwinter.
“And we lived in Duluth,” Eleanor’s saying, and she’s laughing in that disconcertingly manic way she does when she shares these things. “And I sleep halfnaked, so I’m fighting frostbite, and I’m just totally mortified that one of my neighbours will see me.”
“There’s nothing embarrassing about being halfnaked,” Ally shrugs.
And then you say, “Ha, yeah, I mean Art would know.”
Art—who, until now, looked like he was studiously contemplating the meniscus of his beer, or the grain of the table—flicks his gaze up to you.
You snort. “What, I’m supposed to act like everyone here hasn’t seen you oiled up and smouldering to the camera for Calvin Klein?”
A brief hush descends upon the table like a falling guillotine.
Then, laughter.
Eleanor snorts her gin and soda with such force that she coughs for a solid minute afterwards. There’s tears in her eyes and Colin is laughing at her and Ally is laughing at them both. And Art looks as embarrassed as a woman strewn porchside in her panties in midwinter in Duluth.
And—okay.
You were trying to be tongueincheek about it. But his discomfort levels are seemingly off the charts. He doesn’t know how to react and it makes him unhappy. Clearly, ten and something years of public scrutiny—and, in your defense, actually doing that photoshoot—have not prepared him for this moment.
You lean forward and awkwardly bump his fist with yours. “Hey, I’m kidding.”
But you’re not, because it was technically true.
“I thought it was artistic,” says Ally.
Eleanor, still crying laughing, “What, the fullpage spread of him fully waxed and laid out on a clay court surrounded by Great Danes?”
“Someone paid attention,” Colin chuckles, and Eleanor erupts into vibrant giggles again. Colin gives Art a courtesy clap on the shoulder before saying to Ally, “Maybe I’m old fashioned, but a Billboard of a guy wearing whities so tightie you can see his dickprint isn’t exactly Starry Night. But maybe I don’t get it.”
“You don’t have to worry too much about that. The art has to get you,” Ally says, pointing at him with a fry. Ally studied theatre. “I mean, we are the most complicated machinery in our lives. You have to take yourself seriously to do something like that.”
Everyone’s looking at Art like he’s some kind of colourful textbook.
It’s not often people sit beside a guy of whom they can confidently guess the naked physique.
And maybe you’re thinking that, too; you brought it up, after all. His arms look strong in his T-shirt sleeves. Not, like, bodybuilder strong. But lean and cut. And there’s a sort of animal grace to his movements. Like a fox, or something. Even as his ears burn a practically neon shade of carmine in the dim lighting.
He clears his throat. “I doubt anyone took that seriously,” he says dryly, the corner of his mouth ruefully, if hardly, upturned.
Eleanor shoves Ally playfully, swiping her tears away in a blissful mascara smear. “My God Al, will you stop scaring him with your Uta Hagen spiel?”
The conversation meanders to other topics. Fringe stuff, briefly, like the societal implications of male sexuality and modern advertising. But then things branch off entirely—The Fast and the Furious franchise, artificial intelligence, Colin’s stepson’s career aspirations of becoming a TikTok street interviewer. Et cetera.
You hope Art isn’t looking at you when you chance a glance his way, but when have you ever been so lucky?
So he’s looking at you. He looks at you like he’s taking inventory of you at your expense. He gives a slow blink, an almost imperceptible smile, then he lifts his beer towards you and takes a swig.
At the end of the night, he asks for your number, which feels like a boot to the loins. Not because it’s profoundly unbelievable. Maybe a little surprising, but, if anything, it’s the conclusion you’ve halfanticipated all night. That’s the way he’s been looking at you, at least. It’s just the finality of it all.
But what are you gonna say? No?
You call him that night.
“Hey, listen,” you say, “Sorry.”
God, what have they done to you?
Art, on the other end of the line, presumably lounging in his stately mansion, remains cautiously silent. You sigh like you’re losing something here.
“I hope I didn’t upset you,” you say, but realise your tone is too grudging, so you adjust, “I got awkward, I was trying to be funny. Which we both know by now that I’m not. I’m just a bitch. So, I just wanted to say… you obviously look fucking amazing. And your shoot was great. Everyone can see that.” 
You swallow the dryness in your throat.
Art makes his own pained noise across the receiver. “Everyone?” he groans, and you cannot tell if you’re imagining the fleeting hue of amusement you discern there. “Please no.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say here.”
“You called me,” he scoffs. It’s a good scoff, if such a thing can be said. But he still sounds pretty incredulous with you, and not in a way that says he thinks you a moral paragon. You think he thinks you’re a bit of a monster. Which doesn’t offend you, actually. “To apologise.”
“And I did!”
“Okay?”
A silence befalls you like a yawning maw, stretching out. He could hang up on you. He doesn’t.
“Look, you can internalise the things I say at your own risk,” you say.
“You’re telling me.”
“But it was a nice photoshoot. And, you know… pretty hot and stuff, which I guess was the intended purpose.”
You feel like a corpse whose arteries are being drained of blood and filled with embalming fluid.
“Pretty hot and stuff?” he echoes. You roll your eyes.
If you’re lucky, he’s tipsy, because you guys didn’t only indulge in beer floats. So, maybe—by God’s impossible mercy—he’ll have forgotten this conversation in the morning.
“I—” you hesitate, adding a small laugh, kind of hoarse, kind of unconvincing. “I—honestly—I can’t stop watching it.”
It’s not a joke, you both realise.
His voice drops an octave. “Really?”
And—fuck. Fuck, right? But you’ve made it this far.
“Really.”
You feel his eyes on you, not Tashi. Harper has you all thronged around a burn barrel in the community centre parking lot at 8 PM on a Wednesday. Scintillating honeygold flames lick at the night and shadow his face at pretty angles. And he’s reading his letter—that letter—and looking at you.
That’s bad.
This is supposed to be a cathartic and utterly sexless exercise in closure.
But you feel like a filthy fraud.
You’re crossing your arms, and blinking off the flameheat, and pretending not to stare at the scarp of his Adam’s apple and his tendons working beneath the skin of his hands.
He clears his throat, and his lips are moving like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Tashi,” he starts.
Her name, when he says it, still sounds like a tender orison. But last time he’d been reciting this thing, his eyes had been all flushed, raw, and misty, his voice abraded at its edges. Now—well—Agnes hasn’t slipped him a tissue in weeks.
“I still love— do we have to do this again? Can’t I just throw it in?”
The group sputters into giggles. You don’t know who brought the sweet Moscato.
Dr Harper pinches his nosebridge like an enervated preschool teacher. You think he, of all people, ought to be pleased—and you suspect he furtively is, but doesn’t want to discourage your good spirits with his approval—because, as much as you’re loathed to acknowledge it, all his forcible, unwelcome attempts at conjuring vulnerability amongst the lot of you have actually kind of worked.
The fire warms your brows to dampness, the saccharine acidity of the spirit seeping through your flesh and sweltering the rest of you. You should’ve worn a thinner sweater.
“Art,” says Dr Harper, “Your feelings are valid. Even—” The group interjects with a smattering of jeers, a slurred, densetongued amalgam of fuck you! and get a life, Harper! and other stuff to that effect. “—even your reluctance.”
The flames thrash deep indigo and copper. No one can quit laughing.
Dr Harper continues, “But the whole point of the exercise is—”
“Come on, Doc, we’re still pretending these exercises have points?” someone heckles.
“We’re still calling these exercises?” says someone else.
“Hurry up and cry already, Donaldson, I got work tomorrow.”
“Alright, alright,” Art raises a hand and everyone wanes to a simmer of firewarm drunken murmurs as though he’s some sort of Biblical king.
You roll your eyes, but you keep thinking of Great Danes on tennis courts and tightiewhities.
Everyone cheers like this is fucking Madison Square Garden when Art holds his hand out for the bottle, teeth scintillating in the pyreglow with a wry slanting smile.
He takes a long, healthy swig. You think you hear someone whistle. His lips gleam with moisture when they pop off the glass bottlemouth.
“You wanna see me cry?” he grins, eminently rueful and amused and resigned, all at once.
And everyone hurrahs and hollers and maybe some people even bark. He’s being pushed around affectionately from all angles. His gaze is sharp and garlanded by flames and trained on you. You raise your brows at him wryly, perhaps a little dubious, before lifting your hands and joining in the applause.
He clears his throat and sweeps his tongue over his upper lip and flicks the paper out like a Shakespearean scroll.
“Tashi,” he starts again.
You watch the fire lave and singe and swallow all your bitter, pathetic epistles.
Tashi.
I still love you. I’m still sorry. For something, or everything. For anything, really. It’s mostly okay, but it’s worse at night. And on weekends, and with Lily, and when the microwave starts making that shitty sound that you hated.
I miss you deep in my bones. I—
The flames scorch his words to flickering cinders.
You look at him, and he looks at you, and his bottom lashes glisten with tears. But he’s grinning widely. He’s laughing. He’s laughing a lot. Padma sings ‘Auld Lang Syne’, for some reason.
The goodbyes are a little maudlin, but sincere.
It’s time for you to all go home and actually get over your exes, which feels a bit jilting.
Art walks you to your car, and you let him, and you even let him get in your car, which is probably not a good idea. But it’s the end of the stupid workshop and you want to spend more time together. There, you can admit it.
You even say it out loud.
“I’m gonna miss this corny bullshit.”
“Yeah, me too,” he says, a little more quiet.
When the middle backseat belt buckle is digging sharply into your hip, and he’s got you pinned beneath him, and his hands are everywhere—seriously, it seems he was just waiting for your permission, because he’s squeezing all the flesh he can reach, slipping his hands under your shirt, between your thighs, just absolutely no decorum on this guy—you think to yourself, this motherfucker.
A spherule of spearmint gum slips from his mouth and into yours.
You’d thought, too, that he’d be more deft with this. And he is, but he’s also very clunky. Maybe because your car’s quite small. He’s not huge, but he is still fairly tall and broad and trying to fit himself between your thighs while covering you with his body in this small space, so it’s a bit chaotic. You don’t really mind.
And—yes—you have thought about it.
There’s a shot of him, in the Calvin Klein campaign, sprawled across the court in greyscale, his hand resting on his middle, his other arm above his head.
You know they edit those photos. That there’s some kid, fresh out of graphic design school, rubbing one out while airbrushing these halfnaked men to oblivion. But you now see—feel, more than see, really; there’s a streetlight nearby, but it’s blown, so you’re all touch—that such satin cannot be contrived. He really is that smooth. There’s not a bit of fat on him, but he’s oddly liquidfeeling, skin sloughing off like cream.
He’s always looked almost uncomfortably boyish to you. But you’re realising now that there’s an abrasiveness to his haggard breathing, and that potent, vaguely olid, mannish fume to his skin.
It's really doing it for you.
In that shot, he was lying right beside the polyethylene net and the sun was beaming down, searing alabaster, through the lattice, at an angle that splayed shadows all across him. The lines warping over the slopes of his body.
You feel the phantom crisscross of those shadows between your thighs now.
His eyes are still a little wet. He tells you he’s wanted to do this since he saw you giving him the jettatura while he was signing that racket for Harper's daughter. He also tells you he bets you’ve wanted to do this since you saw him in tightiewhities lying under a tennis net.
Can he be your tennis net?
You don’t even know what that means.
You laugh a little, but then he slips a finger inside you and latches his mouth to your pulse, and it is hot as magma, and you forget all about Great Danes and apologies and fires.
You would think they do some computer magic to make the cocks look bigger in those things, too.
They don’t.
To be fair, he doesn’t have some kind of doubletake worthy, John Holmes ordeal or anything, in the pictures. But the slope beneath the cotton, the bend of his hips like the handle of a water pitcher, all that pearlescent skin—so what if your saliva gathered on your tongue as you leaned in (way too closely) toward your laptop screen?
You feel especially shameless now as he slides into you.
Sure, the buckle is a bitch and the seatleather’s sort of chafing your ass and your elbow’s in a cup holder. But you take furtive pleasure in thinking that some people’s fantasies about him probably go like this.
The softest thing is his hand cupping the back of your neck, dragging your head up. It’s a weird contrast to the way his dick is pumping erratically in and out of you. Like he’s trying to control himself, maybe add a little romance.
You keep your eyes open to watch the way his body moves. Fuck it, you wanna see what all the fuss is about.
The talented Mr Ripley whose volleys (and probably orgasms) are intensive, frenetic affairs of selfpersuasion. Unless, of course, he’s fucking the random, judgy woman he met in a group therapy session. In this particular case—though laboured all the same—he comes harder and slower and you hear his panting groans in your ear as you shudder through your own pleasure.
He pulls your hips closer and empties himself in you and you rub yourself against him and you try to keep your eyes open, but, ultimately, you concede that you can only experience this pleasure in the dark.
You keep feeling his muscles work beneath your hands, though.
Dr Harper strongly recommends that you two not start seeing each other. He does just about everything but get on his knees and beg. And even that he nearly does. He reminds you that, on your Vision Tree, you mapped yourself single for at least the next two years.
But Art says he’s had enough of other people saying what’s good for him.
And your Vision Tree also forecasted you taking up jogging, which—come on.
285 notes · View notes
derangederensimp · 1 year ago
Text
Your Roommate Toji
Jujutsu Kaisen Smut
Toji Fushiguro x Fem Reader
CW: Masturbation, Sadism, Masochism, Oral Fem receiving, Virginity Loss, Healthy Age Gap (Toji is his mid 30s and me being the author and write the stories based on me, I’m 22 so) daddy kink, Breeding Kink, Creampie, Biting, Hickeys and whatever I missed.
🔞 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. WE ARE NOT HAVING A REPEAT OF WATTPAD
A thank you to @poohbea for making the Toji Gif 🥴
Tumblr media
“H-harder please go harder” you moaned, tossing your head back into your pillows. The vibrator buzzing inside as you fantasized your roommate in it’s place instead your cheeks burned with embarrassment at your desperation. Right when you were about to finish you heard the jangling of keys and shoes being kicked off hitting the floorboards, instantly turning off your toy and tossing it to the side. You hear heavy footsteps, you think they are walking past but then your door swung right open. There stood your roommate. Luckily you were under the covers and now clothed again after pulling your pants on. A mistake was not having enough time to put your vibrator back in your nightstand. There the man stood, his black t-shirt couldn’t have been tighter as he hung in the doorway. His face was wearing that grin you always hated but the curve of his lip showcased the scar so beautifully.
“Toji what the fuck, knock!” you scolded. “No” he bluntly said before walking into your room and plopping onto your bed, he was dangerously close to your toy and you hoped he wouldn’t somehow trigger it on somehow. “Why should I knock if you are alone all the time y/n?”
-
Toji knew that most of your nights you spent alone and knocking wasn’t really needed. Nor did you ever ask him to knock before so he knew something was up. He didn't need to worry about his innocent roommate sleeping around and inviting random men into his house. Laying his head into his hand he stared at you squinting his eyes at you although he had a few drinks in him he knew his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. Being an experienced man he knew that smell well, you were turned on, just what were you doing before he got home. He smirked at the thought before chuckling to himself
All those nights he’d lay in his bed, cock in hand pumping his fist furiously imagining it was your hand instead of his rough calloused palm. Lusting over what your moans would sound like if they were caused by him instead of your damn vibrator. Why wouldn’t you just ask him to fuck you he’d think to himself almost making him want to ge out of bed and angerly pound on your door and ask why. Show you what you’d sound like with him between your thighs instead.
He was sobering up but knew he could play the part of being more tipsy to see what you would say to his request. Every other time he attempted to hit on you or get you to fuck him you’d brush him off but now that you were horny would you reject him now? If you rejected him then he could pretend the next day nothing happened. Of course his ego would be a bit bruised but nothing a night out couldn’t fix.
-
“Y/nnn” he dragged out your name while he laid on his side. He finally caught on to your eye movements shifting from him to a spot on your bed that his arm was getting close to. “Seems like it wasn’t a successful night” you said trying to grab his attention. Whenever Toji would go out drinking with his friends he’d always come back bragging about fucking some chick before he left the bar but little did you know he was bluffing. Ever since you moved in he cut that shit out, he knew one way or another you two would hit it off and maybe have some fun together if that’s what you wanted or that he’d make you his if that's what you desired.
“I just want to be between your thighs y/n.”
Your eyes shot open wide at what you just heard, sitting up straighter in bed you went to speak but he interrupted you.
“This thing couldn’t please you now could it” his large hand grabbed the toy on top of the covers before his thumb switched it on. Your face felt like it was burning as your mattress vibrated. You felt like your body couldn’t move as he switched it up a notch making it vibrate on the highest setting “is this the setting you use when you think of me y/n? You look so cute when you blush, why are you embarrassed? You don’t think I hear you late at night with my name on your tongue? You know all you had to do was ask.” There it was that grin again but this time his eyes were half lidded, pupils blown black like he was eyeing his prey ready to jump you.
But he didn’t touch you, he stayed right there just his hand on your vibrator waiting for your response. You couldn’t tell if you were just having one of those very vivid dreams but the sound of your vibrator shutting off and the feeling of your bed getting lighter snapped you out of your trance. Looking up he was heading for the door with his hands tucked into his pockets. Getting up you stumbled over your feet slightly but was able to grab onto his shirt stopping him in his tracks “I took your silence as a no y/n”
“Y-you didn’t give me enough time to process all that you said. You’ve never spoken to me like that before let alone have I ever had a man speak to me that way before..” you tightened your grip on his shirt not letting go. “Oh so the men you sleep with must be boring huh?” Toji tried to take a step forward but now your body was pressed against his back. He could feel your breasts beautifully pressed on him, making his cock stir to life in his pants.
“Y/n” his low voice called your named.
His muscles felt so nice in your hands as you softly ran them on the back of his arms slowly feeling around each curvature, your brain taking note of how he let out a sigh when your nails accidentally grazed his skin a little hard. “I haven’t slept with anyone before Toji, I just use the vibrator” you say as close as you can get to his ear while standing on your tippy toes dragging your hand down his neck before going flat on your feet again. His fists clenched in his pockets as his cock pulsated in his pants. Thinking to himself that it was perfect, his roomate really was this innocent woman he painted her out to be and with her permission he could make her his. “Fuck, would you like that to change Sweetheart?”
“Please” you breathed out, your tone sounding so needy. He was quick to turn around, looking at you up and down. He couldn't help but grin at your face and how you tried to avoid looking at him. Grabbing your chin and bringing his face down to yours he kissed your lips putting his palm on your cheek as his other hand rested on your hip walking you backwards to your bed till your knees hit your mattress. The warmth of his palm on your skin could make you melt. His kiss only became more heated when he slipped his tongue into your mouth lifting you up onto your bed and caging your body beneath him. When he finally pulled away a string of saliva still connected the two of you.
He slid his hand up your shirt groping your breast in his hand squeezing it. He was glad you weren’t wearing a bra. It was one less thing he had to take off of you “I can go slower if you need me too” he said in between peppering your neck with kisses. “More” you softly moaned. His cock painfully pressed against his pants twitching begging to be let loose, biting his inner cheek he knew he needed to hold himself back at least for your first time. He bit down on your neck leaving teeth marks behind, your fingers dug into his shoulders making him groan. “Did you like that sweetheart?”
All you could do was nod your head, your brain was short circuiting trying to keep up with the fact that your roommates lips were on your neck, his teeth left marks on you, and hands were feeling you up.
Next to go was your shirt he lifted it up over your head tossing it to the side, he couldn’t help but say fuck at your breasts, the way they bounced when he pushed them around made his head spin. Taking them into his hands he kissed from your neck down, taking a nipple into his mouth. Swirling his tongue around it made you take a fistful of his hair and cry out his name. Filling Toji’s fantasy of hearing you moan his name but he couldn’t wait till he was pounding into you to hear you cry it out instead.
His other hand tweaked the other nipple making you squirm beneath him. He looked up at you with his mouth still clasped to your nipple before letting it go with a pop sound “too much? I haven’t even gotten started yet” He teased. Switching to the other nipple to sucked on it a few times before he kissed down your stomach, stopping at a few places to leave hickeys and bite marks to hear your whines before he got to your shorts.
These shorts drove him fucking crazy, they barely covered your ass and you would wear these while he had his friends over. Toji would often have to go to his room for a few minutes to pump one out after seeing you bend over exposing your entire ass to him by accident and how you’d act like he didn’t see a damn thing. But now he has the pleasure of finally taking them off of you.
Before he could, your legs shut on him. He managed to part your legs a little bit for him to get a peek at your face “y/n comeon open up, I want to get a taste. You’ll let daddy taste his sweet girl won’t you?” He wanted to try out how you’d respond to calling himself Daddy and he wasn’t expecting to see your pupils full black with lust and your hand now resting on his head. “Now that’s a look I could get used to. Spread your legs. Now. I won’t ask again” he rubbed his hands up and down your thighs not breaking eye contact from you while you slowly spread your legs wide for him.
Toji liked the idea of corrupting you. You liked him being called daddy, you liked when he bit your neck leaving marks, pulling his hair, and clawing his back so inflicting pain as well. His mind was swirling with what else you could possibly be into but for now he’d stick with these not to overwhelm you.
“That’s Daddy’s Good Girl.” Toji praised, hooking his around your waistband and panties yanking them off in one swoop. He stared marveling at the sight of your soaked cunt, your juices flowing out of you and onto the plush of your ass. Grabbing your thighs he pulled you flush to his face, his tongue laying flat against you giving one first lick up before he went to attacking your clit with the tip of his tongue and his fingertips digging into your thighs.
Your hand going straight to his hair, taking a fistful of it as your head sank further into the pillow, a moan ripping through your throat as he started to suck on your clit, his eyes staring up at you in a hungry state as if he was asking you for more. Letting go of your clit with a pop sound he put his thumb at your clit rubbing circles into it as his tongue licked at your cunt, slowly putting it inside when your walls squeezed making Toji groan. He couldn’t wait to feel you on his cock. His other hand reaching up to your breast playing it in his palm before he tweaked your nipple. Your moans growing louder and louder either each movement combined making your thighs begin to shake and back arch.
Lifting his mouth from your lips “you wanna cum?” He teased, slowing his thumb down to a stop and just applying pressure making you whine out his name. “Use your words sweetheart” he kept his eyes on you, biting his inner cheek wanting to go back to licking you clean he was addicted to your taste. “Yes please” … “please what?” Lifting his thumb up from your clit. Your cheeks burned at what you were about to say “please daddy” you whined. His smirk couldn’t be more devilish as he dipped his head back down between your legs and sucking on your clit, adding two fingers curling them to push your g spot repeatedly. Your cunt squeezing his fingers as you came, his tongue licking up every last drop before pulling his fingers out of you.
He stared at you while bringing his finger to his mouth licking them clean “good girl” he praised getting up from your thighs and hovering over your face with his. Pulling his head down to your lips you kissed him deeply huffing air as you were still catching your breath. Once you pulled away you tried to push on his shoulders to get him onto his back but his arms stayed where they were beside your head keeping him up. “Do you want to keep going y/n?” He asked softly. “Mhm, get on your back please”
“Sure” he couldn’t help but chuckle. He took his tight black shirt off tossing it on the ground before getting on his back while your hands went to unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants before you tried pulling them off of him, he got them the rest of the way off leaving him just in his briefs. Putting his arms behind his head he watched your fingers coast along his abs then around his waistband before you palmed his cock making him groan. Freeing his cock his underwear you couldn’t help but stare at his size giving it a few pumps watching how it twitched desperately in your hand. Kissing his abs and sucking on a spot to leave a mark you got closer and closer to his cock bringing your lips to the tip and giving it a small peck. Getting his pre on your lips and licking it off.
His hand twisting softly in your hair as your mouth sank on his cock, your tongue licking up his shaft as your doe eyes stayed on him the whole time. He was losing it each second he watched his length disappear into your throat “f-fuck y/n” his other hand rubbed at the side of your hallowed cheek. You sucked gently on the tip pumping his cock a few more times before he grabbed your chin “I can’t take this anymore. I need to be inside sweetheart”
“Impatient” you cooed, straddling him and rubbing your cunt against his cock making him moan your name. He was cursing in his mind at how wet you were and being so close to finally having you. Your lips were sucking on his neck leaving sweet marks behind, the way he could feel your teeth graze his skin drove him insane.
“Mmm I am. Let me take things from here” he whispered into your ear. Sitting up against your headboard he helped turn you around making you have your back on his check. Looking up you saw yourself in the mirror making you put your hands over your face. “Is this why you have your mirror set up here? What a naughty thing. Don’t be all shy now, take your hands off your face and keep your eyes open look at where we connect” His breath was hot on your neck as he kept your legs spread open and hovering above his cock. “You ready?” He stared at your reflection, his tip resting at your dripping entrance.
“Yes!” You cried out as he bit at your collarbone. Lifting you up in his arms he bent his knees planting his feet on your bed. Lowering you slowly on his cock his eyes didn’t move from the reflection of your cunt stretching around him. Hearing you whine snapped him out of the trace the image had on him stopping from putting his cock in all the way “your vibrator didn’t get you ready for my size huh sweetheart” he teased, his thumb rubbing at your thigh trying to sooth the possible pain you may be experiencing.
“S-shut up and just fuck me” you furrowed your eyebrows at him, finally getting annoyed with his teasing. “You’ll pay for that later” he gritted his teeth, slamming you down on his cock. Your eyes went wide crying out his name, hands clawing at his thighs making him chuckle. “You can’t take me yet but don’t worry I’ll get you there” he said, kissing the back of your neck gently before tucking his chin into the crook of your collarbone and neck.
Toji’s eyes were glued to your cunt and how it kept sucking his cock in with each thrust, occasionally looking up at your face in the mirror to see your mouth agape, dragged out moans escaping your throat when he’d quicken his pace to only shove you down on him in one fast movement. “You feel so good sweetheart” he groaned. The knot in your stomach kept tightening with each thrust, his cock hitting your g spot repeatedly. “T-toji I h-have to cum please” you cried, throwing your head back into his shoulder. “If you keep clenching me like that I’ll cum too” he said in between pants.
His hand leaving one of your thighs and going to your clit circling his thumb around it while pumping into you. His thighs were flexed using both his strength from his legs and pushing you down onto him to set a new rhythm. Toji’s breath was hot against your ear as he breathed into it, his eyes rolling back into his head at the feeling of your cunt how beautifully it squeezed him. “A-ah fuck y-y/n let me fill you up. You are on the pill aren’t you. Shit” Toji slowed his pace, huffing out air he was getting extremely close. Thinking to himself he should’ve asked this way in advance, you wore a fucked out expression which drove him absolutely insane.
He watched as your eyes were now at your cunt watching his thumb circling your clit, cheeks flushed and hair a mess your mouth parted. He felt like he was sitting at the edge of his seat “I want you to fill me up Toji” your voice sounded so seductive the way your eyes were hooded, staring back at him in the mirror. He couldn’t help but grin picking his back back up, balls slapping against your ass, his thumb going at a faster pace and adding more pressure as the tip of his cock kissed your g spot. A few more thrusts and you two were done for, your moans combining into a sweet melody. White hot cum painted your walls as your cunt clenched around him milking Toji of all he had.
Continuing to fuck himself into you he just wanted to keep hearing you cry out his name along with daddy over and over again, a ring of your mixed juices remained on his cock as it twitched to life again inside. Your eyes went teary at the feeling, overstimulated but loving the feeling of fullness and warmth. He held you still on his cock panting against your neck before pulling your chin over to peck your lips softly. His arms wrapping around your body, your chest heaving to relax. “You never answered if you are on the pill” his voice sounded deeper than it usually is.
“I am-“ before you could finish your sentence he flipped you over onto your back. Hovering over you, you looked down seeing his cock still leaking cum, it made your cunt clench around nothing letting out a sigh. “Good, I want to fill you up a few more time then” his eyes hooded leaning down to kiss your lips, your arms wrapping around him with a simple “please daddy” escaping through the kisses.
He knew he was in trouble now. You were just as addicted to him as he was to the idea of you. No more bringing his friends over not until he got his full of you and could bare the idea of other men looking at you, no more going out not when you would be sitting alone at home and possibly playing with yourself instead of having him fuck you? No way he shook his head. Toji was never going to let you out of his grasp now.
-
Masterlist | Part 2 | if you enjoyed this fic you should check out my other Toji fics but recommending next: Fitness Trainer Toji | Headcanons for Toji Fic Thursday. Needy Toji
Authors notes: pls I wasn’t a virgin when I was 22 or loss it this way but shiiiet if I lost it this way to Toji I wouldn’t have complained about my first time 😮‍💨
3K notes · View notes
dukeofthomas · 1 month ago
Text
"Jason just needs to see things from his family's perspective and understand how much they love him (despite them never actually communicating or showing him through their actions)" is out. "The batfamily putting a single bit of effort into understanding Jason and reconciling with him on his own terms" is in.
202 notes · View notes
justaz · 7 months ago
Text
arthur (prince of camelot) still has to study under a tutor bc yknow uther wants him to be very intelligent before becoming king or something bc its super important idk idc anyways merlin is doing chores in his chambers while arthur is squinting at a book and merlin eventually caves and asks him what he’s reading and arthur gruffly explains that its a collection of stories from greece that make absolutely no sense so merlin asks him to read them outloud to him. arthur of course teases him and calls him an idiot and asks how he could possibly help but does as he’s asked and reads the stories to merlin as he does his chores. merlin (being crushed under the weight of destiny and tormented by the prophecies that kilgharrah spews) understands the stories almost immediately and gets all excited and starts rambling about them with arthur. arthur is glad to have someone who understands so he can give something that reflects a hint of understanding to his tutor who accepts it and moves onto the next unit of education.
the thing is, arthur finds more stories in camelot’s library and brings them up to his room to read them aloud to merlin under the guise of completing his studies but really he just wants to watch as merlin’s eyes gleam when he understands whats happening and listen to him ramble on and on about them bc he’s gay. the stories stick with merlin though and he realizes that they’re cautionary tales, that the heroes who were told too much of their future doomed themself to fulfill them - that them fighting the prophecies led to their completion. merlin takes it to heart and gives a big “fuck you” to kilgharrah before forging his own fate and helping morgana with her magic and handing out an olive branch to mordred and now everyone can live happily and peacefully in an albion teeming with magic.
#merlin and arthur are of course at each others side in the end#merlin is curled up with arthur in their bed and says a silent thank you to his king for saving him#arthur returns the sentiment wholeheartedly#bbc merlin#merlin emrys#arthur pendragon#merthur#fic idea#fanfic#fanfiction#headcanon#hc#head canon#merthur prompt#i have my own hc of fate vs destiny in bbc merlin and i like to incorporate that into everything i write#but then i realize that not everyone thinks that way lmao#i like to think that destiny is unavoidable. merlin and arthur are destined to form albion and lead it together#i think fate is like a fragile version of destiny#i think most people are tied to fate and will follow what they are fated to do unless those who arent tied down by fate change course#like i hc that seers are able to see the potential future of what is to happen should they not interfere#and the goddess leaves it up to them to choose. so like seers arent tied down by fate and can change the course of history#since merlin is literally magic incarnate i also think he isnt tied down by fate and can act to change things#kilgharrah told merlin the prophecy that would result in the dragon getting free and ending the pendragon line#and since merlin never got close w like any druids or magic users. no one told him the inner workings of fate vs destiny#so he listened to the dragons warnings dooming him to fulfill the prophecy that brought about one of the worst possible futures#bc the dragon was salty about his whole species being eradicated by uther and vowed to destroy the pendragon line#omg im ranting okay post over thank you and good night
324 notes · View notes
themostobsessed · 3 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
😹😹😹🥹🐍
303 notes · View notes
schemelin · 10 days ago
Text
Tumblr media
Starbles doodles
120 notes · View notes